Murmur-ations

Never Cross A Dead Man The woman knelt at her husband’s grave holding a drooping bunch of daffodils. She showed no remorse when she regaled her tales of holiday romances, a newly purchased diamond ring and fur coats. But her laughter turned to screams when she saw his hand rise from the freshly tossed topsoil, and felt it grasping for her ankle.  As she was pulled sobbing and kicking into the grave, only the dead were a witness to her timely and suffocating reunion. Her disappearance became a local mystery, punctuated only by her diamond ring left behind at his graveside. *   At the beginning of December 2019, I decided to enter  Friday Flash Fiction ’s website competition with a 96-word piece I wrote a couple of years ago: Never Cross A Dead Man. I was dubious of its success due to its horror content. However, it made the top ten shortlist for the public vote, and although it didn’t win, I’m pleased I submitted it. So, writerly lesson learnt: you’re most unders...

‘Are you ready for Christmas?’ Those five words that are said in all innocence and with good will. Sorry to break it to you, but I’m not one of those people that: writes and sends out their Christmas cards at the end of November; buys all their Christmas presents for the coming year in the new year sale (only cards and wrapping paper); has a fridge laden with Christmas food two weeks beforehand. Don’t get me wrong, I Iove Christmas. Log fires, good food and time spent with the family. Tick, tick, tick. But in the lead up to it, I’ll get there in my own time; not when other folk expect me to be ready. So, when you ask me if I’m ready for Christmas, the answer will always be, ‘Not until Christmas Eve.’ And for some years, it will be, ‘Good enough ready.’ Have a good Christmas in whatever way you like it; ready or not. xxxx Photo  © Alexander and Edward Gilfillan. All Rights Reserved

Earlier this month, I was delighted to be invited to the launch of the Federation of Writers Scotland’s latest anthology of works: High Tide . This was because my flash fiction piece about a disgruntled teenager was chosen, amongst many other authors, for this publication. The book is a lovely collection of short stories, poetry and flash fiction from authors across Scotland. After support from a friend on the day and a glass of wine, it wasn’t so bad reading my work out; and the audience laughed in the right place. Thanks go to Gordon Lawrie and Lockerbie Writers too: you’ve given me the confidence to carry on writing flash fiction. So here it is … Chippies Are Always Shut On Sundays We moved into the first floor flat on a Tuesday. It wasn’t the best or the worst day to move. Mum normally moved on Sundays, but the chippy was always shut then, so we took to moving on Tuesdays. Uncle Dan, my mum’s latest boyfriend, had taken the day off work to help us. But he paid more attenti...

Living in the countryside and with no street lights, autumn and winter evenings are really dark. So dark, you can’t see your hand in front of your face without a torch. But between finishing work and eating with the family, I’m sometimes found on the sofa, tucked up inside a fleecy blanket and the fire on; my evening lit up by a book. My next opportunity comes at bedtime, but only if I stay awake! I can sometimes sneak in another read as I wait for the bus or in the car as my daughter finishes Scouts. When I lived in London, I would often carry a book to rid myself of the monotony of the tube train commute. Reading, can at times, appear to be a totally selfish and guilty pleasure. Done rarely in company apart from a cheeky packet of crisps or a glass of wine. But it’s our time for escape, relaxation and learning; it can even open up a conversation with a stranger. So, my question is … when do you like to read?  Photo by  David Lezcano  on  Unsplash

At a recent orchestral concert in Edinburgh with my family, I changed the way I applauded the musicians. When I was 30, a boyfriend told me that I clapped ‘like a seal’. To keep the peace between us, I changed the way I clapped. But he wasn’t the first emotionally abusive relationship I had been in. When I was 19, I thought I had met a mature and sophisticated 25 year old man. But as with all abusive relationships, the fairy tale turned into a grim one. If it wasn’t for my friends, I wouldn’t have had the initial courage to leave both these relationships. At that Edinburgh concert, my daughter pointed out that I no longer had to clap the way my ex-boyfriend had wanted me to. And so, I clapped the way I liked to.  Big loud handfuls of claps.  And it felt good. Photo  © Paula Gilfillan. All Rights Reserved.

My family and I recently came home from our summer holiday in France. From the Scottish countryside to the Normandy countryside. But what I wasn’t expecting was the emotional connection I'd feel as we drove along the equivalent of our B roads and when we visited the areas involved in the D-Day landings and western advance in 1944.   Poppies blossomed in fields where shelling on both sides was rife. The drainage ditches where soldiers would have hidden and fought were still in use by local farmers. The skeletal remains of the temporary bridges the allies constructed to cross the meandering creeks were still visible. The sand on the D-Day beaches contains microscopic WWII munition debris.   The picture I took at Pointe du Hoc, which is shown below, really sums up the dichotomy of what I saw. The sun was out, butterflies lazily fluttered by me and waves lapped the beach. It was idyllic. Yet, there was still barbed wire along the cliff edge, and what you cannot see behind ...

This year, I had a writing bucket list moment. The opportunity to work for the BBC as a first tier judge for their 500 Words children's writing competition. And what an opportunity it was. As I know myself, it takes a lot of effort to write a story, and then to take that next step to submit it to be judged by a stranger is not an easy decision. But I was delighted that each child took that next step and that I was accepted to take on this important role for the age range of 5 to 9 year olds. So that all stories were judged on an equal basis, I was given a five-point judging criteria of: originality, characterisation, plot, use of creative language and level of enjoyment. Tips and guidance by famous children's authors were also provided to all the judges. I was told not to judge the stories on their quality of spelling, grammar or punctuation as it was all about the story content. I then had to score each criteria out of 10; these were then totalled for each story and sent ...