Tag Archives: memories

#writephoto – Sunset

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Sue Vincent runs an excellent weekly writing prompt called #writephoto, where she shares a wonderful, evocative picture from her collection, and you have until the following Wednesday to write something inspired by it. Here’s this week’s photo, and this is my response:

He liked to leave the house at sunset. Once the lamps had been lit, the dying sun painting licks of fire against the clouds. It hurt, to be outside at such a time, but it was worth it, to feel his soul twist and open against the beauty of the world, a reminder of something he could no longer have.

He remembered hours spent lying under blue skies, golden sun warming his skin. Lazy summer days drifting on rivers, nursing a beer in a pub garden, the sweet-sour taste on his tongue. The way the ocean shifted hue with the sky, the bright green of sunlight through leaves, the miraculous coloured arc of a rainbow.

All that was lost to him now. No beer, no warmth, no sunlit skies. It had seemed like such a good deal at the time, immortality an irresistible lure. And she had been so lovely, with her pale skin and red lips and dark promises – how could he have denied her?

But now she was gone. Vanished without so much as a by-your-leave. He was alone, confined to his house by day, wandering the streets by night. He had no taste for blood, despite his endless thirst – and besides, these were his neighbours. The thought of feeding from them was repugnant. So he made do with what he could find, small scurrying creatures that tasted of soil and berries, better than nothing, but nothing like the ecstasy she had promised.

He had no fancy for capes, nor for lurking in coffins. He left his house each evening, taking the curving road that reflected red back into the shimmering sky. One day, he thought, he might just keep walking, see if he could find her again. Or, failing that, someone else like him.

Eternity, after all, is no fun spent alone.

Like this post? Want to read more? Find me on Twitter @AuthorHelenJ,  Facebook, Instagram and Pinterest. Plus my latest book release, A Thousand Rooms, is now available on Amazon. Visit my Amazon Author Page to see more.

Remember

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img_4589It’s Christmas Day. As you read this post I’m with family, probably eating, definitely enjoying myself. I lived away from my family for many years and missed a lot of Christmases, so now I make the most of being in the same country with (most of) them once more.

And at Christmas time I remember. I remember my paternal grandfather in his church, holly and ivy in the snowy churchyard, the old carols I knew and loved ringing along the ancient stone walls. I remember my grandmother setting up the inflatable Santa and reindeers, sitting us in a small sleigh and taking our photos. I remember my nana and grandad’s house, the tree with old-fashioned glass ornaments and glittering tinsel, the way the sky turned purple over the fields as I looked for a star each Christmas eve. I remember Christmas dinners and laughter and most of all, love, like a great golden glow encompassing us all. I remember the time we had together and I’m grateful for it, just as I’m grateful for the memories we’re creating today.

Wishing you all a very merry Christmas, wherever you are.

As well as a Christmas post, this is my response to the 30 Day Writing Challenge – it’s day 25, and today’s prompt is: Remember.

If you enjoyed this post, you can find me on Twitter @AuthorHelenJ,  Facebook, Instagram and Pinterest. Plus my latest book release, A Thousand Rooms, is now available on Amazon.

The Stable Bow

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Beautiful girl with rose petalsJuly is almost over and, with it, another round of Camp NaNoWriMo. Don’t ask me why I signed up to do it a second time, but I did, and I’ve just hit my word count goal – yay!

Over two months of writing – April and July Camp – I’ve ended up with 50,000 words and the bones of a vampire novel, Silver and Black. It’s taken some interesting turns, and I think it might turn out to be a not so bad story. But now I need to let it rest for a few weeks, while I focus on other things. (sorry Sacha!)

For it is school holidays, and I have a gorgeous girl at home with me. She’s still young enough that she wants to hang out with me, but I’m under no illusion that these days of cosy companionship are numbered, so I’ll take them while I can get them. She’s already starting to spread her wings and I’m having to step back and let her fly, remembering the words of Kahlil Gibran:

‘You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth… Let your bending in the Archer’s hand be for gladness; for even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.’

I don’t doubt that we will always be close, but it is just that the level of closeness will change. All too soon she will want her own time, her own friends, her own way of doing things, and I just have to hope I’ve given her enough grounding that she can make sensible, capable decisions for herself.  I guess that’s what most parents would want.

When they are small and into everything, and you feel as though you will never ever get another moment to yourself, you look ahead to a time when they can do things for themselves, recalling vaguely how it felt to sit and read, or take a long shower uninterrupted, or go out whenever you feel like it. Yet now, as she approaches that independence, I find myself looking back to precious hours full of games and whispered confidences and small chubby hands, and I count my blessings that I was able to experience them with her.

