Book Blurb Friday #11

This meme is hosted by Lisa Ricard Claro at ‘Writing in the Buff’ J

 Each week she posts a photo that could be the cover of a book. The aim is to:

‘Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book.’

Here is this week's photo followed by my offering.

 Image copyright Lynn Obermoeller

If it was surprising to come across a wrecked, abandoned car in the desert, it was even more puzzling that someone should have gone to the trouble of jacking it up on concrete pillars. Had something been hidden in the wreck – or under it?

Millicent and Ivor sense a mystery but their bumbling efforts to solve it lead to more conundrums. The truth, when they discover it, is more startling than they ever could have imagined.

(76 words)

ABC Wednesday Q is for Quebec

This 1797 engraving is based on a sketch made by Hervey Smyth, General Wolfe's aide-de-camp during the siege of Quebec. A view of the taking of Quebec, 13th September 1759

Library of the Canadian Department of National Defence

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The Battle of Quebec, otherwise known as The Battle of the Plains of Abraham, Bataille des Plaines d'Abraham or Première bataille de Québec was fought during the Seven Years’ War (French and Indian War in the USA) which took place from 1757 to 1762.

It began on 13^th September, 1759, between the British and the French on a high plain outside the city of Quebec in Canada. The land originally belonged to a farmer called Abraham Martin and gave rise to the name the Plains of Abraham.

The French, Canadian and Indian forces were commanded by Louis-Joseph, Marquis de Montcalm and Major General James Wolfe led the British and American soldiers. Montcalm’s men numbered 5,000 with three guns while 4,500 of Wolfe’s force went into battle on the Plains of Abraham with one gun.

On the night of September 12^th Wolfe’s force rowed along the St. Lawrence River towards Anse de Foulon where they intended to disembark. They drifted slightly off-course and landed near a slope. The 4,500 men scaled the cliffs and assembled on the plains in a single line of battalions.

Montcalm was unaware of their presence until the morning of 13^th September. At 10:00 am his troops began their advance. The British lines held their fire until their opponents were within range then loosed two volleys which destroyed the French attack. The British then advanced and forced the French to retreat from the field of battle.

The encounter lasted around fifteen minutes and was a pivotal moment in the conflict between France and Britain over sovereignty in New France, ultimately leading to the creation of Canada. French forces continued to battle and were victorious in several skirmishes but within four years most of France’s assets in eastern North America had been relinquished to Great Britain. In effect, the victory at Quebec marked the beginning of the end of French rule in Canada.

What of the generals?

General Wolfe had moved to a high point to see the battle action. Earlier he had been shot in the wrist but had wrapped it and continued to fight. Now, within moments of the order to fire the volleys, he was shot in the stomach and chest and carried to the rear of the battle field. One of the soldiers near the General shouted out, ‘They run, see how they run.’ Wolfe, who had declined medical assistance, asked what had happened, gave orders for following action and said, ‘Now, God be praised, I will die in peace.’ It was reported that he then turned on his side and died. He was 32.

Meanwhile, the Marquis de Montcalm had been shot in the thigh and lower abdomen while retreating but was still mounted. He was carried along with his army and eventually taken from his horse into a nearby house where he died the following morning. His body was buried in the Ursuline chapel in a crater left by a British shell. He was 47.

The Plains of Abraham are preserved in The Battlefields Park in Quebec City.

This meme is hosted and organised by Denise Nesbitt and her team. Click here to see more Qs.

Thursday Tales Tale #59 Fishermen

The challenge at Thursday Tales is to respond to an illustration with a story no less than 55 words and no more than 777. To read other stories, please click here.

'Fishermen' copyright  Damir Davarovic at Deviant Art

There were seven of them, all kin. Fishing was the only occupation they had ever known. They didn’t question their destiny but accepted it as they had done for generations, just like the other families in the village. Today, as every day, they set off at dawn in their small skiffs, rowing out to sea.  They had no need of conversation, each man knowing the rhythm of his fellows, the creak of the oars in the rowlocks a counterpoint to the screaming of the gulls.

They set their seine nets, those nets so frequently and carefully repaired, so valuable.  In the distance they saw other fishermen bent to the same task. They lived on the sea most of their days and their families lived off the proceeds of their catch. They feared and respected the deep and held faith with each other in the protection of the Holy Mother and Saint Michael. When the day’s haul was light they invoked Saint Andrew and believed that the next day would be better.

It was a simple life but hard and unpredictable. The weather could be changeable, blue skies clouding over and winds springing up out of nowhere. Then the sea was capricious, testing their skills as seafarers, challenging their beliefs, shrieking and screeching so that they began to lose their senses, only instinct telling them that they must turn back to shore. If fog came down, dense, all-encompassing, the fishermen lost their bearings but could drift until it lifted, listening all the while for other craft or for sounds from the land. Their greatest fear, though, was that fog and gale should join forces.

