The Player

I first saw the player one morning in May. Since everything started to happen back in 2020 – and let’s be honest, it’s still happening – I decided to build a morning walk along the beach into my daily routine. Now I know what you’re thinking – “If I lived that close to the beach, I wouldn’t need a global pandemic to get me out there enjoying it!” Guilty as charged. Sure, I’d taken a stroll or two along the beach in the past – mostly as a way to evangelise my town to any friends and family who came to visit, but I’d never really taken the time to appreciate it for what it was. These days, I do appreciate it, in lots of different ways, and I’m not too proud to admit that I’d been missing out.

Anyway, back to the player. Spring had not so much as sprung, as reluctantly rose from a crouch with aching limbs – but nonetheless, here was some real sun that I could feel on my face. It glistened on the waves as they gently lapped the sand and I was surprised that there was nobody else around. Usually there’s a dog walker or two, and I’d joined them as one of the morning regulars since starting my routine. Sorry, I’m going off on a tangent again. I guess I didn’t think I’d have that much to say but then again, it’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to anybody.

So, there he was on the beach. At first glance, I couldn’t make him out. it looked like some bizarre piece of ship wreckage sticking out of the sand, but as one of the few very small clouds in the sky passed over the sun, I got a clearer view. He was sat at a grand piano. At least, I think it was a grand. It certainly wasn’t one of those ones your grandmother used to have, or that you see in old Western movies. Unsurprisingly, I was instantly reminded of that film where a woman plays a piano on the beach. At first, I thought this was someone paying homage to that, or parodying it for some student film or sketch maybe? Transfixed, I continued to move closer, until I could make out the player. He had dark hair, and was wearing a suit – somehow this made everything seem even stranger, even though if he was sat there in surf shorts and flip flops, it would still have been strange.

Then there was the music. When I was working, back when everything was normal, I used to love to write while listening to music. I like all sorts of stuff, but instrumental music seemed to work best – soundtracks and classical mostly. So, I had a basic working knowledge of piano concertos, the classic stuff as well as the contemporary. And yes, the soundtrack for that film that this whole scene reminded me of sometimes featured. This was different though. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Sometimes, just for a fleeting moment, it sounded like some of Hayden’s chamber stuff, then I thought I could detect a bit of Rachmaninov, then what could have been one of the player’s own compositions – strangely discordant, with crazy time signatures, then off into some random honky-tonk. It was the weirdest thing, but even stranger was the fluidity with which he moved between every style, making it sound like one crazy continuous piece, that you all at once knew, but didn’t know at all.

That probably doesn’t make any sense to you, but it’s difficult to describe. I don’t really know why, but it started to make a little more sense to me when I got a little closer to the player. His suit wasn’t any kind of dinner suit, business suit or tuxedo that I had seen before. It seemed to shift before my eyes, like I couldn’t quite focus on it. For a couple of seconds, it looked like it was made of some kind of weird fabric that shimmered, reflecting the sun and casting radiant mini-rays all around. Then a moment later, it turned into a sport jacket and slacks, then into something so impenetrably black that I could make no creases or folds out at all.

By now I was about 10 feet away, taking all this in with growing incredulity.

“Hey!” I ventured. “Sounds great! Thanks for brightening up my morning!”

The instant it was out of my mouth, I wished I could have said something more profound than this jaunty herald. I suddenly got the sense that this was a pivotal moment of crucial significance, and what I said would matter.

I needn’t have worried. The player continued to play, oblivious to my presence. I stepped a little closer, and ventured round the piano, getting a frontal view as well as from both sides. The shifting suit continued to shift, and the man’s impassive face just maintained the same expression. When I was stood directly in front of him, he didn’t even register, but just appeared to look right through me. It’s so weird to say this now, but it was like his face was doing the same thing as his suit. One minute he looked like a handsome movie actor in a pivotal cinematic scene, the next he was a gaunt wretch of a thing, with eyes that…I can’t describe it…they just seemed to make him look like someone who’d seen things that nobody else had ever seen. Then at the next glance, he looked like everyone’s favourite jovial party host, rousing the guests with one of his good-natured renditions.

As I was pondering over the whole otherworldliness of the situation, a thought stuck me. What if somebody else comes along? What will they do? What will I do? Where I lived wasn’t a bad place to be, but there were still some deviant kids who liked to cause trouble – probably just out of boredom. What would happen if they showed up? Then, coming the other way, I could see a woman in the distance, striding along as a Golden Retriever bounded on ahead in search of the length of driftwood she’d just thrown in front of her. As she got closer, I recognised her as one of the morning walk regulars and took comfort in the fact that she at least wouldn’t do anything disruptive.

