The September 2016 TCWG Creative Writing Competition: Where to find the stories and how to vote

 

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All tcwg site members (and any other interested parties) are invited to read and enjoy the stories entered in the September 2016 TCWG creative writing competition.

If, having read all the stories, you would like to register your vote for the winner and placings, then please follow the voting instructions set out below. This is not obligatory, but if you choose to join in, your participation will be very much appreciated.
JUST FOLLOW THE LINKS TO ALL THE STORIES (which are listed below), AND YOU WILL FIND EACH STORY IN TURN.
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The deadline for entries into the July 2016 Creative Writing Competition passed at Midnight on the 30th. September 2016.

The topic for the September stories was set by the winner of the July 2016 competition , Peter Barnett who graciously agreed that there should be an open topic with each writer choosing his or hers topic of choice.

11 members have entered a total of 13 stories, and thanks are due to them for their efforts. Advance thanks are also offered to all those group members who I hope will now support the competition by reading the stories and registering their vote in the form of a comment below on this post.

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VOTING PROCEDURE.

As in previous months, when voting it will help if voters will make sure to quote the name of the story when posting their vote, particularly in the case where an author has entered more than one story.

Voting can now commence and will continue until 11 p.m. on Monday the 10th of October 2016.
There are no restrictions as to who is allowed to vote, all that is asked is that the voter reads all the stories and votes according to their preference. A brief reason for the choice is welcome but not mandatory.
Voters are requested to vote 5 points for first place, 3 points for second, and 1 point for third place.
Please do not submit any other point combinations such as 3/3/3, 4/4/1, 5/2/2, etc.
Writers are requested not to vote for any of their own entries, and voters are asked not to comment at length about the stories or record any thoughts that you may have on them, until after voting closes.

There will be no detailed summaries posted as to how the voting is progressing throughout the voting period but as soon as possible after voting closes a tabulated list of results will be posted separately and the winner declared. If then you wish to describe in detail the reasons for your choices, or comment at length about some or all of the individual stories, a separate page will be set up at the end of the voting period and after the result has been posted.

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List of entries received. (If I have inadvertently missed an entry or entries, please advise.)

JAVA LAVA. Written by Peter Barnett

https://aasof.com/2016/09/23/java-lava/#more-20343

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THE ROAD TO HELL. Written by Charles Stuart.

https://furryfeatures.wordpress.com/2016/09/27/the-road-to-hell/

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TEEING OFF WITH A BOILED EGG. Written by Atiller.

https://atiller16.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/a-september-2016-ctwg-short-story-entry/

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BETHANY’S CHAIR. Written by Capucin.

https://davidgoodwin935.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/bethanys-chair/

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A FUNERAL. Written by Colmore.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/setember-2016-ctwg-story/

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THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY. Written by Araminta.

https://detectivemouse.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/the-persistence-of-memory/

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THE AUCHENSHUGGLE BIRD. Written by Lostinwords.

https://lostinwords2.wordpress.com/2016/09/27/september-2016-competition/

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THE FINAL MEETING. Written by tp_archie.

http://tparchie.deviantart.com/art/The-Final-Meeting-637202826

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THE RED SWEATER. Written by ExpatAngie.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/september-entry-short-stories/

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TWO SIDES OF A DIFFERENT COIN. Written by Danthemann.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/sep-comp-entry-two-sides-of-a-different-coin/

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BRIAN LARA LOVES BATTING. By Danthemann.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/sep-comp-entry-brian-lara-loves-batting/

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INVENTORY OF A BEACH BAG. Written by Seadam.

https://seadamsblog.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/inventory-of-a-beach-bag/

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Mme. ROSE. Written by ExpatAngie. (To find … Scroll down from The Red Sweater.)

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/september-entry-short-stories/

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Pleasant reading and please  remember to vote.

 

 

The September 2016 CW Competition. Full details of how to enter.

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A FREE ENTRY WRITING COMPETITION OPEN TO ALL!
Details of the September 2016 Creative Writing Competition.
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The topic for September has been set by the winner of the July 2016 competition Peter Barnett who has graciously agreed that there should be an open topic with each writer choosing his or hers topic of choice.

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The length of the story in September has been set at between 250 and 750 words and competitors are reminded that multiple entries can be accepted on as many different topics as each individual competitor chooses
Closing date for entries will be Midnight on Friday the 3oth. of September 2016.
The period for receiving votes will be announced when the competition closes, and votes will not be accepted until after the competition closes.
The “prize” for winning this September competition will be to set the topic for November 2016.

Voting.
After the competition closes there will be a vote to decide the first three places.
Just after the closing date, details of how to vote and a vote collection point will be set up here on this competition blogpage.

How to enter.
Post your story on your personal WordPress blogs and post a link to your story in the form of a comment below.

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And a reminder to those still without their own WordPress site.

WordPress is not the most user friendly of sites but if I can manage it (admittedly not without some frustrations), then I am sure that we all can  … help in setting up your own blog is available, so please ask.

