The Future's Orange by Martin Edwards

HTW's July ‘word maze’ challenge to use the words orange, retirement, melancholy, bottle, brothel, change, friendship and glass within a 10-15 minute writing window.

The future is orange. At least that’s what they told us, back in the day of housebrick-sized mobile telephones. Years on, my orange has turned decidedly sour.

I was a young, thrusting, go-anywhere, do-anything for a fast buck, kinda’ guy.

But those years passed me by, and now I don’t go anywhere, or do anything, and the last fast buck flew out of my moth-eaten wallet last week - fixing the cranky old boiler in my one-roomed downtown apartment. 

I exist in melancholy squalor, on the seedier side of town, squeezed in between the local brothel and Gianvanni’s fast food Pizza parlour. Each day, I tread the pavement outside, littered with the tinted glass shards of yet another drunkenly disposed broken bottle.

This is not what I dreamed of. Not what I was promised. Not what I expected. My reality of retirement is a life of hand-to-mouth. My only friendship, the sad-eyed, flea-bitten stray dog that follows me to the park. At least he has one ear left to listen to my woes. 

It’s time for a change. It’s time to escape. Time to taste the juice of a fresher orange.

Shopping List - a triolet by Martin Edwards

I forgot my shopping list

I don’t know what to do

Essential to my brain assist

I forgot my shopping list

My heart is in a pasta twist

My stomach’s turned to stew

I forgot my shopping list

I don’t know what to do

Childhood Summer Revisited by Martin Edwards

Proudly glistening upon the hill

Where stood the golden wheat so still

The azure sky upon the brow

From where we fed the old brown cow

And I recall the summery show

Of point-black swallows to and fro

Shimmering fields beneath their wings

Open-beaked for bug-eyed things

 

A winding road, of gravel gray

And the dappled light of a sunny day

The appled trees of greenery swayed

Like the silver gate on which we played

And the wrinkled stream of translucent blue

Reflecting light as it ran through

The lavender meadow that smelt so sweet

When crushing flowers as a perfumed treat

 

We sat bent-kneed on the old stone wall

With one hand down so’s not to fall

The other clutching our beating stick

Whittled well to heartily fell

The nettled path of the wooded glade

Where toadstools grew in dampened shade

Where witches brewed and demons laid

Where we learnt to be afraid

 

But nothing like the outside world

Where the harshness of the human sphere

Plies your soul with daily fear

But give way now, to the gentler breeze

Give way to the buzz of childhood bees

Around the corner, please be there

My memory’s weak, but not my prayer

So please be standing, still there aloof

My little white house with the bright red roof 

Ready Salted - a triolet by Martin Edwards

Ready salted crisps are bliss

I eat them every day

A snack a day I never miss

Ready salted crisps are bliss

Some days each bite’s a quiet kiss

Some days the bag I’ll slay

Ready salted crisps are bliss

I eat them every day

Excerpt from ‘The Tragedy of Sophia Legrande’ by Martin Edwards ... on the theme 'Under the Water'

 ‘Chronicles of an East Coast Mariner’ is a rare treasure of enchanting tales written by the fabled Scottish seafarer, Angus MacDonell-Draick. Published in 1863, only three examples of the leather-bound journal still exist. One is held in the famed archives of the Smithsonian Institution, and another rests in the extensive library of celebrated archaeologist, Professor Van Kluggenheim. The most valued copy lives in the private collection of the author’s descendant, Richard Draick. Over generations, MacDonell-Draick’s anthology of adventure has fascinated those few who have been fortunate enough to have perused its fading chapters. Some were inspired by its sibylline poetry and wondrous stories of romance and discovery, others were cursed. Richard Draick experienced both, but now the time had come to exorcise its demons within...  

She clasped the collar of her coat between icy fingers. Once sodden, the heavy fabric would help her on her wanton course. The wind ripped into its loosened tails, intent on tearing it away and pushing her back whence she came. 

    The stings of a thousand Portuguese man o’ war could be no more painful than the salty tempest now lashing upon the backs of her hands, but she would not let go. 

    In which direction lay her fate? The foaming swirls of storm-tide clawed at her ankles, enticing her to deeper water, the sand beneath her feet giving way to its dominant force. 

