The Waves

The waves swooped down on the beach, where Thora was lying with her head on the sand and her feet in the water. They crashed at her toes and dribbled and trickled up her calves. She stretched her arms out to either side, making an angel shape. A sand angel. She was a sand angel. Overhead the sun beat down brightly, making her eyes squint, the light playing and dancing in the corners of her vision. The waves crashed again and this time the water reached her knees. Clouds skirted across the sky, soft white shapes that were too far away to really see properly. She moved her arms again, the coarse sand chafing her newly pink skin. She would burn if she stayed out here much longer. Her mother’s voice resonated in the back of her head, a stern warning to stay out of the sun delivered with a kiss. She didn’t have to heed such warnings anymore. It was the surf’s turn to kiss her this time, as the water reached her thighs, covering the tops of her legs this time, caressing her with its cool hands. She continued to study the sky through her eyelashes. She guessed at what she couldn’t see. She couldn’t see clouds shaped like dinosaurs, she couldn’t see planets, she couldn’t see aeroplanes. She could see the shadow of a man stood above her. She lifted one of her angel wings, placed a hand horizontally against her brows and opened her eyes fully for the first time that day.
“Are you alright? You’re getting wet,” the man said.
“I know. I’m fine, thank you.”
“The water will be up to your neck soon,” he warned.
“That’s ok,” Thora shrugged, her shoulders making little furrows in the sand. “I like the water.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” the man said, stepping over her to continue his way down the beach. Thora was sure. She thought how odd the man was, how earnest. How nice it was that he’d stopped to make sure she was ok. If she hadn’t been ok, she would have very much liked someone just like that to stop and ask how she was. The waves landed again, pushing the water up to her waist this time. Thora wiggled her toes as the froth splashed over her. Behind her, she could hear children playing in the sand, digging a moat, building a fort, waiting for the sea to come and destroy it. What a funny game, what fun they were having. Another crash and the water crept up her sides. The sand underneath her was wet now, with each wave she could feel the pull of the sea tugging at her. Crash, it covered her belly, crash it covered her breasts, crash, it covered her face, her neck, her head and then she was gone. Dragged out into the sea by the sheer force of it, by its willingness to reclaim her. Thora felt her legs fuse together at the ankles, the scales wrapping round her like a piece of chiffon as she kicked her flippers, tested them once or twice and swam.

National Helen Day

tomorrow is National Helen Day and I am oh so very excited. National Helen Day is a day when Helen's have fun, and they traditionally happen about four times a year. National Helen Days can last anywhere from a few hours, to a few days. anything and nothing can happen during a National Helen Day. most National Helen Days involve presents. past National Helen Days have involved whole series of CSI or Heroes. this National Helen Day, I am introducing Helen to the delights of Medium. National Helen Days can often involve making things, like trees made of wire, or teddy bear keyrings out of leather and felt. some National Helen Days involve Bingo! or Japanese food. I love National Helen Days.

so if you're a Helen, whether you have another Helen to enjoy your holiday weekend with or not, make sure you do something fabulous.

Viva La Helen!!!!!!!!!!!!

is that a yes then?

so I've been getting arts jobs emailed to my blackberry for the last few months. every day at about 19.06pm a little email pings its way into my inbox and tells me about writing jobs all over the UK. its pretty cool. I've sent a couple of things on to my friends, and Laura is doing some music reviewing and I eventually submitted an idea the other week. and I've had a response! and it was very nice, explaining what they want and telling me to let them know...what does that mean?!?!?! is that a yes? do they like my idea? (recycled dissertation, I have decided that I might as well put these ideas to good use) anyway, its screenplay format, 12-15 episodes, 4-10,000 words per episode. eeek! so quite a lot.

I've emailed back. watch this space. it would be a lot of work, but it would be nice...anyway, must dash. the boyf is asleep on the couch so I am going to try and wake him up (unlikely) and then I am going to go and watch Medium in bed. series 3 is a bit weirder than the first 2 but I do like it, and am very glad I've made the effort to watch them in order so far. over and out.

books

today, on the bus, there was a man with an e-reader. oh, how I stared and stared. see, I've heard a lot about them but I'd never actually seen one before, and now I have I think I am even more dubious than I was before.

these are my reasons...

• when you're reading, and you need to flick back a few pages, how do you keep your place with one hand, whilst finding whatever you needed to find with the other?
• what do you do when you need to put your book away, and read something else for a bit? but you need to keep your place in the book you're reading, because you don't want to put it away forever, just for now
• I doubt an e-reader would survive if you dropped it in the bath (not that I have ever dropped a book in the bath, but I had never dropped anything on my glass-topped coffee table until I was holding something heavy enough to break it)
• I won't be able to buy e-books in charity shops for £1, which will mean I will not discover as many new authors
• I won't be able to take e-books back to Barter Books and swap them for credits to buy more books
• I won't be able to sit cross legged in front of my bookcases and choose what to read next
• how do you wrap up your favourite e-book and give it to someone you love as a present?

on the plus side, I would have a lot more space in the flat...

earrings = happiness

this week I have received three rejections
1) I didn't get a "writer in residence" thing I applied for
2) I didn't get an interview for the job at the Arts Council
3) My stories weren't selected for the INK festival

so after work, I went and bought myself these...which are possibly, the most god-awful, garishly beautiful earrings known to womankind. I love them very much indeed, and they have made me feel much better about the whole situation. of course I'm getting rejections because I'm actually sending things off and putting myself out there. rejection is a good thing because it is proof of productivity.

this week, I also had a really, really good session at my writing class. we had to write linked scenes (like a real story), and due to a lack of time, I used some passages from The Shepherd (nee The Second, nee The Chosen 2) and got some really useful feedback which made me realise that there is still a fair bit I can do with it. so I'm quite excited to get that back (I should know next month) so I can rewrite it and get it off again. so in that case, rejection would be a very good thing!

tomorrow I am off into town early for breakfast with my friend Mariley, then I have my writing group, then to York with my friend Gareth. next week I need to finish my entry for the Northern Promise Award. busy, busy, busy...