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For those unfamiliar with the workings of the monthly competition a list of detailed rules for the competition can be found here …
https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/competition-rules/

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Pleasant writing and good luck with your stories. After the encouraging increase in the number of entries last month it seems that we may at last be coming to terms with the new arrangements … please can we make September a bumper month.

 

The August 2016 TCWG Creative Writing Competition. Full details of how to enter.

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A FREE ENTRY WRITING COMPETITION OPEN TO ALL!
Details of the August 2016 Creative Writing Competition.

The topic for AUGUST has been set by the winner of the May/June 2016 competition  Seadams who chosen “ISLANDS” and has commented as follows …

ISLANDS.
“I’ve been thinking about islands and their connotations recently. I am quite fascinated by islands, and the idea of living on one permanently (but then, I suppose I already do.)

Island – isola – isolate…insula – insular…

I propose for August we write a story with an island setting – be it desert, tropical, luxurious; real or imaginary; legendary or metaphorical; Channel, Canary, Balearic, Pacific, Hebridean, Caribbean…stacks, reefs, atolls, archipelagos…but no cheating, please: no peninsulas.”

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The length of the story in August will be the regular “between 500 and 3000 words”, and competitors are reminded that multiple entries can be accepted, particularly of the shorter variety.
Closing date for entries will be Midnight on Wednesday the 31st. of August 2016.
The period for receiving votes will be announced when the competition closes, and votes will not be accepted until after the competition closes.
The “prize” for winning this July competition will be to set the topic for October 2016 when I am proposing that we will have a lower limit of 250 to 750 words, giving an opportunity for some writers to make multiple entries.

Voting.
After the competition closes there will be a vote to decide the first three places.
Just after the closing date, details of how to vote, and a vote collection point will be set up here in this competition section.

How to enter.
Post your story on your personal WordPress blogs and post a link to your story in the form of a comment below (“Leave a reply” panel.)

For those unfamiliar with the workings of the monthly competition a list of detailed rules for the competition can be found here …
https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/competition-rules/

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Pleasant writing and good luck. There are still a few teething problems (some more aggravating than others), but please persevere, and with Autumn approaching let’s try to get back into double figure entries once again.

Remember … help with your problems is available so please ask.

March 2017 entry – Number 92

I don’t know quite what it was about the young lady on the fish counter that sucked me in. Glum shop assistants tend to frighten me, but then her surly pout had a definite allure. Perhaps it was also the way she used her knife. Firm, when she was swinging it down to the counter, albeit not with the brutish force the guys at the market used. Soft when she was filleting. Tender, when she was scraping out innards or hosing out all the muck that got stuck on.

There was the intriguing fact she didn’t wear gloves but also didn’t want to touch the fish with any more fingertips than were necessary. The discrete way she brought the back of her hand to cover her nose when she needed to. The casual way she was snacking on a bag of prawns, slipping rather than cracking their heads off, when I saw her leaning against the back wall of the supermarket on her break the previous day. The cold way she had ignored me when I tried to nod a hello to her then.

I suppose I could never quite describe exactly what it was. When you’re a young man, your brain is just putting together hundreds of cues and impressions before you form your opinion. Isn’t that how it works? Starting in one or two places, you say? Well, the slim outlines underneath the white coat that seemed a size or two too large for her appeared worth knowing. But what I really wanted to know was her mind. I had an urge to know how she lived, what she dreamed of, what she watched on TV, whether she ate grated tomato on a toasted baguette for breakfast like everyone did outside that little cafe.

She pulled a dripping hake out of an icy bucket to show me. It had the same sad expression in its eyes all dead fish seem to have.

She flashed a semi-smile upon seeing me licking my lips.

“That looks delicious!” I said. “Too many chips at my hotel. Not good,” I added, patting my stomach.

She brought her finger to her mouth in a mock vomiting motion and I smiled.

She turned, unusually, to chop the hake on the worktop opposite the counter that had the weighing scales on. That meant she had her back to me. I felt sure her face was smiling away out of sight. Her arms and elbows seemed to be lighter and looser as she went to work on providing me with 500 grams.

She ran the knife over the edge of the counter and cast it to one side, having decided it wasn’t sharp enough. She grabbed another.

There must be some adage said somewhere and sometime about never asking a young lady out with a knife in her hand. Clearly I was under the influence of the holiday spirit and the sun, but again, something about the moment I couldn’t possibly quantify seemed perfect.

I didn’t allow myself to back out on seeing that her glumness had returned when she span around to present the fish in a lazily tied plastic bag with the price sticker flapping off the side.

“Anything more?” she said in a muffled tone, clearly ashamed of either her English, her job or the world.

“Yes!” I said, clearing my throat, and calming myself, having been taken aback by the emphatic start to my answer. “I’m doing a Spanish course at home in England and I thought, well, it could be really nice to meet someone Spanish here to talk to. Provided you might be perhaps interested in meeting for a café con leche one afternoon?”

She looked at me blankly and tossed her knife down into a mackerel’s stomach, where it stood with its tip wedged into a hole it had pierced in the skin.

