tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618429174987155222024-02-19T22:54:07.985+00:00Is that the time? Lord...Oscar's experiments in communicationOscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-6124737550949665152023-12-10T16:38:00.002+00:002023-12-11T17:57:24.362+00:00In memory of Shane MacGowan<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">More than a decade</span> ago three classic works became mashed-up in my imagination to create a festive short story which the (sadly now defunct) <i>The View From Here</i> published for Christmas 2011. The works in question were Edward Hopper's Nighthawks, a smidgeon of Orson Wells' notorious Martian Invasion radio broadcast and, most influential of all, the Pogues' Fairy Tale of New York. </p><p>So I offer my story here in gratitude for the inspiration and in celebration of Shane MacGowan's creative life.</p><p>Happy Christmas 2023.<br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyWwRfdZBQ72D3xWyFiSkzDHy0NxyExNUXJlSotgUdfuV1yPZfnSPEcYhDWUMM8rgFLlPA3bsKiLaqSX7R-X9E0qYeJzhVfKQCYFpa8_OPcWIak4leSc-Sfv3mKw8ZRGRZMKukxFLZgfl1X3U9W6lv1EeyEnEJFiT7TRVnY0FDtfk45TpIK0m6Nd43CQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1499" data-original-width="2099" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyWwRfdZBQ72D3xWyFiSkzDHy0NxyExNUXJlSotgUdfuV1yPZfnSPEcYhDWUMM8rgFLlPA3bsKiLaqSX7R-X9E0qYeJzhVfKQCYFpa8_OPcWIak4leSc-Sfv3mKw8ZRGRZMKukxFLZgfl1X3U9W6lv1EeyEnEJFiT7TRVnY0FDtfk45TpIK0m6Nd43CQ" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Nighthawks: A Fable of New York</b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;">By
Oscar Windsor-Smith</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">Okay, so you're outside Jimmy's
Bar and Diner looking in through this wide window, in from icy darkness to cool
fluorescent light. At the bar are two figures, a guy in a fedora who’s chewing
the fat with the bartender and a dame in a red dress. The dame is counting her
fingers. I’m the guy in the fedora. We're nighthawks, get the picture? This is
night in New York City and not just any night. My name? You can call me the
Truth Fairy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">A black and
white glides in over steaming gratings and slithers to a stop. Two cops stumble
out. They lurch across the sidewalk blowing on their hands and cursing the
knee-deep frozen snow. Mahoney is first in the door, dripping and slipping. O'Shaughnessy
reaches shelter a second later, stomping the snow from his boots. The barman
produces two glasses and a bottle of bourbon.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">Mahoney roars,
'That'll be two <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">coffees</i> for us, Jimmy.'
He winks at me and I nod. He addresses the bar: 'Them <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eejuts</i> will believe <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any </i>fairy
story, little green men an all.' </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">Jimmy replaces
the glasses with china mugs and fills both with neat bourbon. He gives the cops
a look that says: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pay up you mean
bastards</i>. A second later Mahoney's nightstick crashes on the counter an
inch from Jimmy's fist. They're nose to nose.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'Call it a
present, Jimmy,' I whisper, trying to save him losing teeth as well as dough.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'You siding
with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them</i>?' says Jimmy. 'Now I got <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">three</i> wise-guys, huh?'</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">I tip my
fedora, glancing at O'Shaughnessy. He shrugs and downs the bourbon, probably the
only seasonal spirit he knows. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">O'Shaughnessy
hiccups. 'Sure we'll need the drink if we're to deal with them <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eejuts </i>out there.'</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">I flash my
press card, peel a bill from my wallet and slide it over the bar to Jimmy. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'And which <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">particular</i> idiots would that be, Officer?'
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">The cops stare
at me, at my card and at the remaining bills. Mahoney empties his mug and licks
his lips. I nod at Jimmy and he refills the cops.</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 1cm;">#</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">The back seat of the black and
white stinks of smoke, sweat and stale piss. Out the window the snow clouds
have cleared, the stars are crisp, the sky dark. This is crazy but I've got to
check the story out.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">O'Shaughnessy
belches. 'Sure we never get a minute's peace now, since them movies.'</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'Movies, what
movies?'</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'Men in silver
suits, flyin' saucers an' the like.'</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'Invasions
from Mars,' Mahoney chimes in. 'Never been the same since that eejut, a while
back. What's-his-name? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horse</i> an'
something, on the radio, wit' his stupid Martians.'</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'But you know
the guy who reported <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> incident?'</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'Sure, it was
Morrie Kaiser. He's okay.' Mahoney has turned on the radio. He's shouting over
Sinatra, banging the wheel in time with the beat. 'He runs a drug store wit'
his two brothers down on Lower East Side.' </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">I look out
over the East River and see nothing but regular stars. The sidewalk looks
almost civilised. Nature has swept man's garbage under the carpet of snow. Rows
of brownstones zip by and then we're in the war zone. Hispanics, Poles,
Italians - name any nation - you'll find some up the rusting fire escapes in
these tenements. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">It's ten
degrees below out there. That should keep the natives inside, but up ahead
there's a crowd milling about in the pool of light outside Kaiser's Deli.
They're excited, pointing at the sky. Strangest thing is they’re all pointing
in different directions.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">The cops pile
out of the black and white, nightsticks poised for action. Mahoney slips, falls
flat on his fanny. O'Shaughnessy trips over Mahoney. O'Shaughnessy collapses
too. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">This <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">proves</i> something weird is going on. One
cop on his back should make the day of any Eastsider; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two</i> should make their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">year</i>.
But nobody has noticed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">The cops have
scrambled to their feet and Mahoney is pointing at the stars, his jaw hanging
loose. 'Will you just look at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>!'
he shouts. O'Shaughnessy is scrabbling about in the snow trying to retrieve his
nightstick. He looks up, whispers 'Holy mother o' God', and falls in a dead
faint. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">I climb out of
the stinking black and white, glance at the heavens and see only stars and
darkness. Granted, there are more stars here than uptown where the streetlights
work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, to survive a sidewalk at
night on Lower East Side, stargazing I do not recommend, so I go find the
Kaiser brothers.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">Morrie Kaiser
is a nice guy. He sends a brother to get me coffee. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">Morrie shrugs.
'What can I tell you?' </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'Tell me
what's going on.' </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'You see
nothing out there?'</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'There's
nothing to see but stars.'</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">'Come.' He picks
up something and leads me out the back door. We clank up three flights of fire
escape to where light is leaking out from a curtained window. I hear raised
voices. Morrie turns, an index finger to his lips.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">'You're a useless drunken fool, Joe. You've
not brought home a dollar in months.'</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">'Sure, there's no work to be had for a
chippie in New York, y' junkie slut.'</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">'Seems you've found enough dough to finance
the drink, and your gambling.'</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">'But me luck's changing, Mary, I can feel
it.'</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Maybe, but I'll be seein' none of it. Oh.'</i>
Her scream rattles the windowpanes. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">'It's
coming, Joe. The baby's coming.'</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">That’s when I
hear bells, not the fire department this time, the church kind. It's midnight.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">I turn to
Morrie. 'It's a miracle,' he whispers. 'Tonight all our wishes are granted.' He
smiles with glistening eyes. 'Seems like we all see what we need to see.' He
shakes his head, wind-milling his arms, lost for words. And then he finds his
voice and can’t stop talking of the visions he has seen: his late and sainted
mother and his grandfather back in the old country. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">Morrie Kaiser’s
brothers are standing behind us, nodding agreement. All three brothers are
carrying small packages. Queuing behind them are the cops, laughing like a pair
of kids, and behind the cops a line of smiling people stretching down the fire
escape and on as far as you can see. The cold doesn't seem to matter any more.
In fact, the night seems almost warm. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">Pulled by some
unseen hand, the curtain moves aside and there sits Mary, thin and white, a
baby at her breast. Dark-lidded and stubble-faced, Joe leans for support
against Mary's chair. 'It's a boy,' he slurs. A cheer rises and spreads out down
the line. I glance around. Tonight has brought joy to so many simple lives.
What right has a cynical hack to interfere? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">I'm mulling
this over when I find myself thinking of a dame in a red dress. The strangest feeling
fills me, could this be what those starry-eyed dreamers call hope? Perhaps it’s
the atmosphere, the booze or the time of year. Suddenly all I know is I must
get back to Jimmy’s bar. I push my way down the stairs and out onto the
sidewalk. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">I'm trudging back
through knee-deep snow. Discordant voices assail the air somewhere behind me.
