Big Brown Toad

I was quietly on my way back from my nightly rummaging for slugs and horror of horrors, terror of terrors, suddenly I am bathed in bright sunshine, even though I know it's the middle of the night. Of course, then I realise, it's that sad human race again and their weird inventions - they call it electricity, they call it PIR detection light, placed strategically high on their bricky dwelling's wall above me. Silly of me to forget, but it's been months since they lit me up with night time sunshine.

I play dead and then I remember that I was in the middle of a lovely one-legged stretch as is my custom when returning, full-stomached on slugs. That did not look good. Nobody dies mid-stretch I was thinking.

Suddenly I was able to read the thoughts of this human and I suspect he was reading my thoughts too. It happens you know ... He was thinking about my words to myself about nobody dies mid-stretch - and he was pulling a wry grin as he thought to himself - I reckon I might die mid-stretch ... he had some weird shoulder thing wrong with him. It was very obvious the way he looked like the hunchback of Notre Dame - all one-sided. - And apparently one of his regular 'catastrophies' in the middle of the night when previously asleep - he would half-consciously stretch his bad left arm and suddenly the whole left shoulder leapt into spasm and he jumped upright in colossal pain. I felt his pain actually. Poor human. So the start of our brief relationship was good, very good; I felt sorry for him.

That was why I let him think that I liked him - sitting with my one leg outstretched, motionless, apart from my uncontrollable puffing-up (I have tried for years to stop it happening when my mind says - no threat - but my body and instinct says - look big, bold, bossy and belligerent - especially to stupid humans). So, yes, repeatedly he stroked my back - what a weirdo - I let him - he thought I was his mate - well I was a bit I suppose.

Anyway as soon as he stopped and the sunshine turned off - under cover of darkness I hopped away and when he looked again with the sunshine back on, I was gone. I wasn't of course ... I live under that strip of ply-board that the stupid human has lying against the wall nearby where, in his stupid mind, he says to himself - I'll put that up sometime to cover the thin gap between the brick wall and the ghastly garage roof supports. He never will do it, I know, so it makes a nice dry home for me.

I will return one day; so will the stupid human.

The nightly ritual

Up since 2.30 a.m. (now as I type 4.45 a.m.).

Despite pain killing tablets - so in pain that even though I considered this nightly getting-up practise, 'unhealthy' - might as well do it as it looked as though I'd never get back to sleep. Funny but I still don't think I'll ever be a long-term insomniac ... When this frozen shoulder thing is gone (it must go sometime I hope) I'll go back to normal - caressing the pillow, loving the fact that I can sleep for as long and as deeply as I ever did before.

I had some inspiration in these early hours to write a child's story as there on the patio, motionlass, with one outstretched leg, my outbound cat glancing briefly towards it, was a large brown toad.

I several times gently stroked his back and as I even approched, he puffed himself (or herself) up but relaxed again when I stopped stroking. I thought he and I, like my cat and I, had an understanding, I would not hurt him and he would not hurt me.

I am feeling tired again but I will dream-up a little child story and see what it looks like again tomorrow (which is actually today now at almost 5 a.m.).

My first public exhibition of my writing and a little background.

Insomnia?

No - just the frozen shoulder ...

A) Preamble - It's just after 2 a.m. and I am typing again on the blog - when you cannot sleep for pain - you either lie there changing position over and over - or you come down, have tea and toast and type (which actually does not feel too good for the left arm either). The cat keeps me company on the settee (I'm actually not in bed as the clipart suggests) - he and I have a good understanding. He's the same sort of age as me (in cat years that is) - luckily in better health than me although he shares the same attributes - in fact his stomach hangs down not far above the ground as he walks along - at least mine hardly notices - unless you are an intimate person in my life and really know its expanse - oh dear too much information again ...

OK here goes - into the dangerous zone of reality - I am about to talk about real people and real events and real experiences (that of course is real experiences as in my take on them). I have to say that as no doubt others will see things differently and maybe eventually these "others" will take exception. I'll try to be very careful and not libel anyone...

Some months ago I attended (in my real name - not my pen name used on this blog and in my writing generally) a writing group in Louth - Lincolnshire. I won't go into detail here and now (in this paragraph) but I am going to put a follow-on post below (same post with same title but a separate section below) that gives a sort of account of the group and the written piece "Hats" - a piece of flash fiction (which I thought and a few others thought quite good).

So to be clear:

A) You have this preamble (above).
B) You have a copy of an account of what led to this particular piece of written work.
C) You have the work in it's raw form.
D) You have a slightly tidied-up (final?) version of that work (just over 400 words - so to me that's flash fiction).