“Maybe if I could take your number?” I asked, reasoning that I could check a few words on the internet before composing a text message to better explain myself.

“I no understand,” she said.

She swapped an apologetic glance with an old woman who was standing impatiently at my side, admiring the salmon with her green paper ticket held in her fingers.

I could feel a bead of sweat at the back of my neck trickling down with the help of the powerful fan buzzing from the ceiling.

“Numero” I said, “de telefono,” moving my hand to my ears to gesture taking a call.

The same blank expression. Was my pronunciation really that terrible?

“Look” I said, holding out my paper ticket to her with the number 92 on.

“Noventa dos,” she said, reading the number out to me in Spanish.

She looked to her side as across waddled Carlos, the barrel-shaped man with a crooked nose and sweaty cheeks who worked on the cheese counter.

Why wasn’t she wearing a name tag too? If only I could put a name to the memory now, that might make it more wholesome. I suppose at the time it just added to her enigmatic charm.

Carlos grunted something inaudible that could have been “problema” then he stooped down to put his arm around the young lady on the fish counter.

Were they? Surely not? She was a beauty, and Carlos, as well as being three times the size, was at least 15 years older than her.

I heard the slow patter of flip slops interrupt the calm sound of a Spanish pop hit behind me.

“Taylor!” It was Duffers.

I turned around, alarmed.

He had a giant red bag of crisps in his left hand, while with his right hand he tried to adjust the laces on his brightly patterned swimming shorts.

“Did you find any beer yet? The United match is starting in ten minutes.”

“Oh,” I said, “no I was just – “

“Is that…fish you’ve got there?” he said, a grin spreading from cheek to cheek as he asked.

“Oh, well, it’s just a bit of hake, I thought that – “

“Put it back! We’ll get some burgers by the pool in a bit,” he said.

“Sorry about my friend, he’s a bit crazy,” he said, laughing, as I placed the white bag with six euro 70 worth of hake back on the counter.

Then I heard a buzz as the number on the electronic display above the scales turned to 93.

The Snowglobe

When Laura and Pete were taken up to the room on the second floor of the hotel, they noticed how light and airy it was with a grand view over the village and the resort and the snow-covered mountains close behind with the ski runs leading down almost into the local streets. It felt lovely and warm.

“Here you can actually anticipate the ski-ing from your view when you wake up.” the manager announced before he left them, “The room faces east so you will get the morning light.”

They were putting clothes away in drawers when Laura discovered the snowglobe in a bottom draw within the wardrobe along with the spare pillows. She took it gleefully,

“Look at this….. I wonder why it was stuffed away in the drawer. It’s so pretty…….”

And, Pete had to agree, although it was larger than most examples they’d seen, and required two hands to shake it, which Laura did stirring up a whirl of snowflakes which settled to reveal a mountain, a tiny village at its foot and some miniature people bustling around. Laura blew the dust off it and set it on what was obviously a former mantelpiece opposite the foot of the bed.

“It’s lovely,” she commented. “I wonder why it was hidden away.”

She looked curiously at it and then they left to go for a walk and drinks and dinner downstairs.

They spent the next two days ski-ing and enjoying themselves and paid little attention to the new addition to the mantelpiece. Then, coming back on the second day, the snowglobe was missing only for Laura to re-discover it in its original hiding place and restore it to the mantelpiece. This rigmarole was repeated over the next two days after which Laura declared,

“The chambermaids must be moving it, but I don’t understand why they can’t leave it alone. It’s so lovely and it looks just like the village here. I think I’ll ask the manager.”

And so she did when they went down for dinner. Herr Altmeier looked at Laura with what Pete thought was an evasive look before he answered, rather abruptly, Pete thought,

“Do you mean one of those models of a winter scene in a plastic covering? The toys that you shake and they create fake snow that settles? Ja, we had one but I do not know where it went – perhaps it was put in the drawers in your room. We are a modern progressive hotel and we don’t want old-fashioned children’s toys on display. I will speak to the room staff about it.”

Later, over a drink in the bar, Pete commented to Laura,
“If Herr Altmeier is so dead against “children’s toys” as he puts it, why is the globe being put away so regularly in the same old place? Why not just sell it off or give it to a children’s home.…”

On the Friday, the weather turned grey and overcast with flurries of snow and the couple decided not to go ski-ing but to explore the village and its shops. Before they went out, Laura realised she’d forgotten her sunglasses and went back to fetch them from the room where she encountered the maid.

“Gruss Gott,” the maid nodded and Laura went to fetch her sunglasses then realised the snowdome had been moved again.

“Excuse me, but where is the snowglobe?” Laura enquired.

“Entschuldigung?” the maid enquired.

“The model of the village, with the artificial snow…. Sorry, I don’t speak German,” Laura replied rather embarrassed.

“Ah, the model….” the maid answered in passable English looking rather embarrassed. “We are ordered to remove it from sight as it does not fit with image of hotel. Herr Altmeier’s orders….. He would get rid of it but it has been here for many, many years so I and the other staff keep it hidden as we do not think it proper to remove it. It belonged to the family that owned the original inn here back in the olden times.”

