Lest We Forget

The Colour of Love

Sleep on, George. Sleep through the storm, you always could, and so you shall this time. Remember how I used to wake you up to watch the lightning? You were never afraid of the bangs, not like me. We'd sit together wrapped in blankets watching hailstones dancing, rattling on the roof. You said, Tom, if you can count your fingers slow from flash to bang the thunder's one mile distant for each hand.

If it’s true, that one was close. Not even one finger that one. Too close. We'd best be getting back soon as dawn breaks and I can tell which way’s home.

It's like the old times, George, you and me in the dark, our heads pressed into the wet earth, hiding from the gamekeeper, a brace of rabbit in one hand and our little shotgun in the other. Do you recall the time he let loose with his 12-bore, and the shot whistled about our ears?

There's another of them bright moving lights, shooting stars you called them, floating through the fog and flashes. The wind has come back too, rushing overhead, and the hail dancing in the mud.

That wind. I'm thinking how we used to run through long grass, Ben barking at our heels. And the day we found him half-strangled by a rabbit snare. You held the gun to his head, said he wouldn’t feel no pain, if we loved him it was the kindest thing to do.

I carried him home, all blood and brains, and set him in the ground. Is that love, George?

When I look up the sky's a circle, not stretching on forever like it did when we were boys. Back then, you told me they've got names, all those little stars, and God lives up above, and He can see everything. Is that true, George? Did God see our father beat our mother ‘til the blood ran down her face, and me throwing him out in the lane like the animal he was?

They say God loves us, George. The priest says: This is the body of Christ; this is the blood of Christ. The blood of Christ. The love of God. Do you believe it? Does He really love us, even when we've done bad things?

I've something else to tell you while you sleep. Before we left I saw you in the meadow with Alice. I crept up when I heard her pretty voice, and watched you mount her like bull on cow. I saw the colour flow between her legs and stain the grass. I did a bad thing. Did God see me then, George? Will I really go blind?

You know me, George. I believe what you say. You told me our guns have names and I believed you. Yours has the same name as mine, Tom, brothers like us, you said. What was that name?  The side of a hill and where we keep chickens… Lee Enfield, that was it. But these Lee Enfields are heavier than our little shotgun.

The sky’s brightening. No more night to mask the bloody truth. Forgive me George. For I could not bear to see you suffer. You'll feel no more pain. Forgive me, God, for I did so love my little brother.

There's the first daylight shining on the crater rim. Head away from the light, you said, that's west, the direction of our lines.

Listen to that storm now. There must be a thousand gamekeepers on our tail this morning, George, all firing at once.

So it's over me shoulder you go, my pal; us both smothered in the colour of love, yours and mine. We'll be off home to Mother presently.

Ready!

Set!

And over the top we go, into the wind and the dancing hail.

I can see the wire.

We’re almost home, George.

Is it true, what you said? There's nothing to fear; you never hear the one that kills…


(Copyright 2010 Oscar Windsor-Smith)


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Tantric Sex and the Short Fiction Competition (and Radio)

It was a dark and stormy night and Edward Bulwar-Lytton strode manfully up Holywell Hill toward the White Hart Hotel notorious for the debauched revelry of St Albans' own Hellfire Club, known in polite Hertfordshire circles by the euphemistic epithet of Verulam Writers' Circle.

Sorry, this post has nothing at all to do with Tantric Sex or Short Fiction Competitions. But now that I have your attention: About my first radio interview...

Well, both Danny Smith and I seem to have survived, but this was in no way thanks to my BT line and/or phone handset, as you may confirm by following this link, kindly provided by Ian Cundell and Verulam Writers' Circle.

Perhaps my next broadcast to the world will be more successful if I update my technology?

Shame really, my call centre was considered state-of-the-ark in an earlier life in the electrical service industry.

IN PASSING (But not too soon, I hope): I'll be reading at the Verulam Writers' Circle Open Mic Night (part of National Short Story Week celebration) at the Goat Inn in St Albans on Thursday 25th November at 7:00pm and again at the amazing SPARKS event in Brighton, also in November, on the same bill as my old mate Jonathan Pinnock (full details to be confirmed later). I just hope the latter event doesn't coincide with another London Underground strike like last time.

