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Stars

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A-Z story installment S The last bit of this story, although the alphabet isn't quite done Life can be confusing... She carries the little bundle up the stairs to bed. Echo curls under the quilt. Claire makes a wall of rolled up blanket behind her, to stop a fall, anchors it inside the sheet. She strolls back to damp the fire. Her ribs ache. The floorboards are smooth and cool underfoot. She pauses at the window. Stars ping out in a thickening sky. There they are, millions; millions of stars, casting down light in diamond lines, all through space, millions and millions of stars. She sits at the window seat, her hand pressed against the glass. She cries without effort. Shadows get deeper, they overspill, make a rising tide all through the small house. There is enough illumination left to find a match. Claire lights a candle, treads back upstairs, her silhouette lurching by her side, slips into bed. ‘Obscure,’ she whispers, ‘a speck, nothing more. Unique to t

Resusitate

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A-Z story, installment R.  Claire's mind drifts. She finds herself in a garden: herself as a barefoot child, running, easy as a lazy wind, through swathing grass. Lilting air presses her face, whispers, indecipherable and ticklish. Light tilts, she jousts back. Broad leaves on a smooth barked tree: in the sun, the leaf glows, shows its skeleton. She holds her hands to this bright sun, then cool mist, then shivering wind, then fresh rain: years of seasons pass, they tangle up like riverweed: they knot and twist until she remembers all of it, receives it like a solar plexus kick. From the edge of the bridge, how the air pushes back at her, how her fearful limbs flail; the icy metallic smack of the surface, how sudden it is; the water that closes over her head and how her mouth opens, closes, silent and pointless. A swell of tears wakes her up. The fire glows. Shadows play, against the light. ‘Like stars fell,’ she says. It kind of makes sense now. Perfect Echo is los

Quiet

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A-Z Part Q In the alcove at the side of the fireplace, a brass box holds kindling sticks and firelighters. There is coal in the scuttle and logs in a basket. The grate has some ash, craters of it, like a moonscape. Claire ponders raking it out, but then again, it is a light layer, it won’t choke out the draw of air. She has done enough work to be happy with her day. She opens the brass lid of the box to pull out a square of firelighter, a handful of sticks to make a fast blaze. Echo, meanwhile, has wandered over and poked the curious ash. ‘Careful,’ Claire warns, gathering the child to her lap. ‘You can watch this, okay, but then I put the fireguard up and you don’t touch. Ouch, hot!’ Echo, intrigued, makes no comment. She studies the white cube of paraffin as it catches the proffered flame. She studies the flames that spiral around the skinny kindling. ‘Woff,’ she whispers. ‘Fire is lively, like the dogs,’ Claire tells her. ‘Kind of sounds like woff, doesn’t it?

Play

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The A-Z story: installment P It's what cushions are really for! Echo explains she has finished by tipping her plate upside down. Claire scoops up leftover clumps of sandwich, stacks the plates, crunches her last wedge of apple while she whisks into the kitchen. Echo climbs up onto the un-cushioned sofa, hollers triumphantly. Claire can’t help but laugh. She returns to the living room and re-poses the cushions; makes a wall to hide behind. Echo slides herself, legs first, to investigate. The wall tumbles. They cheer, and rebuild; cheer, and rebuild. The cheers magnify, the rebuilds wobble, flimsier each time. Laughter swallows them up. Claire lies on the floor, chest heaving, eyes overflowing: strange noises squeeze from her bagpipe lungs. The more hopeless she is, the funnier it becomes. Echo’s giggles reach an explosive frequency. She does a sort of hiccup and sighs. ‘I think,’ Claire says, recovering her breath, looking at the lowing sunlight on the wall; ‘we s

Oh

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A-Z story installment O Echo climbs the sofa while Claire cuts chunks of cheese, butters bread rolls, peels some apple. She hears the child babble nonsensical formative words in a purposeful manner. From the fridge she fetches grape juice. She remembers the plastic bottle with the pop up lid, easier for Echo to drink from than the mess of the cup. With a plate in each hand, she wanders in to the living room. The sofa cushions are on the floor. ‘Oh,’ Echo gestures, in the manner of one surprised to find a floor full of cushions. ‘Oh,’ Claire repeats, ‘how ever can that have happened?’ She stacks two of the cushions to make a soft table, then one each for a chair, places the plates. ‘Shall we?’ She sits. Echo catches on to the game, plonking herself down with a grin. ‘Nomnomnom.’ Each little hand fills itself with cheese and bread. She presses as much as she can into her mouth. ‘Good bread, isn’t it?’ ‘Mmmm.’ Echo’s mouth is too full for comment. She nods enthu