And with that she scurried off into the bathroom and Laura retreated to the lobby to rejoin Pete from whence they essayed forth for a day’s shopping and a nice lunch. All the while the sky turned darker and the snow continued to fall, although mainly over the higher peaks of the mountain.

“The weather isn’t so good?” Pete had questioned the waiter at lunch.

“Nein….. Is abnormal….. very abnormal….. Snow on the mountain tops but not here in village.” He seemed to shiver and moved on.

Later that afternoon, when the couple came back to the hotel, Laura took the snowglobe out of the drawer in the wardrobe and noticed a change in the globe itself. It had become very dark and when Laura shook it, the snow hardly stirred settling to one side of the globe on what appeared to be the representation of the mountain overlooking the village. The whole scene had become foreboding as, indeed, had the weather in the locality which seemed eerily to be be following the changes in the globe. By the time the couple went down to dinner the night outside seemed inky black and less activity than usual to be seen through the windows.The main street, usually thronged with locals and holiday makers was virtually deserted

“It seems very quiet in the village out there tonight,” Pete observed to the maitre d’hote.

“Ja. Unfortunately, the weather is not so good tonight. I think we may have a very heavy snowfall and people are a bit nervous.”

“Nervous of what?” Pete replied. “You need snow, after all, for the ski-ing.”

“Ja, but could be a little bit too heavy, perhaps.” The maitre d’h looked nervous. “Would you like your table? We have fewer than expected guests tonight and it would be good to close the kitchen a bit early. A reward for our loyal staff…..”

Dinner was served much quicker than usual with the staff scurrying around seemingly anxious to finish the dinner service and to tidy up the restaurant and lay up for breakfast as quickly as possible. By ten o’clock everything was quiet. Laura and Pete looked out of the front of the hotel and everything seemed so deathly quiet in the village which was unusual, so they retired for an early night.

On getting back to their room, Laura looked at the snowdome and realised it had changed again with the whole village scene in darkness but with the “snow” roiling away up on the mountain.

“You know, I think the village is frightened of something,” Laura said nervously. “The scenes in the dome have been getting more and more unusual today, just as the village has gone unusually quiet.”

Pete peered at the dome curiously and, after thinking, he said quietly,

“Just a rather spooky thought….. Is the dome is predicting something and the villagers know it. I think this snowdome is more than just a toy….. And maybe Herr Altmeier knows that and that’s why he tries to hide it.”

“What do you mean, more than just a toy?” Laura looked concerned.

“Maybe, it’s predictive….. Magical somehow. Let’s face it, pretty though it is, it’s very old and it’s a bit bigger than most snowdomes. And it seems to represent the village pretty accurately in a funny sort of way.”

Pete strode to the back window and looked up towards the mountain top – but nothing. Just inky blackness. He went back to the snowglobe and picked it up, looking curiously at it. He turned it over revealing a brass plate with indecipherable writing on it which he showed to Laura. When he turned it back over, nothing had changed.

“You know, Pete,” I’m scared she said. “Something’s going to happen.”

“Let’s go to bed,” Pete said, “we’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

About four o’clock in the morning, they were aroused from their fitful sleep by a huge roaring sound and the building shaking as if an earthquake were in progress. After a few minutes the roaring and shaking stopped, to be replaced by icy stillness punctuated by the sounds of odd crying or wailing outside. Pete leapt out of bed and peered into the darkness as there were no lights to be seen anywhere. He felt his way back to their bedside table and located his torch before going to look out of the window.

“OMG,” he exclaimed, ”I think there’s been an avalanche. Can’t see much except masses of snow up to the first floor, I think….. Some people emerging but really too dark…. But I think best to get dressed perhaps in ski gear as I think it could get cold. Let’s see if we can help……”

They quickly discovered there was no electricity so they dressed as best they could and then made their way gingerly down the stairs in – along with other guests – to the lower floors to find the hotel mostly safe – although the force of the avalanche had stoved in some windows and doors to let icy snow in. Herr Altmeier was surveying the scene using a lantern with some live-in staff, including the maid Laura had met.

“Can we helpl?” Pete asked.

“Nein…. Danke…. We have to wait to be dug out but it could be a while. The emergency services will be busy soon lower down the village. The smaller dwellings will suffer most. Let us have some coffee whilst we wait. I think the butane cookers still work. We cannot go out at this moment.”

After a while drinking coffee, making small talk and warming themselves round a fire they managed to light, Laura asked,

“Herr Altmeier….. Tell me honestly about the snowglobe.”

Altmeier regarded her with horror.

“Please, tell me…. Or you,” she glanced at the maid. “There’s something about it…..”

After a silence he looked at the maid and when she nodded, he began the story.

“Many years ago this hotel was an inn for the locals and the odd rare traveller. Up here I don’t suppose they got many of those before ski-ing took off. In the seventeenth century, the inn was owned by the Schwarzer family – yes the name has significance – as they all were reputed to be of the devil’s kind. They were known as sorcerers, as well as innkeepers, but one – Hugo Schwarzer – was reputed to make objects that could foretell the future, although they were almost all lost in the twentieth century.”