    The storm in her head was as forceful as the uncertainty of the furious sea. She yearned for respite from the pain and misery that bewildered her, and so fate decided. Sophia placed one hesitant foot in front of the other, each step gathering a momentum that defied the racing air until, at last, her body was free and enveloped in a watery cloak. 

    And it was only then, once her mind was set, that the alluring mermaid appeared before her with flowing hair, an enchanting song, and welcoming arms.

Beneath the Calm by Martin Edwards

photo: Martin Edwards

  A calm backwater in the Marches of Shropshire… 

... but all is not what is seems…
Elegant swans may adorn its sheen
And all above may appear serene
But down below lies fury and death
As heron dive and hold their breath
And voracious pike go chase their prey
No, it’s never a good small fish day.

 

Equinox by Martin Edwards

Autumn Falls Upon Us by Martin Edwards

     

Equinox, autumn socks,

Time to pull them up.

The wilted plants

The dried leaf dance,

That tops the garden cup.

Clear the fall of bruising apples,

Pick blackberries by the ton.

It’s the time of year,

Gran’s advice is clear…

‘Winter… draws… on!

HM Govt Warning - Smoking is bad for your health by Martin Edwards

Before purchasing this product, you are advised to read the latest guidance below, issued by the Surgeon General of the Dept of Ill-Health and Not-Very-Well-Being:

Of the four classical elements, water, earth, air, and fire, it is the first three that seed, nurture and sustain life. Fire stands alone, all powerful. It is both the destroyer and the creator, for without heat and light, there is no life.

For those who harness fire, they too are all powerful. Or at least, they like to think they are. And so the earliest humans, upon the discovery of this nefarious element, took control over the planet - and some would also say, its decline and inevitable destruction. Because fire is like that. It tempts you; it hypnotises you; it takes you in and takes you over. Fire is the ultimate power. It seeks out weakness and becomes an uncontrollable force that razes all and everything to the ground - so that life can begin once more. But well, it knows the inherent weakness of man - that thirst for supremacy and exploitation. 

Belonging by Martin Edwards

Who am I? Why am I here? These are questions we have asked ourselves since the dawn of humankind. 

From the earliest moment that we left our simian cousins behind and developed a higher consciousness, our species has looked up in wonderment at the stars. We stare, and we observe the infinity of existence. The enormity of the universe is far beyond the visual limitations of our tiny cornea, and beyond the boundaries of our imagination. It is at this point of realisation we feel so small and insignificant. But, I can assure you, each one of us belongs.

Every cell, every organism, every living creature has a place and a purpose. Though as sentient beings, we sometimes struggle with that concept, because of the sheer enormity of it. So we ignore it. Instead, we focus on what we can see, feel with emotion and physically touch. We often limit our imagination to the normality and worries of our daily existence—to the things that we think can harm us. And for that reason it is not unusual to feel alone, without connection, without a reason to ‘be’.

When we set off on a journey, we like to know where we are going. We arm ourselves with a map and a compass. There is a start point and an end point. We step out into the world and off we go. But sometimes the route is not always clear, and we get diverted. Perhaps we find somewhere we like and we decide to stop and enjoy this place. Or we meet someone and go off with them on another route all together—as a shared experience. Maybe there is something in our way and we have to go around it. Sometimes that obstacle feels insurmountable and we want to give up, and we feel we have reached as far as we can go—but, on most occasions, it never is. 

In reality, there is only one journey we are on. It is one that consists of lots of brief journeys—from your repetitive daily commute, to your once in a lifetime ‘around the world’ trip. But they are incidental to the big one.

What is this journey? All matter of the universe shares it. That journey is life itself. The start point is our birth. The end point, for our conscious self, is our death. As humans, we live and die—just as planets do. What is beyond that is beyond our understanding of the known universe. All we know for certain is that the atoms of our physicality are repurposed for another use. But they continue to go forward, away and outward from the centre into infinity—just in another form. Our spirit and our soul dissipate into the life force that surrounds us. Perhaps that journey also continues, perhaps in another direction altogether.

As a child, on a warm summer’s day, I used to lie down on my back upon the freshly mown lawn, arms outstretched, palms and eyes to the sky. 

Each individual stem of grass felt soft on the back of my hands. The soil below, baked hard from the sun, was my bedrock, my foundation. If I turned my face either left or right, I might notice a tiny insect making its way up or down that stem, minding its own business, doing whatever it felt it needed to do. He or she appeared purposeful, sometimes nonchalant, sometimes hurried and determined. I would then turn my head skywards. Wispy clouds would float across from one horizon to the other, and I imagined I could see through the fine azure to the deeper blue and darkness of the galaxy itself.