The dog had returned to her side now and as they drew closer, I got ready to make conversation, with an ‘I know, right?’ expression on my face. The fact that the dog didn’t do anything instantly made me curious. It walked right past the player – just for a fleeting moment turning its head quizzically in his direction, then plodded up to me. I absentmindedly scratched behind the dog’s ears as I watched its owner close the distance between us.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just saying hello!”

She did not acknowledge the player at all as she walked straight past him. Before I could stop myself I said:

“Can you not see him? The man at the piano?”

She looked at me quizzically, saying she didn’t know what I meant. I made some hurried correction, saying that I’d seen someone on the promenade playing the piano yesterday and did she see him? That seemed to make more sense to her and of course, she said that she hadn’t. Relieved that I hadn’t created a scene but more confused than ever, I made to look as if I was gazing whimsically out to sea, so she wouldn’t think I was being weird just standing there. She carried walking with her dog behind me and a carried on watching the player. There! A bit of Mozart was it? Then some sort of weird, free-form jazz thing, I don’t know, I can’t really describe what it was.

That was when the idea struck me. We have all this technology at our fingertips and take it for granted to the extent that we forget we even have it. I took my phone out of my pocket and held it up. I wish I hadn’t. When I looked at the player through my camera, it was as if we had both been transported to…I don’t know where, some strange dimension, it was like…well, it sounds like such a  corny thing but it’s the best way I can describe it…It looked like the player was in Hell. I can’t unsee what I saw. He was surrounded by searing flames but the piano was completely untouched and his face remained impassive, at least until the flesh on it bubbled and melted, sliding off his skull before my eyes. Shouting out in horror, I pulled my camera away from my eyes and looked at him again. Everything was just the same as before, with him playing impassively away – with his face still very much intact. Despite what I’d just witnessed,  I couldn’t help myself, and held my phone up once more, ready to drop it from my field of vision if the same thing happened again. This time there was no fire. Now, the player was sat in a stunningly beautiful glade, with shafts of golden sunlight streaming down through the trees and countless flowers blooming all around. Ah, I thought. So this is the Heaven version – of course, how silly of me.

I couldn’t make sense of anything and was a moment away from just turning on my heels and running – just to put some distance between myself and something I couldn’t possibly understand. But there was one more thing to try. I switched my phone camera to video setting and held it up again. This time, the player was sat in a barren dust bowl of a place, the air thick with some sort of strange cloud. It shifted momentarily and I could just make out the skeleton of some enormous building, something that looked ultra-modern, but that had also been in a state of ruin for hundreds of years. Whether this change of scenery was a result of me switching to video, or just a coincidence, I don’t know. What I did know is that I’d had enough. Backing away from the player until he was a good 30 feet away, I turned round and ran all the way home, clutching my phone.

All of a sudden, it felt like I was in possession of the most amazing thing in the world but also the most terrifying thing in the world. I went into my bedroom and gave myself a moment, then looked at my picture gallery. I don’t know if it was disappointment or relief I felt when the last two pictures I’d taken now showed as corrupt files. I almost didn’t bother trying to play the video, but I did.

I know this didn’t happen at the time – I was only filming for a few seconds – but I swear, when I played the video back this time, it was different. The player stopped playing. He looked up directly into the camera. At me. My heart almost leapt out of my chest as he spoke:

“What you do next will decide the future.”

And, for the couple of seconds that it took him to say this, his surroundings were brought into vivid detail. He was sat in some kind of haunting, apocalyptic landscape, the burnt-out remains of skyscrapers behind him, as a number of shambling figures lurched about in the distance. I attempted to play the video again, but just like the photos, it was now showing up as corrupted. I wish I could tell you that the first thing I did was run back out to the beach, but I didn’t. I lay for the rest of the day on top of my bed, in a state of high anxiety and turmoil, until sheer nervous exhaustion lured me into a deeply uneasy sleep, full of dreams, fire and screams. When I awoke, still feeling absolutely exhausted, I hurriedly put on my shoes and headed out to the beach once more. The player was gone.

