My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the category “Morgen Bailey”

2014: a brief writing year in review

Well, here we are at the end (well, here in Switzerland anyway) of the penultimate day of the year and a chance to look back over the last twelve months, from a writer’s perspective, or a writing perspective: delete as applicable.

Firstly this blog.  My 2014 review informs me that this little piece of internet interaction was viewed in 65 countries. I find that pretty damn amazing that I’ve had views from Saudi Arabia and South Africa, China and Chile. Thank you to all of you who have checked in and had a look around; I really appreciate it.

The ever-busy and always approachable Morgen Bailey gets my first mention, simply because it was she who gave me encouragement from the start and has continued to entertain my pieces (flash fiction and note plural…naughty, naughty!) whenever I send them.  Thank you Morgen!  She built my blog by the way, ultra-professional and exceedingly patient (Panic?  Me?) from start to finish.

2014 started with nudgings and words in my ear from my dear friend, Alex Dorici, who persuaded me to grow some balls and put myself forward for the annual 3-day poetry festival here in Lugano, Poestate.  There I stood in front of a hundred people, biting my lip as I was introduced and mumbling my opening lines until my confidence grew and my 10 minute reading was met with applause and a return request for 2015.  Thanks Alex!  Sorry, both websites are in Italian but hey; I do live in Italian-speaking Switzerland.

A short, 20 hour teaching course followed Poestate and then I put everything aside for a month or so and just chilled baby, chilled.  This cooling off didn’t last long as in August I was contacted by Accenti magazine, a Canadian publication on all things Italian, and they duly published an article I’d written on two wine-growing regions of Piemonte; Gavi and Casale Monferrato.

Upon the author’s copy landing in my postbox, I then received news that I’d won 1st placing in the monthly Writer’s Forum short story competition, which was published in the October issue.  Having my story critiqued by Sue Moorcroft was almost satisfying as seeing my name in print.

Now the rest of the winter lies ahead and I intend to put some of those long, cold, dark days to use.  I do have plans for 2015 but I’m reluctant to lay them down here in case they go pear-shaped.  Life is like that.  My NaNoWriMo was a NaNoNoGo – it happens.

Thank you to each and every one of you who has visited and contributed over the last year, I appreciate each and every one.

Happy New Year to you all.

 

 

Advertisements

Flash Fiction Friday 146: Colours frozen in time by Chris Farley

My ever present and never diminishing thanks once again to Morgen.
I’m still unsure as to whether I should be disturbed about the fact that I sat in a pub looking at a tattoo and invented this story around it…

MorgEn Bailey - Editor, Comp Columnist/Judge, Tutor & Writing Guru

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the one hundred and forty-sixth piece in this series. This week’s is a 436-worder by Christopher Farley.

Colours frozen in time

The tattoo was the first thing I noticed; it was beautiful. She sat opposite her friend drinking Belgian beer from a huge glass and I saw it as I walked past, making my way to the men’s room.

Her thin, white arms poked out from her even whiter t-shirt, then a waterfall of colour burst from the sleeves of the t-shirt. Three lotus flowers, red, green and pink, one on top of the other. But oh, the arm. How could something so pale and delicate suffer so much pain? I returned to the bar and pretended to look at the game on the big screen. Her friend rose from the table and headed for the toilet.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help…

View original post 661 more words

I’ll just close my eyes a while

Ah, at last.  I’ve finally written something fictional, it seems ages since the last one.  Thanks to Morgen Bailey and her Story Writing Exercises I found myself writing this at half past midnight, using the keywords:  need, leave, Nebraska, pick, song.  I went slightly over the 15 minute limit – 17 to be exact.  Then I left it, went to bed and came back to touch it up this morning.  So, thanks for that Morgen.  Great exercise!  So, let’s see how this little 550-worder stands up in the warm light of a summer morning shall we?

  ***

My back is sore, my legs cramped and my coat can’t be pulled any more tightly around me. My breath fogs and my fingers and toes seem to have left me for warmer climes, but my ribs, hard against the hard cold wood, jolting and jerking, are the worst.

I’d taken a beating before leaving Summer Creek. Panning for gold in them hills can make you feel like a king, but it can make others feel like killing you, make them envious. I’d gotten away as best I could I suppose, considering the kicking I got. Still, I kept my gold, or most of it. They only found a few nuggets and the rest was well-hidden. It was the gold I’d promised not to touch: Janie’s gold. The gold I wanted to win Janie back with, the gold I need to win Janie back. As I move I can hear her letter rustle in my coat pocket, a crinkled reminder of a love gone bad, and a love now gone.

The hell was she doing in Nebraska anyhow? What, or rather who made her leave? I knew the answer to that; she couldn’t live alone for long, she needed company and preferable the male-type. The Lincoln postmark was the first thing I saw when I received the letter, two months ago now. It made my heart sink, then I panned just that little bit harder, worked just that little bit longer to bring her some gold from the Black Hills, to get her to come back to St. Louis. I’m a fool, I know but this is no fool’s gold in my possession. She’ll see that, when we meet. I still can’t believe she’s gone even now. I can think of nothing else as I sit, freezing my ass in this slow, empty cattle wagon, shunting and bumping through the South Dakota night.

I lay my head back, close my eyes and listen to the movement over the tracks, each cross-tie and rail joint out to get me. I’m sure I can taste blood now; punctured lung? Could be, 6 pairs of boots can do damage to a man already weakened with a broken heart. I begin to hum an old song; The ship that never returned, one of our camp side favourites. Billy would take that banjo from the sackcloth and pick like an Appalachian angel. Billy. Billy bust flat this autumn, running up debts and making enemies. They took his banjo, then they took Billy. Mountain justice. No one said anything, we all had debts but most of us were panning enough for our need; except Billy.

All this gold weighing down my pocket and I’ve not eaten in almost a week; feels like my stomach is touching my backbone: it probably is. At least I’ve Janie’s gold, hidden good. I would write her a letter or a note but my fingers couldn’t hold a pencil. I’ll just sit here all quiet. I wish there was at least a cow for company.

I feel so weak, so tired, it’s getting colder. I can taste the blood good now, getting stronger with every jolt of the train. I think I’ll just close my eyes a bit. I know I shouldn’t but just for a short while, I’m so tired. And so damned cold.

Flash Fiction Friday 113: The Third Rail by Christopher Farley

Thank you Morgen.

Post Navigation