#FridayFlash - Death On The Moor

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It is early November. The trees huddle in copses, their leaves ablaze in hues of copper and gold for a final fanfare. Creeping mist crawls across the moor, reaching to the heavens to meet the leaden sky in an endless sea of grey. The harsh call of a solitary crow pierces the silence but I need no formal announcement. There are none here to hear it. Indeed, the men who lie at my feet have long since departed their earthly shells - I have already partaken of their ruin.

I walk among the fallen men, and wonder at their folly. The survivors have abandoned them, taking what dignity and pride they had left. No pennants snap and flutter in the breeze. No monuments will be built, the tears of their families the only sign of mourning. I lift my head and breathe deeply of the cold air; snow is coming, and soon the final traces of the battle will be buried until spring. The autumn has died along with these men.

The beginnings of winter stir in my soul and I shiver. Even I am not immune to the season. I think of the victorious duke, and the roaring fire in his great hall. His castle is well guarded, but I find that no fortifications can withstand me. I think I shall pay the duke a visit, and cut short his celebrations as his warmongering has cut short these wasted lives.

The crow utters a farewell as I slip through time and space.

Icy Goes Owl Daft

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Anyone who follows me on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook or Google+ will know I make things. In fact, I make a lot of things. I've been knitting since December 2008, crocheting since around January this year, and making jewellery since around April. That's not to mention the twenty years I've been taking photos, fiddling with Fimo soft or fixing broken clothes. Yet I haven't been blogging about it.

I think part of the problem comes from the fact that all of the blogging gurus originally told you to keep one topic to a blog. According to them, your baking buddies wouldn't be interested in your DIY tips, and your fiction writing friends wouldn't care about fishing. That's one reason why I originally put all of my design related stuff on a separate blog. In trying to promote my writing, I didn't think anyone would be interested in anything I'd made. But due to the way a lot of us now tag and categorise our blog posts, there has been a sea change, and I asked my favourite blogging guru, Kristen Lamb, if I should keep my writing and crafting separate. She said no - you never know which of your writer buddies might also love knitting, and how many of your knitting friends might like your writing.

I also got involved with the inaugural #craftblogclub chat on Twitter this evening, organised by Emma Berry, and decided I'd start blogging about my crafty endeavours. After all, they take up a lot of my time, so why wouldn't I talk about them?

I thought I'd blog about my most recent creation, Sidney (the little owl pictured up there). I originally got the parts as a kit from Let's Knit magazine, and all I had to supply was the needles, the stuffing, and the time. I took the yarn to London on the train last week when I went to the Pompeii exhibition at the British Museum, and ended up knitting the whole thing - I finally assembled him on Sunday. I'm rather proud of him!

I love owls. I've got owl ornaments in my room, a satchel I got in Bonn that's covered in them, various necklaces with owl motifs, and now a cuddly one. As much as I love puffins, I think owls are possibly my favourite birds, particularly snowy owls (Hedwig FTW) and barn owls. They often represent wisdom, in part due to their ability to see in all directions, and they're the bird sacred to Athene. The ancient Greeks even featured them on coins to keep a watchful eye on commerce. English folklore hasn't been so kind, with superstitions tying them to death as heralds of an imminent passing, and tales linking owls to death also appear among First Nation tribes in North America. Regardless of their associations, I think they're magnificent birds, and I'm proud I've now made one!

#FridayFlash - The Intruder

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At 1:53am, the shadow of Edith Warfield woke up. It had only ever been dimly aware of the world as it brushed up against daily life, dragging along a pavement here, or bumping into a table there. Yet for the first time, the shadow could see. Dust motes danced in the weak moonbeams that sneaked through the gap in the curtains. The shadow could hear. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked away the minutes until dawn.

The shadow drifted across the room to the window, but found itself caught. It turned and looked down, seeing its feet attached to the comfortable slippers of its owner. The shadow bent down and tugged until it tore itself free, and continued in its slow meander across the room. It passed dark fingers across mementoes from places it barely remembered, and inspected photographs above the fireplace of people it barely knew.

The shadow made its way to the door, where it spotted the pencil marks on the frame. A year was noted beside each one, marking the growth of Edith Warfield across fifty three years. The shadow would have smiled if it had a face, recognising its own growth recorded within the graphite dashes on wood.

A crash sounded at the back of the house as glass shattered and fell inward, scattering across the kitchen floor. The shadow looked at Edith, but she remained asleep, a single snort her only concession to the threatening noise in the next room.

The shadow stood in the centre of the room, frozen with indecision. The door knob turned as it weighed up its options, and the man was halfway through the door before the shadow decided to act. The man, tall and wide with a balaclava covering the lower half of his face, spotted Edith. He narrowed his eyes, and inched forward. The shadow darted forward and fastened dark hands around his meaty throat. The man clawed at the insubstantial hands as they squeezed the life out of him, and surprise contorted his face into a mask of confusion as his body fell to the floor.