The cops are singing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Galway Bay</i>. Candles
burn in windows everywhere. Despite the biting cold more people are out on the
streets, strangers dancing, embracing. An old guy totters past me wearing
little more than a pair of pants and a shirt; he's singing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Rare Old Mountain Dew</i> at the top of his lungs. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">I turn my face
skywards and imagine the dame in the red dress has made it big in showbiz and
life is good. Perhaps tonight dreams really can come true?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">I'm two blocks
away from Jimmy’s when streetwise sense returns. Maybe the miracle would have
lasted longer if I hadn't seen Fingers De Vinci and his pickpocket outfit
working the crowd, and then I remembered that ‘Mary’ and ‘Joe’ were two of his
regular team. But, hey, they've spread the Christmas dream to so many people,
even me… well, almost. Who am I to throw cold snow over the celebrations?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">I make it back,
and Jimmy's place is full to bursting. Shouldering my way to the bar, it
crosses my mind that this is the first time Jimmy has decorated the place. And
then the dime drops: the power is out. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">His</i>
candles are in beer bottles.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">‘Still here,
Babe?’ </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">The dame in
red turns and says something I can hardly make out over the din. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">‘What's that? You
want to know what Mary called her baby?’ I give her my cynical laugh. ‘Hey, this
ain't Hans Christian Anderson.’ </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">She pulls a sad
face.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">‘Next thing
you'll ask if Morrie Kaiser and his brothers got a slice of the action.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">The lady purses
her lips and nods. I try to catch Jimmy’s eye. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">‘How’s about one
more drink to warm up, Babe? Then back to my place and I’ll tell you the whole story,
okay?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 1cm;">Copyright: Oscar Windsor-Smith 2023 <br /></p>
<p><style>p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-14159269943861315652015-08-29T08:18:00.000+01:002015-08-31T14:32:40.722+01:00Who Owns a Student's Copyright?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://fbcdn-profile-a.akamaihd.net/hprofile-ak-xfa1/v/t1.0-1/p160x160/1462880_10153082846481102_7919659859119831922_n.jpg?oh=50c812bf403c786300daa63d2be9b4b9&oe=566D3704&__gda__=1446440776_ae228632c6f18bb163df6fa50229b688" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://fbcdn-profile-a.akamaihd.net/hprofile-ak-xfa1/v/t1.0-1/p160x160/1462880_10153082846481102_7919659859119831922_n.jpg?oh=50c812bf403c786300daa63d2be9b4b9&oe=566D3704&__gda__=1446440776_ae228632c6f18bb163df6fa50229b688" /></a></div>
(<b>EDIT</b>: Please read PS at foot) <br />
<br />
Make no mistake, I have enjoyed the first year of my four year Creative Writing degree course at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BirkbeckArts?fref=ts" target="_blank">Birkbeck</a>. The tutors are excellent, the facilities are great – quirky in places but that's historic Bloomsbury for you, and to the creative mind quirky is like fresh air – and I have made a lot of great friends. But...<br />
<br />
When I attempted to enrol on-line for my second year I was astounded to find the following* clause among the T&Cs. It may be that the clause was present last year, if so I enrolled then in ignorance, having take up my place in a hurry at the eleventh hour.<br />
<br />
* " 35. If a student during their course of study produces original work that may be commercially exploitable, the College is entitled to the copyright and may seek to secure royalties or patents. Any revenue will be divided between the College and the inventor as set out in the College's Financial Regulations. The College waives its right to the ownership of copyright in books, articles and written work, other than where specifically commissioned or in which substantial revenue related to the author's link with the College is generated."<br />
<br />
This clause effectively purloins my copyright and replaces it with a "waiver" of the College's purported "entitlement", followed by two ambiguously worded exceptions to that "waiver". <br />
<br />
To be clear, I never have and never would submit my work to any publication or competition whose organisers prevaricated or equivocated over the long-established legal (and to my mind immutable) principle that copyright, and all other rights, belong to the author of a work unless/until he/she chooses to reassign them in a contract.<br />
<br />
Why then should I as a student be forced by unavoidable T&C terms to sign up to a contract I would not dream of entering into outside the College environment?<br />
<br />
Whilst possibly apposite and understandable in relation to other disciplines, clause 35 has no place in a creative writing context.<br />
<br />
In short, unless the College is prepared to remove or drastically reword clause 35, nothing less than a categorical and unequivocal formal assurance that the clause does NOT apply to the BA CW course and my own creative work – under any circumstances – will persuade me to enrol.<br />
<br />
I do hope an acceptable resolution will be forthcoming and soon. Otherwise what a sad end this will be to an important adventure in my life. <br />
<br />
<b>PS: CLAUSE 35, PART 2:</b><br />
<b> </b> <br />
<b>OK to go back into the water</b><br />
<br />
I’m
exceedingly pleased and relieved to be able to report having received
the unqualified reassurance I sought regarding clause 35 in Birkbeck's
T&Cs of enrolment, thus:<br />
<br />
"…the copyright in all the original
creative work you produce as part of your BA in Creative Writing
belongs to you in its entirety now and forever more. The College has no
claim on any creative work you produce during your degree, regardless of
whether or not it is submitted for assessment."<br />
Clause 35, it appears, is a generic clause intended mainly for grant-funded scientific research projects. <br />
<br />
I respectfully reiterate, it would be a chuffing great idea to put this
information IN or, better still, get clause 35 the chuff OUT of the BA
Creative Writing T&Cs.<br />
<br />
Whatever. I'm now looking forward once more to another term at <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=105206912861580" href="https://www.facebook.com/BirkbeckArts">Birkbeck School of Arts</a> with respected tutors and great student buddies.<br />
<br />
<br />
#endclause35<br />
<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-56684642388318612972015-07-18T18:31:00.002+01:002015-07-18T18:31:50.127+01:00London Short Story Festival - Caption Competition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0SmdVJ04DAL8EDSjOCJ7LbHPcHbsRd_tdiMUfqpOIX4Si21RJEuF3PbjAAI5lH7xz6ca2xFGpZZOo3jRZeMZ3NuC7lmgP15v93u0DclH8W5FZtlA1cDNBMZNSrPH9P66tdwQByKB4NDw/s1600/LSSF+04+Paul+whisper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0SmdVJ04DAL8EDSjOCJ7LbHPcHbsRd_tdiMUfqpOIX4Si21RJEuF3PbjAAI5lH7xz6ca2xFGpZZOo3jRZeMZ3NuC7lmgP15v93u0DclH8W5FZtlA1cDNBMZNSrPH9P66tdwQByKB4NDw/s320/LSSF+04+Paul+whisper.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
You know when you go to a really special writing event – like London Short Story Festival (not that there's any event remotely like LSSF) – and you meet reams of interesting, friendly, knowledgeable and like-minded people and you take loads of pics over several days and then life gets in the way and it's only later you realise you have captured some quite special moments?<br />
<br />
You don't?<br />
<br />
Ah, so it's just me then.<br />
<br />
Anyway, here's one pic from this years unforgettable #LSSF that I thought was asking for a caption competition.<br />
<br />
What do you think that cheeky Paul McVeigh is whispering? <br />
<br />
PRIZE? Seriously, do you think I'm made of money?<br />
<br />
Get stuck in there my creative buddies, but do please be kind.<br />
<br />
Forgive me, <a class="g-profile" href="https://plus.google.com/114951647367238645328" target="_blank">+Paul</a> , but when I first saw that familiar cheeky look my iPad had captured, it did occur to me that maybe leprechauns come in different sizes... Just saying.<br />
<br />
<span id="goog_931968995"></span><span id="goog_931968996"></span><br />
<br />
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<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-42713641720707142532015-01-27T15:05:00.001+00:002022-01-31T18:08:47.580+00:00The Direction of Our Fear<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41N9oR0fg5L._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41N9oR0fg5L._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="140" /></a>On BBC television news this morning, the awful memories of a survivor of Auschwitz - a child of fourteen when he entered the camp - moved me to tears. His harrowing description of a Nazi officer standing at the head of a line making cold decisions of left or right, life or death, was somehow awfully familiar. And then I remembered why. Some years ago I wrote a short story for a competition. The subject had to be 'fear'. My entry, written after a considerable amount of disturbing research was called The Direction of Our Fear. It has been published twice in print *, but never before online. The significance of today's date suggested now might be an appropriate time. I hope you agree but please forgive me if you consider I'm wrong. If you have time to read my story, I think you will realise why this morning's testimony gave me cold shivers. Please be advised, this short piece pulls no punches and could cause offence to some people.<br />
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<h1>
<a href="https://draft.blogger.com/null" name="_Toc251942497"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
Direction of Our Fear</span></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">On
February 7th 1979, Wolfgang Gerhard went swimming. Witnesses reported that he
had entered the sea in some haste from the beach at Bertiog, near <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Embu das Artes</span>, Brazil. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">His corpse made landfall further down the coast,
bewildered horror frozen in its eyes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">Forgive me. I must explain. We had entertained Herr
Gerhard every night for years. Our theatre served to aid his failing memory,
for we could not permit our subject to forget. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">In youth Wolfgang Gerhard showed great potential.
He achieved a doctorate in philosophy at Munich and in medicine at Frankfurt.
Early in World War Two he was a hero, saving the lives of comrades under fire,
and then power corrupted his mind and dark ideas seduced his soul. Some
generous folk say he was an aberration, a simple anomaly in facets of
personality common to us all. But you must judge for yourselves. Come back with
us.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">#</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">The
lights grow dim. Herr Gerhard's entertainment is about to start. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'Come, Doctor, take my hand. It is time to revisit
your achievements.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">Wolfgang Gerhard rolls his eyes as if seeking
escape, but there is none. He grunts in futile protest. His heavy eyelids
droop.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">#</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">The
monster with film star looks stands frigid, his green uniform pressed, his
black-peaked cap set at a rakish angle. He waves a baton as if conducting an
orchestra, or directing traffic in a Berlin street. To the left he swings his
white-gloved hand, then to the right. He is whistling as he conducts lives that
shuffle to the crossroads of kismet, the junction with his power. Breathing
snatches of Wagner he directs their fate, employing dark criteria known to him
alone, to the right, to the left, to death, to life. Such life, for which some
show relief, may yet make death seem kinder. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">A woman pleads for her child, designated to the
alternate stream. A polished Luger pistol rises in a white-gloved hand and two
sharp shots settle the matter, leaving two spare appointments.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">The conductor tosses the soiled pistol to an
underling.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">'Zwillinge?
Zwillinge?'</span></i><span style="font-family: Courier;"> SS guards move among
the lines, seeking twins for purposes only their master understands. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">#</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">For
the first time since they herded us aboard that train I can feel Mother's fear.
She grips my brother and me, pulling us close to her emaciated body. Father is
wracked with fits of guttural coughing but insists that he feels neither cold
nor hunger. He moves to the front. The line slows. A command, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">'Schnell!</i>' rings out and the baton waves
to the conductor's right. Father vanishes in the crush, leaving Mother softly
sobbing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">A pair of polished jackboots stands before our
down-turned eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'What are you hiding?'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">The crush has lessened. We are the focus of his
attention. Fingers in a spotless linen glove pass beneath my chin; lift my face
toward his. The eyes are dark, the skin swarthy, gypsy-like. The mouth forms a
smile, which the eyes do not join.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'Twins?' he says, voice lifting with anticipation. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">Mother gasps, 'Is "twins" good?'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'Yes, "twins" is good,' he says, staring
for too long at my brother.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'You can help your uncle with his medical research.
Take them.' Rough hands snatch us. Mother screams.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'Be silent, Mother. Please. For all our sakes, be
silent,' I shout, too late. His face betrays irritation. He gestures to the
underling cradling his pistol. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">The gun is in the good doctor's hand, aimed at
Mother's head. A pure white finger tightens on the trigger. The gun emits a
sharp metallic click. He laughs. 'Take away this shit,' he screams, sighs, and
resumes directing lives.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">#</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">Oh,
how hard you must have worked, Doctor, in less than two years to conduct four
hundred thousand souls - such dedication. Three thousand twin children, fifteen
hundred pairs like my brother and me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">How to list your achievements? Where to start? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">Your own clear vision said blue eyes were good. In
our eyes, dye injections always failed. Often they resulted in mere blindness,
though sometimes, inconveniently, death. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">Once dead, you dissected us with care and pinned
our eyeballs to your office wall. We watched the doctor at his tireless toil. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">If too small, or sick, or when we’d served your
scientific purpose, you cast out our worthless frames; deloused your Aryan
world of infestation. When insecticide ran out, you set light to fuel-filled
trenches. By lorry load, the living with the dead, they tipped us in, those
brave SS with poles who barred escape from one hell to another. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">How proud you must be: you and your kind.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">#</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'Do
you remember this, Doctor? Do you still believe you were supermen as Friedrich
Nietzsche taught you?' </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">He slavers into his moustache, muttering. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'Look, Doctor, look here, at my wrist.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">The rheumy eyes stare at everything except my arm.
But I can wait. What is time to me? Then, as they must, his eyes converge on
that dark number. He shudders.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'Yes, you see it, your special mark for twins.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">The wizened mouth forms a clear but soundless plea.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'What was that? Forgive you?' I smile at his
naivety. 'I did that long ago. My forgiveness set me free. I am here not for
myself, but for my brother and for all the others who cannot or will not
forgive.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'Come now, Doctor, you are a cultured person. You
appreciate the music of Richard Wagner; you have read the works of Goethe. You
were once a spiritual man, brought up in the Catholic faith. You surely know
that there’s a price to pay? Keep in mind that other doctor, Johann Faustus.' </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">I summon up my multitude: suffering souls from
space and time, from then and now and days to come. A fitting chorus for my
closing act.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">He covers his ears in a futile attempt to silence
the cacophony of wailing spirits. His aged eyes dilate with hatred turning now
to fear. He scans the open beach and empty sky. 'Why do you torment me so? Who
are you?'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">'Through the ages men have named me Adrasteia or
Rhamnusia. Some have termed me Nemesis. But, Mortal, you may call me Legion for
to you I am Every Child, in whose names I bestow Hell and endless torment. Such
hubris, Doctor; you usurp my fame. For <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i>am
the Angel of Death.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">Wolfgang Gerhard gasps, staggers and begins to run.