I don’t know why I’m writing this now, weeks after. Nobody will believe me and I’m the only person who saw it, but I guess I just feel the need to document it all somehow. What did he mean? Who was he? Believe me, I’ve tried to make sense of it, but the whole thing is too much for my mind to comprehend. I must admit, I’d been losing focus in my life before the player arrived. At least now I have something to think about, and something to work for. After all, nobody needs to know where I got the idea from, do they?

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Ah yes, the blog

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I don’t just edit, I write things too.

Don’t we all though? Blogs are the everyman’s mouthpiece and a licence to waffle on about anything that takes our fancy. Here I’ll be doing just that; sharing my opinions on books I’ve read or am reading, (no spoilers), offering tips, talking travel and generally just prattling on. Just check the recent posts on the right-hand side to keep up-to date.

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You don’t always have to box off

Believe me, that was a hard heading to write. I’m the kind of person who likes to box things off and get one thing done before starting another. It makes me feel good because I’ve achieved something and not left any loose ends. It doesn’t always work that way with writing though.

Sure, you want to get that novel finished above all else. You want to commit dedicated time to it and not procrastinate. I get it. But I’m guessing that if you like writing, you’re an imaginative person and you’re always getting random ideas. These could be a scenario, a sentence, or even just a bit of dialogue – it doesn’t matter. Write them down. Make sure you keep a notebook for all your random ideas and don’t worry about keeping them spinning away while slaving over your main story.

This is great for two reasons. Firstly, you’ll have a few ideas floating around, which is always rich food for the imagination. Secondly, it’s a brilliant solution if you’ve set aside time to write but you’re hitting a literary brick wall with your main project. That time will never be wasted, because you can pick up on one of your other ideas and see where it goes. You may develop a storyline for a sequel, or a whole new series. You may even dream up something so amazing that it becomes your new main project. Lots of fantastic things have grown from the germ of an idea, and your next idea could be one of them.

So, don’t be afraid to start something new and keep all those plates spinning. Great things could happen.

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Now’s the time to read and write

OK, you may argue that any time is a good time to do one or both of those things, but hey, let me jump on the Corona virus bandwagon for just a short time.

While it’s important to keep track of everything that’s going on and all the latest updates for the sake of our own health, it’s also important not to get bogged down with feelings of foreboding and desperation. Our own mental health is as important as our physical health and if we don’t keep our minds occupied in these times of social distancing and self-isolation, we risk putting ourselves at serious harm.

I realise that’s easier said than done in a lot of cases, but finding the time to read and treating yourself to a little escapism really can help. (Just stay away from any post-apocalyptic epics if you’re feeling particularly susceptible!)

It’s also a great time to start writing that book you’ve always wanted to write; you know, the one you spend so much time procrastinating over. If you’re in a situation where you have a lot of time to yourself – get writing. Now is the time. Not only will it keep your mind exercised and active, but it’ll help your well-being by just having your mind on something else for a while.

Of course, life goes on. Don’t lock yourself away expecting to churn out 100,000 words in a couple of weeks. Plan your day, get a routine. Work in some writing time. This could be the moment you finally get started. Or maybe you’ve already written a book and are putting off the dreaded re-draft. Again get stuck in while you can, and grow your next novel some legs.

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What is a book?

No wait, hear me out. Still there? Good.

If you’re reading this you’re probably looking for a little more than a literal answer, so here goes.

These days, books can take many forms. As well as a good old-fashioned charity shop find or a crisp new release hastily picked up from the airport newsagent before your flight, there is of course everyone’s favourite space-saver, the Kindle. Or indeed, the Kindle app if (like me) you’re slumming it just a little.

Delve into the world of online publication and you’ll have so much choice, you won’t know where to start. I’m guilty of perhaps not reading as much as I’d like to, but having dipped my toe into Amazonian waters, I discovered a few things pretty quickly.

Firstly, self-publishing makes it easier than ever before to get what’s inside your head out there for the public to enjoy. And if they don’t, well that’s their problem. At least you did it. This doesn’t have to be the 1000+ word fantasy epic you’ve been slaving away at for half your life though. These days, books take many forms. Your story may be great but you just find yourself wanting to get it over a little more quickly – that’s fine. In the world of self-publishing nobody looks down their nose at a novella.

It doesn’t even have to have a narrative either. From stream-of-consciousness ramblings and specialist cookbooks, to collected essays and structured how-to guides, pretty much anything can be a book these days.

So, get that idea out of your head and onto your screen and before long, it’ll be on everybody else’s screen as well.