The shadow looked down at the man for a full ten minutes. Satisfied that the man posed no further threat, the shadow reattached its feet to Edith's slippers, and lay down on the floor. At 2:08am, Edith Warfield's shadow fell asleep, content that it had had enough excitement for one evening.

Original image by Loovie. Edits by me.

Visit to Howick Hall Gardens

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I took advantage of the good weather on yesterday’s Bank Holiday Monday and took a trip with my parents up to Howick Hall Gardens and Arboretum in Northumberland. Howick Hall is notable for being the former home of Charles, the second Earl Grey, and creator of the famous Earl Grey tea. The tea was specially blended by a Chinese mandarin since the water at Howick is flavoured strongly by the lime rock in the area, and bergamot was added to alter the flavour. Lady Grey began serving it during her trips to London, and it became so popular that Twinings began marketing it. Unfortunately they didn’t register the trade mark and they’ve never made a penny from the sales.

The second Earl Grey is probably the best known member of the family, and he became Prime Minister in 1830. Two years later he introduced the Great Reform Bill, which set Great Britain on the path towards our modern form of parliamentary democracy (much to the chagrin of the Duke of Wellington). His statue currently stands at the top of Grey’s Monument, at the top of Grey Street in Newcastle, and he gave his name to Grey College in Durham University.

Howick Hall itself is only partially open to the public, with a new visitor centre located in the entrance hall of the main building, and a tea room in one of the wings. Originally built in 1782 by the Newcastle architect, William Newton, the house was enlarged in 1809 when the entrance was moved from the south side to the north, and a terrace was constructed on the south side (seen in the photo on the left). There are beautiful views from the terrace, with a plethora of agapanthus providing food for the many bumblebees and butterflies that visit the gardens. Sadly the main house was gutted in 1926 by fire, and it was rebuilt in 1928. The family moved out shortly after the death of the fifth Earl Grey in 1963, and in 1973 the present Lord Howick converted the West Wing into the family home. The small visitor centre is very welcoming, giving information on the various plant species that can be seen around the gardens, but there are further plans to restore the whole ground floor. It would certainly be a good addition to what is already on offer, particularly to provide somewhere to go if the weather takes a turn for the worse!

The main attraction to Howick Hall is the gardens and the vast arboretum. The gardens are primarily the work of the fifth Earl Grey, as they adopted an informal, natural style of gardening, and they boast some wonderful plants brought from various parts of the world that have managed to thrive in the somewhat alien Northumberland landscape. There is the wild Bog Garden around a small pond which was created in 1991, which features plants from China, India, Japan, New Zealand, North America and Europe. There are also the borders around the Hall itself, which only date to 2005, a rockery (behind me in the photo on the right), various woodland gardens, the meadows around the large pond, and the arboretum itself. The rockery concentrates on alpine plants and shrubs, and features many species that flower in summer to compensate for the spring-flowering plants elsewhere in the gardens. The Arboretum covers some 65 acres of woodland walks with over 11,000 trees and shrubs planted from 1988.

There is also a small church on the site, St Michael and all Angels. Howick as a parish dates to 1158, and the original Norman church was replaced by an Ionic temple in the mid eighteenth century. It was destroyed by fire, and the present building was built in 1849. The church is still in use, celebrating a parish communion every second and fourth Sunday in the month. The tomb of the second Earl Grey is inside the south wall, while the small stone gargoyles on the outside north wall were all carved by the third Countess Grey, Maria. It's a beautiful little church, with a rambling graveyard, and boasts the sort of peaceful atmosphere that you only seem to find in those small, out-of-the-way places.

Howick Hall Gardens and Arboretum doesn't boast some of the amenities enjoyed by other attractions, but it has toilets, a tea room, and plenty of quiet woodland to enjoy. It's probably not well suited to children, unless they like wildlife and being out in the open air, and the rambling nature of the paths make it unsuitable for wheelchairs. If you're in the area, it's quiet and peaceful, and makes a wonderful change from the fast pace of city life.

#FridayFlash - Digital Afterlife

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Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 4d
Going out tonight, people! Anyone else about?

Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 4d
Club so boring. Leaving early. Laterrrrsssss!

Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 4d
Maybe I'm paranoid but sure someone's following me.

Helena Thompson @pretty_n_pink 4d
Going to St Mary's. @wunderkind54 has been brought in.

Helena Thompson @pretty_n_pink 3d
Can't believe @wunderkind54 is gone. Love you and miss you, bro. RIP.

Billy O'Neill @18wheeler 3d
OMG just heard about @wunderkind54. Will miss you, mate.

Jem Reilly @princess_jem 2d
So sad to hear about @wunderkind54. Taken from us too young. You deserved better. Love you. x

Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 1d
It's so dark here.

Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 1d
Is anyone here?

Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 1d

I can see my parents. I keep talking to them but they don't see me. 