Slapping flat foot fast across the beach, eyes wild, hands thrown skyward, he
pitches headlong screaming into the waves.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">#</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">According
to news reports in June 1985, forensic examination of human remains from the
grave of Wolfgang Gerhard at a cemetery in <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Embu das Artes</span>, Brazil, proved they were in fact those of Josef
Mengele. Although exactly why the chronically unfit sixty-nine year old Nazi
should have gone swimming remained unclear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier;">In 1990, a Baptist missionary set up a home for
orphaned or abandoned children in <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Embu
das Artes</span>, Brazil.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">We must
travel in the direction of our fear.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt;">John
Berryman – poet</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">* </span>The Direction of Our Fear was first published by the Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers as Editor's Choice in their 'Ghostlight' magazine in 2010, and again by Verulam Writers' Circle in their anthology <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Archangel-White-Jonathan-Pinnock-Editor/dp/144679069X" target="_blank">The Archangel and the White Hart</a>, edited by Jonathan Pinnock, in 2011.<br />
<br />
<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-26260178795218289972014-09-14T17:09:00.001+01:002014-09-14T17:24:09.529+01:00Hit or Miss?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPo50h51I6kZQJG5C1mmB7I1yps4PJTNrfitM7RZgr4R2IRKcDR8aaXLdNPHDWNYoJRpUNxzr6su2ggJwBcbBuSHhwhWjDB8GoLJdrjUD3qofMr7v2aI84J7JnU1CZ3Ttat-C8mdxlQc/s1600/Oscar+-+FFO+eye+pic2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPo50h51I6kZQJG5C1mmB7I1yps4PJTNrfitM7RZgr4R2IRKcDR8aaXLdNPHDWNYoJRpUNxzr6su2ggJwBcbBuSHhwhWjDB8GoLJdrjUD3qofMr7v2aI84J7JnU1CZ3Ttat-C8mdxlQc/s1600/Oscar+-+FFO+eye+pic2.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a>Guys, something happened this week that's bothering me and I really need your input. I think we can probably agree that none of us knows how others see us, yes? Or, to lapse for a moment into a dialect we're going to hear a deal more of in coming days: "O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us<br />
To see oursels as ithers see us!" <br />
<br />
Look, I have no hair – not by choice, you understand, it's the genes – and I do work out hard at the gym, regularly, so I could sort of understand if people who don't know what a pussycat I really am might – very briefly and in a bad light – mistake me for someone a 'bit handy'. But, last Thursday, I'm minding my own business in ASDA, clinging on to a shopping trolley while the little woman investigates another aisle, when this geezer swishes silently up to me on one of those Shopmobility scooters and whispers, out of the corner of his mouth, like in bad B movies: “You look the type. I’m looking for a hit man.”<br />
<br />
OK, I’m a writer, I make things up, but this is true. Of course I made light of it, hoping he was simply someone with an even more bizarre sense of humour than my own (difficult to imagine), or perhaps a harmless eccentric. With fingers crossed I smiled, what I hoped was a none-hit-man-like humouring smile, and hoped my wife would arrive soon to save me. But before Freda could arrive, the hit-man-seeker’s own trouble and strife turned up with her trolley giving the poor sod such a humiliating ear-bending that I almost felt like taking the commission.<br />
<br />
What would he have done if I’d said yes? How much would he have been prepared to pay? I don’t know, but I have a feeling… It was that pleading betrayed look he gave me every time our eyes met as he dogged the footsteps of his shrewish spouse down other aisles. <br />
<br />
So, my question is, given that most of my friends online are probably writers, editors, and publishers or in some other way connected with the literary world: Guys, you know how hard it is to make a living as a writer. Do you think there's an alternative income stream for me here?<br />
<br />
Please, I'm only after friendly advice, not potential targets. You know how little sense of humour the Security Services have.Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-60600519992720403782014-08-19T13:41:00.000+01:002014-08-19T13:44:52.301+01:00EXTRA! Successful Author Exposed as Fraud<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hello again. I know, just as it seemed safe to re-enter the <strike>water</strike> blogosphere I'm back to threaten your sanity with a post. Apologies, but another chance to interview my chum Jonathan Pinnock was too good to an opportunity to miss. So I'm levering the 'dangerous structure' signs from the door and brushing away the cobwebs for the first time in months.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoCx8PEBLTNKq9zWgTtObO7dLCZW9oSsTq301v9r5M0THXcae2qCbx-rQ1nWy14fSrjv5KpaY2VlhdLtcM1BOLnqlkScU7HEvLrele9fpKLOamxtFtq-pxjtpUuiNWOtSP3Fz_XLlqDWY/s1600/Jon+P+-+TiC+cover+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoCx8PEBLTNKq9zWgTtObO7dLCZW9oSsTq301v9r5M0THXcae2qCbx-rQ1nWy14fSrjv5KpaY2VlhdLtcM1BOLnqlkScU7HEvLrele9fpKLOamxtFtq-pxjtpUuiNWOtSP3Fz_XLlqDWY/s1600/Jon+P+-+TiC+cover+pic.jpg" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>IttTL:</b> Hi, Jon. Welcome back to my scruffy crash pad. We're out of milk and coffee, I'm afraid, so I hope black tea's OK? The tea bags are behind you, drying on the radiator. Oh, and the jammy dodgers are a bit soft, but you'll find the furry stuff comes off if you wipe them with your sleeve. It could have come from my sleeve, of course…</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>JP:</b> Nice to see things haven’t changed. I’ll just have a glass of water, please. Boiled.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>IttTL:</b> Right-you-are. Water, boiled and cooled, coming
right up, sir! Jon, it is public knowledge that your hilarious Jane Austen
mash-up, <a href="http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/books/mrs-darcy-versus-the-aliens/" target="_blank">Mrs Darcy versus the Aliens</a>, published by Proxima in 2011, was pretty weird stuff. In fairness, that publication marked the cards of your readers and set the benchmark for your Scott Prize-winning collection <a href="http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/books/dot-dash/" target="_blank">Dot Dash</a>, published by Salt in 2012. But your latest opus, <a href="http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/books/take-it-cool/" target="_blank">Take It Cool</a>, has zoomed out of left field even for those countless loyal fans expecting, indeed relishing the unexpected from you. <br /><br />For the benefit of the few fans remaining unaware, Take it Cool, published by Two Ravens Press is a true-life account of your search for a West Indian reggae musician bearing the same unusual surname as you. <br /><br />Was this project a long-planned change of direction or–– how can I put this? ––an itch you simply had to scratch?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b> JP:</b> The truth is that I started work on TiC some time before I actually got published in any shape or form, back in 2005. It always seemed like a story worth telling, although it took me a long, long time to work out how to tell it. Writing a novel (even one like Mrs Darcy) and all those short stories were extremely valuable in helping me solve that problem. So yes, it’s a bit of a change of direction, but it’s one that builds on everything I’ve done before.<br /><br /><b>IttTl:</b> Reviewers have described Take it Cool variously as genealogical, musicological, historical and even 'a British man's odd quest.' Each of these descriptions seems to touch on aspects of your book but none truly does it justice. Is there an existing term that accurately describes Take it Cool, or will the world have to invent one?<br /><br /><b>JP:</b> TiC is one of those books that refuses to fit in any particular pigeonhole. It’s pretty much <i>sui generis</i>. This suits me fine, but it’s a nightmare from a marketing point of view. What’s nice is that the genealogists (at least the one who reviews books at Family Tree Magazine) seem to get it from their angle, although I’m still waiting to see if anyone in the music press takes an interest. What I really want to shout from the rooftops is ‘Look, FORGET ABOUT $£@%^& CATEGORIES, this is a book you’ll ENJOY. Just trust me and TRY it.’ However, last time I tried doing that, I got arrested for causing a breach of the peace.<br /><br /><b>IttTL:</b> <i>Sui generis</i>? That phrase must be one of a kind. I usually discourage the use of suspect language on this blog, and clambering about on the roof poses safety issues for the landlord, but I digress… In your quest for a connection between your own family history and that of Dennis Pinnock, the trail took you to 18th century Jamaica. When did the possibility of a slavery connection occur to you, and how did you feel when it did? <br /><br /><b>JP:</b> No question about it, that was the point at which the project took flight. Up until then, it was going to be the story of me trying to track down this obscure singer, with a vague sideplot of me trying to find out how we were related. It really wasn’t much to build a book around. However, once slavery raised its ugly warty head, there was a whole new dimension to explore. There was always the risk, of course, that I might end up implicating myself (or at least a contributor to my genes), but it seemed worth taking.<br /><br /><b>IttTL: </b>It seems to me that your eclectic musical tastes, your confessed magpie collecting tendencies – having discovered Dennis' career and discography – and a growing admiration for Dennis as your researches progressed have coalesced in Take it Cool to produce a unique bond across time, race and culture. So, it must have been quite a moment when you finally came face to face with Dennis. Can you describe that meeting in a few words? <br /><br /><b>JP:</b> I’ve no idea what he made of me, but I liked him a lot. He was very unassuming, but also keen to talk about his career and his music, and the conversation didn’t flag for a moment. This was true of the other guys I interviewed as well, Paul ‘Snoopy’ Nagle and Tex Johnson. What was really nice, and quite unexpected, was that they all took my quest at face value and didn’t think I was some kind of idiot. In many ways, this was the best validation of the project.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /><b>IttTL:</b> In Take it Cool you make great show of being uncool. In this respect, sir, you are a fraud. Take it Cool has done what it says on the label: it has taken you, Jonathan Pinnock, cool. How can a white British guy whose book has received a warm and <a href="http://www.itzcaribbean.com/community-uk/books-writers/take-cool-genealogy-reggae-music-collide/" target="_blank">enthusiastic review on itzcarribean.com</a>, not to mention a prize book giveaway on that same coolest of websites, continue to claim un-coolness? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>JP:</b> I’m not sure you can ever truly shake off un-coolness. You either are or you aren’t, and I’m most definitely not. However, if the book ever does get reviewed in the music press, I may have cause to re-evaluate this.<br /><br /><b>IttTL:</b> Indeed you should, <strike>Mr Cool</strike> – sorry – Jon (for now). You're not a man who stands still for long. So, what are likely to be the next challenges you'll be taking on?<br /><br /><b>JP:</b> That’s a very good question. As ever, there’s a whole load of things I’d like to do, almost none of which will actually make it beyond the first 1000 words or so before they self-destruct. For example, having had one stab at narrative non-fiction, there are now half a dozen other similar projects I quite fancy having a bash at. But I’d also like to go back to fiction, although exactly what form that’s likely to take, I have no idea. I’ve recently enrolled for the Creative Writing MA Programme at Bath Spa, so I’m hoping that will help me decide what I should be doing.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>IttTL:</b> Best of luck with sales of Take it Cool, Jon, your MA, and
with all your future undertakings. Thanks for dropping by.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Jonathan Pinnock blogs at jonathanpinnock.com, <a href="http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/" target="_blank">
</a>an address in cyberspace that rewards the visitor with a miscellany of literary goodies; <a href="http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/" target="_blank">here</a> you'll find links to Jon's eclectic back catalogue plus abundant evidence of his polymath skillset.</span></span><br />