And so it happened that day. Disorientated, blown ever closer to shore, exhausted from rowing, they howled imprecations against the elements. Brother clung to brother, father to son, in desolation and despair. The ropes they had slung between the boats to keep the little fleet together stretched and strained and finally snapped. In each skiff the men pulled again on their oars, heaving in sobbing breaths, not knowing where they were going and praying that heading to wind would keep them safe.

As suddenly as it had descended, the fog rolled away, revealing heavy clouds scudding across grey skies. Momentary relief evaporated as the wind strengthened and the swell increased in height and towered over the tiny craft. As each wave broke over and away the men caught glimpses of the shore. It was not a sight to gladden their hearts.  Sharp rocks jutted menacingly from the churning waters. The tide had turned and united with the wind to drive them nearer the wicked pointed teeth. They had no more strength to battle the currents and the storm but slumped over their oars, weeping with exhaustion, sick with the understanding that their wives that night would be widows, their children fatherless.

And so it was.

Magpie Tales #65 The Stonemason

Thanks go to Willow who organises and hosts this meme J To read more Magpies please click here.

Image copyright Tess Kincaid

The stonemason breathed a sigh of relief that his task was finished. He wiped his brow and brushed the dust from his work clothes. As he cleaned his work space and packed away his chisels and mallet and his stonemason’s hammer he thought about the figure he had just completed. He knew it was not the best work he had done, but he was getting old – nearly forty-five now and a master mason for twenty years. These days he accepted only small commissions – this one had taken just two weeks – his twisted hands and aching back no longer allowing him to tackle more ambitious projects. His pay reflected that.

No matter, his children were grown and out in the world and now he was on his own he had few needs. He was glad his wife had not lived to see his decline – she had taken such delight in his skill and indeed so had he. Maybe he was being punished for his pride. He sighed. No good thinking like that.

He gazed critically at his work. The face was good, the cheek bones truly chiselled and the mouth delicately cut. The arch of the eyebrows accentuated the sensitivity of the eyes and balanced the long, elegant nose but the rest of the figure had caused him problems. By the time he reached them he was tiring, the arthritis in his hands and spine forcing him to stop again and again to rest.He had intended to return to the hands and the doves, to give them greater finesse, but feared his growing tiredness and clumsiness would do damage rather than good.

Finally he convinced himself that the face was the most important part of the whole, expressing the gentle, selfless spirit of the saint. He hoped his benefactor would agree. It was a pity about the whiskers, though. His chisel had slipped at a crucial moment, giving Saint Francis a cleft chin and matching bifurcated beard. He whispered a prayer of thanksgiving to Saint Stephen, the patron saint of stonemasons, that his wages had already been paid, and heaving his cloth bag of tools over his shoulder, made his weary way out of the chapel.

Succinctly Yours Week 7

Grandma's Goulash at Succinctly Yours hosts this microfiction meme. 

Each week she posts a photographic prompt for inspiration and the challenge is to write a story using no more than 140 characters or words. 

Below is this week's photo followed by my offering.

Whaddya mean, you’ve fallen in the pit and you can’t get out! Use your hydraulics and get back on track or you’ll be breaking rocks by hand!

(140 characters) 

Thursday Tales The Scarecrow

The challenge at Thursday Tales is to respond to an illustration with a story no less than 55 words and no more than 777. To read other stories, please click here.

Image copyright Sara Vandermeulen at DeviantArt.

The scarecrow was as miserable as any scarecrow had ever been. It wasn’t that he was lonely, oh no! He had more than enough company and that was half the trouble. He had been employed to frighten away birds but instead they came to perch on his arms and nest in his hat and roost inside his jacket. They snatched away loose threads from his hessian head to line their nests. Even the spiders regarded him as a safe haven. He knew his days were numbered.

Every time the farmer came to inspect his crops he would shake his head as flocks of crows or woodpigeons or rooks rose from the plentiful harvest spread so generously across the field. His little girl skipped beside him and always stopped to pat the scarecrow. The scarecrow liked her gentle touch and smiled through his sewn-up mouth.

The farmer said, ‘I’ll have to get rid of this old thing – it’s useless.’

The little girl’s hand flew to her mouth and she cried out.

The scarecrow’s heart sank inside his waistcoat and he struggled to keep the tears from his button eyes. Had it not been for the pole which held him ramrod straight he would have sunk to his invisible knees and begged for mercy.

Her father looked at her and saw her sadness. ‘We’ll take him home and put him in the garden,’ he said.