“Almost all…..?” Laura cut in, perhaps sensing where the conversation was going.

“Ja, there was a snowglobe that could predict the near future. It has predicted several disasters to befall the village – rock falls, harvest failures and avalanches….. But never ever good things. We have tried to put it away but somehow it could not leave the site of the inn. We have given it away several times but it has always managed to return.”

“So what is the strange writing on the brass plate on the back?” Pete asked.

“No-one knows,” Altmeier replied. “We believe it is probably some cursed magicians’ script.”

“Right, that’s it. Enough…..” Pete announced determinedly and marched upstairs taking an ice-pick from the hall with him.

Once in the room, he seized the globe, opened the window and attacked it with the pick. The glass covering was thick but as soon as he began his assault the globe started to whirl with a dark malignant presence, but Pete kept up the assault until the glass cracked and finally broke. With that a black apparition with evil yellow eyes mushroomed in front of Pete until Pete drove the icepick into the shadowy figure which gave out a bone-chilling, ear-piercing shriek then vanished into the cold crisp air of the valley.

“What was that terrible shriek? It frightened the life out of us,” Laura asked when Pete returned downstairs.

“The ghost of Hugo Schwarzer going to meet his doom,” Pete replied. “Herr Altmeier, a large brandy please.”

What Grandparents tell you

The museum was packed with giggling schoolchildren, jostling together to look at the exhibits on display.
Niamh turned round to make sure the twins  Declan and Aiden, were following and told them to keep close. At seventeen they thought they were too old to be seen with their parents.
Mike, her husband, was reading the guide book that  their eldest son, Colm had given him, his eyebrows raised and his mouth hanging open.

He turned to her and said in a low voice, ‘This Rasputin fellow seems to have been some sort of Casanova’.

Niamh rolled her eyes and stared at the picture of a man with a lot of facial hair.

‘He looks a bit like a leprechaun with that beard. What does it say about him?’

Aiden came up and peered over his shoulder.

‘Bit big for a leprechaun, he was massive.

Come on dad, what does it say, it all sounds a bit lewd.’

Mike cleared his throat and put on his best teacher’s voice.
‘”Rasputin was a Siberian religious mystic who became attached to the Tsar’s family as a healer to their young, hemophiliac son.” Things all got a bit out of hand when he became too attached to the Tsarina Alexandra.’

There was a snort from Declan, ‘Well if she was anything like Irina I can see why, these Russian girls are really hot.’

For the first time that day Niamh felt herself relax.  She had felt in need of some light relief.
‘Irina is lovely, and you’re right the girls here are very attractive. The guide we had at the Winter Palace was lovely, my heart ached when she told us about the Siege of St. Petersburg, how her grandfather had passed on so many terrible stories of survival, licking the glue of the wall paper in desperation.’

She was surprised to feel Aiden put his arm around her, he normally shrugged her away these days.
‘Oh mum, you’re so sensitive, it’s your special relationship with the little people, with the leprechauns. Don’t you remember when we had to revive you with a glass of vodka after we’d been to Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam?’

Niamh smiled at his attempt to cheer her up, ‘I think it was tomato soup, not vodka Aiden.’

It was true about the leprechauns though, but she’d keep that to herself. She knew her family would laugh at her. When she was a little girl she spent her summers in Rosscarbery with her beloved Nanna Fianna.
As they watched the beautiful sunsets Nanna would tell her stories of troubled times, of war and strife, of brave men who tried to change life for the better and how women would help their men and protect their children. Walking along the stunning sandy beaches and watching the ebb and flow of the water nanna would make her believe in rainbows and crocks of gold, treasures waiting for whoever looked hard enough.

After Nanna passed on, Niamh’s mother Kyla had never wanted to go back to Ireland and soon after Niamh had met Mike at the school where she taught Art. She looked across at Mike who looked up from the guide book and grinned at her.

‘There’s so much to learn about Russian history, up till now I only knew about Doctor Zhivago and the cold war from James Bond films.’

Declan laughed and slapped his father on the back,

‘Good old dad, you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the Russians. Grandad told us that if the Germans had won the Battle of Stalingrad, it’s now called Volgograd, he’d have been done for it. The Sergeant Major, or whatever he was, told them to grab whatever weapon they could, to defend themselves when the enemy arrived, all Grandad had, was a mallet and a spanner.’

Mike gaped at his usually taciturn son in amazement, ‘How on earth do you know that? He’s never told me.’

Aiden shrugged his shoulders, ‘Maybe you never asked him, dad.’

Niamh looked at her watch, ‘I think we’d better get going. Colm said they were coming to meet us outside this museum at 3pm and it’s nearly time.’

