The Wrong Path?

Tags

books, Flash Fiction, writing

This is the final little story about the Reverend Pontius to celebrate the release of my novella Call of the Merry Isle.

The Wrong Path?

The Reverend Pontius had always considered regrets to be a serious self-indulgence. Why waste valuable time on choices that could not be changed? And yet… And yet, here he was in the early hours, wondering about the might-have-beens in just the way he promised himself he wouldn’t. He was thinking about the woman he might have married, the family they might have had. ‘Would that have been a joy – or a burden, I wonder?’ he said aloud to the bed-post. The care of others tended to be both, as he knew from his years as a minister. The bedpost declined to offer an opinion.

But the night-thought was persistent, even when morning came. Had he made the wrong choices, all those years ago? That other life he might have lived plagued him as he attacked his breakfast egg, lurked under the duster as he polished the pews, and tried to barge its way into the sermon he was working on.

‘Enough!’ he said, at last. ‘I cannot change the past, and the future will be what it will. I can only accept that the Spirit chose this path for me, and that the Spirit is always right. The subject is closed.’

Nonetheless, he scribbled a note in the margin saying, ‘Spirits; possibility of being wrong. Investigate.’

If you like this story, and would like to meet the Reverend Pontius again, you can find out more about him in my novella Call of the Merry Isle, available at www.veneficiapublications.com and now available in ebook format from Amazon.

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‘Is your publisher pigeonholing you?’

Tags

books, fiction, illustration, magic, publishing, writing

‘Is your publisher pigeonholing you?’ asked a writer friend during one of our Zoom meetings.

‘What?’ I said. ‘No. Erm, I don’t think so. That’s a no.’

What he meant was, are you being restricted to the short, illustrated books you’ve been producing because they suit your publisher – when you’re a perfectly capable novelist? He didn’t add that last bit, but he didn’t have to. I answered ‘no’ because there’s been no pressure at all from my lovely publisher. If there’s any ‘pigeonholing’ going on, I’m doing it myself.

Still, it was a reasonable question, and I gave it some thought. I have a partly-written novel I could be getting on with. I also have several ideas for further short, illustrated books – a completed one is already with the publisher.

There’s no doubt these short books don’t give me the space to explore characters in the way a novel does – of course not – and I miss that depth of investigation quite a lot. On the other hand, I’m very much enjoying exploring the possibilities of illustration. I haven’t done this seriously since the 1980s and there are all sorts of things I could try, particularly in the company of a publisher who looks kindly on illustrated books. In the end, that is just too good an opportunity to miss. I’m also aware that my steadiness of hand and clarity of eye is likely to put a stop to the artwork long before it puts a stop to my writing. So, first things first.

For the time being, then, the short, illustrated books are likely to continue, pigeonholed or not. To begin, I’m looking at a set of stories I wrote during the spring lockdown. They will lend themselves to simple illustration, and the stories need only minimal editing work, so I can complete it fairly quickly. If my publisher doesn’t care for them, I’ll enjoy myself hand-binding a few copies. And what’s more, after two years of working with black-and-white illustrations, I’m experimenting with colour for this one – a whole new aspect, if I can get it right. Just as soon as the gouache paints I’ve ordered turn up, I’ll get cracking. Exciting times, eh?

My illustrated magical stories The Herbarium and The Chesil Apothecary are now available in paperback and can be ordered through Waterstones or direct from veneficiapublications.com

Spell Stories: A Puff of Magic

Tags

fairytale, Flash Fiction, magic

Another in my series of tales inspired by a book of Romany spells.

The washing hung damp and lank on its line. Agnes shook out her apron, waiting for the breeze. None came. It remained stubbornly as still as could be. She looked around, searching, as if the wind might be hiding itself behind the outhouse. No, not a breath.

‘Oh, come now,’ she said in exasperation, ‘not a puff of wind and all this linen to dry! What am I to do?’

Her mother’s voice said, quite clearly, over her shoulder, ‘You know what to do!’

Agnes turned and thought she glimpsed her mother – or was it a trick of the light? No, there was no-one there. Nonetheless, she searched her memory and found she did indeed know what to do. You simply faced the breeze and blew into it. Or did you put your back to the breeze and blow at the washing? But there was no breeze at all to blow into or away from. Which way to face to work the spell?

Cover all possibilities, then, Agnes thought, and she edged around the washing, blowing towards it and away from it, from every angle. A tiny breeze responded. ‘It works!’ cried Agnes and redoubled her efforts, pleased with her witchery.

