It was on this day, my day, the one and only day I lived my entire life to see. I tried for so long for this not to happen but when your destiny is set up from one day to the next it just can not be avoided for one minute.
As I stood at the very edge of the drop that fell away before me I could see what the meaning of life was all about, a meaning that was lost to me ever second, my existence laying right before me and from here, my last stand laid out in every mile.
If I played I Spy with myself, I would never be able to guess what I was thinking about just because I can actually spy everything. Creations glory and man's finest goals realised, a dream of belief and sanctuary mingled together in a harmonious bomb crater that only eyes can believe in and the minds eye can make you dis-believe in, in hind sight.
Simple views of what there is can never be outweighed by what is coming just over that horizon, life's cards are dealt for you, or are they? the questions unanswered are laid out in ever centimetre, life, loves and the devil plotting together and against each other to make the inconsistent values available for all to consume. That very first intake of breathe shows me why the skyline looks like a montage of the best things the past has allowed my life to be available to, the worst things that current influences strive to break down in a single tear stained tissue and the what the future, some other persons past is going to deal me.
The belief that every minute I will live is going to give me pains I will endure memories I will cherish and the love that will make me grow into the one thing I am tailored to be.
My very first tears shed as my very first cry is carried by my very first breathe, my cards being dealt out before me. On this day my life continues and my hands are held by my creators, my skyline perfectly crafted and beliefs I plan to have are coming to me now and will continue until the very day I cease.
Monday, 18 June 2012
Thursday, 3 May 2012
It was the worst 8 days of my life so far
It was the worst 8 days of my life so far. Knowing it was coming wasn't that bad because up until the phone call came through at 2pm on that inevitable day, none of it was real. Walking out of the petrol station after filling my tank and just about to go back to my mould infested flat on that Friday. I was supposed to be trying to drum up work, but instead I was successfully avoiding the work I had already acquired, it was a Friday afternoon! my phone rang and the display said, "Stuart" my brother.
The phone call was to tell me my mum had been taken from her hospital bed and to a hospice, my heart sank and I didn't know what to say until blind panic filled me with adrenalin. I jabbered without any control until he calmed me down, I hung up the call and rang, my then girlfriend, I did marry the wonderful woman, to tell her. She was working in a shop just a mile away from where I was, I got into the car and went over to her. We talked for a short while and she left a voice mail message for her boss telling her what had happened and she shut the shop 4 hours early.
I had never realised until later that day what it really meant when someone was admitted to a hospice, I tried to reason with myself that everything was going to be OK and after a short stay my mum would be back in her house watching rubbish on the telly, but not only that turning it over half way through to watch something completely different.
We got in the car went back to the flat and packed some stuff, got the cat in her cage and away we went, almost silence filled the car for the 60 mile drive to where my family home was. Family home was a little vague, I predominantly grew up there, at that time my dad worked away, both of my brothers were in the army and I visited occasionally. My mum lived in the house on her own, she kept herself busy most of the time, with being in adult education to be a qualified play group leader whilst also being a domestic supervisor for the local NHS.
We arrived at the hospice luggage and cat still in the back of the car, parked up and went into the main entrance, we talked to the nurse in the main entrance and was shown through to where my dad greeted us and had a little word prior to seeing where my mum was. The white curtain that surround her bed was the last boundary before what I now know was when my heart broke down. Standing in front of the curtain with Sian at my side I was trying to prolong the next step and being the chivalrous person I am I stood and wanted Sian to go first, however she never moved and it was me that moved the curtain to one side and I saw a frail old woman asleep, lying on her side looking at me through closed eyes.
I sat down on the chair next to the clinical bed and looked her in the face trying to recognise the woman who fed me as a child, fed me as a teenager and even fed me as an adult, every wrinkle in her face was telling me she couldn't help but let go of life. I was heavy, I wanted to be on that beach in Thailand on that wonderful family holiday when I was 6, I wanted to be stuck in never ending traffic on the road to nowhere. My body now a brick, un-moving and cemented into place with horror and disbelief. This frail woman is the shadow of my mum.
Later that day she was moved from where I first saw her into a room that seemed a little apt, my mums name is Glenfa the room she was placed in was called Gwenfra. It looked a little like a Premier Lodge hotel room, with bathroom facilities, TV, comfortable sofa, extra chairs and a hospital bed and a clinical white polyester curtain hung from the polystyrene tiles in the ceiling. The nurses station and the coffee machine right outside and the family room was right next door. It was in that family room I first watched my most favourite film, The Hound of the Baskervilles, the 1939 version with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, the only two people who should ever have been aloud to play Sherlock and Dr Watson.