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It’s fine to sit on your first draft

After months (maybe years?) of sketching out ideas, procrastinating, fleshing out characters, developing plots, then procrastinating a bit more, you’ve finally got your novel finished. Well, the first draft of it anyway. So what to do now?

It’s safe to say that nobody ever got their first draft published, so the next logical step is your second draft. The important thing is here though, don’t rush it. After all, it took you this long to get here didn’t it? Sit on your first draft for a while. Leave it alone. Don’t look at it and try not to think about it. Go off and write about something else – maybe that short story idea you’ve had simmering away in the back of your mind for a while, or even just another blog post.

This will make it much easier to look at your writing objectively when you do get to your second draft. After being immersed in your book’s own little world for months, you need some time to purposely forget some of the detail, so when you do come back to it, you’ll find it much more easy to notice all those parts you want to develop or change. And, because your brain has still been creatively active, but in different ways, you’ll be able to look at your book with fresh eyes. Who knows? Maybe something else you write may trigger off an idea on how to fine-tune that character who in your heart of hearts, you still have niggling doubts about.

Read as much as you can, too. It’s a great way to improve your own writing. Obviously I don’t mean you should go and steal someone’s idea, but you’ll subconsciously absorb lots of things you don’t even realise. After all, what you read for most of your life shaped you into the writer you are today, and you probably didn’t even know it! When you think you have your final draft ready, send it over to me, and I’ll put the finishing touches to all your hard work!

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Restoring Rivington

Whether living in Horwich as a young child or Chorley as a slightly older one, the unmistakable backdrop of Rivington was always a constant for me. What was that mysterious ‘castle’ on the hill? And was there a tower in the trees to the left as well? I can’t remember the very first time I actually went up to explore, but it could well have been on a Good Friday with my parents. The Easter hike to The Pike has long been a tradition for many in the Chorley, Horwich and surrounding areas, dating back to at least the 1800s.

riv1 sepiaAs a boy, the reason all of it was there never really crossed my mind, fixated as I was by not just those structures visible from far and wide, but bridges, terraces and secluded, overgrown pools. But as the years went by, I continued to visit from time to time, and gained a different perspective. I noticed that the walls weren’t really all that ancient, and I clearly remember the day I first saw the remainder of some black and white floor tiles. Curiosity got the better of me, so I began to dig a little deeper into Rivington’s history.

riv2sepiaIt’s a well-documented one, thanks in large part to the involvement of William Hesketh Lever, better known as  Lord Leverhulme, he of Port Sunlight and Sunlight soap fame. Needless to say, Lever was a bit of a magnate back in the day and owned a number of homes, one of which was The Bungalow at Rivington. This wasn’t just any old bungalow though. With the help of landscape gardener Thomas Mowson, Leverhulme built a spectacular terraced garden to accompany his lavish Lancashire pad. A morning stroll through the greenery would take him past pools and pagodas and across bridges, as he enjoyed the views. The whole thing was influenced very much by his travels around the world, and the Japanese and Italian gardens were a sight to behold. Following his death in 1925, Leverhulme’s home fell into disrepair and the rhododendron that were the fancy of many a stately home owner took over in his absence. Those and the ravages of time reduced this once proud home to enigmatic ruins.

Rivington

That is, until recently. My visit to Rivington in 2019 proves that I’m still a big kid, bounding around as I get caught up in the atmosphere of the day. As I round a corner though, I stop in my tracks. I’d seen pictures of the way the gardens used to be in a book once loaned to me by a family friend and for the first time since I saw those pictures, I was transported back to Leverhulme’s time. I walked along terraces, taking in the view of the ponds below…the layout of the gardens becoming more and more visible and Mowson’s design is coming to life once more. Turning another corner and my day is made complete, as I spot a group of people queuing to go inside the Pigeon Tower – a structure which had always been off limits in my lifetime.

This is all thanks to the Rivington Terraced Gardens team – RTG for short. They’re a group of volunteers who organize regular days where everyone can get involved in restoring the gardens, whether you’re a skilled fence-builder or amateur weed-puller. I spoke to some of them I encountered throughout the day, and what struck me is the collective passion not just for making Rivington more attractive to locals, but to everybody. The area, like it never has before, is becoming a real outdoor destination for people from all around the country. Hikers and ramblers will have plenty to keep them occupied, with a wealth of walks across Rivington and neighbouring Angelzarke waiting to be explored.