‘He’ll like it there,’ she said and smiled a watery smile.

The scarecrow’s spirit filled with happiness – he wanted to dance and shout with elation. A garden would be a wondrous place to live, sheltered and safe from the raging winds and beating sun, and the little girl could visit him every day. Life was good! 

Today's Flowers #142

Thank you to the organisers of this lovely meme.Click here to see more flowers.

Pansies in the garden

Saturday Centus #53

Jenny Matlock hosts this weekly meme. Thank you! J

Her challenge to participants is to use the prompt and up to 100 more words to produce a piece of writing in any style. Click here to read more and perhaps be inspired to join in! The prompt is in red italics.

Miss Morrison, the singing teacher at Mabberley School, was overwhelmed when the school came first in the choir festival. All her hard work, the hours of practising, the tears, the tantrums – the children’s, too – had garnered recognition but now she faced her biggest challenge – a live interview on national television. 

Her hands were clammy, her knees knocked together, a huge lump in her throat threatened to stifle her but she must be brave. She thought of the late Diana, a heroine of hers, and wondered what she might have said. She smiled, drew in a deep breath and said, ‘I'd like to teach the world to sing . . .'

(99 words, excluding the prompt)

Poetry Jam Birthday

On receiving an invitation to contribute to 'Poetry Jam' I had a shufti at the prompt and  remembered something I'd written a while ago. My, how time marches on!! 

It’s my birthday today  - I’m fifty-eight,

Never thought it would happen to me!

I think of the years that have passed me by

And the things that I thought I’d create –

A sparkling career, a large group of friends,

Or maybe a very few good ones,

But lo and behold! I’m just getting old

And my friendships are make-do and mends!

My career was in schools – not at all cool,

My children took all my life over,

My husband away for most of the day,

And often abroad in the work pool!

I cannot complain, I’m reasonably sane,

I love all my family dearly,

My best friend’s my husband, my children come next,

And the grandchildren follow in train.

Learn from the past and live in the present,

Look to the future with pleasure,

Can’t look back and sigh, I’ve always been shy,

And it’s my fault I’m not always pleasant!

I’ve enemies few and friends even fewer,

But I’m happy with my little lot,

I’m not feeling blue – no really, it’s true,

I’m contented with all that I’ve got! 

Book Blurb Friday #10

This meme is hosted by Lisa Ricard Claro at ‘Writing in the Buff’ J

 Each week she posts a photo that could be the cover of a book. The aim is to:

‘Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book.’ 

Here is this week's photo followed by my blurb.

Image copyright Becky Povich

The Whitchun of Wellows Water

Wellows Water has been the scene of several fatalities. Local folk lore says the deaths are the work of the whitchun, an apparition intent on avenging an unlawful death a century ago.

Investigating police naturally refute this but begin to realise that all the victims are connected. As a profile of the killer is built up they become uncomfortably aware that the murderer may be one of their own. Tension is running high when an anonymous phone call alerts them to another killing scheduled to take place within twenty-four hours.

Round the clock surveillance at Wellows Water is already in place. What they do not expect to see is the whitchun. Is it a trick of the light or can the dead come back to mete out justice?

(128 words, exclusive of title)

ABC Wednesday – P is for Poitiers

The Hundred Years’ War was a series of conflicts fought intermittently between 1137 and 1453. It was waged between the Plantaganets and the House of Valois over claims to the French throne. The fighting was actually conducted for a total of 116 years punctuated by several phases of peace.

15th century illustration of the Battle of Poitiers 

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

 The Battle of Poitiers was fought in western France on 19^th September, 1356, between the English and the French. An army of around 7,000 English and Gascons were led by the Plantaganet Edward, Prince of Wales, The Black Prince, supported by Jean de Grailly. The French and their allies were commanded by King John II with the Duc d’Orléans. The French troops numbered about 35,000.

When the battle commenced in the early morning the left flank of the English army pretended escape which caused the French knights to charge the archers. This allowed the bowmen to attack their opponents, and particularly their horses, with a rain of arrows. Though the horses wore armour their sides and backs were less heavily protected and the archers aimed arrows at the horses’ flanks. This was a well-practised tactic to halt cavalry charges since falling horses broke up the structure of the advancing lines.

The English archers used a six foot longbow made of yew. The bowmen used arrows measuring a ‘cloth yard’ in length. (A cloth yard is the distance between the tip of the nose and the finger tips when the arm is extended horizontally at shoulder height.) Their rate of fire was around an arrow every five seconds. When fighting at close quarters the archers used hammers or daggers.