I think it was on the third day of being sat in her room from 9am to 7pm watching her sleep, I call it sleep but in reality she was on such powerful drugs she was comatosed for 23 hours a day. When her bed sheet fell off her legs it exposed something to me I wasn't expecting to see in reality ever. Her leg from the upper thigh down was swollen up, skin as that resembled a red potatoe and patches of green. This was the first time I had ever experience a panic attack and ran out of the room in fits of tears. Sian followed me out, she had worked in care homes before and had been exposed to things like this before, that doesn't mean she wasn't as shocked as me but I had never seen anything like this and it hit me in my heart very hard.
I tried to reason with myself that when she got better the doctors could treat the gang green and anything else that had caused the problem and she was going to be fine, but after the loving consoling Sian had given me, I was able to tell myself that they could amputate and she can still live a fulfilling life.
For the whole of the eight days sat in the room and the eight nights sat drinking heavily with family, my dad was in there for about 22 hours a day, sleeping on a tiny two seater sofa. He is not the tallest of men but still a two seater and a person with head, arms and legs can only produce overflow. We would all take it in turns taking him away from the magnolia painted cell to grab some lunch or for a small pint of anything. Grabbing our respite from the solitude and loneliness illness brings with it, away from the generic looking furniture, the clinical bed and curtain, the bathroom fully equipped for disabled access and the constant wurring of the automatic medication dispenser carefully placed under her pillow.
It is really stupid to think that you would ever get any kind of memorable moment out of such an awful experience but going towards the end, the amounts of awake time diminished and in those brief minutes something truly wonderful happened to me, I had to get out of the room for some air, the room had its own little patio over looking a communal area with bird boxes and a water baths where nature did what nature does best. Just as I sat on the bench for a minute watching a squirrel do what squirrels do best, I heard from inside the room, "Coooey, I can see you." I looked over my shoulder and in through the open door. My mum was leaning forward on one elbow and waving at me with the most beautiful smile, it was then I knew this was her way of saying goodbye to me.
For the next couple of nights when we would leave I said a definite goodbye to her until on the Saturday at 6.15pm my mum died and was free from the constant pain and her loving family released from the the waiting for death.
For everyone who has dealt with a family member or friend who has died of cancer and who can understand what lies in this story, I empathise with every feeling you have ever had, every feeling you are now having and all feelings you will have in every single day of your life to come.
The phone call was to tell me my mum had been taken from her hospital bed and to a hospice, my heart sank and I didn't know what to say until blind panic filled me with adrenalin. I jabbered without any control until he calmed me down, I hung up the call and rang, my then girlfriend, I did marry the wonderful woman, to tell her. She was working in a shop just a mile away from where I was, I got into the car and went over to her. We talked for a short while and she left a voice mail message for her boss telling her what had happened and she shut the shop 4 hours early.
I had never realised until later that day what it really meant when someone was admitted to a hospice, I tried to reason with myself that everything was going to be OK and after a short stay my mum would be back in her house watching rubbish on the telly, but not only that turning it over half way through to watch something completely different.
We got in the car went back to the flat and packed some stuff, got the cat in her cage and away we went, almost silence filled the car for the 60 mile drive to where my family home was. Family home was a little vague, I predominantly grew up there, at that time my dad worked away, both of my brothers were in the army and I visited occasionally. My mum lived in the house on her own, she kept herself busy most of the time, with being in adult education to be a qualified play group leader whilst also being a domestic supervisor for the local NHS.
We arrived at the hospice luggage and cat still in the back of the car, parked up and went into the main entrance, we talked to the nurse in the main entrance and was shown through to where my dad greeted us and had a little word prior to seeing where my mum was. The white curtain that surround her bed was the last boundary before what I now know was when my heart broke down. Standing in front of the curtain with Sian at my side I was trying to prolong the next step and being the chivalrous person I am I stood and wanted Sian to go first, however she never moved and it was me that moved the curtain to one side and I saw a frail old woman asleep, lying on her side looking at me through closed eyes.
I sat down on the chair next to the clinical bed and looked her in the face trying to recognise the woman who fed me as a child, fed me as a teenager and even fed me as an adult, every wrinkle in her face was telling me she couldn't help but let go of life. I was heavy, I wanted to be on that beach in Thailand on that wonderful family holiday when I was 6, I wanted to be stuck in never ending traffic on the road to nowhere. My body now a brick, un-moving and cemented into place with horror and disbelief. This frail woman is the shadow of my mum.
Later that day she was moved from where I first saw her into a room that seemed a little apt, my mums name is Glenfa the room she was placed in was called Gwenfra. It looked a little like a Premier Lodge hotel room, with bathroom facilities, TV, comfortable sofa, extra chairs and a hospital bed and a clinical white polyester curtain hung from the polystyrene tiles in the ceiling. The nurses station and the coffee machine right outside and the family room was right next door. It was in that family room I first watched my most favourite film, The Hound of the Baskervilles, the 1939 version with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, the only two people who should ever have been aloud to play Sherlock and Dr Watson.