The gardens of the museum were beautiful and as they sat and waited for Colm in the warm June sunlight, Niamh reflected on what had brought them all here. She and Mike had been so thrilled for Colm when he landed his job at the National Gallery and was put on the team in charge of the painting by Titian from the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. They’d all been swept along by his enthusiasm and listened enthralled as he talked about the painting called ‘The Flight into Egypt’. It had been bought by Catherine the great in 1768.
Irina had been on the Russian team and when Colm brought her home to meet them they had all been enchanted.

At Christmas Colm had asked Irina to marry him and now they had all come to St. Petersburg to meet her parents and see where she had grown up. They had had a quick tour of the city and were going for lunch with Irina’s parents.

There was a shout from Declan as he caught sight of his brother and then they were being introduced to Irina’s parents Vasily and Oksana.

Irina and Colm acted as interpreters as they were taken to a restaurant that served typical Russian food. They held hands and smiled at each other, delighted to have their families together.
Plates of caviar, salmon baked in pastry, salads and vegetables appeared on the table.
Declan and Aiden drained the small glasses of vodka with relish, for once Mike and Niamh relaxed their drinking rules. They learned to say cheers and good health in Russian, smiling broadly.
At the end of the meal Vasily stood up and raised his glass saying how happy he was that his daughter had found a man that loved her, that shared her passion for Art. Then men moved towards the bar area and declan and Aiden followed. Irina and Colm held hands and went to the small dance floor.

Niamh squeezed Oksana’s hand and smiled at her warmly. She spoke slowly so Oksana could understand.

‘You have a beautiful daughter Oksana, I am so happy she will be my daughter-in-law.
You also have a beautiful city. There is so much beauty, but also pain, I feel it you know.’
She paused, maybe she was confusing Oksana who watched with a furrowed brow, but when she spoke it was in a whisper and in clear English.

‘I feel it too, Niamh. I know you have visited The Rasputin Museum.’ Oksana sighed and their was pain and sadness in her voice.

‘My babushka saw him you know, she saw it all. That night she couldn’t sleep and was watching from her window. I have not told Irina about that night, it is not good to burden the young with painful tales, it is better that they have light hearts.’

Tears sprung to Niamh’s eyes and she put her arms round Oksana. There was such warmth and kindness in the embrace, two women from different worlds feeling the burden of the past and wanting to protect their young.

Niamh looked up to see Mike looking at her, she smiled at him, reassuring him that all was well.

Maybe one day soon she would have grandchildren, she might even take them to Rosscarbery and tell the stories that Nanna told her about the troubles there,  about what she had seen from her window. It was all a long time ago now.
She knew she would tell them about the leprechauns, about looking for a pot of gold. She would tell them how she had lost her father when very young and her mother had never got over it. She would tell them about how meeting Mike was like coming home, how happy he had made her, how important it was to make a happy home for your children.

Declan and Aiden appeared in front of her. They held out their hands to Oksana and her.

‘Come on you two, let’s join Colm and Irina on the dance floor.’

The two women looked at each other, smiling. They understood each other more than any language could express.

Vera – Feb 17 competition entry

Julian pulled the door open right up to the stopper in an exaggerated welcoming gesture.

“Guten Abend Vera!” he said.

After seeing Vera shuffle towards the threshold with her walking stick for half a second, Julian leapt towards her holding out his hand.

“Vielen Dank Herr Gartlberg. Always the gentleman!” she said, with her trembling hand struggling to hold onto Julian’s.

Theresa, Julian’s wife, giggled in the hallway.

“You look so well today, Frau Vera!” said Theresa.

“You are a poor liar, Frau Gartlberg, but thank you for your kindness.”

Julian and Theresa looked at one another, acknowledging in silence that Theresa’s compliment was an untruth.

“Well I’ll take your coat, shall I, Frau Vera?” asked Julian.

He helped to tug off the heavy fur coat that with Vera’s stooped and declining frame looked like it might swallow her up one day soon.

“I have been meaning to tell you for some time that it is a beautiful coat,” said Theresa.

“Thank you,” said Vera. “I got it on my last visit to St Petersburg, or Leningrad as they call it in public.”

Julian laughed. “Well you don’t have to with us.”

“Thank you,” said Vera. “I may have a wavering sense of smell but I can notice a delicious scent coming from your kitchen.”

“Ah, that would be Theresa’s Kasnockn,” said Julian, “she cooks them with the traditional Pinzgau recipe.”

“Come please, Frau Vera,” he continued. “This way to the dining room.”

“Now we have a Riesling and a Pinot Gris,” Julian said, squinting to try to gauge Vera’s reaction. He saw no change in her wrinkled but sturdy small round face. “Apfelschorle and spring water too, if you so prefer.”

“Riesling will suffice, thank you,” said Vera. Julian waited for a smile from her to follow the remark but non came.

“Are you sure, Frau Vera?”

“Most certainly!”

“Right you are, I’ll be back in a few seconds.”

After three minutes of chatting in the kitchen, Julian returned with an uncorked bottle of Riesling. He was shadowed by Theresa carrying a steamy dish of Kasnockn.

“It’s from the Züggler winery in Burgenland,” said Julian, pouring the wine into Vera’s glass.