B) Starting with the word Background ... The account of what led to the particular piece of writing (don't be put off by any strange formatting or apparently botched layout or entries - it is because the item was pasted from WORD and some weird stuff crept in - sorry.

Background:

Louth Poetry Group (which now also includes creative writing) has (as at March 2018) twice weekly café style meetings (bacon rolls or croissants & fresh percolated coffee available) that typically run from 09.00 until 12 noon and have a section when the leader asks what we’ve been up to writing-wise, followed by say a 45 minute writing session which is then, in turn, read out and peer-reviewed. Sometimes the writing section is themed but mostly not – i.e. free choice of subject matter. The group also has monthly workshops and seasonal ‘readings’ (evenings). Their website (click the link above) has full details. The man running it, Christopher Sanderson is a richly accented Yorkshireman (whom I found audibly attractive, not despite of, but because of, his perpetual dropping of Hs). In my assessment he was and is an accomplished and prolific poet – not sure if published though. His partner, Kate Harrison, a former nurse, also writes, but quantitively less so and she is also a humanist celebrant.

I had been attending for about 2/3 months and on the whole enjoyed it a lot but I got the impression that the people running it didn't like me, especially the the leader's partner (but that seemed to start after I did a visual art performance comparing two music items including Sting and Every Breath You Take - which had lyrics that she saw as being about stalking and which had never previously occured to me). I think that ‘highbrow people’ (and I believe they think that they are) sometimes think that anyone who acts ‘above their station’ should be shunned and I think they think that I act above my station. Over the few months I had been with them I gained/learned all of the following and more:

o   A strong belief in my own ability to write good fiction.

o   That I work at my best under pressure when writing live in ‘class’.

o   A realisation that poetry is something I really struggle with writing and also to understand the breadth and scope of it.

o   That sometimes my flash fiction (very short stories) that are written in class live and timed are so good that the two key people don’t actually believe that I did it in class (as I have mostly used a laptop) and may not even believe that the work is my own. (If one thought that - that might indeed be a reason not to like me... or was a little jealousy afoot maybe?) Christopher had at least twice asked me the strange question “did you just write that [xxxx] or was it written earlier?” It’s not easy actually to categorically prove that my work was “fresh” and why should one have to? I wondered about screen-prints of the file properties which show date and time but why should one and how sad are they to think me or anyone at a writers’ group capable of such ridiculous subterfuge!

o   I have witnessed jealousy many times before during my life and because I have never suffered from ‘the disease’ myself I often seek excuses for such alien behaviour by others, thinking such nastiness cannot be what it often turns out to be - i.e. real (when eventually one is left with no other conclusion to draw). My time at a previous local writers’ group illustrated the same behaviours when I was effectively bullied by that male leader - illustrated by him constantly saying in public “no non-reader will ever make a writer”. This ridicule almost destroyed my self confidence at the time which thankfully I have fully rebuilt.

I know I can write [prose at least]. All I need to do is do it and get published – but I don’t have much time left and I am not very disciplined.

C) - The first (in class live version of Hats back in March 2018):

Hats

I remember that flight – June 1^st 1975, Jane daydreamed...

“Taxi to right 90 Pan Am 365”

“Right 90, taxiing now”.

“Hold at runway 07 – expected 2 minutes”

We looked out into the darkness of the Sicilian sky as the engines idled briefly.

“Half throttle Frank”.

“Pan Am 365 – you are cleared for immediate take off.”

“You have it Frank – all yours”.

The four Rolls Royce Jupiter engines roared and the 737 shuddered from a standing start to a hundred MPH, then one fifty, two hundred and lift-off into the shimmering redness reflected off Etna in the distance. The crew still seated and belted watched the angle of the aircraft steepen as it climbed through the mist.

Sylvie’s attention was taken by a man three seats down on the right aisle. He’d obviously taken his seat belt off. He stood up awkwardly a lone figure amongst an orderly flight complement of 160 souls.

“Sir, return to your seat immediately please and fasten your seat belt.”

He took no damn notice so Sylvie unbuckled her seat belt and launched herself towards him. He had opened the locker and drew out a plastic bag.

“Jesus Sylvie – has he got...”

This was Jane, the other rear crew girl thinking the unthinkable: did this man have a gun in that plastic bag?

Sylvie grabbed his arm and gestured that he should be seated. He complied, still clutching the bag. He stood up again reached into the bag and pulled out a bundle of paper hats and threw them out to the people now looking tense, with one elderly bespectacled lady looking ashen-faced.