To find out more, I spoke to Andrew Suter, Heritage Programmes Manager for Groundwork Cheshire, Lancashire and Merseyside, the body currently overseeing the project. I began by asking him when the effort to restore the gardens began:

“There have been a number of unsuccessful efforts over the years to source funding to repair and conserve the Terraced Gardens. They are grade II listed and contain a further 11 structures which are also listed. Rivington Heritage Trust was formed in 1997 to coordinate this process and give it more focus.  They eventually contacted Groundwork CLM in 2004 with a request for help progressing a plan and then application to the Lottery Heritage Fund. The project will run until the end of 2020, with capital work due to be complete by the end of July this year.”

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The most obvious structural change I noticed was the Pigeon Tower. I asked Andrew more about it: “The Pigeon Tower is a grade II listed building.  It has been condemned and closed to the public for over 40 years.  As part of the work we have re-pointed the walls and chimney, replaced and rebuilt the roof, replaced all three floors and installed new windows and a door.  We have also installed a wood stove and intend to open the tower to visitors on a regular basis. We opened the building to the public for the first time on 23rd March 2019, when over 4000 people attended, with around 800 getting to see inside. We have opened it four times since, and have had queues each time”.

Not surprising! So what about some of the other structures?
“11 structures in the gardens are listed, including a few stone gate posts.  There are 5 summerhouses and a loggia which are listed. All were condemned and each have had extensive work carried out – new ceilings waterproofing and pointing, handrails and new gates and associated metalwork.  The internal floor have also been lifted and replaced. All will be open to the public again during events.”

Rivington Pigeon Tower

The Rhododendron were such a huge part of the landscape when I was a child, so I asked Andrew more about the efforts to remove them:
“The Rhododendron carried a disease called Phytophthora Ramorum, commonly known as Sudden Oak Death.  Once it was discovered, The Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA) ordered them to be removed.  In a way, this was a catalyst for the current project, as many of the structures and pathways had become overgrown.  The disease is still present, so Rhododendron cannot be replanted.”

So with that in mind, what kind of wildlife can we expect to see today?
“Rhododendron further acidified the existing soil.  They are also a foreign plant, meaning native insects will not predate on them, and they out-competed local flora. Since their removal, the soil has reverted to a more natural PH and native species have begun to colonise the gardens again. We are under-planting with native species and thinning the existing woodland to improve the habitat further as part of the current project.  Every year, the range and extent of flora has improved, in particular native bluebells and foxgloves are making a comeback.  This in turn provides more food for insects, small mammals and birds”.

Good to hear! So what’s next for the gardens, and what kind of events can visitors look forward to seeing?
“The capital work will be complete later this summer, new signage and interpretation will be one of the last items installed. Going forward we intend to continue to offer lots of walks, talks, education visits and a growing range of events including an afternoon tea on the lawn in July, and in August,  an annual Viking themed fancy dress hike as well as a Rivington Music Festival.  We have a mushroom festival in September, a fright night in October and a bonfire night party left to deliver this year alone.  In future years we will develop these ideas further and work to deliver an engaging programme with our fantastic volunteers, which hopefully will continue to capture the public imagination and support”.

To find out more about upcoming events at Rivington or how you can get involved, visit: www.rivingtonterracedgardens.org.uk

All pictures by Simon Brotherton

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On Communication

man wearing brown suit jacket mocking on white telephone

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Communication is at the heart of what we do. I’m communicating with you right now, and you’ll probably communicate in several ways today without even thinking about it. Whether you’re replying to that email, accepting a LinkedIn invitation from someone that you’re desperately trying to remember, or making a call to organise an appointment, you’re communicating.

It’s ironic that in today’s age of multiple communication platforms, where news is immediate and everyone can share their opinions in an instant, poor communication is still a massive problem. Ask any employee, middle manager or company executive and they’ll likely agree that poor communication is always high up on the list of gripes. It sounds completely obvious, but communication is a two-way street.

If you’re not interested in using that article I pitched to you, just tell me. Communicate with me. I won’t be offended, because I know you get loads of submissions. Just let me know where I am, so I can ask someone else. And if you can’t get round to doing that job on my house, communicate with me – I understand that work can get on top of you. If you’ve decided you’d rather edit your book  yourself, I get it. Money’s tight – just let me know. OK, so you can’t meet up next week, just communicate with me. I won’t be angry (for long, anyway). We can do it another time. Just let me know a little earlier than the night before.

