#DystoniaAroundTheWorld Challenge, Dystonia Around the World Challenge, Short story, work in progress, Writing journey

2021 Happy News: A Story Brought to Life

A post saying good riddance 2020 and welcome 2021 will be along shortly but I have happy news that can’t wait for to edit post and have in depth ponders of what to write. I am going to be published! People will be able to open a book and meet the characters I have created. Eek!

A short story, The Ghost Writer, has been accepted by Cardigan Press for an anthology. I began writing it during the Dystonia Around the World challenge last year and finished with the help of a short story course run by the lovely Myszka at the delightful Foxes Retreat. I’m so happy. I keep reading the acceptance email with a huge grin on my face and know this is how Jo March felt when she got published.

Later this year, I’ll have a physical book on my bookcase containing my story and my name; what better encouragement is there for getting me to continue pursuing this emotional rollercoaster career as a writer. And to think I very nearly did not submit it. The stars must have been aligned and my spell bottle must have been working its magic when I pressed send.

Magical Spell Bottle ready for action

If I am this excited to get a short story accepted, imagine what will happen when I get an agent or publishing deal on a book.

Happy writing!

Stay safe and stay at home if you can

Love

#DystoniaAroundTheWorld Challenge, Dystonia Around the World Challenge, flash fiction

Dystonia News and Flash Fiction for #DystoniaAroundTheWorld: The Man in the Moon

It’s Friday which is a perfect time to grab a cup of tea and relax for five minutes with a story. The writing prompt, the man on the moon was given by my local writing group who I meet up weekly via Zoom. Thank heavens for technology allowing us to still connect with friends.

The Man in the Moon

Therese ground the purple flowers into the pestle. The calming fragrance failed to soothe her escalating rage. Maybe she needed something stronger than lavender tea. The sloe gin was tempting and fitting for the time of year, but she wanted a clear mind while she wrote her letter of complaint. How dare they? Was nothing sacred? Whoever came up with the idea and sanctioned the production of that advert was going to get the sharp side of her tongue. Using Father Christmas was acceptable: his meaning may be warped to a figure of excess and consumerism, but his spirit was still there, and it cheered her to see the more traditional dress appearing on cards but this. They were peddling a perpetual lie and indoctrinating children into believing it. It was an obvious example of patriarchal oppression. Everyone knew the moon belonged to the Goddess, with the female counterpart of the male Sun. Well, they did until they spread the tall tale about a bloody woodcutter stealing sheep on Sabbath or Cain cast out to circle the earth forever to push her aside. There was no man on the moon. She clenched her fist tight around the pen and pressed firmly on the paper. Scratching it as she wrote: 

Dear Mr John Lewis,

Dystonia Challenge News

September and Dystonia Awareness Month is flying by. Awareness of this neurological condition is key for research into treatments and cures, support and early diagnosis. The graphic gives an overview of what dystonia is.

What is dystonia?

I am slowly adding to the miles for the challenge for Dystonia UK as you can see here and I am excited to see the team I am in, D.U.N.E is currently at the top of the leaderboard.

For more information about the #DystoniaAroundTheWorld challenge or to support the cause, click here.

Have a wonderful weekend. What will you be reading?

Happy writing and reading. Stay safe!

Love

#DystoniaAroundTheWorld Challenge, Dystonia Around the World Challenge, Short story, Writing journey

#DystoniaAroundTheWorld Celebrations and a Walk in the Woods

Not only have I completed 100 miles of writing enabling me to virtually visit my dream destination, The Cabinet of Curiosities, in Haworth, Yorkshire but I have leaped over the £100 mark in donations.

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As promised for reaching my £100 target, I am sharing a piece of flash fiction before September when Dystonia Awareness Month begins. Thank you so much for all your support and donations. It is appreciated by myself and all those involved with the #DystoniaAroundTheWorld challenge.

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A Walk in Bluebell Woods

Mary did not know why she stopped the car in the lay-by. She did not remember turning off the motorway. Perhaps it was the relief that the dreaded meeting had been cancelled, or maybe it was the tears running down her face that forced self-preservation to kick in, but it was the trail of bluebells snaking through the oak trees that made her get out of the car and follow the dancing flowers through the woodland.

Dappled green light shone through the canopy above her. She was not wearing the most appropriate footwear for the woodland as her high heels sank into the ground, but the blue path urged her forward. When was the last time she ventured into a wood?

Mary’s heart lurched as his disapproving face flooded her mind. He would not approve of such unfeminine activities as clambering over the fence or stumbling over the hidden roots in the deep foliage. She swore as she snagged her tights. The sting of the scratch bringing her back to reality as the rustling of the leaves in the soft breeze and the chattering birds calmed her thoughts.

The trees opened to reveal a bumbling stream, Mary sat on its bank while the motorway droned in background. As the sun warmed her face she imagined it as a roaring river or the buzz of a bee close by. She had always been told that she had a good imagination.

Suddenly an image of her mum’s smiling face flashed by; “Always my little Pollyanna,” she would say. Where did that go? Her positivity, the ability of always looking on the bright side and appreciating the little things; every day the greyness seeped in, dragging her down and strangling any glimpses of future happiness. A wall had slowly formed between herself and her colleagues leading her to watch the world in a haze.