“Come on guys – put ‘em on for Godsakes – doesn’t anybody know it’s Christmas and party time!”

Nervously two young men slipped on their paper hats, then a girl three seats up did the same.

Slowly, never taking her eyes off the man, Sylvie and then Jane put paper hats on as the plane levelled out and the seat belt sign went off.

Deep sighs could be heard along the aisles as heads turned.

“Sorry guys – did I frighten somebody?”

Raymond Ellis was 24 years old, from Allentown, Pennsylvania (same town as Billy Joel) and he was returning home from his first trip abroad ever. He’d been to the old country to see his long lost Italian Mafiosi as he always called his distant cousins. He had been diagnosed with terminal cancer two months earlier and he had completed stage one of his bucket list.

Ignore my [class] notes below:

Uncle Bulgaria hat??

Theme next time: weather whether – for Thursday April 5^th.

Good Friday for Spring Solstice thing 19.30

 ........................................................................................................................................

D) Tidied-up version (that hopefully will eventually turn up in my published anthology):

Hats

I remember that flight – June 1^st 1975, Jane daydreamed...

“Taxi to right nine zero Pan Am 365.”

“Right nine zero, taxiing now.”

“Hold at runway zero seven – expected two minutes.”

We looked out into the darkness of the Sicilian sky as the engines idled briefly.

“Half throttle Frank.”

“Pan Am 365 – you are cleared for immediate take off.”

“You have it Frank – all yours.”

The four Rolls Royce Jupiter engines roared and the 737 shuddered from a standing start to a hundred MPH, then one fifty, two hundred and lift-off into the shimmering redness reflected off Etna in the distance. The crew still seated and belted watched the angle of the aircraft steepen as it climbed through the mist.

Sylvie’s attention was taken by a man three seats down on the right of the aisle. He’d obviously taken his seat belt off. He stood up awkwardly a lone figure amongst an orderly seated flight complement of 160 souls.

“Sir, return to your seat immediately please and fasten your seat belt.”

He took no damn notice so Sylvie unbuckled her seat belt and launched herself towards him. He had opened the locker and drew out a plastic bag.

“Jesus Sylvie – has he got ...”

This was Jane, the other rear crew girl thinking the unthinkable: did this man have a gun in that plastic bag?

Sylvie grabbed his arm and gestured that he should be seated. He complied, still clutching the bag. He stood up again reached into the bag and pulled out a bundle of paper hats and threw them out to the people now looking tense, with one elderly bespectacled lady looking ashen-faced.

“Come on guys – put ‘em on for Godsakes – doesn’t anybody know it’s Christmas and party time!”

Nervously two young men slipped on their paper hats, then a girl three seats up did the same.

Slowly, never taking her eyes off the man, Sylvie and then Jane put paper hats on as the plane levelled out and the seat belt sign went off.

Deep sighs could be heard along the aisles as heads turned.

“Sorry guys – did I frighten somebody?”

Raymond Ellis was 24 years old, from Allentown, Pennsylvania (same town as Billy Joel) and he was returning home from his first trip abroad ever. He’d been to the old country to see his long-lost Italian Mafiosi as he always called his distant cousins. He had been diagnosed with terminal cancer two months earlier and he had completed stage one of his bucket list.

(415 words including title Hats – originated in March 2018 and placed on blog in August 2018.)

 

More about me ...

Above - Quill pen and a blank canvas?



Time, I think, for a little more background regarding what I am trying to achieve with this blog (bearing in mind that presently my health and daily pain scenario are not conducive at all to writing or even reflection).


A bit more about me ...

Tim J Rhohn-Sayers is my pen name - it's what I expect to be using to write and publish material under. So yes it is not my given (born) name. I will point my family and friends to my blog and explain that it is written in my pen name.

If you, the reader, knew my real name and indeed were aware of my former small business that I ran from home here in Huttoft you would have (certainly prior to my June 2018 formal retirement from recognised work) find lots of diverse information on The Web concerning me, particularly under my former company name.

So my intention is to write - but what?

I am keen on short stories - so short that they might well be classed as "flash fiction". Primarily I want to produce an anthology of short stories.

I also have a couple of started novels on the go but I suspect that it'll only ever be one of them that may reach publication.

Amazon is my likely destination for my likely to be - self-published work but hopefully I will get spotted by a formal mainstream publisher who might show an interest in my work. - Trouble is - I'm no spring chicken - hence the title of my blog - so I am not a great long-term prospect for any publisher in terms of either of us making a few bucks.

What do I like writing about?

