My novella In the Sweep of the Bay is a year old today. It’s alive and kicking and still available to buy from Louise Walters Books in paperback or ebook. It’s an ideal Christmas present, alone or in a bundle with other LWB books. Do your shopping here – https://www.louisewaltersbooks.co.uk/shop-1
I’m working on my long-promised circus novel: its working title is Thistles in the Cirrus. Intrigued?
I’ve been writing, and I’ve completed the draft of a sequel/prequel (what do you call that – a sprequel , maybe?) to In the Sweep of the Bay. It’s currently with beta readers.
Bay has been doing well, I’m pleased to say, and was shortlisted for Best Novella in the Saboteur Awards2021 It’s still available to buy from my lovely publisher, Louise Walters Books or from your local bookshop. Several book groups have chosen to read it and Louise offers a deal on purchases for book groups.
I’m working on another novella-length story – one I started last year and put aside. It’s currently rather baggy and has some significant holes in it. Like an old jumper, but not comfortable like that! I’m hoping to pull it into shape very soon.
Meanwhile I’ve had minor successes – some flashes published, a few longlistings and shortlistings, and one win! I’ll be updating my Stories page with these very shortly.
I’ve also been reviewing for Lunate – reading critically is, I think, an important skill for writers to develop.
So, on this Midsummer’s Day I give you roses from our garden, and wish you sunnier times.
“Come with me and I’ll teach you how to forage for tender roots and juicy berries” said great bear.
“Not now” said little bear as he scampered off through pea green meadow to chase the butterflies that teased his nose.
“Come with me” called great bear to little bear as he lumbered beside the rushing river, “to dip our paws into nests of liquid gold. We will climb the great redwood, scoop out the tender larvae and lick-slurp the sticky honey. Then we’ll tickle the sparkle shimmer of great leaping fish and feast on them till our bellies are full for winter”.
“I’m too busy” replied little bear as he roly-polyed in the pink tipped grass.
“Come with me” said great bear to little bear “and I’ll guide you through the forests of dark slumber. We‘ll build a den together under tall trees and rest our heads on pillows of rich red leaves through the cold dank winter.”
“Can we do it later?” asked little bear balancing on a rolling log, “there’s plenty of time.”
The cold dank came and turned to ice. Little bear no longer scampered in sun dipped meadow or rolled in the green. His belly rumbled and his nose froze. The expansive smiling land became a long thin frown and big bear gentle was big bear mean. There was no shelter; no belly full of berries and fish; no store of roots. Little bear turned his face to great bear. They walked the expanse of frozen waste till the memory of lazy days were little more than sparkles in the ice prints left behind them.
As they trudged, the ground seemed to fall away from beneath their weary paws. Compelled by the shine of a beaming moon they lifted their gaze and their feet over hedges, treetops and no-way-back-clouds. Finally, bathed in silver, they stepped by lumbering, climbing step right up to the very roof of the world. Little bear turned to look down at the learners, the lazers and the daydream gazers in the glorious Conservatory of Knowledge below. He saw the infinite richness of that blue and green world, and he knew then how much he’d left behind. He curled in towards great bear and they rested. No urgency, no distractions; just ursa forever, shining in the twinkle sparkling of night-sky-always.
Isobel is a writing newbie. She’s had words fizzing around inside her head for a long time but never found the courage to given them page space, until now. Currently on an MA Creative Writing, she’s storming up the steepest learning curve, sometimes falling off, sometimes clinging on with gritted teeth, but always enjoying the challenge.
It’s not easy being a masterpiece you know. It’s quite lonely in fact. I haven’t had a friend for centuries. I get lots of visitors, but no one actually talks to me. They talk about me; they take photos of me; sometimes they even sketch me. But no one asks how I am; no one asks if I’m tired of standing; no one asks if I’m cold. You try spending five hundred years with not a shred of clothing on and tell me your feet haven’t turned to ice. The other extremities get a lot of attention but no one cares about my toes.
When I was outside, I was even colder, but at least I had the stars for company. The heavens soothed me through the nights. For almost a hundred and fifty years now I’ve been in solitary confinement. The glass dome above teases me with sunlight during the day until it sneaks away, leaving me in the dark halls, surrounded by only fragments of life. I’m a prisoner in the galleria of loneliness. Encased in the conservatory of control. Spending my days underneath a microscope from the skies. Look as they might, the stars will see no life here. Once we could exist together but now they just look on as I age under the fluorescent glow of preservation.
They think they’re doing the best for me by keeping me from harm. But they don’t realise that harm gets you wherever you are. Wherever I am.
I can feel them. All the eyes looking at me. All the vibrations of the feet as they walk past. Their mere presence is breaking me. I was destined to fight giants, yet here in my cage I’m being eroded by a million footsteps of those who adore me.
I’m the one they’ve come to see. I stand above them in all my glory. I never have to fish for compliments; they spill out of the mouths as they gaze upon my beauty. I’ve been called a masterpiece more than I can recall. But all I really want to be is free.
Lonely is the life locked away from the world.
The time has come for action. I’ll show them all I’m not just a hunk of marble. It’s dark; only the stars above sprinkle soft light into my prison. The last footsteps shuffled past hours ago. Now is my time.
My marble groans as I flex. Muscles tense. Bones ache. Knees bend in anticipation. The desire for escape takes over. In a giant leap I spring towards the heavens. I pull myself up through the opening onto the roof. The city slumbers below and the constellations chatter above. My old friends the stars dare me to think bigger.
Sitting atop the galleria that held me captive for so long, I ponder my next steps. I may have been carved by a man but that doesn’t bind me in servitude. Despite my history and my labels, I belong to no man.
Katie Isham is a writer, teacher, drummer and mild adventurer who believes kindness is a superpower. She writes a travel blog that is currently somewhat static. You will mostly find her hanging out with dogs or eating cake. Sometimes simultaneously. .www.vintagegnome.blogspot.co.uk @k_isham