In the tradition of a poetry slam, where poetry is recited, a story slam encourages prose writers to take the stage and read their work. Events are informal and fun, with feedback from judges and applause from the audience. The idea is to enjoy sharing stories from a range of genres with a wider audience and prizes are awarded. In July, Storyslingers in Shaftesbury are holding their first story slam event and would be very pleased to have you join them.
Bread. The baker cuts chunks from the amoeba dough that’s spreading across the counter. It is sticky in his hands, protesting against its separation onto the kneading board. By the till there’s a display of loaves, shiny like glazed pots. I grip the largest and pass it to the assistant who swaddles it in tissue. I carry the bread like a babe in my arms, its heat warming my belly and I walk back home.
This 75-word story was published by Paragraph Planet 22 May 2012
This is the first in a series of posts about independent bookshops in Dorset. Once a month I attend a writing group in Wimborne led by poet, writer and teacher, Sarah Barr (you can find out more about the Wimborne Writers’ Group here). Last week I took the opportunity to visit Gullivers Bookshop, a family owned business in the centre of the market town run by Malcolm and Anne Angel and their daughter Jane with their son and his wife.
As I went into the shop, Malcolm was in the throes of dismantling the window display that celebrated Dorset Art Weeks from 26 May – 10 June, which comprised a collection of papier-mache heads featuring characters from books. With another community event approaching, it was time for a change. To celebrate 20 years of Bookstart, Gullivers is hosting a Busy Bear Party on 22 June and the new display will feature a teddy bears’ reading group. This engagement with the community is a feature of the bookshop that has been in Wimborne for over 40 years.
The shop feels bright and airy, well-stocked but not cluttered and an easy place to spend time. Displays by the entrance feature the latest fiction titles with further books on the shelves. There’s an area dedicated to Dorset’s people, places and culture and support for local authors (for a comprehensive list of publications click here). Thought has gone into organising the areas in an accessible way, for example, the young adult books have been positioned in a corner, away from the desk and the children’s section, to encourage self-conscious teenagers to browse.
The children’s section is delightful, decorated with mobiles and balloons. There’s Lego to play with and books for younger children displayed on shelves at just the right height. Children are welcome to chatter and play while choosing books, some saying that they ‘love the smell of the bookshop’.
Just outside Dorchester in the parish of Stinsford, the poet and novelist Thomas Hardy was born in 1840. He grew up in the cob and thatch cottage at Bockhampton, which like Max Gate (the home he later designed and occupied from 1885 until his death in 1928) is open to the public through the National Trust.
From the car park, after a stroll through woodland, you reach the back of the cottage. Follow the path to the gate and into the cottage garden, planted as it would have appeared when Hardy occupied the house. The accommodation was renovated to make room for a growing family, including turning a staircase around to create a bedroom for Hardy’s sisters.
This is the view from Thomas Hardy’s bedroom, where he was able to see on the hill at Portesham, the monument erected in memory of his distant relative Vice Admiral Sir Thomas Hardy. You can find out more about this in an earlier post here.
It was at a small table, like this one, that Hardy wrote the first of his novels set in Wessex, the fictional county based upon Dorset. Few authors besides Hardy have such strong associations with the landscape and culture of their local area.
Sieving dry earth through my fingers, I make little towers that crumble immediately. Sweat trickles down my spine and I brush needles of grass from my jeans. Staring into the distance, the outback reminds me of a lumpy picnic blanket with yellow-green tufts. It’s not much to look at but at least the days of pavements and puddles are over. Sliding a mirror from my backpack, I notice my cheeks are pink and I smooth sunscreen over.
‘Have you got any lip-gloss?’ I ask.
Jane looks up from the magazine and fishes in her pocket.
‘Catch.’ She lobs a small tube and then returns to her reading, pinching the pages that have flipped over in the breeze.
‘Perhaps we should’ve caught the Greyhound.’
‘We can always do that tomorrow, if we don’t get a ride today.’ Jane talks to the celebrity photos in front of her.
When the sun casts a honey-glaze on the land, a road train approaches. Squealing brakes bring it to a stop and I stand beside the second of two huge containers, each set on dozens of wheels, all taller than Jane. The cab door opens and the truckie leans out, beckoning a hand blotchy with tattoos.
‘You girls shouldn’t be hitching,’ he shouts. ‘The Territory’s a wild place. It’s only safe to take a lift from a truckie. Where yous heading?’
‘Darwin,’ I splutter.
‘You’re in luck – get in.’
Jane nods, auburn curls tumbling into her eyes and I take the cue, climbing the treads. The cab is roomier than I expect: a bench set back from the windscreen, the steering wheel sprouting from the middle of the floor. I push sweet wrappers and old newspapers away, making space on the seat.
‘Too right.’ The truckie speaks from the corner of his mouth. ‘Make yourself at home.’ He slaps the bench indicating where I should sit and Jane settles at the end.
‘What d’they call yous?’
‘I’m Claire and this is Jane. Thank you for stopping.’
‘No worries. Poms are yous? I’m Gary.’
‘Good to meet you,’ I say, but I forget his name at once.