It was a while before she realised the rising wind was coming from all directions, and forming a bijou tornado centred neatly on her washing line. When the line was torn from its mooring and the washing vanished goodness-knows-where, Agnes fled indoors. She was still cowering in the kitchen when her mother breezed in.

‘Wind spell, was it?’ she asked. Agnes nodded.

‘I thought so. One direction at a time, girl, for pity’s sake.’

‘Oh, Mother, I thought I had destroyed the whole world!’

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ said her mother, crisply. ‘Your washing’s in the cattle yard, by the way. I should cut along if I were you. The old speckled cow is wearing your under-linen on her horns and people are laughing.’

 

Look out for another spell story next week.

Spell Stories: Beloved Magic

Tags

fairytale, fiction, Flash Fiction, magic

Another story inspired by my book of Romany spells…

Beloved Magic

‘Oh, Mother,’ said Agnes, ‘he goes out, night after night, comes back late. I fear there is another woman.’

‘Who?’ says her mother. ‘What, your Robin? He hasn’t the sense to keep another woman interested, never mind the looks.’

Agnes hesitated, unsure whether it was her husband who was being insulted or she herself for marrying him. ‘He’s not that bad looking, not for a grave-digger.’ There wasn’t much she could say to defend his common sense. ‘Still, he’s got no right to go gadding about at night with some strumpet.’

‘You want him back?’ said her mother, sounding slightly surprised.

‘Certainly, I do.’ Agnes knew this was asking for one of her mother’s slightly unreliable spells.

‘Very well, if you must. Get yourself an onion and a paper of pins. Stick one pin in the onion each night for seven nights. Then bury it in the garden. Your love will return to you. Couldn’t be simpler.’ And she flounced out.

That evening, Agnes sought out an onion. ‘Seems a waste of perfectly good food,’ she murmured, and then had an idea. Her mother, a superb pickler, had given her a jar of shallots at Christmas. Agnes didn’t care for them, and wouldn’t miss one. So she winkled out a vinegary shallot and pierced it carefully with the pins for seven nights. And then buried the evil-smelling thing in the garden, as instructed.

She had barely finished washing her hands when Robin rolled through the door. My goodness, she thought, that was quick. He looked at her for a long moment, and she thought he was about to take her in his arms. Instead he staggered and fell full length on the floor, a strong smell of stale beer emanating from his prone form. Her love had returned, for sure. As pickled as pickled could be.

Look out for another Spell Story next week

 

Spell Stories: Stray Magic

Tags

fairytale, flash_fiction, jackdaw, magic

Another in my series of stories inspired by a book of Romany spells.

Stray Magic

‘Clod!’ said a voice from the top of the tree. ‘Clod, clod, clod. Thou art a clod!’

Agnes was out of the door in a moment. ‘Oh, Reuben! You are back!’

‘Fie, sirrah!’ said the voice. Scornful, and peppered with disgust, too.

‘Come down, do,’ said Agnes, pleading. ‘Your breakfast is ready.’

‘Clod!’ said the voice. ‘Pea brain!’

‘Come down!’ said Agnes, peering into the tree and shading her eyes. ‘Where on earth have you been, my little darling?’

It all stemmed, of course, from the fact they had had no children. Agnes’s husband Robert had taken the jackdaw from a nest in the church tower, handed it to her as something small and helpless to love and raise. And so she had. The bird had been given everything of the best, loved and tended as well as any child. She had named the creature Reuben, because, she said, the priest had told her it meant ‘gift of a son’. Robert said this was nonsense, since there was no way of knowing if the bird were man or maid, but he had built a wicker cage for it nonetheless. Agnes had patiently taught Reuben to talk. But the jackdaw was quicker to learn the insults that Robert – a little jealous of the attention the bird had from Agnes – secretly muttered as he passed the cage. Many an argument between man and wife had erupted over it, particularly when the bird called his loving owner a clod.

But for today, Agnes had never been more pleased to be called a clod. Reuben had escaped from his cage a week since and she had been heartbroken.

Her mother, always ready with practical help, had recommended a useful spell for strays.  ‘Clean the cage,’ she said, ‘put food and water inside. Say the creature’s name three times, tie a yellow cord round the cage, and say the name three times again. And the bird will come back. Simple as that. Never fails.’

Agnes did this each day. And now, at last, here he was, sitting in the top of the apple tree, grey eyes glittering, and insulting her. She welcomed him as the prodigal son.

‘Reuben, come down, do. Your cosy cage is waiting.’

The jackdaw eyed her, apparently considering his options.

‘I will love you and keep you and teach you nicer words,’ said Agnes hopefully.

There was another long pause.

‘To hell with that,’ said the bird and flew off to the church tower where he enjoyed a long and happy career insulting the church wardens.