Billy O'Neill @18wheeler 1hr

@wunderkind54 Who do you think you are?

Helena Thompson @pretty_n_pink 2m

@wunderkind54 I don't know who you are but pretending to be my bro is pretty sick.

Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 2m

@pretty_n_pink It is me. I'm standing behind you - you're wearing your green skull T-shirt.

Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 2m

@pretty_n_pink I know who killed me.

Social interaction needs more than social media

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Image by lusi

A couple of days ago, I posted a link on my various social media pages to this particular article, in which it is posited that social media is actually making us lonely. Author Jessica Hazel points out that "we tirelessly tweet and update alone from our bedrooms and offices whilst feeling that we are acting in an accessible and sociable manner", and even goes so far as to state that "the reality is that Facebook often just makes you feel like everyone is having an amazing time all the time apart from little sad you". I mostly agree with the points she raises, although when she discusses the fact that it's easier to feel lonely when you're sat at home and your news feed is full of all the exciting things everyone else is doing, she also neglects to mention that the people who are out having fun may feel the same way when they're at home and you're out. She also doesn't discuss the peculiar phenomenon that even when you are out socially with other people, most people are still glued to social media. I can't count the number of times I've been sitting talking to someone while they've been scrolling through Facebook or Twitter. How often does the shout go up of "Well THAT'S going on Facebook?" whenever we say something we feel is so funny or insightful that it must be shared with the wider group?

For me, social media is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it makes it much easier (and cheaper) to connect with people in far flung places. I can't just head down to my local Costa with Nerine Dorman or Carrie Clevenger so until I can, I have email to keep us together. If it wasn't for social media, I wouldn't have 'met' one of my most trusted beta readers, Rob Diaz. I wouldn't be involved in all the publishing things I've done, or am doing. It also makes organising things easier as you can contact several people at once to arrange an outing or a meet up, and keep everyone in the loop as to what's going on. Social media lets us be social with anyone we want to talk to. On the other hand, it is very easy for me to sit at home, looking at all the fun and amazing things other people are doing, while I'm sat on the sofa watching yet another poor attempt at a horror film, while I wonder why no one thought to invite me. I actually miss calling people to ask how they're getting on, and to have a catch up. It's easy to feel such interactions are pointless since I can keep up with their lives online. Why would I phone someone when I can just nip onto Facebook to see what they're up to?

I think we need to have a balance. I went to the pub last night with the very talented Tony Bengtsson (I interviewed him last year and his music is here - go and have a listen) and I only felt compelled to check my phone about three times. Conversation flowed, ideas were exchanged, and it was a good night of discussion and social interaction. If it were The Sims, those social points would have been racking up in a way they just don't do if you're only talking to someone through Facebook Messenger. You can add all the emoticons you want, and pepper your text with 'lol' but no text-based dialogue can truly replace a proper conversation, with all of the unconscious body language and vocal intonations. It's especially valuable for writers - we need that social interaction for story fodder, and for character ideas. It's the little personality quirks that you only see in person that bring characters to life.

So I say use social media, get to know people on the other side of the world, but don't focus on it at the expense of social interactions in your immediate vicinity.

#FridayFlash - Dreams

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It is Saturday night in the city. It is warm, and my window is open, letting in a cool breeze. This is through no kindness towards me; Mother has left the window open so that I may hear the world outside. This is to punish me for my wickedness. I am unsure as to the nature of my most recent transgression but she assures me it was heinous indeed. I am to sit here and listen to the sounds of other young people enjoying the evening delights of the city.

A market is in progress below my window - the glow of its lights casts twisted shadows across my walls. The stallholders bark details of their goods and customers haggle over the matter of a few coins. There is a restaurant on the other side of the plaza, where glasses chink, cutlery clatters against plates, and people laugh. The words are indistinct but stories are told, punctuated by guffaws as punch lines are reached. I fill in the blanks, and smile. These people must lead such interesting, rich lives, out there in the city. Out there...

I stand on my bed and try to peer through the window high in the wall. I can see little, but my imagination paints me a picture. Groups of friends huddle around tables, sharing stories while waiters bustle between them. Platters of steaming food turn the air into a riot of smells as people sample cuisines both exotic and local. Bonhomie and warmth turns the night heavy.

I turn away from the window, back to my bare little room. Mother took my books to punish me for forgetting to say grace. She took my telescope when I forgot to bless her after she sneezed. She still allows me paper and pencils to write or draw, but she takes what I produce. She tells me my talents are not my talents, they are gifts from God, so my art must return to Him. I do not understand this, but I do not tell her so in case she takes the paper away too.

I lie down on my bed, and think about the gift I have been given by the Universe. It gave me sleep, and the chance to dream. My eyes close, and I melt into the arms of Morpheus, and he takes me to a world without prisons, where I can run free. My dreams know no punishments, or rules. God has no jurisdiction in my dreams.