The Garden

We bought the house for the garden. An acre of land which just screamed "country" although by the time we moved in "country" had evolved to "jungle". We stood in the doorway on our first night, arms round each other, glasses of merlot resting behind us on the ancient tumble dryer left behind by the previous owner.

"This garden holds some secrets," you said.
    
I remember how hard you worked, mowing and digging and trimming whilst I busied myself ordering antique wallpaper and trying to get to grips with the Aga. You would come inside after a hard day's landscaping to find that I'd burnt another pie and we had to jump in the convertible and drive to the pub. You cringed every time we went over a bump and I would spend the time complaining about another unwanted piece of rubbish I’d found as I was going through the rooms. We’d never existed together in so many rooms before, the space was a luxury. We turned some heads when we first walked in, but after the initial silence people were friendly enough.

"So you've bought the old Allinson place, have you?"

We didn't know what the old Allinson place was but we nodded anyway. I remember we'd been in there three weeks when you called me into the garden.

"Look at this," you said.

I started screaming then. Hysterically. You had to slap me round the face and take me inside for a medicinal brandy.

"It could be an animal," I said when I could speak again. I had romanticised visions of a kitty funeral, father saying the last rites as the children wept.

"No, it couldn't," you said solemnly. It was your 'I wish I wasn't right but I am' voice. The one normally reserved for squashing my recurring dream of opening a bed and breakfast, or spending £10,000 on a chaise-lounge once owned by Napoleon Bonaparte, with no authentication certificate.

"It’s human," you said. "Definitely human."

The police didn't come straight away. There were some vandals down on Lower Farm and once they'd established that our problem was neither mobile nor particularly fresh, they said they would be there when they could. We went back out into the garden and stared down at the shallow grave. It didn’t look like much. A hole in the ground, a bin bag with a tear in it where you’d struck it with your spade, yellow skull smiling out at us. It didn’t look like a person.

"This is where the roses were going to be," you told me. I said that I absolutely couldn't think about roses right now, I felt too sick.

"That poor soul," I said.

The policeman, when he finally arrived, was nice enough.

"We're going to have to get a forensics team out here," he said. "Probably dig up the whole garden."

"I wish I'd found them earlier," you joked. "You could've have saved me a job."

I could see how disappointed you were. It was your garden, your project. I was upset at the thought of muddy boots trampling all over my reclaimed Victorian parquet flooring.

That night, we went to the pub again. I couldn't face cooking.

"Oliver," you said, putting a reassuring hand on my leg as we pulled into the car park. "It will be ok you know."

"I disagree Tom," I said, turning away. "I don't see how it possibly could be."

The news had obviously already gone round the village by the time we got there.

"I hear you found Linda Allinson," the barman said, giving us our drinks on the house. "Folks've been looking for her for years."

tidy study, tidy mind?

so I finally got round to it. as a belated happy 30th birthday present to myself, I've moved all the rubbish out, shredded a lot of paper and covered one wall with brightly coloured pictures of the Virgen de Guadalupe. my study is now a lovely place to be. so it makes sense that I've spent the day avoiding it like the plague.

it was the birthday on Thursday, I say the birthday because it is like Christmas mark two in our house, with me being the birthday thief and all - the boyf also has his birthday on 18th Feb but with the dubious distinction of being three years older than me, he doesn't let me forget that he had it first.

the birthday itself was ok, we had a lovely meal, and on Friday met my dad and had another lovely meal, but other things (which I'm not going to go into on here) have made being 30, so far, pretty terrible. I hope I snap out of it and it gets better.

so I'm now sat watching the Baftas, and making myself update this because I feel like I have to do something. I'm also trying to get a good head start on my story for the Bridport Prize which isn't due til June but I really want to give myself enough time to work on it properly. and I'm trying to stretch myself in a few ways, first of all to write something close to the five thousand word limit as my stories typically hover in the one-three thousand mark. secondly, to write something happy and uplifting, as the boyf has been complaining that my stories are too dark. and thirdly, to write something so totally kick-ass that it is capable of getting in the anthology, or, heaven forbid, actually winning. so I've started, and I love my idea. and I know how it starts and I know the major event that happens but at the moment, I have absolutely no idea how to get from the beginning to the end. I guess this is why its so good that I've given myself so much time. I've ordered an old anthology from ebay though, so I can see what I'm up against, and I'm also going to write a piece of flash fiction for it. so far, I have no idea what I'm going to do for that. I think I might do something historical though.

so, here I am, waffling on. I mostly just wanted to feel like I'm doing something constructive, instead of wallowing in my own misery. I find feeling terrible so all-consuming sometimes, its very difficult to write through it. I've been reading a lot today though, which is nice. I'm currently reading The Cromwell Street Murders, The Detective's Story, which is exactly as the title suggests. its research into police procedure. well, thats what I'm telling myself anyway