short story – and so she thinks

Ned Stranger – Forever Lost

admin — Thu, 26 Mar 2020 08:01:56 +0000

The multi talented Ned Stranger has released his debut single Forever Lost. Drawing on acoustic melodies and electronic beats, it’s an amazing melding of genres and styles that engages and enlivens throughout. His voice sounds strong and bouyant, fully finessed, even as the musical shapes shift beneath him. It’s a simple contemplative tale about the end of the world and some kind of desolation, which has never felt more apt, and feels right in step with the way we live now. But it’s also lively and optimistic, constanty evolving through the music. One part of the incredible August and After, Ned’s solo stuff sees more varied influences and styles work together to create something enigmatic and exciting, as complex synthscapes and peaceful tension combine to create a song that captures you at different points in various ways

Ned doesn’t want to rest, so is also showing an online gig for subscribers to his newsletter, and running a short story competition. Head to his website to find out more.

He also has this to add: ‘I am there for each and every one of you in whatever way you need. Whether it’s a free music lesson or some content writing or practical advice on managing your time or finances or just someone to sit and listen, please reach out for a chat.’ What a guy.

The Age of Perpetual Light – Josh Weil

admin — Sat, 09 Sep 2017 06:40:00 +0000

The Age of Perpetual Light consists of eight tales about light and the search for more of it in our lives. Josh Weil’s stories span people, eras and places, but they are held together by the universal quality of light. Far from a cliched motif representative of the future, it stands stands as a metaphor of tenacity, entrepreneurship, and human progress. Most of the stories are set transitory moments, such as the turn of the century or the dawn of electricity. These moments are representative of the fact that despite the fact that we are always in moments of possible change, the theme of light nonetheless stands as a marker of all that is eternal.

We start with a Jewish dry goods peddler in New York at the start of the twentieth century. In No Flies, No Folly he falls in love with an Amish woman as he reveals an Edison Lamp, in a scene of rather strange yet sweet seduction. Not only does love succeed, but light ‘rising out of the darkness of the water, breaking the horizon, so many lights, so wondrous, bright, new.’ He returns in the final tale, Hello From Here, in which his younger self, a deserter from the Russian army, encounters a photographer was talking ‘always, about only one thing: light.’

The Essential Constituent of Modern Living Standards is about a farmers’ uprising against the monopoly of modern power companies, the realisation of what progress and mechanisation can result in. Power has come to the town, a world ‘opened up in holes, a dawn still stained with spots of night’ and there’s a ‘spark in our frayed ends.’ A couple’s attempt to adjust to a new life in New York could end in tears, but here there is hope, as explored in Beautiful Ground. In Angle of Reflection we hear the yearning and desperation of a Serbian immigrant teenage boy in 1990’s Vermont as he wants to see an experimental satellite, the Soviets’ ‘space mirror.’

Weil’s prose is moving and sensitive, but never overtly emotional. He uses dialect of the time and place, including Yiddish, and weaves the pathos and emotion in with an almost hidden touch. Reflections on the theme are ever present, almost like a heartbeat through the stories, drawn with a sweeping but subtle stroke across the ‘whole world. Edge to edge. Lot by the stark stare of a full Yule moon.’ as in it’s always there. Like your heartbeat

The collection was written over a decade, and follow Weil’s debut Dayton Literary Peace Prize-winning novel, The Great Glass Sea. Light is not only a continual theme, but a character in itself. There’s a sense of never giving up. Wounded hearts always want to be healed, broken bodies mended, crumbling buildings rebuilt. In the book? And in life.

Fables, noir, sci-fi…it’s all in here, and all woven together with the theme. Cab lights, fairy lights, glow worms and sunrise – every type of light features. Characters are richly drawn in masterful language, and we’re taken around the world to places familiar and new. At times things feel a little too fragmented, and it’s unclear what’s happening, but there are some real gems.

The Point of Roughness is a highlight. It sees the protagonist navigating the world with his wife Bess and adopted daughter Orly, a girl with hair ‘so fine as if spun from sunlight.’ It’s light that keeps them going through difficult times as they are forced to deal with their daughter’s autism during winter’s long dark night, and he is forced to deal with obsession, loss and love.