Nom

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A-Z Part N Echo loves the water hitting her hands. She laughs and presses a chubby palm to the tap, spraying cold water into her face. Shock follows splutter, then she tries it again. This time it too is joyous for her. Water hits the walls and floor. ‘Enough!’ Claire is laughing also. Echo grins. She pats a wet hand on Claire’s cheek. ‘Nom,’ she says, decisively. ‘I am a bit peckish, now that you mention it.’ And a little apology: for I have not been as busy visiting other A-Z challenge folks as I would have liked: life is somewhat bowled over right now: if you have dropped by and left a comment I will get around to returning the favour! 

Mess

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The dog pack springs apart at the field entrance, scatters out in separate paths, fascinated by smells of ground and air. Claire watches Flooper follow Brasso. He is starting to get braver, even runs to chase a scent by himself; briefly, but this is how it starts, how they rehabilitate, how suddenly things can change, just that littlest shift of attitude. ‘Woff!’ Echo waves. ‘Walk?’ Claire lowers the little chatterbox. They hold hands, and the child stands close as Lady returns, licks Echo’s hair, trots off. ‘Woff, woff, woff!’ Echo squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head, smiles back at Claire. Hand in hand they follow the dogs, and the dogs follow the stories of scent that they can read from wind or earth. They know everything that has passed. The afternoon sun eases down, makes bold tree shapes, shapes that move and shift, animate the field stories. Dimsum is the first to squat. Claire pulls a poo-bag from her back pocket. ‘Foo-ey!’ She says to Echo. ‘Foo,’ Ec

Linking

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A-Z Part L Tied but not fettered The warmth of the afternoon is densely packed, cosy. Echo rests her head on Claire’s shoulder. ‘You are still kind of heavy to carry,’ Claire tells her. Echo huffs, as though this is of no real importance. The wind drops, everything holds still in the sturdy heat. Barking dogs break the spell. Claire lowers Echo to ground level. ‘You can do some walking,’ she tells her, ‘at least until the dogs are out.’ Echo takes hold of her hand, leads confidently back up the path until distracted by the sun sifting through the wide leaves of a tree. Echo reaches her hands towards it, palms up, fingers splayed. She tilts her hands, emulates the leaves gentle lilt. Claire feels a pull of affection for the gesturing child. Heartstrings, she thinks; this is where the word comes from. An invisible tie between lives; only there’s nothing fettered about it. Connective. It’s connective .

Know Name

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Part K of the A-Z story challenge...  In which some identity (and other stuff) is cleared up...  She is putting the dried dishes away when she hears the child stir. It is sliding feet-first off the sofa, pulling a face. ‘Ugh.’ ‘Oh!’ Claire says. ‘Nappy! Now what? Improvise!’ She looks around the kitchen, plucks a first aid tin from an open cupboard. ‘This might work,’ she tells the child, who stands, uncomfortably, waiting for a solution to arrive. ‘To the bathroom!’ ‘Ugh!’ the child reiterates, and peers over the edge of the bath. ‘This might be a learning curve, okay,’ Claire admits. The child eyes items on the bath rack. Claire unpeels the tabs. There is some kind of liner inside, which she manages to catch all the contents in.  ‘Good thing we had lunch already, or I might be a bit off my food now. You actually make a worse stink than the dogs, did you know that? Pooey!’ The child laughs. ‘Foo!’ ‘Foo-ey, young lady,’ Claire agrees. ‘I think that can go i

Just A Moment

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A-Z Part J: In which a splash becomes most reflective Tap water refracts from each plate, splashes the draining board, the dry dishes not yet put away, the windowsill, Claire’s t-shirt. Lines of droplets race down the windowpane. Claire lets them run to conclusion before she wipes the cloth over. She looks out at the precise shadows playing on the ground under the ash tree. The sun, as she understands it, is a sphere of burning gas. Not poetic sounding. But she thinks of how fire burns in a grate, the hiss and twist of escaping gases, the unexpected colours, how ornate and snaky. She sweeps the floor, unsure of when the softly snoring cherub will awake. 