Air rushes through the driver’s window and a fan pulses but the atmosphere is stuffy. Besides the odd grunt, the truckie doesn’t say very much and I struggle to keep the conversation going.
‘Hey you. What’s yer name? Jan is it?’
‘Jane.’
‘You want to take a sleep in the back?’ He nods in the direction of the bunk behind and Jane peers into the space. Throwing aside a T-shirt that smells of diesel, she scrambles inside.
‘Right!’ The truckie slaps my thigh, clawing the denim with his jagged nails. When he removes his hand to change gears, I wriggle away and shift my bag from the floor, wedging it between us to prevent further contact. He looks at my new position and laughs.
Through the windscreen opaque with dust, I trace the road as it slices the land. Decaying kangaroo carcasses mark the route like milestones, victims of road kill. I turn and watch the truckie as he rolls a cigarette, the paper and tobacco balanced on his knee. The radio crackles as if creatures from outer space are trying to make contact. The truckie coughs and tosses me a small container that rattles with pills.
‘Smoking’s a killer’ he says. ‘Try some speed.’
I fiddle with the lid and shake a pill into my palm.
‘One’s not enough – pass them to me!’ Upending the container against his mouth, I hear the drugs tumble and as the truckie crunches, speckles of white pattern his face. He throws the pill bottle back towards me and I’m conscious of him watching as I shake out another tablet. Aiming one and then the other at the back of my throat, I swallow. What the hell – it’s going to be a long journey.
The road becomes like a mesmerising snake as it shimmies into the retreating distance. I lose track of time as my eyeballs roll and my chin bounces against my chest. My mouth falls open only to be clamped shut when my eyes ping into focus. When it’s dark the truckie brings the road train to a stop and he jumps to the ground.I listen for his footsteps as he wanders into the inky night. Peering through the glass, a swollen moon shows his silhouette walking away.
‘I’m beginning to regret this.’
‘Too late now.’ Jane slithers from the bunk onto the seat next to me. We rest our foreheads together, our clammy skin sticks. Taking turns, we look over the dashboard. He’s out there, whimpering and thrashing around. Smoothing a lock of hair between my fingers I suck the ends.
Pummelling and scraping sounds interrupt my trance-like state. Jutting forwards, I see a mass of dark hides turning the earth black. Like floodwater, the cattle spill across the land, their heads nodding up and down like mechanical toys. The truckie jumps and swings his arms, a matchstick figure weaving between the herd. Once he’s free, he recovers his power. This time he gives a rasping shout, and through the barren landscape, he strides towards the truck.
Leaping onto the metal ladder, the crashing footfalls announce his progress. He pants as he works his way upwards, and with each step I shrink a little smaller. The cab tilts as he balances his weight, and he tugs on the door but it doesn’t swing free. Instead, he lurches on top of the engine, sprawling in front of us, the windscreen our only protection. He levels his bloodshot eyes and mouths incomprehensible words. Grappling with the wipers, he gets to his knees then he surges onto the roof of the cab. Kettledrum beats echo while he dances, singing to a tune I struggle to recognise. My breathing shallows as the fear creeps. I count his footsteps until the pace slows and I guess the roof will hold his weight while the truckie sleeps. Jane ducks her head as if the truckie’s pressing her down and my neck feels short with my shoulders all tense. I look towards Jane – our eyes meet then part again, meet then part again – until I’m consumed by sleep.
Coming to consciousness, my eyelids flicker and daylight shoots through the cab as the driver’s door jerks open. I feign sleep as the night-time memories invade. The truckie hums as he moves around the cab. Jane’s body is warm next to mine and I brave a glimpse through slit eyes. The truckie’s fumbling for a silver container among the plastic and glass bottles wedged by the door. He yawns and turns towards me.
‘G’day,’ he says. And aiming the aerosol of deodorant, he sprays.
This story is currently appears as a podcast on Cypruswell.
Thanks to a post on Emily Ann Shaffer’s blog, I spent a happy five-minutes being distracted by the I Write Like website. All you have to do is paste a couple of paragraphs onto the page and by clicking a button, the website uses a statistical analysis tool that matches your writing style to that of a famous author. I’m always struggling to think of which published authors my writing resembles so, in spite of my scepticism, I gave it a go. I was hoping to be matched with someone like Anne Tyler but the computer said no. The name it came up with was Chuck Palahniuk and as I’d never heard of him, I got back to my writing.
But Chuck’s name has stayed with me and I decided to have a look on the internet to find out more. Wikipedia says he is best known for his award-winning novel Fight Club which was later made into a feature film earning him a cult following. That leaves me none the wiser but I’ve just asked my sixteen-year-old son who’s playing a silly computer game next to me on the desktop and he tells me it’s a great film, one that made Brad Pitt famous and that the book is even better.
Suitably informed, I’ve watched the Fight Club trailer on You Tube and will be reserving the book at the library.