This isn’t about light, but people. ‘How much wattage does it take to illuminate the darkest corners of the human heart?’ he asks. That’s the real question Weil is asking. He might not find the answer, but these stories are a brave and bold exploration into why.

Happy: A Collection of Poetry and Prose on Happiness and Being Happy

admin — Sun, 05 Mar 2017 14:16:15 +0000

Three of my short stories have been published in HAPPY – A Collection of Poetry and Prose on Happiness and Being Happy, the fifth in the Collections of Poetry and Prose book series.

What makes people happy? What is happiness? Can happiness be found from people, places and things around us, or is it purely internal – a reflection and result of our own thoughts, feelings, attitude and mindset? Can we really be as happy as we want to be?

With many of the contributions reflecting the diverse backgrounds and cultures of the writers, in HAPPY there are 129 contributions from 60 writers in 21 countries: Antigua, Australia, Bahrain, Canada, England, France, Greece, Indonesia, Ireland, Kenya, Malaysia, Mexico, New Zealand, Nigeria, Puerto Rica, Scotland, South Africa, Sri Lanka, Uganda, USA and Vietnam, all exploring themes of happiness and being happy.

HAPPY is a unique collection of poetry and short prose from some of the most talented and inspirational writers around the world. Compiled by Robin Barratt with… Aarati Salian, Abigail George, Alan Murphy, Amanda Earthwren, Andy Find, Barbara E Robinson, Bee Parkinson, Bernadette Perez, Bryan Ng Sze Cher, Clare Roslington, Clement Clark, Courtney Speedy, Cynthia Morrison, David Hollywood, David Watt, David Whitaker, Francesca Baker, Gayathri Viswanath, Grant M King, Heidi Al Khajah, Jenna Rainey, Jennifer Riggs, John Karl Stokes, John Tunaley , Kapardeli Eftichia, Kariuki Wa Nyamu, Kathleen Boyle, Kev Milsom, Kimmy Alan, Kirsty A Niven, Kritika Chawla, Lee Williams, Linda M Crate, LindaAnn Lo Schiavo, Lynette Cupido, Madhavi Tiwary, Madhumitha Murali, Maire Malone, Mandee C Harris, Manu Menard, Margaret Clifford, Martin Redfern, Michael Ihenacho, Michael Thwaites, Mimi Martin, Nilanjana Bose, Pamela Scott, Pat Smekal, Philip Kobylarz, Ray Ward, Rifat Najam, Rohini Sunderam, Rosie Mapplebeck, Ruth M Edwards, Sandra T Adeyeye, S’busiso Manqa, Sergio A Ortiz, S R Sullivan, Tracy Davidson and Zahra Zuhair.

Public Library – Ali Smith

admin — Fri, 11 Dec 2015 14:33:57 +0000

I grew up surrounded by books. I know the agonising pain of having to pick only six books from the library for the week. I felt the frustration of my mother telling me to put down a book and speak to our friends. I know the thrill of receiving a new book for Christmas, and the urgency with which it must be devoured. I’ve lost hours to the lives of characters and their adventures, seen myself reflected in the pages and explored an infinite number of new possibilities, and wherever I am in the world make sure to take myself to the library. In the library one can be safe, and stretched. It’s bliss.
And it saddens me to think that this wonderful institution, an educational resource and gateway of imagination and possibility is being removed from our communities at an alarming rate. Ali Smith estimates that in the time it took her to write the twelve short stories in her collection Public Libraries, one thousand of them closed.