I swear I could feel the gentle rotation of the earth. I was as at one with the ground deep beneath my body and on a voyage through time and space. This enormous piece of rock and water, this beautiful blue and green sphere with its protective ring of atmosphere, is a cosy and comfortable mobile home to myself and my fellow passengers, those busy insects.  It is our giant, life-sustaining spaceship. Even back then, I felt I belonged, and I could sense that shared experience.

I now know I am a constituent part of something much bigger - a small cog in a very large wheel. I may not be sure of what that cog is supposed to do, by definition. However, I know that life is a journey, and it is one of discovery. Most importantly, I know I am built of the same stuff as every other small thing in this universe, and I am just as insignificant, but as important, as every other—why else would I exist?

To conclude, as much as I probably will never find a complete answer to ‘why am I here?’, I know who and what I am. I may not yet fully understand what my reason to ‘be’ is, but I know the journey I am on is a long one.

So, I shall continue to endeavour to ‘be’, to discover, and continuing on my long journey, I shall endeavour to ‘be’ long.

Writing A Novel - a novice’s perspective by Martin Edwards

Hightown Writers Workshop is a home for people at many stages on their writing journey. Some of our members have 'left home' so to speak and moved on into the world of published writers, some of us are just happy to enjoy crafting smaller projects and some of us are dipping our toes into the world of writing for the first time. Whichever state you identify with there's a warm welcome with us - and as a happy family those who have 'left home' stay in touch and are often welcomed back for 'visits'.

Today we are more than happy to publish the 'confessions' of one of the 'Lockdown Members of 2020', Martin Edwards, who has brought a lot of fun to our group and has some excellent advice for us all about getting writing.

So -  from Hightown Writers -

Thank You Martin:

I’ve been busy doing something I’ve always wanted to do.

I began this time last year, and now I’m halfway through - though I stopped for a few months in between.

Only a few chosen, lovely people have known about it. Some have offered technical support, but all have offered wonderful moral support.

I certainly wouldn’t have got as far as I have without their huge doses of encouragement - and undeniably honest feedback.

Honesty is critical when you attempt this kind of endeavour, both from within yourself, and those around you - because without it, the project won’t succeed.

Yes, I’m writing a novel.

There, I’ve said it. I’ve put it out there... so now I’ve got to finish it.

I may have bothered you on occasion with some silly poetry, but that was for fun and wordy practice. Behind the screens (I have more than one), I’ve been doing some serious keyboard bashing.

Google has been a great friend. Research, research, research... and so much lost sleep over accurate spelling, sentence structure and suitable synonyms, I couldn’t tell you.

I think I suffered the ‘halfway through blues’ a while ago - around 60,000 words in. Apparently, all writers suffer from it - or so I’ve convinced myself.

A huge crevice opens up before you, and unless you have the courage to jump right over it, your self-confidence tips over the edge and plummets straight into the abyss.

Anyway, in my case, it clung on by its fingernails and hauled itself out onto the other side.

I’m now back in the saddle and rattling away like a demon possessed.

It’s a challenge to master this craft. You never stop learning, and it’s easy to underestimate the amount of work required to complete the task at hand.

Having never travelled much further than Wales, I may have overestimated my ability to understand geography and different cultures. My ‘thriller’ takes place on the east coast of America, and then jumps around a couple of other worldly domains. However, Google Earth has been a cartographic blessing. From the comfort of my writing chair I can take a free supersonic ticket to anywhere. Ideal if you’re experiencing lockdown sickness.

Thriller writing is not without its risks, though. If I mysteriously disappear for a few years, you’ll probably hear that the local constabulary raided my search engine history and discovered lots of dubious enquiries for information on drug smuggling, guns, high crimes and ‘top ten ways to kill people’.

They say there’s a book in everyone, and if you get the urge, I can recommend having a go. You can begin by joining a local, friendly, non-judgemental group. I didn’t find mine until many months after I had started. However, I was lucky - I had a hugely knowledgeable friend who I mugged at pen-point. I then plundered his expertise for a bottle of home-made blackberry whiskey. To that person, I will be eternally grateful – and, likewise, no doubt he’ll be eternally grateful when I finish my book, and I stop bothering him.