BREAKING NEWS (More socially acceptable I find than breaking wind, marginally): Jon P and I (Honestly, we're just good friends) have each received a commission to write a flash fiction piece to accompany an illustration by Andy Bigwood, twice winner of the British Science Fiction Association Art Award, in a forthcoming book of his artwork.

BY THE WAY: It's come to my attention that the lights have been left on again on this blog and the milk's gone off because you've not put it back in the fridge. You're the only visitor I have - yes, you know who you are - so I know who to blame. Look, we must look after the pennies so I can buy a new phone, okay?

Bye for now. Don't have nightmares, I'm quite safe... Well, I would say that, wouldn't I?

Question: Is Steam Radio a Corpse, Zombie or Phoenix?

Answer: None of the above. Radio lives.

Despite the best efforts of Buggles back in the day, rumours of the death of Radio were – as Mark Twain famously remarked on reading his own obituary – '...very much exaggerated'.

Okay, for a few years Radio was a sickly shadow of her past glory days. She subsisted in niche backwaters in those early post-wireless times.

Today, though, thanks to the happy convergence of technologies, the old girl is positively zinging with health.

In fact dear old Radio has had a complete body transplant. She's been botoxed, shaped-up and slimmed down so much that her own daddy, Mr Marconi, would hardly recognise her. She's New Radio.

And thanks to New Radio, the radio star, too, is alive and well. You want proof? Tune in to Radio Verulam, a lively young station entertaining the populace of West Hertfordshire, UK. 'But that's just a little community radio station', the traditionalists might cry.

Yeah. So? It is a 'little' community station. Wanna make something of it?

Er... Apologies for that slight outburst of attitude, but I'm rather protective of my community and its services, you see. And please don't underestimate the power and reach of this - or any other - smaller radio station. Okay?

Sure, there was a time not so very long ago when the 'real professional broadcasters' treated community radio with a condescending smile and figurative pat on the head before sending it out to play by. Not any more.

With the advent of Internet distribution the audience of a good community station is no longer limited by the power of its transmitters. The listen-while-doing-other-things appeal of traditional audio broadcast remains but with the added quality of digital transmission and the ubiquitous reach of the Internet.

Today, the World is a small radio station's potential audience. Given dedicated staff and talented, imaginative, broadcasters with professional aspirations and high standards – Radio Verulam has these qualities – and given time and the right content, I believe the World will listen.

There's one possible downside. Popular Radio Verulam presenter Danny Smith is to interview me on his excellent Drivetime Show, at 5:30 pm BST on Tuesday 13th October. Can Danny and Radio survive this ultimate challenge?

Please, please, don't let anybody ever sing: 'Oscar killed the radio star…'

The Lonliness of the Short Fiction Writer

Novels are yesterday's world, never mind novellas. Short stories are passé. Forget drabbles (stories of exactly one hundred words). Ignore dribbles (stories of fifty words). With Twitter pieces limited to one hundred and forty characters (or fewer), literature is getting shorter; and so it seems are writers - in both patience and stature.

'The exploitation of writers must stop', said short fiction writer Anthony Neil O'Theré (pictured below) interviewed at a recent protest rally. The activist is a regular attendee at the prestigious Verulam Writers' Circle of St Albans, Hertfordshire, UK.

'We devote our days and nights to writing stories only to be offered pennies – if any payment at all – for our creations,' the diminutive protester continued. 'The worst of it is that many so-called online markets tie up our rights in unfair and punitive contracts, which enable them to sell our work, effectively ad infinitum, as text or audio downloads, for cash.'

There is, however, some hope for the future and several forward-looking markets are offering fair contracts, realistic rates and even royalties. 

All too late, perhaps, for Anthony, who is considering a return to his previous employment as a hod carrier for Leggo.

HELP! How do hang-in-the-air endings work?