None of the stories actually take place in a library, but they all explore the power and potency of books in our lives. Interwoven with relationship struggles, journeys to work, transport delays, credit card fraud and the daily grind are the etymology of words, ashes of DH Lawrence, and obsession with Katherine Mansfield, and former haunts of the Shelleys. Books become part of the fabric of life, with libraries only one home of those ‘endless stories, all crossing each other.’
Between each story are personal reflections on the importance of libraries, and these were the sections that made me smile and tingle the most. Jackie Kay talks of finding ‘kindred spirits’ in the network of individuals borrowing, and Helen Oyeyemi credits libraries with being ‘the making of me.’ A glorious example of democracy, Pat Hunter refers to the Public Libraries Act 1850 and the Public Libraries and Museums Act 1964 and how this makes them a non negotiable of our society, something that Sophie Mayer refers to as ‘the ideal model of society’ and ‘best possible use of shared space.’ Sarah Wood reflects on school holidays cycling back and forth to her local library, and Clare Jennings describes her early education in the library as a ‘serendipity of learning.’
Ali Smith’s writing is deft, specific, and very human. Her attention to detail conjures up images and echoes the sounds of life with immediacy and presence. Winner of the 2015 Bailey’s Women’s Prize for How to be both, she is one of the UK’s most acclaimed contemporary writers. She might not be were it not for the library.

Published by Penguin/Hamish Hamilton, November 2015.

The Girl By The Sea

admin — Mon, 27 May 2013 12:06:18 +0000

It was a day when the grey oblongs stack up and in to the silvery sky. Sniffs of clouds liked the nose with rain, and the sea crashed like a breaking stainless steel knife being twisted between finger and thumb.
Against the gum metal grey shopfront leaned a vision. It was only later I believed her to be a vision. At the time I was as scared as I was intrigued by the girl. Beneath to heavy eyebrows her kohl lined eyes were like night skies, so thick and heavy that no stars could be seen. I imagine that she was looking straight past me. Her lips were stung red, like her wind beaten cheeks, and wisps if hair that looked as though they had been artistically arranged were now breaking free. In a more bohemian setting they may have been described as infused with the spirit of the age. In reality they were just battered and beaten, like the rest of the world.

She seemed to be wearing my grandmother’s coat, or at least one remarkably like it. My eyes followed the buttons down to the hem, flapping in the seabreeze, folding upwards like the corner of a present tantalizingly uncurled. Her left knee was bruised, and I immediately wanted to administer care to her war wound. I noticed the bag hanging insouciantly off her right shoulder matched my scarf. I remember thinking how heavy the bag must have been. She leaned with such compensating pressure to the left that it can’t have been good for her. But then I realised that that was what my father would say, and I corrected myself. She was cool.
She moved.
I started.
She held out her arm, proffering a steaming greasy crumple of newspaper to me.
‘Chip?’ she asked.
‘Loser’ she said. I turned. Even when I recognised the air of joviality in her voice, potential criticism uttered by my love still wounded to the soul.
‘My dad used to play that record all the time.’
What record?
The one you’re humming.
‘I’m not humming’ I started in protest, all too aware that she was probably right.
‘I say used to – it’s not even cool enough for him now.’
They focused on the chips. ‘Do you wanna chip, like?’ I asked from the corner of my cap. She twiddled a few strands of hair around her fingers, buying some precious seconds with which to think of something cool in response.
‘Me?’ was what she came up with.
‘Well yeah, but only if you like’ I muttered, still not revealing my true affections in his refusal to make eye contact.
‘Ta.’
She dived in and grabbed the biggest steaming chip in the pile. I watched her as she put the salty food to her lips.
‘Er, it’s got vinegar on.’
I was aghast. Visions of a lonely future spun around his mind. ‘I’ll find you one without’ I said, far too quickly to be cool, and fumbled on the bottom of the chip tray.
‘You could just kiss me.’
‘What?’
Something to do isn’t it.
Fuck. The girl with the glint in her eye, who smelled of wind and rain, who fluttered my stomach and made my head whirl. She wants me to kiss her. The first time. All I could hear was the hum of the shop generator that had now finished its loop, and the blinds clattering against the window. Focus. She just demanded exactly what I’d been wanting for months. And now I couldn’t. She looked expectantly, and stepped towards him. Her eyelashed licked her lids.
‘Mum’s expecting me home’ I said. We have guests.
I turned and ran. Looking back I shouted ‘Come if you want.’
She bit her lip, so hard that a tear came out. At least that’s what she told herself.