 

Look out for another Spell Story next week.

 

 

 

Spell Stories: April Fool

Tags

fairytale, Flash Fiction, magic

I wrote this story over Easter, once again consulting my book of Romany spells for inspiration.

April Fool

‘It is invariably true,’ said Agnes’s mother, ‘that the last day of the month is the best time to cast a spell for good luck.’

Agnes shrugged. Good luck? Was that what life was about? She was married to a man she didn’t specially like, but didn’t actively hate. Was that good luck? None of their children had survived babyhood. Was that bad luck? And she had a loving mother who was always only too ready to offer yet another infallible spell to improve matters. Was that good luck or bad?

‘Oh, Mother,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. The priest disapproves…’

‘Fiddlesticks!’ said her mother. ‘What does he know? I’m teaching you the spells for your own good. Now pay attention. Tomorrow is the first day of April, and there is a simple spell to bring excellent good luck all through the month.’

Agnes caved in. It was easier than arguing. ‘What do I do?’ she asked.

‘When you go to bed tonight, say “White Rabbits” three times before you go to sleep. It’s important they are the last spoken words of the eve of the new month. And when you wake tomorrow, say “Hares” three times.’

‘But… Robin. Whatever will he think? I can’t tell him it’s a spell. He’s an employee of the church.’

‘Never mind Robin. Just murmur it. You’ll have good luck all the month. Trust me. And I’ll know if you haven’t done it, mind.’

Agnes thought her mother could be decidedly scary at times, so she did as she was told. Lucky white rabbits were invoked (very quietly) at bedtime and lucky hares first thing in the morning.

She was stirring the porridge for breakfast when Robin burst in. ‘Look outside,’ he said breathlessly, ‘just look!’ He dashed out again.

The little street outside was full, completely full, of white rabbits and long-eared hares, squabbling ill-temperedly amongst themselves, while the villagers ran about trying to catch them. It was chaos, and there was Robin now with a struggling rabbit under one arm and making a lunge at another.

‘Oh Mother!’ said Agnes, ‘just look what your spell has done! I thought you said it was a true spell for good luck?’

‘Some spells are not quite true,’ said her mother airily, ‘but technically, I’d say a nice rabbit pie constitutes good luck, wouldn’t you?’ And out she went to join the hunt.

 

Look out for another Spell Story next week.

Spell Stories: Sympathetic Magic

Tags

flash_fiction, magic, romance, story

This is the first of a set of stories featuring regular characters, all inspired by a book of Romany spells I happened across. Who knows, by the end of lockdown, I might have a book-full of stories!

Sympathetic Magic

‘Think on it, Agnes,’ said her mother. ‘Robin dotes on you, you know it. And he has a steady trade.’

There followed a long and profound silence, broken only by the spitting of twigs in the fire. A steady trade, Agnes thought. I should think it is! A grave-digger. A grim and grimy trade, too.

‘Oh, but Mother,’ said Agnes at last, ‘what a life! Think of the melancholy – think of the laundry!’

‘Think of the steady income,’ said her mother, a woman of immense practicality.

But Agnes saw only Robin’s long face, the inevitable mud on his clothing. ‘I don’t want him,’ she said.

‘Try a spell to find your true love, then.’

‘Oh, Mother!’

‘Get a sprig of bay leaves. Tie a pink ribbon round it. I know you have some. Put it under your pillow. When you wake, look out of the window and you’ll see your true love.’

Agnes snorted. But, well, who knows? It might work. She said nothing to her mother, but went out for a sprig of bay, tied on the ribbon and slept on it.  She awoke to the scent of the leaves and peered through the window.  Smiling up at her was Robin the grave-digger. Quite nice-looking with a smile on. And he did have a steady trade.

Robin had had his instructions. ‘Be outside her window before dawn. Wear clean clothes and in the name of Heaven wipe that grim look off your face. A smile will work the spell.’

 

Look out for another Spell Story next week

Ancient Wisdom

Tags

fairytale, fiction, magic, writing

This is the first of a set of stories written in recent weeks, all of them inspired by a book of Romany spells I picked up by chance a week or two before lockdown began.

He was found in a field. Entirely dead.

‘Oh, such a state he was in!’ said the ale-wife who found him. ‘Gave me an attack of the vapours!’ And indeed, she still looked a little green round the gills.

‘Never mind the vapours,’ said the town constable, making enquiries. ‘How did he get in such a state?’ The ale-wife shrugged.

‘He said he had a headache,’ volunteered the blacksmith. ‘Was going to the doctor.’

‘Call in the doctor, then.’