@TaniaHershman has a terrific story up on PANK Magazine today (thanks @JonPinnock for  the headsup)

I envy writers who can make these 'hang-in-the-air' stories work. If I tried one it would simply appear unfinished. I guess the secret lies in the characterization and believability - the verisimilitude  - in Tania's story, which makes it seem like a slice of real life and therefore acceptable as a snapshot of a moving target? How am I doing?

I want to understand how this works. I need to learn – fast.

All serious advice will be gratefully received and faithfully applied by this apprentice writer.

Although I can't pay, you may help yourself to virtual tea and biscuits.

But, please, do turn the lights off when you leave.

With grateful thanks in anticipation.

Oscar

Should we infer the author from their work?

Toby Frost, popular author of the amazing Space Captain Smith series of books and secretary of Verulam Writers' Circle, recently raised on the VWC website the intriguing question of whether an author, or that author's beliefs and character, should be inferred from their work.

It is an interesting question and one to which I suspect there is no simple answer. My instinct is that it would be unreasonable to infer the author from any single piece, but perhaps if one were to look at a substantial body of work created over a significant period of time...

For instance, were anybody terminally bored enough to pick up a selection of my stories and dissect just one they might draw any number of erroneous conclusions, dependent upon which piece they chose. I would hope, however, that - taken together - they would reflect an average human male attempting to reproduce a wide variety of imaginary characters and situations for the entertainment of others.

Misinterpreted conclusions based upon a small sample can of course occur in any context. For example: at a VWC manuscript evening not so long ago I read a piece of off-the-wall Oscar-trash entitled Stitch-up. Now, I consider Stitch-up to be about as atypical of my work as any piece could be, it's poetry (of sorts) and it is somewhat sick in a tongue-in-cheek black-humour sort of way. But when I'd finished reading it a longstanding female member of VWC, whom I'd always considered to be a good friend, made it clear to me in shocked and disapproving tones that she considered me a misogynist. Ouch! I believe she really meant it, and I've not seen her since. For the record, I'm not a misogynist - far from it – I love women (Okay, not as often as I once did, perhaps, but that's another subject altogether). Neither am I a coal miner, an avenging spirit, a lesbian native American squaw, a Spitfire pilot, etc., etc... It's all only pretend.

So, from hard personal experience, I believe inferring the author from the work should be undertaken with considerable care, imagination, and a fair amount of empathy. We writers should critique, yes. But judge not...

Brilliant Sparks in Brighton

No, not me – modesty forbids – anyway, I'm not in that trade * anymore. I'm referring to SPARKS 10.

My VWC pal Jonathan Pinnock and I trekked down to Sussex for this occasional reading and photography event last Tuesday evening.  Of all the days in the year we had to chose one when London Underground was hit by strikes, which made for an interesting and protracted return journey. That small inconvenience, though, was well rewarded.

In a theatrical review I once referred to the New End Theatre, Hampstead, as 'petite'. By that reckoning the theatre – for it is a mini-theatre – above the pub at Thirteen and Ten, Steine Street, Brighton, is positively Lilliputian. The atmosphere though is Brobdingnagian in a friendly, arty and welcoming way. So supportive indeed were the  organiser, the mesmerising Jo Mortimer, and my talented fellow readers that I almost forgot my fear of reading to a paying audience... Almost.

Aided by a little Dutch courage from the bar I made it through the performance without serious upset. People were still talking to me afterward – that must be a positive sign. I even received a generous compliment or three, which, coming from such talents as Vanessa Gebbie, Jac Cattaneo and Naomi Foyle, give me cause to hope I have survived my first hesitant step as a performance writer and reader.

Yes, I'm hooked.  I'd like to read at a SPARKS event again.

 * Strange synergy here: In 'another life' I was an electrician, Vanessa Gebbie is the editor of the excellent Short Circuit, A Guide to the Art of the Short Story, and there I am reading at an event called SPARKS. Spooky.

Pics (atmospheric) courtesy of Jon Pinnock.

Above: Me, hiding nervously behind the mic.

Above: Jon P, towering over it.