I think it was on the third day of being sat in her room from 9am to 7pm watching her sleep, I call it sleep but in reality she was on such powerful drugs she was comatosed for 23 hours a day. When her bed sheet fell off her legs it exposed something to me I wasn't expecting to see in reality ever. Her leg from the upper thigh down was swollen up, skin as that resembled a red potatoe and patches of green. This was the first time I had ever experience a panic attack and ran out of the room in fits of tears. Sian followed me out, she had worked in care homes before and had been exposed to things like this before, that doesn't mean she wasn't as shocked as me but I had never seen anything like this and it hit me in my heart very hard.
I tried to reason with myself that when she got better the doctors could treat the gang green and anything else that had caused the problem and she was going to be fine, but after the loving consoling Sian had given me, I was able to tell myself that they could amputate and she can still live a fulfilling life.
For the whole of the eight days sat in the room and the eight nights sat drinking heavily with family, my dad was in there for about 22 hours a day, sleeping on a tiny two seater sofa. He is not the tallest of men but still a two seater and a person with head, arms and legs can only produce overflow. We would all take it in turns taking him away from the magnolia painted cell to grab some lunch or for a small pint of anything. Grabbing our respite from the solitude and loneliness illness brings with it, away from the generic looking furniture, the clinical bed and curtain, the bathroom fully equipped for disabled access and the constant wurring of the automatic medication dispenser carefully placed under her pillow.
It is really stupid to think that you would ever get any kind of memorable moment out of such an awful experience but going towards the end, the amounts of awake time diminished and in those brief minutes something truly wonderful happened to me, I had to get out of the room for some air, the room had its own little patio over looking a communal area with bird boxes and a water baths where nature did what nature does best. Just as I sat on the bench for a minute watching a squirrel do what squirrels do best, I heard from inside the room, "Coooey, I can see you." I looked over my shoulder and in through the open door. My mum was leaning forward on one elbow and waving at me with the most beautiful smile, it was then I knew this was her way of saying goodbye to me.
For the next couple of nights when we would leave I said a definite goodbye to her until on the Saturday at 6.15pm my mum died and was free from the constant pain and her loving family released from the the waiting for death.
For everyone who has dealt with a family member or friend who has died of cancer and who can understand what lies in this story, I empathise with every feeling you have ever had, every feeling you are now having and all feelings you will have in every single day of your life to come.
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Are Short Stories Dead
Having a full time job and being someone who enjoys writing, I never find enough time in a day to properly sit down and write to a great extent, I always seem to wind up a story before I lose the flow. There is nothing worse than having a great idea and going on until you kill it because the enthusiasm has been lost, due to a bitty writing schedule.
Managing between three and ten thousand words to finalise a story is where I feel my limited time allows me to safely conclude a story without it turning into spaghetti. But how could I possibly make any kind of money out of that?
Magazine Submissions, the submission process is easy enough taking care to format the submission in the specific way they require, however some magazines want only unpublished works to be submitted, a fair enough comment, but their process takes months and in that time what do you do? Also does this make the story redundant after it has been published once.
Self-publishing, a great resource if you are blessed with the time to add, Self-Marketing and Promotions, finding markets, creating visuals, choosing the edition type for example kindle, eBook PDFs or iBooks etc.
On a blog, again self-promotion required and where does the financial incentive come from, small adverts like Google Adwords that give you a click through rate or a commission on the follow through sale. This only works in two ways, specifically selected advertising for the target audience and if the audience click the adverts.
But what about the physical story, three to ten thousand words in self-publish terms could be a few hours out of someone’s day or split across a couple of days, then it is gone. Will someone pay a small contribution for a short story when, for a small amount more you could get a Novel published by the big companies and written by fully fledged, time served authors?
But the short story will only work in any or all of the above if the target audience will read it. I did some of the above except I placed 5 short stories in kindle formatted collection. I did mention that I enjoy writing and as my twitter bio says, “I enjoy writing, doesn't mean I am any good at it.” I don’t classify myself as an author, I also would never suggest to anyone that I am into marketing or promotions. I probably couldn't even write the sales worthy, descriptive text on my own short collection. The sales of my 5 unUsual Short Stories are negligible. In reality, my commission doesn't buy me a pint of milk. Maybe it is early days, only time will tell me that. But what is a short story, we could look it up but you will find varying definitions of a short story, Wikipedia will tell you them all. But when you think about it, the bible is full of short stories, I am sure the Kings of old where told short stories by wandering minstrels. So from the beginning of time any tale that held the attention of an audience could be classified as a Short Story. In publishing terms the word count will determine the thresholds of flash fiction, short stories, novella and a novel.
Are short stories dead, the question to answer, my thoughts are no of course not they are the cornerstone of everyone’s imagination. You may think that you do not have enough of an imagination to tell a story, but if you can think you can tell a story. But can short stories be a marketable thing, that is a bigger question.
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