Unable to resist she slipped off her tights and dipped her feet in the ice cool water. Making figure of eights she watched the ripples spread across the stream distorting the pebbles below. Her shoulders relaxed. She felt calm. She could feel the moment.

Mary looked at the ring of faded bruises around her ankle before rolling her sleeve up to reveal the fresh marks around her wrist. She had felt each one form as he crushed her against the wall, shouting her latest failures while his alcohol fumed spittle joined her tears. The list of her misdemeanours grew by the day, her body recording each of his disappointments.

Looking around her oasis, she didn’t want to leave or go home.

Home! The word conjured up fresh memories; warm dinners, being cocooned in love and surrounded by laughter. Touching her barely noticeable rounded stomach, she reached for her phone amazed at finding a signal. Her fingers glided over the keyboard remembering the number from years ago. Her heart thudded, and skipped a beat, as a familiar voice answered.

“Hi Mum, it’s me.”

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Thanks again for supporting Dystonia UK.

Catch up soon when I have written more miles.

Stay safe!

Love

just Kate

If you would like to sponsor or follow my journey for the Dystonia Around The World challenge my page is here. Or follow me on Instagram, Twitter or Facebook.

Short story, Writing journey

Flash fiction: Lost in Art

It’s Friday. I have been to my writing group for inspiration and coffee. This is my homework based on the prompts from the Storyworld cards John and Caitlin Matthews.. It was great to see the range of stories they inspire.

I had the Fairy Queen, Door to Fairyland and the Rainbow.

Lost in Art

The art gallery heaved with the people as they hustled and pushed to catch a glimpse of the rare pieces from the long anticipated ‘Faeries of du Pre’ exhibition. Robert decided this would offer the ideal opportunity to fulfil his initiation in the gang. The others loitered opposite a few yards away, watching his every move, egging him on. He could not back out now. He took a deep breath and hood up, face down he weaved through the crowd, clutching his skateboard tight. It was this which brought him to the attention of Raz and his posse. There were plenty of shadows at the skate park where they could drink, smoke and plot schemes; one requiring someone small, quick and innocent looking. Someone like him. He would skate to escape the depressive atmosphere at home, and the anger of his stepfather. Once he let his guard down, the mismatch of personalities in the gang became his friends and family. Stealing a purse was a small price to pay for the protection and sense of belonging they gave even if seeds of doubt grew daily demanding he changed paths. He could enter the building, grab a bag and slip out unnoticed.

The atmosphere buzzed with excitement as people studied the framed collection consisting of sketches of elegant, ethereal beings, watercolours of streams, woodlands and Yorkshire landscapes A quick glance around and he saw his quarry. On a bench facing a large oil painting sat a dowdy old lady alone with her open handbag beside her. She was as still as statue; her focus fixed on the star of the exhibition; a painting titled The Queen of Elphame. Perfect. He had heard of the painting, everyone had. It captivated a legion of fans worldwide following its discovery in an attic in the village of Cottingley. Articles emerged delving into the history of the legendary artist, Jacques du Pre and theories of who inspired the vivid, unique masterpiece. His mistress or his imagination fuelled by obsession with the supernatural which led to his drunken downfall. Some believed it was the queen of the fairies herself after the accompanying old diary revealed he visited the area during the time of the faked fairy photograph furore. An explosion of merchandise followed – mugs, posters, postcards and bags. It was hard to escape her presence. Everyone was enthralled by the image except him. It was just a painting.

To his surprise as his hand hovered over the bag, its owner turned and placed her wrinkled, hand over his. “ I did …” he began to defend himself.

“Hush” she whispered her gaze returning to the painting. “Just watch.”

In silence, he became immersed in the landscape created by the artist. Snippets of conversation discussing brush strokes, composition and use of colour drifted by unnoticed as he studied the painted figure. Suspended mid-flight over the rippling stream, the royal fairy demanded attention from her subjects hidden in the trees and grass. Her large iridescent wings shone in the moonlight. A dragonfly fluttered in the corner, materialising from the bull rushes gently swaying in an unseen breeze. It zipped across to the other side of the canvas before disappearing into the distance. People glanced at the picture, but no one commented before walking away to the next piece. Robert glanced at the woman who smiled, and her age slipped away as he saw the woman she was in her youth in her sparkling eyes.

“They look but they do not see” she murmured.

Instinctively, he reached for his phone. No one would believe this unless he videoed it. It could go viral. She grasped his hand and shook her head. He put it back in his pocket and sat down. Together they watched a bird fly from the tree to the Queen’s unfurled hand to peck seeds before flying back. He ignored his vibrating phone as time flew by.
The visitor numbers decreased as it darkened outside until it was only the odd couple sitting on the bench. The loud footsteps of the curator echoed in the cavernous room as he warned them the gallery was closing in 15 minutes. They nodded and watched him walk away.

The woman stood and approached the canvas. Robert’s mouth dropped open as the Queen bent down and reached her hand for frail lady to grasp. The hands met: reality and paint blended until there were two people on the canvas. Alone he wiped away a tear as he watched the magic fade. He stepped closer, touched the old lady’s hand, the wrinkles had smoothed, and she looked younger. A smile formed on her face and her fingers wrapped round his.
The investigation into the disappearance of Robert Jones and Gladys Stone arrived at no conclusion with only the abandoned skateboard and bag on the bench connecting the two strangers. No one saw the two additional figures walking in the trees.

Happy writing!