In The House

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The A-Z segmented story: Part I (as in the letter not the Roman numeral.) In which some further sandwiches and mess occur.   In the house, Claire lowers her little guest to the sofa. ‘Half a sandwich wasn’t quite enough lunch for me: more cheese for you?’ She walks through to the kitchen, opens the fridge; hears an enthusiastic ‘Ah!’ ‘More cheese it is.’ Four slices of wholewheat make a square of squares on the wooden chopping board. Slices of cheese are pressed onto dots of butter. ‘We’ll eat in now. Don’t share yours with the cat this time, or the floor. I’ll put some water in a cup. Can you use a cup? I have seen things like cups, I think, for little ones, with lids and spouts.’ The child resumes its original solemn faced stare. ‘Well, we’ll soon find out, eh?’ Claire brings the slender feast to the front room on a tin tray. The cup of water is taken in two chubby hands. Most of it seems to be washing the child’s neck. ‘Ahh!’ Lips are smacked. Claire c

Hounds

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A-Z story: Part H Oh, those crazy dogs!  The dogs leap up when Claire appears, expecting play. The child clings to her. ‘It’s okay,’ she says, to the toddler and the throng of animals. The hems of the miniature jeans are soon wet from damp noses and tongues. ‘Not now; not now; come on, every one out in the pen!’ The child clings, though curiosity compels her from hiding. She peeks at the bouncing hounds, shrinks, repeats the process. In the pen the dogs fetch toys. Claire kicks a football. ‘Woof,’ she says, ‘see, little one- they are bonkers but they are fun, eh?’ The child observes. ‘Fetch!’ Claire commands. Brasso dutifully retrieves the ball, holds it up, importantly, pushes through the pack. Claire takes it.  ‘Ready?’ She steadies the child. ‘One, two, three, THROW!’ The child gasps, eyes cartoon wide. ‘That’s Blunder, the clumsy one,’ she points; ‘Caribou, chunky; Dimsum, short; Brasso, bossy, Lady, intelligent; Wellington, hmm, lollopy; then there’s

Gestures

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A-Z challenge: Part G presenting the newest installment of story It’s not much different to holding a largish puppy: compact weight, body warmth, wiggling. ‘That’s a cat- that’s Scuro. Scuro says, miaow, miaow.’ ‘Ma-ow,’ the child says, ‘ma-ow, ma-ow!’ It peals into more laughing. A cheese-smeared hand pats her cheek. ‘Nom nom, ma-ow!’ ‘Yes,’ Claire smiles, ‘little jolly thing; Scuro likes cheese.’ Little jolly thing laughs. ‘Nom nom, ma-ow!’ She carries the child down to the cat shed. ‘Shh, sleeping.’ Claire puts a shush finger to her lips, points out Old Gray, slumbering in a sunspot. The child copies her gesture. Claire tiptoes along the path. Behind a raised finger, the child sports a conspiratorial smile. It rolls its eyes from Claire to the cats. They step quietly into the shed. One cat unsprawls, strolls to a dish. It laps, purrs, pads over to rub against Claire’s leg, looks up at the child. Claire watches the enthralled child. Her arms start to

Sunday Notes: Eggs In One Basket

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Yesterday we dug up an unproductive tree. The morning was soft sun on frost. We are chicken-sitting, and the brood followed close enough to keep my ankles warm while I filled the corn hopper. Came back to the house with six eggs. We were lazy till after breakfast when the sun warmed up and the ice wind dropped away. Then we tackled the garden jobs, and the tree that only leafs was consigned to the hedge, leaving room for a miniature orchard. Healthy work: hot bath: glass of wine: sleep. Today was an early start, and the ice wind had found its way back. We traveled to Bridgewater for Black Belt training, nursing hot coffee from a big silver flask. In two weeks our next Dan grading will be over. I think of this: only two weeks, and its done: so I can ride through the nerves. Steel yourself, lady, with coffee and time! I am nervous too about the book. On Tuesday there will be one thousand copies of the Tae Kwon-Do Time Travelling Tour Bus and Other Stories taking

Fey

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Taking the A-Z Challenge: currently with short chapters from a short story. The next excerpt... in which there is joy and sandwiches. They regard each other. Claire stands still. The child; a year, maybe two years old; stares at her, rubs an ear with a smudgy hand. Gender, indeterminate. Miniature jeans, t-shirt, canvas shoes. Hair is shoulder-length, light brown, waves.  The light catches in it. The skin is almost luminescent. She doesn’t want to leave it. The animals are fine, if you leave them. It is easy to give the nonchalant friendly air to the animals. What does one do, with a child? Instinct tells her to hold ground. She keeps still. It makes unsteady strides, around her, to the doorway. Holding the doorframe, puzzles out the step, looks at her, solemn faced over one fey shoulder; turns its attention back to the threshold. One foot pats down to the path. A sigh of recognition is emitted. Claire follows, certain only that it should not be left unattended. He