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Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-43395880991125361182014-03-15T17:58:00.001+00:002014-03-15T18:40:56.681+00:00What could possibly enhance this image?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/incoming/article9193520.ece/ALTERNATES/w620/kissing-sailorv4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.independent.co.uk/incoming/article9193520.ece/ALTERNATES/w620/kissing-sailorv4.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
Today <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/sailor-who-kissed-a-nurse-in-famous-wwii-photograph-dies-aged-86-9193528.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><i>The Independent</i></a> reported the death of Glenn McDuffie, aged 86. That name probably won't mean much to you, but it's a fair bet that you will recognise the man behind it. <br />
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You see, Glenn was the sailor in this famous photograph taken by Alfred Eisenstaed on August 14th 1945, in Time Square, New York. Over the years it has become a symbol of the joy experienced at the end of the Second World War. I can add nothing to the raw human emotion recorded in this amazing image, but I believe the work of a friend of mine may just do that.<br />
<br />
Please, if possible, turn off any noise around you, sit, and allow yourself three minutes and fifteen seconds to listen to Donna Gagnon reading <a href="http://www.eclecticflash.com/files/The_Kiss_by_Donna_Gagnon.mp3" target="_blank">The Kiss.</a><br />
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Rest in peace, Glenn McDuffie, you have a very special place in human history.Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-29976216548715980572014-01-26T18:13:00.000+00:002014-01-27T14:50:01.809+00:00On Writing: In audio, the pictures are better (discuss?)Do you recognise good writing when you hear it? <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcGcPhuE4he6XAezZpeOrpgkC7MK6W-QfiBwKMnRE2b_v2DIR09ZrLcGfaaoPMytvWd08bJkJpMAiKHAqdBqFlp5NnW1gp9YLB0hT9V1-LrKcs05ZHI1ibXagyydeXfTHH7FTCfwgCns/s1600/VWC+CD+and+Gnome.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcGcPhuE4he6XAezZpeOrpgkC7MK6W-QfiBwKMnRE2b_v2DIR09ZrLcGfaaoPMytvWd08bJkJpMAiKHAqdBqFlp5NnW1gp9YLB0hT9V1-LrKcs05ZHI1ibXagyydeXfTHH7FTCfwgCns/s1600/VWC+CD+and+Gnome.JPG" height="272" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Verulam Writers' Circle Crystal Decanter and Gnome de Plume</td></tr>
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<br />
We can probably agree that good writing is good writing, whatever the genre or subject of that writing, and we can probably also agree that we recognise good writing when we see it. But what about when we hear it? If we're listening to writing that's from a genre or is about a subject that has little attraction to us – best intentions notwithstanding – do we listen as carefully? <br />
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I am fortunate in belonging to an excellent writers' group, <a href="http://www.verulamwriterscircle.org.uk/">Verulam Writer's Circle</a> (VWC), where we have regular manuscript evenings at which our members read their work aloud and receive critique. Over time it has become clear to me that some people are far better at retaining, analysing and critiquing orally delivered work than others. I for one am very poor at this, and – although I enjoy the readings – prefer to analyse work from the screen or printed page. Of course there must be many factors that influence this, including the confidence and projection skills of the reader and the acuity of the listener's hearing. The factor I'm interested in here, however, is the writer's ability gain interest – to hook the listener's attention – by creating 'pictures' in the mind.<br />
<br />
At one recent VWC manuscript evening I was delighted to have my drifting attention lensed into sharp focus by passages in two different pieces, each by a different writer, both of which performed that magical trick of forming clear, colourful, images in my mind. From that point, but regrettably only from that point, both readers had my effortless attention: the operative word being 'effortless'. The message from this is, I guess, that if we writers can get those 'visual effect' moments in the right places in our work, we are in with a chance of winning-over listeners – and therefore, I would assume, readers/editors/publishers – who might not otherwise give our work their best attention.<br />
<br />
Fair enough, but how to achieve such images? I really can't say. In my view those pictures in the mind are not achieved, as some people might think, by simply mentioning colours, textures aromas etc., by their bald names, or even by complex similes or metaphors, because among the few 'rules' I do believe in are: Less is more and Show, don't tell. All I can say for certain is that when those visuals work the effect is truly magical. <br />
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What I would like to know most of all is: Given that [truism alert] it is impossible to read your own work for the first time – any more than you can tickle yourself – is it possible to <i>know</i> you've successfully achieved 'the visual effect' <i>as you write</i> and, if so, how?<br />
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If you know an answer to that final question, I'd be extremely grateful to hear from you because it's not a secret I've learned. <br />
<br />
Thank you for kindly visiting my blog. Do help yourselves to virtual tea and biccys, but please shut the fridge door and turn out the lights out when you leave. Call again when you've time.<br />
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Good writing!<br />
<br />
OscarOscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-87558654267598977122013-11-23T21:41:00.000+00:002013-11-23T21:42:07.943+00:00An Appointment with The Doctor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2h4tbY4FvXRY2QRWP3z0kygmLc3c0K4gXPqbXX3fgMfw7BY3-ADqjjHIWozyCfYZ_v07BHl2hDGa06yry2fdtZJ2c1WWnWHYYgUpBJvFSKqVewAJXUGMxB6DU0CBML3bSCt1SBFPGnk/s1600/AA+Oscar+timelord+-+dalek+037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2h4tbY4FvXRY2QRWP3z0kygmLc3c0K4gXPqbXX3fgMfw7BY3-ADqjjHIWozyCfYZ_v07BHl2hDGa06yry2fdtZJ2c1WWnWHYYgUpBJvFSKqVewAJXUGMxB6DU0CBML3bSCt1SBFPGnk/s1600/AA+Oscar+timelord+-+dalek+037.jpg" height="236" width="320" /></a></div>
Half a lifetime ago, in 1980 to be precise, a small Hertfordshire community service organisation called Bushey and Oxhey Round Table (BORT) received a visit from Doctor Who. <br /><br />Tom Baker had been The Doctor since 1974 and was not in the habit of condescending to lesser planets let alone to a provincial Donkey Derby, but BORT had a reputation for punching above its weight, and somebody in BORT knew somebody very near the top in BBC Enterprises. So The Doctor came to our fund-raising event, complete with the pukka Tardis.<br />
<br />For the purpose of publicity stunts, we also acquired a number of other genuine Doctor Who props and costumes : a Dalek and a round headed monster whose name escapes me, plus a generic Time Lord outfit, which is why the young fellow in the picture - as BORT chairman - got to be a Time Lord for a day. <br /><br />To be quite honest I got the impression that Mr Baker – surrounded by his BBC minders (not Dennis Waterman, the real thing) – was not best pleased to be dragged around a Donkey Derby. In the event he did a stalwart job. Great fun was had and lots of money raised for charity.<br /><br />
The very next year, 1981, Doctor Who regenerated again: enter Peter Davison. I do hope it wasn't anything I did.<br /><br />BREAKING NEWS: So Tom Baker has another place in the 50 years of Who history – The Curator. <br />
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<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-62333478397149440412013-05-23T16:16:00.001+01:002013-05-23T16:22:48.431+01:00Can a Voice Change Your Life?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-276CU6RWH5l2iEC5BY8lBEIRAnlDMGH0oM3_krjbfESDrTo6CClxwMwdloRlLQKSPVysqBb0yQpp7Ij7mY_29GKcduR5qeO5FeQFNc-lZzcv5LoQEe9ePxyd03-TgEQraIkkm2oaws/s1600/Freda+in+bluebells+col088+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-276CU6RWH5l2iEC5BY8lBEIRAnlDMGH0oM3_krjbfESDrTo6CClxwMwdloRlLQKSPVysqBb0yQpp7Ij7mY_29GKcduR5qeO5FeQFNc-lZzcv5LoQEe9ePxyd03-TgEQraIkkm2oaws/s200/Freda+in+bluebells+col088+copy.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Freda, the real love of my life (in case of misunderstanding)</td></tr>
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I'd like to share with you something I've never experienced before. It happened yesterday morning driving home from the gym when I switched on the car radio, which was tuned to BBC Radio 4, a programme called 'Don't Log Off'. I fell in love with a woman, Jenny, talking about her life in the outback of Australia.<br />
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I arrived home and sat in my garage for the final ten minutes of the broadcast, listening to this serene, beautiful, voice full of humanity, with a deceptively light-sounding but truly profound life-philosophy encapsulating the way she dealt with - is dealing with - personal tragedy.<br />
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Besides the content of what Jenny says, there's something about the direct, uncluttered, way she uses language without artifice. It's like natural, flowing, poetry – or perhaps that response is personal to me - I'd be pleased to know if her words affect you this way as well. <br />
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I learned a surprising amount about Australia and Australian history from Jenny, too.<br />
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So why not treat yourself to a quiet half hour - trust me, it must be quiet - maybe pour yourself a glass of wine, sit back, close your eyes, and listen - and perhaps fall a little in love. You won't regret it.<br />
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(There's a short intro first) <a href="http://downloads.bbc.co.uk/podcasts/radio4/dlo/dlo_20130522-1102a.mp3">BBC Radio4 - Don't Log Off, 22 May 13: A Tale from the Bush</a><br />
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Do turn out the lights and close the door as you leave the blog.<br />
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Bye for now.<br />
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Thanks for visiting.Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-17851193325098599982013-05-16T12:44:00.001+01:002013-05-16T19:54:24.003+01:00Skimming Waves - A short story<style>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">In remembrance of all the lives lost before, during and after Operation Chastise.</span> <style><!--
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<a href="http://www.rafmuseum.org.uk/images/online_exhibitions/617sqncrst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.rafmuseum.org.uk/images/online_exhibitions/617sqncrst.jpg" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Skimming Waves</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
May 17th 2002, the anniversary. Two men are standing a
stone’s throw apart, midway between twin towers on the half-mile long curve of
granite blocks. They’re both gazing down, preoccupied, at a group of youths,
one in a red sweatshirt, skimming pebbles on the lake behind the dam. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Despite new glasses, Helmut’s
seventy-year-old eyes can’t make out the logo on the youth’s red sweatshirt.
It’s something black on a white circular background, possibly a souvenir of
some rock concert. Possibly. He shivers despite the spring sunshine and
refocuses to gaze along the stone parapet and down the walkway. You can’t tell
the repair work from the original structure now, perhaps that isn’t so
surprising after fifty-nine years. For the first time Helmut notices the other
man: his ridiculous sunhat, green cagoule, waterproof trousers and brown walking
boots. English, as are the stone-skipping youths. The Englishman turns, gaunt,
nervous, and makes eye contact.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Graham had been counting the
ripples as pebble after pebble skipped across the water. He had leant out over
the parapet, looked down to where the bouncing bombs must have struck the dam
and then further down into deep water where they’d sunk and exploded. He had
shuddered and hauled himself upright. Sensing the presence of someone else he had
turned.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
The man facing Graham is about
his own age, with close-cropped grey hair, a stylish leather jacket, slacks and
polished shoes. Impeccable. German. Behind steel-rimmed glasses the man’s eyes
appear cold, questioning. The German blinks, coughs and looks away, and then he
seems to make up his mind and begins a slow arthritic plod, closing the gap
between them. A step away from Graham he pauses and slips his right hand inside
his jacket. He withdraws something smooth, leathery, slides the cover off and
offers Graham a cigar. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Graham exhales, shakes his head.