He faced her and noticed her gaze was focused on the record player in the corner of the dining room. Her lack of squinting indicated a strong eyesight for a lady of her age.

“Would you like it if we play some background music?” Julian asked.

He walked straight to the record player without waiting for an answer.

“I bought a recording of the last New Year’s Concert when we visited Anna in Vienna last month,” Julian said, opening a cupboard.

“And how is Anna?” asked Vera.

“She’s fine,” said Theresa. “She doesn’t seem to be taking her studies all too seriously, but it’s just the first year, and she’s enjoying the life in Vienna.”

Vera laughed, before taking her first sip of wine. “Good, good. Youth is a thing to be cherished!”

Julian turned around, and was about to say something, but decided against it, instead returning to look for the record.

“Has she been to the Staatsoper yet?” asked Vera. “Swan Lake is being performed there at the moment and the producer is known to me. An absolutely wicked man!”

Julian laughed.

“Anna seems to enjoy more the smaller and less traditional venues where the musicians have long hair,” he said.

Julian placed the record beside the player and lifted a vinyl from underneath the needle that he placed back in a colourful sleeve.

“What’s that?” asked Vera.

Julian turned around with an open mouth.

“That record, I mean?” she said.

“Oh – this is one of Anna’s. She was at home last weekend. Ja, Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band by the Beatles – pardon my poor English. Have you heard of the Beatles?”

Vera flinched.

“Darling, Frau Vera is a famous musician, of course she knows the Beatles,” Theresa said. She went red in the face, despite herself being surprised that Vera’s knowledge of popular culture appeared every bit as other parts of her mind.

“Oh of course, Frau Vera,” said Julian. “Perhaps you would like to listen to the Beatles then?”

“No, I would prefer the New Year’s Concert please, Herr Gartlberg.”

Julian put the record on. Relieved that the misunderstandings at the record player were over, he sat down to the table. He was optimistic that the soft crackled sounds of Strauss would smooth over any further gaps of understanding between the Gartlbergers and their elderly neighbour.

Theresa dished out the Kasnockn and the trio took hold of their cutlery.

“And does Anna like this Ivan…oh what’s his name, Ivan – the main man in the Beatles with the spectacles.”

Julian looked at Theresa, with his glance pleading for her to be the one to correct Vera.

“John Lennon?” Theresa asked.

“Oh yes. That’s his name. Did I call him Ivan? How silly of me. I was thinking of the Russian name for John.”

“Anna has a poster of him and his wife at her student apartment,” said Julian.

“Does he still have a beard?” asked Vera.

“He does,” says Theresa. “I should say I prefer him without it though.”

“He looks a little like a mad monk,” says Vera. “Kind, I would say, but a little mad.”

“Anna is rather enthusiastic about some of his ideas.”

Vera gulped some food and helped herself to another sip of Riesling.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to remind me of what his ideas are,” said Vera, “I do get a tiny bit forgetful these days.”

“Well, I think the whole of the Beatles spent some time associating with Eastern mysticism in India,” said Theresa. “In particular the Hare Krishna movement, which is a kind of Buddhist cult I believe.”

“Anna took us to a Hare Krishna restaurant in Vienna,” said Julian, opening his eyes wide while looking at Vera. “They served no meat at all.”

“That must be very easy on the stomach,” said Vera.

“Yes, but the waitress looked like she had not washed her hair in years,” said Theresa.

“Hmm,” said Vera. “Well I suppose one doesn’t have to be in a cult to avoid meat, one can just enjoy Kasnockn.

Vera laughed and raised her wine glass to her lips. Both Julian and Theresa laughed out of politeness.

“But tell me,” said Vera, resting her fork on her plate “what does he believe in?”

“Well,” said Julian. “Peace and happiness mostly, through the ending of wars, perhaps by smoking some exotic weeds too.”

“All good ideas,” said Vera. “Especially after what has happened to both our countries in our lifetimes.”

“Yes, except I’m not quite sure how far the weeds advance this aim though.”

“Well, Herr Gartlberg, I can testify that 60 years ago at the Moscow theatres you could find the most invigorating Siberian herbs backstage. They would have the most beneficial impact on the mind.”

Theresa blushed. Julian placed his cutlery down.

“Well, Frau Vera, I don’t doubt you. But in the modern day there are also chemical drugs, and I believe that they have such a strong impact on the mind they can be rather debilitating.”

Theresa pushed some fragments of the cheesy noodle dish onto her fork while she stared at the plate. They had not told anyone their concerns about Anna’s confession of having taken LSD “once or twice” in Vienna.

“And what else does this man believe to make him so extraordinarily popular?” asked Vera.

“It’s funny you should ask that, Frau Vera,” said Julian, who was looking at Theresa, trying to establish eye contact as he knew what she was thinking. “As he recently released a song which explains his utopianism quite clearly – it’s a kind of manifesto of sorts.”

Vera circled the end of her fork in the air a couple of inches above her place to indicate for Julian to continue while she chewed.

“Its name is Imagine, which is English for Stell dir vor. I’m afraid I have no idea how you’d say that in Russian.”