I’m not qualified to give you any advice - but here’s a possible reality check from my own experience...

Your first piece of work will be awful, and terribly embarrassing when you dig it out ten years later… and so will the next, and the next. But each iteration, each new page, each new idea will get better and better, until you reach a point of personal literary nirvana, where you think, “Yeh, I’m proud of this, and OK it might not be a Hemingway or a Brontë - but reading is subjective. As long as someone has been drawn into my world and enjoyed, or been moved by the experience, then it’s a job well done!” It’s very much a reflection of the adage, ‘practice makes perfect’, or perhaps more realistically… ‘practice makes towards perfect’.

And read out your work aloud. Become a bit of an actor. It helps with the rhythm of your writing. Read back to yourself in the mirror, or to a willing friend. Even better, why not record it? It’s so easy to do nowadays. A decent microphone attached to your computer or phone costs very little.

That’s what I’ve done - so, not only am I ‘finding my voice’ in my writing (that’s some elusive literary technical thing I haven’t quite grasped yet, but I’ll get there), I’ve actually found my voice for real, too - and it’s fun.

I’ve now developed my audio work further and added some music bashed out on my old guitar. Occasionally, I’ll also blend in sound effects for added atmosphere - GarageBand on a Mac is a brilliant tool to splice your narration together.

Have a go, there’s probably no better time to try, especially with the current restrictions on our movements. Your imagination can take you a lot further than your car!

Good luck!

Donald and Harvey by Martin Edwards

 The fifteen minute exercise...

As part of our monthly get together, we were given fifteen minutes to write a continuation of the following opening paragraph. For the next quarter of an hour, our zoom chat was silenced by the quiet, but intense, clatter of keyboards whizzing backwards and forwards across our cosy digital divide – just like a busy press room. Here’s my effort…

In the waning hours of a presidency, Donald huddled in the Oval Office with his last remaining friend and pondered his final decisions. At that moment he felt as though he'd botched every decision in the previous four years, and he was not overly confident that he could, somehow, so late in the game, get things right.

 ——————-

Harvey remained silent. He usually kept a low profile. There was a knock at the door. 

“Mr President, Sir”. It was his secret service minder.

“Yes, Mike?”, said Donald wistfully, oblivious to the impending disaster that was about to unfold.

“You’re wanted in the Situation Room, Sir”.

“What’s up, I’m busy with Harvey at the moment, we’re doing some important work here. Really important. The most important work any president has ever done - and I’m still doing it even though I should be on my way to Mar-A-Lago. We’re making lists. Long lists. The longliest lists ever”. Donald paused. With an exasperated sigh, he stared at his life-long buddy, Harvey.

“What should I take with me to remind me of the last four glorious years? Decisions. Decisions. Decisions”.

Tracks of Time by Martin Edwards

Beneath this grassy landscape lies

The ancient walks of men,

Beneath their stride they swept across

These fields of hope eternal,

Amongst the palette of nature’s hue

Of ambient green and skyward blue,

Sheer joy in all that they could do

In spirit of aspiration.

 

Before the birth of my first spring

They felt that warming breeze,

And summer inspiration drew

Their eyes to this horizon.

Then with autumn came the fall

And the crushing of the gold,

On sodden earth where ravens rake

And worms of truth unfold.

 

Into darkness, short of day,

Onto the hinterland,

Revealing misty cold regret

By the wisp of winter’s hand,

The final gasp of broken will

Lay upon this twilight trail,

Upon the path of long, lost men

Where dreams lie buried still.

News at Ten... and three quarters by Martin Edwards

Hightown Writers respond to October's challenge to write inspired by 

'The secret diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 ¾'

  Big Ben: ‘BONG!’...

The announcer: “NEWS AT TEN... and three quarters… with Reginald Bosanquet.”

 Reggie: “Good evening...

 The main news headline to tonight.

 It has been alleged that Adrian Mole… is a fraud.

 An anonymous source who used to go to the same school as Mole claims that Mole pinched his idea of a keeping a diary.

 He said he’s not bitter at the loss of fame and fortune.

 He just wants to tell the real story... 

 This is his exclusive statement...”

Anonymous:

It’s fifty years since I turned this page 

Created, when I was ten

I wrote a diary of my life

With a scratchy fountain pen