‘No. Thank you. I gave up some time ago.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
The German shrugs, replaces the
cover and tucks the case back beneath his jacket. ‘They came that way,’ he says
in English, pointing up the valley, past the youths skimming stones, toward the
Möhne River, ‘your Lancaster bombers.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> bombers, I was only ten years old.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘I too was this young, but
bombers have no respect for age.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘You were here?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Of course.’ He progresses
painfully to the other side of the walkway, gesturing to Graham to follow.
Pointing out over the dizzying drop and the outfall toward distant buildings
beyond, he says, ‘Here is where we are when the deluge comes, Wickede, my
hometown. It is eight kilometres below this dam, but still it is destroyed:
houses, railway, animals – everything.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Graham feels the cold ache he has
experienced many times before when looking at the photographs but this time it
is intense to the point of pain. The view wobbles. He staggers but a strong
grip supports him before he can fall.</div>
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‘You are unwell?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Just a bit giddy.’ Graham waves
a dismissive hand, leans against the parapet. </div>
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‘Drink this.’ An opened hip flask
is in the German’s fist. ‘Schnapps. It will help I think.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Graham takes it, nodding his
thanks. ‘My name is Graham,’ he says.</div>
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‘So, Mr Graham—’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Just Graham, it’s my first
name.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
The German watches Graham drink, accepts
the flask from him and downs a long draft. Between swallows he says: ‘So—
Graham— it is your father flying with the famous 617 Squadron?’ He wipes his
mouth with his hand and passes the flask back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Thank you.’ Graham takes it but
hesitates. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i>
name.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Helmut.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘No, Helmut, my father died at
Dunkirk. My only connection with the raid is through an uncle.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Helmut examines the ground,
nodding. ‘So, he is a Lancaster pilot, this uncle—’ he hiccoughs ‘—with many
decorations for glorious victory.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Graham passes back the flask,
hand shaking. ‘No, it wasn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">like</i>
that. My uncle flew unarmed Spitfires on photographic reconnaissance.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Helmut refuses to take the flask.
‘This shaking, it is more than giddy, I think. You drink please. I apologize
for rudeness. So many of your countrymen come here following the heroic Dam
Busters.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Gripping the flask in both hands,
Graham drinks and then returns it. ‘I understand your bitterness, Helmut. I saw
pictures that my uncle took. The destruction—' He averts his eyes. 'As a child,
I had nightmares about people drowning.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Many Germans did drown, and many
more died that were your allies, Graham, prisoners. But my nightmares were not
of drowning.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘No? What did you fear most?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Your Mr Churchill, with his
butterfly tie.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Graham almost chokes. ‘You mean
Churchill’s bow tie? Really?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Indeed, so.’ Helmut is smiling
now. ‘My father had a— What do you say? Cartoon? —from the newspaper, with this
horrible face and the bowtie, yes? It filled my nightmares.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Graham is smiling too. With a
controlled shake of his head, he says, ‘My fear was of gas masks, even more
than the bombs.’ He stops smiling, swallows hard, and stares into the distance.
‘But it was the idea of people drowning that I hated most, even if we were
enemies.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Helmut puts a hand on Graham’s
shoulder. ‘We were not all Nazis you know.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘I know, and I couldn't get that
out of my mind. I became a hydraulic engineer. I’ve built dams, so I understand
the power of water, for good and for bad.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
The two men survey the view from
the dam in pensive silence for several minutes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Helmut turns. ‘It has been a
pleasure to meet you, Graham.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘You too, Helmut.’ Graham glances
at his wristwatch. ‘Goodness. I must go, I shall miss my coach.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Graham, you chose to come here
for the fifty-ninth anniversary, why?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘It’ll be crowded next year. And
I wanted time to think. You know?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Indeed.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Besides, I won’t be around then––
Cancer.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘Ah—’ Helmut nods. ‘I’m sorry.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
‘So am I.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
The men on the dam shake hands
and turn to leave in their respective directions, each glancing down at the
youths who had been skimming pebbles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
Clearly aware of their gaze, the
youth in the red sweatshirt jumps to attention, twitches on his heels and
performs an insolent straight-armed salute. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">If you are
interested to know more about the Dam Busters and Operation Chastise, please
follow the links below to the RAF Museum website. Even if you think you know
everything about 617 Squadron and their most famous raid you will probably find
there is information this excellent archive that will fill-in gaps in your
knowledge. Some of the papers have never before been on public display.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><a href="http://www.rafmuseum.org.uk/research/media-vault/podcasts/the-dams-raid/" target="_blank">RAF Museum - Podcast on Dambusters raid (Narrated by Richard Todd)</a> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><a href="http://www.rafmuseum.org.uk/research/online-exhibitions/617-squadron-and-the-dams-raid.aspx" target="_blank">RAF Museum online exhibition - A treasure trove of information on Operation Chastise</a> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Finally, if you feel
moved to give something back to those who risked – and those who continue
to risk – their lives in the cause of our protection, please click this link to the <a href="http://www.rafbf.org/" target="_blank">RAF Benevolent Fund</a>.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;"> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Thank you.</span></div>
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Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-15116168304640488122013-02-10T18:13:00.000+00:002013-02-10T18:13:17.159+00:00The Hemingway-Schrödinger Experiment - an explanation<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiddlodVC5sAmZdUc1AK82-AXoHfPTn05WUInNULVq8ZvqpLihwyXJPPAtykD5iNdQE5CZ6ZM36ejiloV5mD5FfSELLsSwp0o__-VyfkFCrNKHX9dTLkKsaZWyOIVP15nPG8Fq2eBGXlPA/s1600/Polly+-+my+mews.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiddlodVC5sAmZdUc1AK82-AXoHfPTn05WUInNULVq8ZvqpLihwyXJPPAtykD5iNdQE5CZ6ZM36ejiloV5mD5FfSELLsSwp0o__-VyfkFCrNKHX9dTLkKsaZWyOIVP15nPG8Fq2eBGXlPA/s320/Polly+-+my+mews.JPG" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polly, my 'Mews'. Died 01/01/2013. Much missed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At midday (GMT) today, 10th February 2013, I published on the @OscarWindsor Twitter account, my original take on the famous/infamous 6-word story attributed, some say erroneously, to Ernest Hemingway.<br />
<br />
The 'Hemingway' version is, of course: 'For sale: baby shoes, never used.' <br />
<br />
My version (dedicated to Polly - see pic) is: 'For sale, cat carrier, never used - Erwin Schrödinger.'<br />
<br />To the best of my knowledge and belief, this is a completely new version of the story, in an original (hopefully humorous) treatment.<br /><br />Before publishing the piece, with great hubris and pomposity, I announced, on LinkedIn and Facebook, that I would be carrying out an experiment in 'communication and psychology', inviting anyone who had the time and interest to take part and respond/RT if they felt so inclined. A number of kind people - some known to me, others new contacts - did respond.<br />
<br />
I'd like to thank everyone who RTed or commented. Particular thanks are due to my good friend @taniahershman for not only RTing the piece, but also including it in her excellent #storysunday gathering of favourite stories.<br /><br />Having involved so many people in my personal whimsy, an explanation is due. Here it is:<br /><br />Way back in 2010, <a href="http://oscarwindsor-smith.blogspot.co.uk/2010/05/funny-old-business-circulation-of-jokes.html" target="_blank">I blogged about how an 'original' joke of mine turned up in a BBC TV series.</a> I still have no idea how it got there - well, none that I can substantiate. Ever since then I've been fascinated to understand more about the mechanism by which jokes, and other 'memes' (e.g., the apocryphal attribution of the 'baby shoes' story to Hemingway) gain a toe-hold and travel the world. <br /><br />The Hemingway-Schrödinger Experiment? Another piece of silliness. I came up with a micro-fiction that I hoped might tickle a few people and decided I'd set it adrift in the rip-tides of the InterWeb to see what occurred.<br /><br />So, should you see my version of the story - or, indeed, any further adaptation of my version - bobbing its way past your time-line, across your in-tray, or anywhere at all, really - now or at any future time. Please, give me a headsup on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, or here.<br /><br />I'd love to be able to chart the travels of my InterWeb message in a bottle.<br />
<br />Thank you in anticipation.<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-24082549942581930772012-11-07T07:09:00.000+00:002012-11-07T09:57:33.175+00:00Sure-fire Christmas Present No:1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.saltpublishing.com/assets/covers/200/9781844718825_200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.saltpublishing.com/assets/covers/200/9781844718825_200.jpg" width="130" /></a></div>
"The harder I work the luckier I get", is a quote attributed to various individuals, including Thomas Jefferson, Sam Goldwyn and Gary Player, but that maxim could justifiably have originated from the keyboard of my good friend and guest today on ItttL, Jonathan Pinnock.<br />
<br />
Jon's writing has won him numerous prizes and accolades, including the prestigious Scott Prize the direct result of which is his first collection of short – and very short – fiction, <i>Dot Dash</i>, published this week by <a href="http://www.saltpublishing.com/" target="_blank">Salt Publishing</a>, publishers of the 2012 Man Booker finalist <i><a href="http://www.saltpublishing.com/shop/proddetail.php?prod=9781907773174" target="_blank">The Lighthouse</a></i>, by Alison Moore.<br />
<br />
His work has appeared in a bewildering number of publications, worldwide, and been performed on stage and on BBC Radio. Jon achieved further success last year with his first full-length fiction book, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Darcy-Versus-Aliens-Jonathan-Pinnock/dp/1907773134" target="_blank">Mrs Darcy versus The Aliens</a></i>, published by Proxima Books.<br />
<br />
<b>ItttL:</b> Hi, Jon, and welcome back to ItttL. Congratulations on your Scott Prize win, and on the publication of <i>Dot Dash</i>. How does it feel to share a publisher with a Man Booker Prize finalist?<br />
<br />
<b>Jon:</b> <span style="color: blue;">Wonderful! Although… obviously I’m really pleased for Salt and for Alison Moore (and “The Lighthouse” is a bloody marvellous book, by the way), but it’s actually quite unsettling to feel that you’ve hung around in the same playground as her, because you can’t help wondering if you should maybe be raising your aim a little too. And that way madness lies.</span><br />
<br />
<b>ItttL:</b> Given that <i>Dot Dash</i> is your first collection, what is the current title-count of the short fiction you've written to date? I suspect the answer is a high number, so how did you decide what to include, and what to leave out? <br />
<br />
<b>Jon:</b> <span style="color: blue;">I’m not actually sure, but it’s probably in three figures by now. The decision process was actually quite simple. For the longer pieces, I started off by going through everything I had that had won a prize or had got some kind of mention and put them in. Then I went through the ones that had been published somewhere and picked the ones that seemed to me to be the strongest. For the shorter ones, the process was a lot simpler, because there were only just enough that had previously been published. In fact, I think I may have thrown in a couple of unpublished ones to make up the numbers.</span><br />