Entrance

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The next excerpt... an unexpected arrival. Although as a plot device, an arrival is never unexpected :-)  Claire scrubs dirt from under her fingernails in the cool kitchen. A sandwich, eaten outside, she decides, can be called a picnic. Scuro jumps up on the table again, illustrates a glimpse of curiosity towards the cat shed. ‘They have scratching posts,’ Claire informs her, ‘squishy beds, toys, space. You will like it.’ Scuro closes her eyes, absorbs sunshine.  Peaked solid clouds sit over the valley. ‘Beautiful view,’ Claire notes. Something clatters in the store shed. ‘Another newcomer?’  It sounds bigger than a cat, a medium sized dog, perhaps. From the clumsiness of the noise, she guesses a large puppy. Best not leave that unattended too long. She finishes the first half of the sandwich, walks inside, plate in hand, unprepared for the sighting of a small child.

Dogs

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Part 3: The happiness of dogs far outweighs the poop.  The dogs are ready to go before she slides back the bolt. ‘Stay…’ She checks her pockets for the roll of poo bags. ‘It’s not the best part of the walk,’ she confides, ‘but: necessary. Heel!’ They surge out like one many-legged animal, some kind of dog-centipede, jostling behind her, till they reach the field and she lets them roam. She loves the way they plunge nose to grass, as though the field is brand new to them. The dog pen re-secured, Claire fetches the hand trowel, a trug for collecting weeds and a straw hat to shade her eyes. The earth is soft to touch, lightly damp, warm, aerated. Sometimes a welcome shelter of cloud drifts between her and the sun. She watches the cloud shadow cross the yard, wonders where it will go from here. The trug is filled and lugged to the compost box, once, twice, many times; she sets herself a rhythm of work; loses herself in it until her stomach tells her it might be an apt

Chiaroscuro

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Part 2 of 18 of my alphabetically segmented story: a rather short piece, but a lovely moment in which a cat is named.  While she sits outside, yoghurt bowl in her lap, the tortoiseshell cat jumps onto the table, rattles the coffee mug. Claire holds a hand out towards it. The cat pushes a cold nose onto her fingertips, purrs briefly. ‘We might pick a name for you, today. Not Shady, something like it- like Chiaroscuro , do you know that word?’ Cat blinks. Claire rubs her ears. ‘ The use of light and shade in paintings and drawings, or the effect produced by this. Also called claire-obscure ,’ she quotes. ‘Like me. Claire-obscure. Scuro. That’s what I’ll call you.’ 

Breakfast

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  Here is the first installment of a short story written for a competition - can't tell you which one as it was written in the diary that was stolen- but the deadline I'm sure has passed. The whole thing is titled Width Of A Plumb Line. The last section will pop up on the 20th April, if my counting is correct.  Sunlight is slipping under the curtains, recreating a daytime world. Like a tethered boat on a swell, Claire bumps in and out of sleep, until the light draws stronger. Unwilling legs slide out of bed. Curtains swoosh sideward. A solid rectangle of brightness opens out over broad floorboards. In the sky is the morning sun and the colour blue. Claire stretches, turns back to the sparse room. ‘Breakfast.’ For the new arrival first, she thinks. Not with the others, not yet. She walks across the warm yard, admires dots of glint on grass blades. ‘Like stars fell,’ she says. ‘Morning, Old Gray.’ Purring shimmers up from the elderly cat, lazing in the cat she

Athena's Dive

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This April I have signed up for the A-Z challenge: thank you to Mr Arlee Bird for thinking this up, I tried it last year and it was tougher than I had expected: for each day in April that is not a Sunday I will be pasting up a post that starts with consecutive letters of the alphabet: from A to Z. This first post is a random piece of flash fiction: the next 17 are installments of one short story. That's as far as I have planned: but being British one expects to stop for T. Athena's Dive Down to the deepest point of the lonely ocean, where compression draws straight through me, there is no strength to resist it. Flattened, with such ease. All the reasons, they are drowned too, they are saturated, dissolved. They are simply part of where I am. A secluded part of who I am. We all sink, sometimes. This deep, no other voice can reach. I must speak with myself. Is this reversible? Or am I drowned forever? That will depend on what you choose. I don't