You get the idea. It’s really nothing more than common sense and the same logic can apply to everything from a simple get-together with friends to a make-or-break meeting. So, whether you’re wading through a sea of freelance submissions or really don’t think a job’s worth taking on, communicate. Everyone will be better off for it.

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The Fall (a short story)

Now…
Danny felt like shit, for two reasons. The first was the recurring dream he’d had last night, which had allowed him about 3 hours’ sleep. The second was the prospect of facing his boss, Westward, who was quite simply a textbook sonofabitch. Danny tried to ignore his craving for sleep, thoughts dwelling on his boss a while longer, then surveyed the scene before him. The subway always played host to the same array of commuter stereotypes. There was the kid with the headphones, decked out in designer leisure wear, blissfully unaware of the torment his music was causing the ancient lady sat in the seat next to him. Then there was the overweight middle-aged executive, all flabby jowls, plump hands and acrid cologne.

Looking out of the window, Danny saw an unusual splash of colour, surprised that he’d never noticed it before. As the subway train slowed a little, he found he could read the graffiti artist’s seemingly endless message, daubed on the brickwork along the side of the track: ‘WORK-SUB-TV-SLEEP-SUB-WORK-SUB-TV-SLEEP-SUB-WORK-SUB-TV-SLEEP-SUB….HOW MUCH MORE CAN YOU TAKE???’ Danny realised he was looking at his life. The point hit home, which only made him feel worse.

The train lurched to a standstill, creaking and groaning from the strains of its daily duties. As Danny slowly rose, he imagined that if it could feel, it would feel like he did right now – same stop, same routine, same New York. As he ascended into the gloomy morning, leaving the hustle-bustle of the subway to join the daily rat race, Danny could already see Westward Electronics’ office building looming menacingly overhead. A testament to modern architecture’s persistence to be the biggest, its lofty point seemed to lacerate the clouds, releasing the relentless drizzle of Fall.

As he walked towards the building, Danny noticed a group of people gathered beneath it. They were standing in a rough circle, each making their own contribution to a cacophony of raised voices, shouts and gasps. A police officer who happened to be nearby had noticed the commotion and was trying to cut his way through the throng, who remained unaware of his efforts and were eagerly searching for something that would break the monotony of their morning routine.

As Danny got closer, he could make out some of what was being said:

“Come on folks, let me through!”
“Oh my God!”
Looks like a leaper, man.”
Holy shit, what a mess.”
“Jeeesus”
“Goddamn sidewalk pizza!”
“It definitely looks like a suicide…”

Almost everyone had something to say. Danny cursed himself for being just like the rest of them, an eager witness to death. He muscled in beside a young woman – “Hey, watch it mister!” – and eventually found himself at the front of the group, struggling to keep his place and to avoid stepping in the slowly spreading pool of blood. There was lots of the stuff and the boy’s – was it a boy? – the boy’s clothes looked…Jesus Christ, his face!

Then…
It was the summer of 1981. For two carefree kids of 15, it was a summer that seemed to last forever. Danny had been overjoyed when his parents had allowed him to stay in Denver with Richie’s aunt and uncle. Both families knew each other well and as a result, Danny and Richie Arnold were best friends. The holiday was going great and five days in, Richie’s uncle had suggested a trip out to the Rockies. The boys had been thrilled. The trip was planned for the weekend and the idea was that they’d camp out – “rough it” –as Richie’s uncle had explained to the boys earlier.

Danny was born in Topeka, Kansas, and had never seen so much of his country’s natural wonders in one go. He eagerly drank in his surroundings, enjoying the sights and sounds as he looked around in awe. His parents tried to get out with him whenever they could, but the Rockies were something else. On the Saturday, after a long hike, they’d all sat down to rest, a good distance from a ravine which gave way to a stunning view. Danny had gazed intently at the opposite rock face, the distant horizon, and the mountains. He could even see a section of the Arkansas river, glistening in the distance.

It had all happened so fast. When Richie’s uncle’s back was turned, Danny had suggested they go to the edge of the ravine, to look straight down. The drop was huge. Richie, who had always been the more careless of the two boys, started fooling around, balancing on one foot close to the edge. Danny shouted a warning to his friend to be careful, to which he replied:

“What’s the matter Danny, chicken or somethin’?”

Richie didn’t listen of course. How was he to know that what he thought was firm earth beneath him was loose rocks? Danny could see his friend’s expression for an instant – a strange mixture of terror and confusion – then he was gone. He rushed to the edge, shouting Richie’s name, and just had time to see a flash of his friend’s red and black shirt, then nothing.