The French infantry under the Dauphin (later Charles V of France) were the next to engage but withdrew after heavy combat to reorganise. On seeing this the Duc d’Orléans’ infantry retreated in panic. Finally King John’s daunting force was involved. The English had no more arrows so the archers joined the infantry and some of them mounted horses to improvise a cavalry unit. The skirmishing was formidable but the Black Prince had a reserve force concealed in woods which was called into action. It circled round to strike the French flank and rear. The French realised they were about to be surrounded and tried to retreat. After extraordinary resistance King John agreed to surrender with his youngest son, 14-year-old Philip, and many other notable combatants. He actually surrendered to a French knight who escorted him to the Black Prince. The battle had proved that superior tactics could overcome the disadvantage of greater enemy numbers.

Following the English victory Edward’s troops began tending the wounded and pillaging the riches of the French camps. That night the Black Prince entertained King John and his son to dinner.

France was asked to pay an exorbitant ransom for the King’s release. France refused to pay, the sum being equivalent to twice the country’s yearly income. The Dauphin Charles, who had escaped capture, faced rebellion across the kingdom as he tried to raise money for his father’s release.

Eventually King John was allowed to return to France in 1361, in exchange for hostages, to try and procure funds but after some time he returned to England, unable to pay the entirety of the ransom. He died there in 1364. Ultimately only one fifth of the ransom was paid.

Thank you to the Perfect Denise Nesbitt and her Promising team of helpers who host and organise this weekly meme. Click here to see more Ps. 

Fire!

Yesterday fires broke out in four different areas of Swinley forest. 150 fire fighters from four fire and emergency services attended alongside police and ambulances. Forest Rangers were hauling water bowsers while a police helicopter overhead directed operations and was alert to fresh outbreaks.

Image copyright Ian Emery

Strong swirling winds ensured that the fires spread rapidly in the dry undergrowth. The fire travelled underground as well as over the surface. There has been little significant rain for several weeks and the rich leaf mould covering the ground and the resin in the trees is highly combustible.

The skies were dark and the air was thick with smoke, the smell permeating everything. Emergency services are expected to remain on site until it is certain that the fires have been extinguished. Today a pall of smoke hangs over the forest and the wind is picking up again so that any small smouldering could be fanned into life afresh. It will be several days before we can resume our customary walks in Crowthorne Forest.

Some businesses and houses were evacuated yesterday and today local schools close to the forest boundaries have been closed. There has been no loss of life and for that we are thankful but the police will now be actively seeking the person or persons unknown who set the fires.

Last night we took the dogs to Simon’s Wood beyond the opposite end of the village but we could still see and smell the smoke, so today they will have a rest. It’s not good for their lungs – or ours – to breathe in smoky air.

You can just make out a fire appliance with its blue flashing light in the centre of the photo.

A week ago Barry reported fire and emergency services were called out. We thought it had been quenched. Maybe it was, but fire reappeared in the same area, so it seems that someone was determined to burn the forest. It is a Site of Special Scientific Interest, where nightjar, Dartford warbler and woodlark breed.  It is also one of the most important sites in the country for dragonflies and damselflies. 24 of the 38 species in the UK breed here.

Magpie Tales #64 Black gold

Thanks go to Willow who organises and hosts this meme J To read more Magpies please click here.

Smoldering Fires, Clarence Holbrook Carter, 1904-2000
Columbus Museum of Art
Image courtesy of Tess Kincaid

Black gold

They had been born in the village, the daughters and granddaughters of miners, the wives and mothers of more. They had learned forbearance and endurance. The distant boom of explosives was the background to life. When the slag heaps smouldered on the mountains, the pungent smoke choking and stinging, they turned their backs and continued their chores.

Their men would return at night, blackened and weary, seeking food and oblivion. Each morning they watched as their fathers and brothers, sons and grandsons trudged back to their labours. Unspoken fears gnawed at them all. The mines were nearly worked out, the men having to burrow deeper where the air was stale. They mined naked in narrow tunnels, chipping at the coal face and breathing in the dust, laying explosives and retreating to safety until the blast released more seams.

The siren at the end of the shift was a signal to the women to hasten - hot water to fill the baths, a hot meal to grace the table – and to give thanks that another day had passed without incident. Sounded at any other time it signified disaster.

The women flocked to the mine entrance, dread twisting their hearts and robbing them of coherent speech. They prayed, automatically, desperately. They beseeched deliverance for their men – ‘Let him live, let him live’, ‘Let him die quickly, let him not suffer.’ They begged strength for themselves and forgiveness for all sins large and small. They promised impossible purity and faith if only their men could be spared.

Their entreaties were futile and seventy-five families were changed forever.

Trapped underground, generations lost, all in the pursuit of black gold.