I have attended several writing groups - all different - most rather ineffective in my view - at getting one nearer to publication. I have had some strange experiences in terms of what I like to write about or lets say how I write my best stuff. It has become clear that I work best under pressure - meaning, I think, that I am a bit of a show-off as many peer reviewers and family members have stated that the live work I do at writing groups (as it were 'in class') is excellent.

How does that work?

Well, for example many groups will say - OK write for half an hour - anything (or maybe themed) and let's read it out loud and review it.

One writing group - I'll leave their name out for now - but I found the whole modus operandi very pretentious - I do actually believe that their leader and his partner thought that I was - a charlatan. Why? - Because I was one of the few in the group who wrote stories live, typing (in class) and because my stories were good - they assumed that I had fiddled it meaning that I had spent perhaps days producing a good story and then passed it off as a live in class work. I know that this sounds ridiculous - but what else can one think when the leader kept asking "have you done this today?"

Needless to say the relationship with me and the leader broke down and after about four or five months I left the group.

I am a very principled person and it would never have even occured to me to cheat!

I still belong to a writing group in Sutton on Sea.

I haven't really answered what I like writing about - I guess suspense and twist-in-the-tail type stories. I also like to write in a totally uninhibited way - no holes barred - so that can upset people (readers and peers at groups). I often find that a leader will say "anything goes" - but when push comes to shove - they are as narrow-minded as any others.

Britain today (health).

Yesterday was the sixth anniversary of our living in our Huttoft house in rural Lincolnshire. During that six years I was registered at the Alford NHS surgery about four miles away. During the first couple of years or so the service was reasonable, with a few doctors on the books, some good, one excellent and others acceptable. The key thing was that one could get an appointment quickly and always get to see a qualified doctor rather than a nurse practitioner (which is gradually becoming the norm hereabouts).

By last year (2017) it became almost impossible to get a doctor appointment with none showing as available online or via the telephone. That means essentially that all available appointments for the rapidly decreasing number of surgery doctors was causing patients very lengthy delays in getting any kind of treatment for ailments. So, in my case, I went almost two months without being able to see a doctor. The surgery became what I call "not fit for purpose".

This situation could not continue and my wife and I agreed to set about trying to change doctors/surgery. I am not going to mention where we have moved to as I do not want a situation where a hundred readers of my blog follow me and then create that same situation that was experienced in Alford.

Suffice to say that Alford compared to "x" is like chalk and cheese. The new surgery we attend is what I would describe as exemplary and a snapshot of what one would always hope the NHS at surgery level could or should be like. It is wonderful! Despite this I am still awaiting an MRI scan and still with no interim advice on what to do with my shoulder in terms of exercise (or not). Because of the pain when I try to use my shoulder normally I simply act as though I do not have a left arm. This means (I think) that I am getting into the realms of muscle wastage which obviously is not good.

Even though we are now 'sorted' re a doctors' surgery, the facts are that I have effectively had no treatment as such for three months or more. Try living your life like that - little or no sleep - try keeping a marriage together whereby one's wife also gets affected seriously to the point where separate sleeping arrangements become an option.

Personally I think that Britain today is approaching the status of a third world country in terms of services. Nobody states it, whether HMG or us (much) but we are out of money - unless, that is, it is for increasing the salaries of say MPs in which case - no problem - the money will be found.

Trying to rationalise what I want to do on this blog (current situation - pain etc.)

Note: All images on my blog are derived from licence-free sources like Creative Commons Licences. Assume that any image (picture/graphic) is Creative Commons Licenced unless I specifically state otherwise.

PAIN:
For the last three months I have had a particular health issue that means, in unscrutinised theory, that I ought to have some time to do this blog - a bit like being in hospital or convalescence for a long time. The theory breaks down because the health problem means that I am in almost constant pain subject to some mitigation when one takes pain-killers but then one tends to be a little, well not drowsy, but let's say 'dulled' and so creativity becomes tainted.

This condition has been variously labelled as Rotation Cuff Injury and more recently frozen shoulder, neither of which sounds like much but I can confirm that from my point of view the condition is actually life changing. What I mean by this is that the pain is so severe that one loses a lot of sleep which in turn creates further problems of irritability, stress and tension. It is somewhat of a vicious circle or cycle.

The pain when it hits, sometimes out of the blue, is certainly at level 9 or 10 and in my case causes me to scream out for most of the duration of the pain which is about two to three minutes before it subsides. Sudden pain leaves one with tense shoulder muscles which in turn makes cramping likely which again gives extreme pain.

Anyone reading this may be curious about therapy for this condition so here's an insight into Britain today ... (view my next post please.)