The doctor looked shifty. ‘Yes, he came to me. With a headache. I sold him a pill.’

‘What sort of pill?’ The constable doubted anyone could end up in such a battered state from taking a pill, but due consideration had to be given.

The doctor looked cornered. ‘It… could not have harmed him.’ The townsfolk turned on him, frowning. ‘No – no, it was a sugar pill. It’s all I ever sell! Red for indigestion, blue for headaches, green for female troubles.’ The doctor seemed to be shrinking. ‘I am a quack, you see,’ he breathed. I am finished in this place, he thought.

‘Very well,’ said the constable, ‘off with you then. The deceased took a sugar pill for a headache. What else?’

‘He visited the wise woman in the woods,’ said the smith, ‘since that pill didn’t work.’

‘Call in the wise woman.’

‘Well?’ said the constable, when she finally appeared. ‘What did you do? None of your funny spells, I hope?’

The wise woman, behaving with rather more dignity than the quack doctor, looked everyone in the eye. ‘I gave him advice,’ she said. ‘Good advice, too. And I charged him only a farthing for it.’

‘And this advice was?’

‘Trade secret!’ said the wise woman.

‘Tell me,’ said the constable, ‘unless you want to be tried as a witch.’

The wise woman caved in. ‘I advised him to rub his head with a horseshoe. Sure cure for a headache. Ancient wisdom.’ She folded her arms.

‘And did he take this advice?’

‘He said he would, directly. Went to seek a horseshoe. Very grateful.’

‘So how do you account for the battered state, indeed the very dead state, in which he was found?’

The wise woman drew herself up. ‘He died of stupidity,’ she said. ‘And I will amend my advice in future to take account of it. You’re not supposed to rub your head with a horseshoe while the horse is still attached to it.’

The Chesil Apothecary

Tags

book fair, books, Dorset, fiction, flowers, writing

Just a final reminder for those of you  here in Dorset, that I will have hand-bound copies of The Chesil Apothecary available for sale at the Crabchurch Book Fayre this Saturday. I’ll be there from noon til 4pm. Meanwhile, for everyone else, I shall be serialising the book, with illustrations, on this blog over the next few weeks, starting this Thursday. I hope you enjoy it!

Writing Outside your Comfort Zone

Tags

books, romance, writing

It takes a bit of courage to break out of your usual writing style. The familiar phrases, your favourite words – even the construction of the piece – may all be wrong if you dip into another genre. It’s difficult, but it’s also good for you as a writer. I often feel rather sorry for writers who are locked into a successful series of books where the pressure from readers, and perhaps a publisher, are for more, more, more of the same. I would hate to be stuck writing about the same characters for years on end.

So I think it’s good for your development as a writer to break out of your usual style now and then. There is so much to learn from writing outside your comfort zone. You have to consider the needs and preferences of a different tranche of readers, give a different heft to your plotline, take an alternative view of the kind of ending that might be expected.

I tried this a couple of years back. I set myself the challenge of writing a romantic novella. I’m not really a reader of romances, but for some years now I’ve been a volunteer reader for the Romantic Novelist’s Association. This means I read and assess three or four novels a year that have been nominated for RNA awards. If nothing else, this has given me a good idea of what the modern romantic novel looks like, so I felt reasonably prepared when I tackled one for myself – just to see if I could do it.

As you might expect, it wasn’t as easy as it looks. Romantic scenes make me distinctly uneasy, but my goodness I learned a lot about how to cope with them. It was, as they say, a baptism of fire. I thought carefully about the necessary ‘ingredients’ for a romantic story, from the names of the characters, to the like/dislike/like construction, to the proper sort of ending. For all that, I loved creating the characters, enjoyed describing their tangled emotions. I put them in a setting I know well – the Dorset coast – so it was easier to give the story an air of reality. It’s a short novella at just 20,000 words, but I romped through it in a matter of weeks, and I learned a lot about writing in the process.

The result was Summer at the Sea Poppy Café, and I published it under a pseudonym since it was so different from my other books. But I think it’s recognisably mine – a bit quirky. The worst anyone had to say about it was that it wasn’t long enough, and they wanted to know more about the characters. Well, I can live with that!

Will I write any more romances? Probably not. I have many other things I want to do, writing-wise, and I would hate to get locked into a series – but I won’t shy away from the romantic element in future stories. For now I’m busy writing a little murder mystery, something else I’ve never tried. It’s challenging, but fun. So my advice to writers is – work outside your comfort zone now and then. It’ll be a revelation, and it’ll make you a better writer.

 

If you’d like to see what I made of the challenge of writing a romantic novella, you can buy the e-book for just 99p here. I’d love to know what you think of it.