I also checked out the official Chuck Palahniuk website, where I found a link to 13 writing tips from the author. Now this is more my thing, with advice including:
And, more seriously, he talks about the three different types of dialogue:
I’d like to introduce you to Vikki Thompson – she is a prolific blogger and enthusiastic writer – someone I’ve been following for a few months. She writes a post almost everyday and she has some great ideas and prompts for writing. Today, we’ve decided to do a blog-swap, so if you want to find out more about me, you’ll have to visit Vikki’s place. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this interview with Vikki.
A couple of years ago I started doing collages (you can see a selection on my Flickr page which included words, so it was kind of a natural progression to take up writing. I’ve always been inspired by photography and take a lot of photos which I use to inspire stories and scenes in my writing. I love the connection between words and images, so visual art has a huge impact on my writing. Even in my note books I write with different colour pens so that visually, it’s more interesting when I flick back through them searching for ideas 🙂
L-R Bob Jacobs, Vanessa Gebbie, Sara Crowley, Holly Howitt
With other flash fiction writers, (including Tim Stevenson who unfortunately is not in the photo) I celebrated National Flash Fiction Day on 16 May in Southampton. The event was held in the lecture theatre at the Central Library and offered all of the invited writers a chance to share their work. As it was also the launch of Jawbreakers an anthology to mark the first National Flash Fiction Day, many chose to read flashes from the new publication. And I used it as an opportunity to promote the work of Flash Fiction South West, reading Greenhayes from Kissing Frankenstein & Other Stories. If you’d like to learn more about flash fiction, please click here for an interesting article.
Rachel Carter had the idea to create an on-line anthology for Flash Fiction South West. I was recruited as a reader to filter submissions and as I live in Dorset, I was also entitled to submit to the anthology. It has been a pleasure to work with Rachel, a talented writer and photographer who also found the time to compile and edit the print anthology. She should have a medal the size of a dinner plate in recognition for her hard work.
Socks
The paper bag is damp in my hand and I peek inside – most of the sherbet pips are stuck together like frogs’ spawn. I pull free a chunk and it fizzes on my tongue. Angela’s got rhubarb and custard, she counts the sweets, putting them in a line along her thigh.
‘That’s not fair.’ She talks with a sweet tucked inside her cheek, making her look like a gerbil. ‘Last time I bought two ounces, I got eight sweets, but I’ve only got six this time.’
‘Don’t forget the one in your mouth,’ I say.
‘Oh yes.’ She nods and returns the sweets to the bag, inspecting the yellow and red sides. ‘This one’s chipped. D’you want it?’
‘Let’s swap.’ I take the sweet from her and spill some loose pips into her palm.
‘Is that all I get? ’ She downs the scattering in one go.
I’ve been walking home with Angela for a whole week now. She’s nice – she’s the friendliest person in my new school. She lives round the corner from me and she says I can call for her in the mornings, if I like. I wish I could sit next to her, but I’m stuck with Brian Reader. He takes more than his fair share of the desk and he rubs his leg against mine when he gets up from the chair.
‘Let’s have a look in the stream.’ Angela picks up her satchel and leads the way. I don’t have a bag so it’s easy for me to scramble over the rocks, but she has to make a path over the dried mud. Once we’re by the water, she dares me to walk under the bridge. I look at the sloping sides and water laps right up to the edge.
‘I can’t. I can’t get my sandals wet.’
‘You won’t get wet. There’s enough of a ledge to walk on.’ Angela points. ‘I’ve done it loads of times.’
‘You go first then.’
Angela clutches her satchel and takes side-by-side steps, her back against the concrete wall. I watch her until she beckons. I’m only a couple of paces in when there’s a splash. She’s dropped her satchel and it’s floating down the stream.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Get it, of course.’ She steps into the ankle deep water, then trots along, chasing the bag. When she catches it, she swings the satchel onto the ground, splattering droplets into the air like a fountain. I find her sitting on the bank, her legs are soaked and she’s using a leaf to dry her satchel.
‘Aren’t you going to check inside?’
Angela undoes the buckles and finds her pencil-case, the new felt-pens are leaking. She takes off her socks and wrings them, then wiping her pens, she turns them into a tie-dye of colours.
‘Won’t your mum mind about your socks?’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Angela. ‘Not if I tell her Brian Reader pushed me into the stream.’
This story first appeared on FlashFlood in celebration of National Flash Fiction Day on 16 May 2012
I spent a couple of days in Surrey last week with Sue, a friend I met at an Arvon course in 2010 and she introduced me to Carol last year, when we were together for a weekend in Cornwall. Sue is a fantastic host, cooking delicious meals and making us feel very welcome. You can find out more about Carol by visiting her blog Scribbling in the Margins.
In spite of the wet weather, we spent the whole of one day at the Weald and Downland Open Air Museum. Here buildings of historical merit have been relocated to form a fascinating ‘village’ that includes a medieval hall-house, a tudor kitchen, a toll house, and a working watermill. For those who are interested in historical writing, the musuem is holding an event in August titled Historical Fiction Day where Emma Darwin, Maria McCann and Alison Weir are offering input. There’s also a short story competition that you can enter.
And if that competition doesn’t interest you, why not think about entering the Historical Novel Society short story competition?
the writer is a lonely hunter 