<br />
<b>ItttL:</b> Dot-dash represents the letter "A" in Morse code. "C" got Tom McCarthy shortlisted for the Man Booker prize in 2010, did that fact influence your choice of title, or was there some other reason? (He asks with a sly wink).<br />
<br />
<b>Jon:</b> <span style="color: blue;">Ha. We’re back to the Booker, aren’t we? No, “C” had nothing to do with it! I wanted to do something different from the usual “XXX and Other Stories” thing, and the slightly unusual structure of the collection lent itself to “Dot Dash”. Also, I’m a big fan of the band Wire, especially their song of the same name. If I ever get allowed to publish another collection, I’d really love to continue the theme by calling it “Dip Flash”.</span><br />
<br />
<b>ItttL:</b> My copy of <i>Dot Dash</i> arrived last weekend; so I'm still buzzing with the amazing variety of work it contains in no fewer than 58 separate pieces. What would you say is the main trigger/inspiration for you when you start writing a piece of short fiction?<br />
<br />
<b>Jon:</b> <span style="color: blue;">Generally speaking I need a purpose – some kind of competition or publication to aim for. It’s very rare that an idea pops into my head unprovoked. What I love is when you start writing something to fit a particular set of parameters and some completely unexpected theme emerges from your unconscious. I also love playing with different formats – different voices, tenses, sentence lengths and so on.</span><br />
<br />
<b>ItttL:</b> I'm pleased to see that you've included a number of my favourite Pinnock tales in <i>Dot Dash</i>, including: <i>After Michelangelo</i> (under a different title, the first of your stories I ever read – brilliantly dark); <i>Canine Mathematics</i> (which makes me corpse every time I even think of it – cunningly crazy) and <i>Mr Nathwani's Haiku</i> (a new voice that fooled me in a <a href="http://www.verulamwriterscircle.org.uk/" target="_blank">Verulam Writers' Circle</a> Crystal Decanter competition anonymous adjudication - perceptive and moving). If I asked you to pick your personal favourite story from <i>Dot Dash</i>, which one would it be, and why?<br />
<br />
<b>Jon:</b> <span style="color: blue;">This is a bit like asking which of my kids I prefer! Of the really short ones, “Steaming” is the one I’m proudest of, because I think it succeeds in being simultaneously gruesome, funny and mundane in less then 140 characters. Of the longer ones, maybe “Return to Cairo”, because it combines humour and absurdity with pathos. But ask me again tomorrow, and I’ll almost certainly have changed my mind.</span><br />
<br />
<b>ItttL:</b> Following the success of <i>Mrs Darcy versus the Aliens</i>, the indisputable popularity of your short fiction, and by extension I'm sure, the success of <i>Dot Dash</i>, what projects do you have in preparation?<br />
<br />
<b>Jon:</b> <span style="color: blue;">Good question. The next book is an offbeat non-fiction/memoir-ish thing that’s currently out on submission. And I’m trying to decide what to do after that! I guess I’d hoped to have some idea by now of what kind of writer I am, and hence what I should be focussing on, but unfortunately I seem to remain resolutely unfocussed. So I’ll probably end up trying to write several completely different things at once in the hope that Darwinism will somehow result in something publishable emerging. God only knows if that will work, but it appears to be my only option.</span><br />
<br />
<b>ItttL</b> <b>STOP PRESS:</b> I've just received an email heads-up from Liars' League of an upcoming event and see that yet another story from <i>Dot Dash</i>, <i>The Last Words of Emanuel Prettyjohn</i> leads the list of stories to be performed by professional actors, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/events/411137135621405/" target="_blank">in London, on November 13th</a>. Congratulations once again.<br />
<br />
Thank you, Jon, for taking the time to drop in at ItttL on your hectic blog tour. I wish you continuing success, and a sales graph like the north face of the Eiger.<br />
<br />
<b>Christmas recommendation No:1</b> If you've read this far, it will probably come as no surprise to learn that I heartily recommend Jonathan Pinnock's short story collection <i>Dot Dash</i> as a book you'll enjoy at first reading and return to dip into again and again. It's a dead cert Christmas present, even for somebody whose lifestyle limits his or her reading time. <i>Dot Dash</i> is available direct from <a href="http://www.saltpublishing.com/shop/proddetail.php?prod=9781844718825" target="_blank">Salt Publishing</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dot-Dash-Salt-Modern-Fiction/dp/1844718824/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1352229114&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, or your local bookshop.<br />
<br />
<b>PS:</b><span id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][1]"> </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]."><span id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[0]">I understand that signed copies are available via the PayPal button on </span><a href="http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/" id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[1]" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.jonathanpinnock.com</a><span id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[2]"> or </span><a href="http://www.join-the-dots.com/" id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[3]" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.join-the-dots.com</a><span id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[4]">!</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]."><span id=".reactRoot[7].[1][2][1]{comment508624252496204_5949630}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[4]">*** </span></span></span> Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-80438476839341485142012-09-26T16:59:00.002+01:002012-09-26T16:59:59.749+01:00Deadline expired? Use the coolest excuse: The squirrel ate my internet.Writers, great news if you're late for a deadline again and the axe is about to fall; there's a new hi-tec version of the "my dog ate my homework" excuse: The squirrel ate my internet.<br />
<br />
In order to employ this excuse convincingly, however, it will first be necessary to do a little research, a link to which your reliable friend Oscar will provide, care of Andrew Blum and TED Talks. First perhaps I should explain my own interest.<br />
<br />
Before becoming a writer, I spent a large chunk of my life as an electrician, a trade which is about as down to earth as a job can get. I don't mind if you snort at what seems like an electrical pun there, because it's not simply a metaphor. My job, whilst often technical, did sometimes involve grunt work like digging up the ground or hacking channels in walls to install cabling for services in factories, offices and homes. <br />
<br />
The internet arrived late in my electrician life, rapidly becoming an essential adjunct to my job. But there was little time or need to consider how it worked or where it "was". The internet was simply a magical facility connected in some mysterious way with the World Wide Web created by a great wizard called Tim Berners-Lee.<br />
<br />
Until today I sublimated my inner electrician's curiosity and allowed the pragmatic writer in me to accept the magic at face value. I talked about my online work being in cyberspace, or, more recently, in the cloud without the slightest idea of where the internet "was".<br />
<br />
Today though I discovered the amusing and enlightening TED talk by Andrew Blum, entitled; What is the internet, really? and my long standing and embarrassing ignorance ended. <br />
<br />
Enjoy a few entertaining and informative minutes with Andrew Blum and you will feel empowered to employ the coolest excuse with confidence.<br />
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<br />
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Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-13054977710345693112012-06-17T18:41:00.000+01:002012-06-18T05:14:52.628+01:00Ray Bradbury: A Miniature Tribute<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://twimg0-a.akamaihd.net/profile_images/1680437822/Screen_shot_2011-09-29_at_12.01.01_reasonably_small.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://twimg0-a.akamaihd.net/profile_images/1680437822/Screen_shot_2011-09-29_at_12.01.01_reasonably_small.png" width="200" /></a></div>
I must have been channelling my hero Ray Bradbury (August 22, 1920 – June 5, 2012 RIP) yesterday when I responded to an <a href="http://www.litro.co.uk/?p=17575" target="_blank">invitation on Twitter from Litro magazine</a> to submit a 140 character maximum story to Tales On Tweet. My effort appears <a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/talesontweet" target="_blank">here on the @TalesOnTweet timeline</a> (you may need to scroll down if other submissions have been added). *Cough* If you should feel inclined to RT or even fave my piece I would not be in the least offended.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.scaryforkids.com/pics/a-sound-of-thunder-03.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="http://www.scaryforkids.com/pics/a-sound-of-thunder-03.JPG" width="200" /></a>If, as was the case with most of my family, you have not a clue what to make of my tale, this <a href="http://www.scaryforkids.com/a-sound-of-thunder/" target="_blank">free Ray Bradbury classic story</a> might give you hint. Beware, though, reading this could be the start of a lifelong Bradbury addiction. And, if you didn't already know, you'll learn the source of an expression you've heard many, many, times and almost certainly quoted yourself.<br />
<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-34428792475946960842012-06-14T18:53:00.000+01:002012-06-14T18:53:44.489+01:00First Oscar's Oscars Hi Five of 2012<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97OUGumqHmGY9nyUWf0HETQbU3wL434bJ7-U_oSQQgQ-dS0qlDDnkVKFg6UyabhMzTRmnj5O21A3olHxOvQ6gJ6aye-GWrMtRPi-xpduLevZZthaYw_f7xHp8qD0fNu7NHUMFPsuLxEI/s1600/Oscars+Oscar+05+Small+-097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97OUGumqHmGY9nyUWf0HETQbU3wL434bJ7-U_oSQQgQ-dS0qlDDnkVKFg6UyabhMzTRmnj5O21A3olHxOvQ6gJ6aye-GWrMtRPi-xpduLevZZthaYw_f7xHp8qD0fNu7NHUMFPsuLxEI/s200/Oscars+Oscar+05+Small+-097.jpg" width="126" /></a>It's been a long time since I inflicted one of my Oscar's Oscars on some poor unsuspecting individual, but I feel a presentation coming on right now because this guy and his work are uniquely deserving of a good Hi Fiving.<br />
<br />
So, without further ado (I've no idea what that means but it seems to be traditional at times like this):<br />
<br />
<b>Citation</b> (my excuse for inflicting this humiliation): For outstanding contribution to the promotion of short story writing, and flash fiction in particular, by inaugurating and promoting <a href="http://nationalflashfictionday.co.uk/" target="_blank">(Inter)National Flash Fiction Day</a>, the first Oscar's Oscar of 2012 goes to Calum Kerr. <span style="font-size: large;"><b style="color: red;">Yay!</b></span> (excuse me).<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlCuH7C9QWeMHe1773J_s4IRftTFwP4Q89KQg0F9WQqvOt2dC7yrNZeEMfIACfJPDIDxRKckBEYRtyCh68_7DbbRTSiOFYYIeBVolrJFyxuLdObZTVexQK_hyz6y6uKfxjZL33RUYO9w/s1600/logosm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlCuH7C9QWeMHe1773J_s4IRftTFwP4Q89KQg0F9WQqvOt2dC7yrNZeEMfIACfJPDIDxRKckBEYRtyCh68_7DbbRTSiOFYYIeBVolrJFyxuLdObZTVexQK_hyz6y6uKfxjZL33RUYO9w/s1600/logosm.jpg" /></a>In case you're a returning deep space traveller and have some excuse for remaining unaware of the full, and lasting, significance of Calum's project, you can read a summing up in his own words, <a href="http://networkedblogs.com/yKX2r" target="_blank">here</a>. <br />
<br />
Well done that man!Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-31054087921503111852012-06-02T17:18:00.001+01:002012-06-02T17:18:23.344+01:00Another Diamond Jubilee very soon?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.royal.gov.uk/List%20Images/Diamond%20Jubilee/English%20CMYK%20colour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.royal.gov.uk/List%20Images/Diamond%20Jubilee/English%20CMYK%20colour.jpg" width="141" /></a></div>
The UK news is dominated this weekend by the Queen's Diamond Jubilee celebrations, which, to judge by the TV coverage of today's [sponsor's name I refuse to mention] Epsom Derby, is in danger of being subsumed beneath crass and unsubtle advertising. Queen Victoria would not have been amused.<br />
<br />
That being the case, I think it's time I banged the drum for my 'home' writers' group, <a href="http://www.verulamwriterscircle.org.uk/" target="_blank">Verulam Writers' Circle</a>, which is approaching its own 60th anniversary very soon.<br />
<br />