I can have no more children – that’s just how it is for me. But I’ve been lucky to have one; many who want to are denied even that. So for now, I’m going to make the most of it.

And I remain the stable bow while she is the arrow that flies.

 

 

Thursday Doors – St Margaret’s Church, Wolston

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This is the doorway to the church of St Margaret, in Wolston, England. It’s a typical Norman-style church doorway – the church was built in 1186 – with a simple wooden door. Yet the colours of the stones, the simple shapes and worn lines, give it beauty, as do the fresh flowers and shrubs in tubs around the door, evidence of a church still well-used and part of the community.

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Despite its simplicity, this door is very special to me, and I have several photographs of it. In one, my paternal grandfather, smiling and in his vicar’s robes, is greeting my maternal grandfather and my mother. My mother is dressed in silk and lace, her father in top hat and tails, and they are on their way into the church when my father is waiting, along with the wedding guests. In another photo, a very small version of me is coming out of the church, accompanied by other small children, all of us dressed in costumes for a festival.

My grandfather was vicar of this church until 1979, when he sadly passed away, and there is a memorial chair to him inside. He is buried in the churchyard, along with my grandmother, great-grandmother and great-aunt, so it is a place that holds many memories. In fact, I blogged about some of them here.

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And this is another reason I think this is a special church. I rather liked this poster. It seemed to me to embody what religion should be – open to anyone and accepting of all. It’s how I always remember it being when I used to come here, so it’s nice to see that nothing has changed.

This is my entry to this week’s Thursday Doors Challenge, courtesy of Norm 2.0. For more doors, or to add one of your own, visit Norm’s blog and click the link.

Ghosts of My Grandfather

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My grandfather died in his church.

For many years he was vicar there, the ancient village surrounding it dating back to the Domesday Book (and possibly beyond). It was the kind of place that had a castle once, but ‘Simon De Montfort and his crew tore it down.’ Where the old manor house had fallen prey to post war neglect, where another old home had an indelible bloodstain by the fireplace, relic of misdeeds long ago.

My grandfather was a wonderful vicar. At least, that’s how I remember him. He preached love and tolerance, filling the church with vegetables and fruit at harvest time, the scientist and historian in him acknowledging traditions older than his religion. On Sundays, after the service and Sunday School and dinner in the old Georgian vicarage, he would sit at his desk and prepare his notes for next week’s sermon while I danced around the small circular table at the centre of the room, French doors open to let in the scents and sounds of the garden beyond.

He died when I was only nine, struck down by a massive heart attack as he readied himself for service in the small vestry. He was carried out through the packed congregation (which included my grandmother) and, several days later, laid to rest in the churchyard nearby. I still miss him (as I do all my grandparents), and feel glad I had the chance to know him for a few short years at least.

We sometimes visit the village where he lived, though I haven’t been for a couple of years now. It still slumbers peacefully among the fields, the small stream where I used to play Poohsticks with my grandmother meandering through the main street past half timbered cottages and Georgian houses. It’s a beautiful place and not much changed since I was small.

About eight years ago we visited, taking my husband and baby daughter to the church where my parents were married and my brother and I christened, a carved wooden memorial chair marking my grandfather’s years of service there. It was an auspicious time for me – coming out of a difficult spell after the birth of my daughter and reconnecting with my past, the trip we made to visit family in the UK was life changing for many reasons.

And so I stood in my grandfather’s church and I remembered. Singing in the pews next to my grandmother. My very-small-at-the-time brother deciding one day that he would rather stand with Grandad in the pulpit than sit in the pew (nobody minded). Taking my basket of apples up to the altar at harvest time, so heavy I had to use both arms to carry it. Years and layers of time and memory weaving around me. And then something, I don’t know what, prompted me to take out my camera. I held it up and thought (again, I don’t know why), ‘Grandad, if you’d like to be in this picture, please do.’ Then I paused for a split second before pressing the shutter.

And this is the image that appeared:

Church Interior

I don’t know how you feel about the idea of an afterlife, or our loved ones coming to visit after they are gone. I have my own opinions but I won’t bore you with them today. However, this photo seemed quite special to me.

Do you see the two orbs? The big one is directly above my grandfather’s memorial chair, while another seems to be ascending the stair to the pulpit. (it’s on the bottom step)

Church face image

And then who is this peeping around the pillar? The chapel to the right is called the Lady Chapel, and houses two very old and worn burials of a knight and his lady, their names lost to time. Did one of them decide to come back and have their picture taken?

I should go back, I suppose, and take another photo from the same angle. It’s a very old building, after all. Dust, tricks of the light and worn marks on the stones can sometimes present images that seem other than they are. So I leave this with you without further comment, although I’d be interested to hear yours.