Danny returned home in sorrow. He didn’t stop crying for a week and every night he would dream. Only it wasn’t a dream. He was awake in his room. His model spaceship hung from the ceiling, his wardrobe was a tall, dark shadow, while his desk lurked squat in the corner. Then, Richie would appear. His red and black shirt was stained with gore, his left arm a shattered ruin, bone jutting from a rent in his sleeve. His face was the worst of all. His left eye was completely missing, an ugly bare socket gazing out vacantly, endlessly, while his skull was crushed madly inward on one side, like a collapsed eggshell. Richie would always hold his hand out in the same beckoning way and Danny would scream as loudly as he had ever screamed in his life. Yet, above the sound of his own terrified voice, he would hear Richie’s, through shattered teeth and burst lips:

“What’s the matter Danny, chicken or somethin’?”

It would always end there and Danny would wake up, still screaming, as his mother rushed in to comfort him. Mom wasn’t there last night though. Last night, Danny had experienced his childhood recurring dream for the first time in 15 years.

Now…
He suddenly felt faint. The people seemed to be looming over him and all he could do was stare at the shattered 15-year-old face of Richie Arnold. As he began to sway, an office worker grabbed Danny’s arm to support him, saying:

“What a waste…I dunno, he just fell out of the sky.”

Then, someone else, the headphones kid from the subway train, added:

“Fell out of the 80s too…just look at those threads.”

Now, Danny felt sick and light-headed, the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach as unconsciousness beckoned. Before he passed out though, he swore he could hear Richie’s voice:

“What’s the matter Danny, chicken or somethin’?”

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Remember your memories

black and white photos of toddlers

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This week’s poignant D-Day commemorations reminded me of how fortunate we are to still have first-hand accounts to relate to.

This isn’t just important for hugely significant moments in history, but in our own lives as well. It’s often said that we should cherish our precious memories, but what does that actually mean? Are they merely a mental treasure-trove that gradually fades over time, sitting around for us to dip into when things get tough?

Well, they can be, but there’s no reason for them to stay that way, because we can write them down. Whether that’s an account of a fantastic family day, or something crazy that just happened, make a note of it. That’s because, before too long, life gets in the way. If you’ve read my blog on procrastination, you’ll know what I mean.

And why stop there? If you’re one of those people who can still remember things that happened when you were four or five, write them down:

“I remember being frightened as my mum let go of my hand. I was led to a table next to another boy and when I sat down, I looked up just in time to see her wave as she left. Our first task was to copy a sentence, or something like that. It was word-related anyway. I think that was the first time I realised how much words can capture your imagination, because for a minute, I forgot I was in a room full of strangers without my mother.”

That’s pretty much all I can remember from my first day at school and it’s the first time I’ve written it down.

It’s important to make a note of the sad times too. Why? You may ask. I’d sooner forget all that stuff! That’s true, but it was the act of writing things down that helped me to grieve.

So, get typing and bring those memories to life. Start with today.

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Filed under D-Day, Family, history, Life, mental health, Uncategorized, Writing

It doesn’t matter what you write

woman typing writing programming

Photo by Startup Stock Photos on Pexels.com

OK, that’s a statement that could be viewed in a positive or negative light.

But what I guess I’m saying is, the ‘act’ of writing is often more important. You know, in that ‘the point of the journey is not to arrive’ kind of way. It’s what I’m doing right now. I decided I wanted to share my thoughts on the act of writing. I won’t be any worse off if you don’t read this or share it, but obviously, it would be great if you did!

Just getting those creative juices flowing and stimulating the mind with some good old-fashioned ramblings is a great way to start the day. You may find the very act of writing too daunting, and think it’s somehow the preserve of people who wear no socks and work on their novels in coffee shops, or sage journalistic masters, who enjoy telling anybody who’ll listen about the dark days before the internet. The truth is, anyone can write and modern technology makes it easy.

If you’re unsure of where to start, start small. A review of a book or an album you’ve just bought, some of your favourite travel destinations – all these things can be left in the feedback sections of the site you bought them from. It can be a good way of finding your voice if you’re not sure what it sounds like, and you’ll be informing people too.

So, get writing! And when you’ve worked your way up to that novel you’ve always wanted to write, give me a shout!

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Filed under Authors, Books, Editing, Writing