The best short stories around

I came across this link today from One Story Blog in which a list of top short stories has been compiled. Now of course this is subjective and one of many different top ten lists that could exist, but even so I'm ashamed to say I've not read a single story from their top ten (though I think I've read a few from the long list). Sigh. I love short stories, and love writing them, so I know how important it is to read as widely as I can. Think I've got some catching up to do. But whilst I'm talking about short stories, I'm surprised Alice Munro didn't make it on to their top list. She is a Canadian writer, little read over here which is a shame in my opinion as I think she's a fantastic writer. Here's one of my favourite Alice Munro stories - it's called 'Tricks' and is in her collection 'Runaway' - I only read this story once over two years ago but it has really stayed with me and surely, for anyone who writes short fiction, this is what we aspire to.

Any of this ring true?

An excerpt from 'The hand that first held mine' by Maggie O'Farrell. She blatantly nicked Elizabeth Stone's wonderful words: "Making the decision to have a child - it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking outside your body." - Elizabeth Stone. But still, there's a great deal of truth here!


The women we become after children


We change shape, we buy low-heeled shoes, we cut off our long hair. We begin to carry in our bags half-eaten rusks, a small tractor, a shred of beloved fabric, a plastic doll. We lose muscle tone, sleep, reason, perspective. Our hearts begin to live outside our bodies. They breathe, they eat, they crawl and - look! - they walk, they begin to speak to us. We learn that we must sometimes walk an inch at a time, to stop and examine every stick, every stone, every squashed tin along the way. We get used to not getting where we were going. We learn to darn, perhaps to cook, to patch the knees of dungarees. We get used to living with a love that suffuses us, suffocates us, blinds us, controls us. We contemplate our bodies, our stretched skin, those threads of silver around our brows, our strangely enlarged feet. We learn to look less in the mirror. We put our dry-clean-only clothes to the back of the wardrobe. Eventually we throw them away. We school ourselves to stop saying 'shit' and 'damn' and learn to say 'my goodness' and 'heavens above'. We give up smoking, we colour our hair, we search the vistas of parks, swimming pools, libraries for others of our kind. We know each other by our pushchairs, our sleepless gazes, the beakers we carry. We learn how to cool a fever, ease a cough, the four indicators of meningitis, that one must sometimes push a swing for two hours. We buy biscuit cutters, washable paints, aprons, plastic bowls. We no longer tolerate delayed buses, fighting in the street, smoking in restaurants, sex after midnight, inconsistency, laziness, being cold. We contemplate younger women as they pass us in the street, with their cigarettes, their makeup, their smooth, washed hair, and we turn away, we put down our heads, we keep on pushing the pram up the hill.




Shit, what are the four indicators of meningitis??!!!

Springtime at Chalet Brio

A couple of weeks ago we returned from two amazing weeks staying at my aunt and uncle's chalet in the mountains in France. Here's a little poem I wrote about it...

Listen.

A stream trips over rocks as it follows its course downwards,

downwards from icy peaks to its valley cradle.

The forest is alive with the sounds of winged creatures – drilling and calling, soaring and seeking.

Distant bells sound from around the necks of cows, their craggy hulks weighted and framed against green slopes.

A child laughs, a swing creaks, a car roars, a lamb bleats,

a hammer pounds against nail,

then all is silent again.

Smell.

The secrets from the wood, curling into the dusky air.

Smoke, mingling with the earth’s scent, damp after a downpour.

The beefy, dungy, grassy smell that hangs itself stubbornly from mountain top to toe.

Wafts of culinary magic escaping from beneath a lid and tiptoeing down the stairs.

Smell the coffee brewing and the wet grass stewing in the evening rain.

Taste.

The green slice and crunch of teeth cutting through fresh market lettuce.

The creamy decadence of comté cheese and the know-you-shouldn’t-but-just-can’t-resist-spreading-it-thicker butter, pale as ivory.

The tenderness of lamb, tang of apples, sweetness of pears,

The lightness of the baguette beneath its hard, crispy shell

And the wine that slips gracefully, gratefully down.

Feel.

Put your hand against the sun-mellowed, rain-brushed wood of the chalet.

Turn your face to the expanding light that seeps over the mountain tops and slowly floods the garden, holding you in its brisk, bright clutches as a new day dawns.

Look.

The ark of a parapente appears, a bright scrap of fabric curved against the blue sky.

The breeze carries delicate white hands of dandelion clocks, tick-tocking down the peaceful hours.

Carry walking up the slope into L’Etelley, past the carpet of yellow dandelions and buttercups spread in thick clumps,

Past the tiny chapel, locked and frozen,

Keep walking, keep walking and here, Chalet Brio appears, a slice of paradise carved into the mountainside.

The Go Between

I've just read an wonderful book - it's such a joy to discover some of the older classics. It's called 'The Go-Between' and is by LP Hartley and the first line is the famous and true words: The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.


It's written from the perspective of a man in his sixties looking back to the events of what happened in the hot summer of 1900 when he was twelve years old. I found Hartley's portrayal of a young boy's innocence snatched away from him by the surrounding adults who use him for their own gain extremely moving.

Definitely one to read!