My top TV in 2019 (bear in mind there was lots and lots I didn’t see!) is:
Fleabag, Season 2 – Phobe Waller-Bridge is unique, Andrew Scott was wonderful as the priest, and everyone else was fab. Great story, even better acting. I loved it.
Years and Years – pitch-perfect writing about the (very) near future by Russell T Davies. Very bleak. very important.
Seven Worlds, One Planet – extraordinary filming. By turns poignant, awe-inspiring and heart-rending. And with a wonderfully humorous look at the grave-robbing hamsters of Vienna. And the one and only David Attenborough.
The grave-robbing, candlewax snaffling hamsters of Vienna
Coming next: My top musical performances of the year
This is a little story which I started in Italy in May, in the wonderful flash fiction course with Kathy Fish, Nancy Stohlman and a bunch of other talented writers. Here’s the beautiful soundtrack which inspired it and from which it takes its title:
Underneath the Stars
Cath Barton
He still looks for her at the tail end of the day, our old grey cat, Merlin. Sitting at the top of the steps, outside our front door. Watching the bend in the road. Watching and waiting for her battered old Ford Fiesta to appear round the bend, her tooting and waving to tell us she’s home and calling out to me to put the kettle on because:
‘I’m dying for a cup of tea!’
That was Marie-Louise. She was greedy for life.
She brought cakes, always a little sweet something. But now the days of our feasting are done and it’s quiet day and night in Silverdale, in the quicksilver light of the moon and the rarely-now-golden light of the sun.
For they closed the road off.
Marie-Louise would not have wanted that, would have insisted that the va-et-vient should continue. For she loved the rush and fall of things.
Merlin’s still sitting looking, still hopeful, as the silvery sheen of his coat merges into the dusk. I call him and we go together into the back garden. We sit by side, noses twitching to catch the sinuous waft of night scents as, above us, the map of the heavens unrolls. There’s the whoosh of a train down in the cutting but Merlin doesn’t stir.
I point. ‘She’s up there,’ I whisper in his ear.
It’s a blind hope. I can’t read the night sky any more than I could read her mind or understand her crazy impulses.
Merlin’s ears prick now and he darts after some little creature invisible to me in the fading light. Something snuffles near the railway tracks. A fox maybe, or a badger. I call Merlin back from danger. He comes and he sits, quietly, close by me. And I nuzzle his soft back.
NEWS! I’m going to include this story in a collection of short fiction and photographs which I’m putting together with my husband and fellow writer, Oliver Barton. It’s called Candyfloss III. Yes, it’s the third in a series, though there’s been a bit of a gap since the last one. You can still buy Candyfloss II here.
We hope to have Candyfloss III out in January. All profits will go to local charities where we live in Abergavenny. And it will be available to buy directly from us. You’ll hear about it here first.
Thanks to all who entered my story competition. The entries were anonymised before I judged them, so knowing me did not benefit or disbenefit anyone!
I enjoyed all the different ways you used the prompt. On another day, with a different judge, any of you might have won.
I chose Samuel Dodson’s story as the winner because of the way it goes beyond individuals. And it has a thought-provoking ending. Congratulations to Sam! Check him out on twitter at @instantidealism and find out what else he’s up to in the writing world.
I’ll run another competition before Christmas, so look out for that.
Here is the winning story:
The Gap
Samuel Dodson
There is a gap that runs through the town. A bisecting line that divides the residents. It is small – smaller than you’d think; and almost un-noticeable. Yet it is impossible to cross.
The two tribes on either side inhabit separate worlds, though they all pretend not to. It only really becomes apparent when people from each side start to approach it. You can watch them – go on. See how they pause, look around; turn away. To cross the gap would be to acknowledge it.
There are, however, cracks. They spread out on either side. They started to appear not too long ago, when the mayor of the town forgot such a gap existed, and tried to ask the town-folk what he thought was a simple question:
“Are you content with where you are?”
The mayor thought the answer to this question was obvious. After all, he himself was exceedingly content. He lived in a big house in one half of town. He had a big garden with a stylish wooden hut where he could sit and write ideas he had. His wife wore expensive dresses and he never needed to worry. People even brought things to his house! There were fancy dinner parties. He never even needed to go into town – so forgot all about the gap that neither he nor anybody he knew would cross.
He couldn’t figure out what to do when the people in the town said they were not content. He hid in his little hut and didn’t come out.
Monday: Draft my ‘homework’ for Writing Group tomorrow. Prompt is ‘intolerable’ or ‘workload’ or both! It’ll be a flash fiction, though there’s always the possibility it could be the start of something longer. I’ll gather a couple of random words to help me on the way.
Finish a first read of the Flash Fiction Festival anthology which I’m due to review for Sabotage Reviews.
Scribble first thoughts for a novelette for Lucent Dreaming contest.
Tuesday: Read through/revise my homework. Writing Group.
Wednesday: Go for a hill walk – great for clearing the head as well as essential exercise.
Thursday: Coffee with a friend – lots of chat about books.
So, this was a surprise – joint winners of The Booker Prizer 2019. The organisers might have been shocked, but I think a lot of people have welcomed the decision of the judges to flout the rules and award the prize jointly to Margaret Atwood for The Testaments and Bernadine Evaristo for Girl, Woman, Other. Seeing the way the two authors have responded to the decision is no less than inspiring: visibly supporting one another, plus Margaret Atwood is gifting her share of the prize money (£25,000) to the Canadian Indigenous charity, Indspire, which invests in the education of Indigenous people.
I’m rather shocked that the Booker organisers are apparently so angry about the judges’ decision that they are threatening to withhold their fees. That seems very small-minded.
Who could not be pleased to see the warmth between Atwood and Evaristo? I’m looking forward to reading both their books.
Cath Barton 