Despite today's tacky, un-British showing, we Brits have many reasons to remain proud of the United Kingdom. I consider myself fortunate to have been born an Englishman, so I am a lucky man indeed to be a member of Verulam Writers' Circle too.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.verulamwriterscircle.org.uk/images/banner_logo.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.verulamwriterscircle.org.uk/images/banner_logo.gif" /></a>In case you're wondering what I'm so enthusiastic about, please have a little taster from the latest edition of the excellent <a href="https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=gmail&attid=0.1&thid=137a936f77b242da&mt=application/pdf&url=https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui%3D2%26ik%3D5283348431%26view%3Datt%26th%3D137a936f77b242da%26attid%3D0.1%26disp%3Dsafe%26zw&sig=AHIEtbR0y1I5wKlw8f_euLA4ze9iaxKWOQ" target="_blank">Verulam Writers' Circle newsletter, <i>Veracity</i>. </a><br />
<br />
Here's wishing friends in the UK and worldwide a relaxing and memorable weekend. Do watch the river pageant, the concert and the parades if you are able to, wherever you may be. If you can attend the live events - well, lucky you. They should be truly spectacular, and, I sincerely hope, less tainted by commercial bad taste than was the Epsom Derby.<br />
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<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-26684477735595772512012-05-19T11:41:00.000+01:002012-05-19T12:04:55.950+01:00Top Short Story Competitions – Literary Athletics<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>The only way to lose is by not taking part </b><br />
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There are short story writing competitions. There are international short story writing competitions. And then there's <a href="http://www.nycmidnight.com/Competitions/SSC/Challenge.htm" target="_blank">New York City Midnight Short Story Challenge. </a><br />
<br />
The operative words are Midnight and Challenge, and they mean exactly what they say. NYCM competitions are not for sleepyheads or the faint-hearted. <br />
<br />
This year the challenge consisted of three rounds of original writing challenges, set against the calendar and the clock. The challenges were presented, by email, at 11:59 EDT (New York time), which equated to 4:59 the following morning in the UK.<br />
<br />
In the first round the 24:00/5:00am start was not too onerous, given eight days to write a story of up to 2,500 words. The second round was slightly more fraught with 3 days to produce a story of up to 1,500 words. Faced, however, with 24 hours to write a 1,000 word story in the final round, every second counted, so a 5:00 start was vital.<br />
<br />
The 625 first round writers were placed randomly in 'heats' of 25. Each heat received a genre, subject and character assignment, for example: Comedy (genre), a family reunion (subject) and a pathological liar (character). <br />
<br />
The judges chose 125 writers from the first round to progress to the second round. These writers were again placed in heats and given new genre, subject and character assignments.<br />
<br />
From these entries the judges chose 25 writers to advance to the third and final round, in which all writers received the same genre, subject and character. <br />
<br />
The over all winners were: <br />
<br />
1 'Origin Story' by Jessica Zimmerman<br />
2 'What We Left Behind' by Muthoni Kiarie<br />
3 'Secret Sky' by Elizabeth Spencer<br />
4 'After the Plague' by Betsy A. Riley<br />
5 'Shiny, Pink Secrets' by Andrea Hannah<br />
<br />
Me? I made it to the final 25, which is not so dusty. Close, as they say, but no cigar.<br />
<br />
Perhaps my NYCM-inspired athletic training regime will stand me in good stead for future literary track and field events, who knows? <br />
<br />
Whatever, I've submitted my three entries elsewhere. As I observed at the beginning: The only way to lose is by not taking part.<br />
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<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-90749735374676498412012-05-17T20:22:00.002+01:002012-05-17T20:22:55.057+01:00No Smoke Without Ire<b>How would <i>you</i> define mass murder?</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.thejournal.ie/media/2012/05/massgrave2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="201" src="http://cdn.thejournal.ie/media/2012/05/massgrave2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Image via The Journal: Staton R. Winter/AP/Press Association Image</td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.abc.net.au/news/image/304598-3x2-940x627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-size: small;">When the international community brings to account those accused of crimes against humanity we feel righteous satisfaction that justice has prevailed. We experience this emotion principally because we are compassionate beings and the world is our shrinking habitat. In the words of John Donne: No man is an island entire of itself…any man's death diminishes me… <b>*</b></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><a href="http://www.abc.net.au/news/2012-05-17/health-minister-says-cheap-cigarettes-just-a-trap/4016646" target="_blank">According to ABC News</a>, tobacco companies – including British American Tabaco Australia (BATA) – are challenging in court the ground breaking attempts of the Australian government to reduce tobacco addiction and smoking related deaths by introducing plain generic packaging. BATA is also proposing to reduce the price of cigarettes.<br /><br />In response, Federal Health Minister Tanya Plibersek is quoted as saying: "What they're interested in doing is attracting new smokers and keeping existing smokers, and they'll do whatever it takes to do that."</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.abc.net.au/news/image/304598-3x2-940x627.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://www.abc.net.au/news/image/304598-3x2-940x627.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Image: ABC News)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"></span><span style="font-size: small;">The connection between smoking and premature death <a href="http://www.dh.gov.uk/prod_consum_dh/groups/dh_digitalassets/documents/digitalasset/dh_124960.pdf" target="_blank">is established fact</a>, so is the <a href="http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/de261cd2-9b65-11e1-8b36-00144feabdc0.html#axzz1v8uheOfh" target="_blank">addictive nature of tobacco</a>. <br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">If the killing of thousands for 'reasons' of religion, race or ideology is a Crime Against Humanity, what should we call the killing of addicted millions for financial gain? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And, weighed
dispassionately in the cold scales of logic, which crime is the more monstrous?</span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><b>* No Man is an island</b></i></div>
<i><br />No man is an island entire of itself; </i><br />
<i>every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; </i><br />
<i>if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, </i><br />
<i>as well as if a promontory were, </i><br />
<i>as well as a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; </i><br />
<i>any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. </i><br />
<i>And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; </i><br />
<i>it tolls for thee. </i><br />
<i><br />John Donne</i><br />
<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-5457422407608403472012-05-14T18:33:00.000+01:002012-05-15T09:45:01.530+01:00Small is Beautiful – National Flash Fiction Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In case you haven't heard, Wednesday, May 16th – yes, that is in two days time – will be the first ever <a href="http://www.nationalflashfictionday.co.uk/index.html" target="_blank">National Flash Fiction Day.</a><br />
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The <i>National</i> bit applies to the UK, but there is also an International Flash Fiction Day in tandem.<br />
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So, wherever you reside in the world, you still have <u><b>tomorrow</b></u> to submit contributions to the <a href="http://flashfloodjournal.blogspot.co.uk/p/about.html" target="_blank">FlashFlood Journal</a>, which will appear online during National Flash Fiction Day, starting from around midnight on May 15th (all times are BST) with contributions added regularly throughout the day.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiozsTbWBkSRwVjRabuhVluyoLVs4eW-bHiyBT0GvtzmQno7LqVIOMoLIS6Tzq_v9RtVhGw5OjEFSjbsUvq68XFqHXuHxDBbZ7PqzFT4LiQsGFEMyHHj7awLhgoULhy-0aVeu-HsooXVr4/s1600/fiction+flashing+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiozsTbWBkSRwVjRabuhVluyoLVs4eW-bHiyBT0GvtzmQno7LqVIOMoLIS6Tzq_v9RtVhGw5OjEFSjbsUvq68XFqHXuHxDBbZ7PqzFT4LiQsGFEMyHHj7awLhgoULhy-0aVeu-HsooXVr4/s200/fiction+flashing+sign.jpg" width="149" /></a> <br />
I'm pleased to report that the FlashFlood Journal editors have accepted a piece of mine, <i>Bent</i>, which I understand will be posted between 12:00 and 12:30.<br />
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It is great to be involved with the inaugural National Flash Fiction Day, which the indefatigable Calum Kerr has worked on for so long to bring to fruition.<br />
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Next Wednesday promises to be a bundle of fun for writers and readers alike. I hope to see you there.<br />
<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-55361093878157886432012-05-09T21:02:00.005+01:002012-05-09T21:54:47.906+01:00Touching the Past in the NYT 'Lively Morgue'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5U_Otd5CX2qxAV31N8VRkpvbSP5c1jifmswbU57hRT89YwPfLGhtPeVvW-7XISv9lBA_g3VJdEheA2OlPlSLVxy3eH8cSK8bHDglj0KnwLHkyn5B8wDyc_klBtCUBsKD32QUpUYKZswM/s1600/john-ball-golfer-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5U_Otd5CX2qxAV31N8VRkpvbSP5c1jifmswbU57hRT89YwPfLGhtPeVvW-7XISv9lBA_g3VJdEheA2OlPlSLVxy3eH8cSK8bHDglj0KnwLHkyn5B8wDyc_klBtCUBsKD32QUpUYKZswM/s320/john-ball-golfer-1.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>
If like me you enjoy the process of research for your writing you'll know that the saying 'A picture paints a thousand words' does often hold true in the real world. Find the right images and you're well on your way to understanding a time and place, and, with a little cooperation from serendipity, you may even find your characters.<br />
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It was thanks to serendipity that I discovered this surprisingly moving and very human story about a remarkable survival from past technologies that can add missing tactility to our – equally wonderful in a different way – digital age: <a href="https://vimeo.com/41678735" target="_blank">Inside the New York Times 'Lively Morgue' on Vimeo</a><br />
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Whilst watching this piece I was reminded of one of my all-time favourite BBC TV dramas, <a href="http://youtu.be/hbupIYw4lsQ" target="_blank">Shooting the Past</a>, by Stephen Polyiacoff. If you've not seen that excellent drama, do try to find it online or DVD. If you appreciate the value of research from reliable prime sources, I'm sure you'll enjoy it.<br />
<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-23356181076360648432012-02-25T17:19:00.000+00:002012-02-25T17:19:55.114+00:00Enjoy the Success of Others<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ask any group of creative writers what they think success entails and no doubt one or two will avoid the issue, saying that success is irrelevant; they must write because they're not fully alive unless they do so. Others may go even further and admit that writing is cheaper than therapy. The more honest writers might confess to craving the approbation of their peers, and the pragmatists will be bound to respond that the one true measure of success is when somebody is prepared to pay for their work. Trouble is, in order to achieve success, however you define it, first you have to release your work to editorial and/or public scrutiny. And then wait…<br /><br />While you're waiting and nibbling your fingernails down to your elbow, take a look around and see what other writer friends are achieving. But don't be envious. Provided you work hard, listen to criticism and don't give up doing what you believe in, no doubt it will happen for you in the end. <br /><br />
After all, the success of your friends is proof of what is possible. So enjoy it.<br /><br />Right now I'm enjoying the success of two friends who are also members of my home writers' group, <a href="http://www.verulamwriterscircle.org.uk/">Verulam Writers' Circle</a>. <a href="http://www.jennybarden.com/">Jenny Barden's</a> latest historical novel, <i><a href="http://www.thebookseller.com/news/two-book-deal-barden-ebury.html">Mistress of the Sea</a></i>, has secured her a two book deal with Ebury Press. Actor and playwright <a href="http://www.juliemayhew.co.uk/">Julie Mayhew</a> has reached the <a href="http://blog.saltpublishing.com/2012/02/20/the-2012-scott-prize-shortlist/">short list of the Scott Prize</a> for the second year running with her short story collection <i>End Of</i>.<br /><br />My own start to 2012 has been far from impressive in creative writing terms. I spent much of January tying up lose ends of my old 'day job' for the UK tax department, HMRC, (no fiction there honest, officer). For most of February I've been dealing with an on-going crisis for a member of my extended family. This has involved travel, substantial expense and writing letters/emails whose cumulative word count would make an average length – if very boring – novella.<br /><br />In fact my only new piece of creative writing so far this year has been a story for round one of the New York City Midnight Short Story Challenge 2012. I've just read that through again and I don't think I'll hold my breath waiting for the results. Let's simply say that it reflects my state of mind at the time - most definitely not my best stuff.<br /><br />I do, however, have two small successes of my own to record, although they were both written last year:<br />
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My Valentine's Day themed poem <i><a href="http://www.everydaypoets.com/pantoum-by-oscar-windsor-smith/">We Are One</a></i> is up on Every Day Poets and a flash fiction story <i><a href="http://www.everydayfiction.com/tough-love-by-oscar-windsor-smith/#comments">Tough Love</a></i> is on Every Day Fiction.<br />
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Ah, well. Until I can get myself back into the writing zone, I'm pleased to be able to enjoy the success of Jenny, Julie and other friends.<br />
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Thanks for dropping by. Help yourself to virtual tea and biscuits, but
don't forget to sign the visitors' book (comment), please, and turn out
the lights when you leave.<br /><br />Bye for now.<br /><br />OscarOscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-8829125702271880022011-12-13T17:06:00.000+00:002011-12-13T17:06:56.197+00:00Christmas Offerings from Oscar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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These final countdown weeks of 2011 have been an interesting time for me.<br />
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Somehow I managed to scrape through to the penultimate round of the hectic New York City Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge, one of 100 contestants whittled down from 480 starters. If any of you short fiction writers haven't yet tried NYCM competitions, I strongly recommend that you should have a go. Be warned though that you will have to be disciplined to work against the clock. In the FF Challenge this means writing a story of up to 1000 words in 48 hours. That does get the creative juices flowing, believe me.<br />
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In November Every Day Poets published my World War 1 prose poem <a href="http://www.everydaypoets.com/farewell-sweet-molly-brown-by-oscar-windsor-smith/">Farewell Sweet Molly Brown</a>. I don't consider myself to be poet, so this result came as a very pleasant surprise. In fact, that small success prompted me to attempt <a href="http://audioboo.fm/boos/583429-farewell-sweet-molly-brown-prose-poem">my first recorded reading, on Audioboo.</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoErJnd0xWW6oX46m2QzyzUvbDJ21YimDE_MXfTzT7g94tCHg9Uhy5MTdzbYs7kLT_WFoa2RKPt_b9DusAqR5TOEoGOLb04uXl9Dx9yDyYejwSerVKcZ_gFp2c3X4llqqxuL4gCK0d-Tc/s1600/St+Frances+tree.jpg+-+Version+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoErJnd0xWW6oX46m2QzyzUvbDJ21YimDE_MXfTzT7g94tCHg9Uhy5MTdzbYs7kLT_WFoa2RKPt_b9DusAqR5TOEoGOLb04uXl9Dx9yDyYejwSerVKcZ_gFp2c3X4llqqxuL4gCK0d-Tc/s1600/St+Frances+tree.jpg+-+Version+2.jpg" /></a>New York seems to have been lucky for me this year, because today The View From Here has put the icing on my Christmas cake, by publishing my short story <a href="http://www.thefrontview.com/2011/12/nighthawks-fable-of-new-york-by-oscar.html">Nighthawks: A Fable of New York</a>.<br />
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I hope you might perhaps have time to read/listen to my offerings. If you do, please let me know what you think.<br />
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I'd like to wish any poor lonely souls who happen to find themselves in my humble blog, a very happy Christmas - or whatever this season may be to you - and a healthy and peaceful New Year 2012.<br />
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As ever, help yourselves to tea and biccies, but please do turn the lights off when you leave.<br />
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<br />Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-80859587861047413512011-12-11T20:53:00.001+00:002011-12-11T21:54:05.126+00:00Seasonal Success Assured - FREE Christmas Present Guide:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiybHzRHgHQ4q0FByNIF217F-MRTR8d3UfwnLcgAHZtxPOI7EIR6piU1pcIZkg5APsNJygzIgUxSqbdcB6tB0bkmY5x9dczKWkIs1CSs6rKK3DH-1Wds_M3mLe8RRWqmfcmTX823SQ24Mo/s1600/PICT0008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiybHzRHgHQ4q0FByNIF217F-MRTR8d3UfwnLcgAHZtxPOI7EIR6piU1pcIZkg5APsNJygzIgUxSqbdcB6tB0bkmY5x9dczKWkIs1CSs6rKK3DH-1Wds_M3mLe8RRWqmfcmTX823SQ24Mo/s320/PICT0008.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Why go through the hell of making Christmas present decisions when I offer you four sure-fire suggestions for book presents that will make someone's day? The first three are books I have recently read and can heartily recommend, the fourth is one I can recommend equally heartily but in which I must confess a small vested interest.<br />
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<b>Recommendation:</b> <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Cowards-Tale-Vanessa-Gebbie/dp/1408821567/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1323638506&sr=1-1">The Coward's Tale, by Vanessa Gebbie</a> (Bloomsbury)<br />
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<b>Suitable for:</b> Anyone who loves enthralling stories and fine writing. A must for the most important person in your life. This gift's significance will build and build.<br />
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<b>More about the book:</b> When describing The Coward's Tale I find it difficult to avoid using superlatives. From the very first page I was drawn to the rhythm of Vanessa Gebbie's writing and the warmth of her characters. It's impossible to pigeonhole The Coward's Tale. In her story of a Welsh mining town and the effect of a past mining disaster on the community, Vanessa has created a magical world grounded in harsh reality. A saga of sorts - yes - but intimate too, comprising many stories of individual lives, beautifully entwined with a structure and narrative technique that combines the warmth of traditional story telling with her own unique style. <br />
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Imagine how your standing and judgement will increase in the eyes of the recipients of this book when, over coming months and years, The Coward's Tale attracts literary approbation of the highest order. It is a classic in the making - trust me. No, don't thank me now, but do please remember that you heard it here first.<br />
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<b>Recommendation:</b> <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Secret-Sands-Sara-Sheridan/dp/1847561993/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1323638607&sr=1-1">The Secret of the Sands, by Sara Sheridan</a> (HarperCollins - AVON)<br />
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<b>Suitable for:</b> Lovers of well written and meticulously researched historical fiction combined with a touch of romance. Don't be fooled by the cover art, which might lead the unwary to believe Secret of the Sands is a 'girlie' book. It's not. The cover blurb describes it as 'A rich and epic novel…', I'd go along with that.<br />
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<b>More about the book:</b> Sara Sheridan's work covers an amazing range of style, subject matter and genre. She may occasionally be heard reporting from far-flung places on the BBC Radio 4 programme 'From our own correspondent'. In The Secret of the Sands Sara combines her enthusiasm for primary source research with an entertaining writing style of journalistic clarity. This enthralling tale is based on the true life19th century adventures in the Arabian Penninsula of British Navy Lieutenant James Wellstead, and his relationship with a high-born Ethiopian girl trapped into slavery. The Secret of the Sands is written with the kind of panache only achievable by someone who knows their historical subject matter from the foundations up. A book to savour.<br />
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<b>Recommendation:</b> <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mrs-Darcy-Versus-Aliens-Proxima/dp/1907773134">Mrs Darcy versus the Aliens, by Jonathan Pinnock</a> (Proxima Classics)<br />
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<b>Suitable for:</b> Anyone breathing and possessing a sense of humour, with the following caveats: HEALTH WARNING Not to be read by persons of a sensitive disposition or those diagnosed with Obsessive Jane Austen Loyalty Syndrome. On no account should this book be read whilst imbibing hot liquids or operating machinery.<br />
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<b>More about the book:</b> This is the Jane Austen sequel that Jane might have written had she reached puberty in the era of the Beatles and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Jonathan Pinnock, conversely, has managed to ghost-write her work without any artificial aids or stimulants… allegedly. Imagine your favourite Austen novel with added aliens, tentacles and assorted unlikely literary and historical characters. Got it? OK, now put the mix in a blender, add skilful writing, a generous portion of wit and serve with an arty drizzle of innuendo. In short, a crazy mash-up guaranteed to raise a laugh.<br />
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<b>Recommendation:</b> <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Archangel-White-Jonathan-Pinnock-Editor/dp/144679069X">The Archangel and the White Hart</a> (VWC publication)<br />
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<b>Suitable for:</b> Anybody who enjoys a good read, particularly those who have limited time for reading. The Archangel and the White Hart is a slim volume that will slip easily into a handbag or briefcase ready to dip into during otherwise wasted minutes. A cornucopia of pleasant surprises to carry with you anywhere.<br />
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<b>More about the book:</b> <i>The Archangel and the White Har</i>t is an anthology of writings - short fiction, poetry and excerpts from longer works - by members of Verulam Writers' Circle (VWC). This is the book in which I have a vested interest (not a financial interest, I receive no royalties) in that VWC is my home writers' circle and two of my stories are included in the volume. The Archangel and the White Hart is a professional publication edited by Jonathan Pinnock (see above) and comprising some of the the best work by a group of outstanding authors, many of whom have had novels and other works published and/or broadcast.<br />
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<b>But Not Least:</b> Clearly, my selection represents only a tiny fraction of all the terrific books currently available. So, as a post script I'll add two other books that are right at the top of my 'to read' pile. The first is a collection of short fiction <a href="http://www.saltpublishing.com/books/smf/9781844718801.htm"><i>Somewhere Else, or Even Here</i>, by A. J. Ashworth</a> (Salt Publishing) and the second is an historical fiction novella <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Onion-Stone-Mandy-Pannett/dp/1908136014"><i>The Onion Stone</i>, by Mandy Pannett</a> (Pewter Rose Press).<br />
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<b>T</b><b>he clinching argument:</b> You can buy these books online thereby saving a lot of fuel, pollution and frustration. A book has to be easier to wrap than a pogo stick or a set of golf clubs. Buy today and you'll have time to read the books before you wrap them. Win-win. You know it makes sense.<br />
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So, what are you waiting for? <br />
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Good shopping and reading.Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761842917498715522.post-78365161597722930042011-11-11T10:28:00.001+00:002011-11-11T11:00:02.186+00:00A Poem for The Fallen<br />
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The website Every Day Poets has today published my poem
<a href="http://www.everydaypoets.com/farewell-sweet-molly-brown-by-oscar-windsor-smith/">Farewell Sweet Molly Brown</a> written to commemorate the fallen of the First World
War in particular but also those lost in subsequent conflicts. I'm
usually a writer of short stories, not a poet, but this poem entered my dreams
and demanded that I write it down. I don't pretend to understand how that
process works or what, if anything, it means. But that is quite simply how it
happened.</div>
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My poem is not something to be 'liked' but if the words
should move you, please consider donating whatever you think fit to the <a href="http://www.poppy.org.uk/">RoyalBritish Legion Poppy Appeal</a>, <a href="http://www.helpforheroes.org.uk/index.php?secondtime=1">Help for Heroes</a>, or any similar fund that honours
the memory of those killed, or supports those injured, in conflict and their
dependants. </div>
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<a href="http://www.poppy.org.uk/media/313/logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.poppy.org.uk/media/313/logo.png" width="183" /></a>If in making your donation you should mention 'Sweet Molly
Brown' alongside any personal dedication, the acknowledgement will be most welcome.
Thank you.</div>
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<br /></div>Oscar Windsor-Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11297840557697185445noreply@blogger.com0