“I understand from the English and German, thank you, Herr Gartlberg.”

“Yes,” said Julian, “well I believe the first line is something like ‘Imagine there are no countries as there would be nothing to die for’. Rather controversial words for many.”

“And a good sentiment,” said Vera, before continuing to chew.

“And then –“ said Julian. He paused having decided not to mention the line ‘Imagine there’s no heaven’ to a woman in the last years of her life.

“I think it continues more or less with that same pacifism,” he continued. “Oh there is also something about ‘Imagine there’s no possessions’”.

“So it’s complete Scheiße!” said Vera, prompting deep laughs from her two hosts. She took another gulp of wine.

“A little too much like communism for your liking?” asked Julian.

“A little too much like communism for the world’s liking,” said Vera. “Excuse me for talking politics, but that pacifism is a load of nonsense too.”

Julian looked at his wife in a silent request for permission to disagree with their guest.

“I think for me that is the one part of his message I find appealing,” he said. “Every time I think of the past, well, I wish that this is something our daughter’s generation does not have to experience.”

“Exactly!” said Vera, knocking her knife off the plate in a burst of excitement. “But to save all the innocent people, the evil ones must die!”

Theresa leaned over to place the knife back on Vera’s plate and looked at Julian, raising an eyebrow at Vera’s awkward outburst.

“How do you find the Kasnockn? They’re not too creamy for you, are they?” Theresa asked.

“I like them just fine, Frau Gartlberg, thank you. But think about what I say, not just in the context of the ranting of an old lady. If you had been in alive in Vienna when Hitler studied there, and you recognised his evil, would you have killed him to spare the world?”

“That is a question you hear discussed on the television set, and a most intriguing question too,” said Julian.

“And what do they say?” asked Vera.

“Well, I believe it’s a very difficult question. Of course you never know a guilty man is guilty until he commits a crime, so – “

“Okay,” said Vera, interrupting, “but when a man is in circles of power already, and you can see his evil intentions and actions. That’s a different story.”

“You’re quite right, Frau Vera, it is a different story,” said Theresa, hoping flattery might end the debate.

“Exactly!” said Vera, hitting the table with a thump that shook the plates and left Julian open-outed.

“When I get to have my little sit down with St. Peter shortly, just like I’m sitting here with you today, I shall tell him I do not regret it,” said Vera.

“I’m sure you have nothing you need to regret, Frau Vera,” said Julian.

“Ah but for a long time I thought, did that man deserve to die? It was too late to save our monarchy. But then I realised we should have done it sooner.”

Julian and Theresa were unable to disguise their anxiety as they looked at one another.

“That is a very valid point you make, Frau Vera, thank you for bringing this topic to our attention,” said Julian, reaching out to grab Vera’s wrist.

Ach Entschuldigung, did I not tell you my secret before?” said Vera.

Julian shrugged his shoulders this time when looking at Theresa, who shook her head to indicate she had no idea either what to say or do.

“I am so sorry, sometimes I mix faces in my memories, I believe it’s my aging neurones,” said Vera, taking another deep sip of Riesling.

Theresa reddened in the face and Julian smirked as he tried to communicate to his wife without speaking that Vera had insisted on wine despite his reservations.

“It was the most exciting thing I have done in my life – helping to plot kill a man.”

Theresa gulped and put her hand to her mouth to stop some food dropping out in surprise.

Julian opened his mouth but had no idea what to say and closed it again.

“My job was simple enough but exhilarating nonetheless. To talk to him and watch to see him finish his cup of poisoned wine. There was another young actress there, Marianna Erikovna, and we talked about some of the sins that went on in the theatre circuit. Gosh, he had some incredible powers to him, it is true – he would make you talk about things you would not dream to share with your closest friends. All the time you would think ‘I shouldn’t be saying that’ but you still couldn’t stop yourself.”

Theresa arranged her knife and fork on her plate having decided she’d finished.

“ ‘Do not be afraid, there is no redemption without sin’ I remember him saying, and through those eyes, well, you could see those thoughts were coming from a deeper place than the thoughts of you or I. He was no mere imposter or charlatan, I can tell you that for certain, Herr Gartlberg – he was the devil himself!”

Theresa turned her gaze to look out of the window at the bare trees of the dull November afternoon. That left Julian with the thankless role of maintaining eye contact with Vera to show he was listening.

“Oh there was a sweet feeling in that study as we saw him finishing his cup. Knowing that this would be his last minutes on earth. Of course not even we could have imagined that a hefty dose of cyanide would fail to do the job.”

Julian smiled at the level of detail Vera was providing in her fanciful story.

“So the count shot him. We all cheered and thought that was that, but when he arose and barged his way out of the palace in a rage, we were astounded. The devil doesn’t die easily, Herr Gartlberg. He was shot again and stabbed outside, and I believe the frozen canal water did for him in the end.”

Theresa peered over at the plate that Vera had left untouched while recounting her tale.

“Have you finished your Kasnockn, Frau Vera?” she asked.

“Yes, why thank you,” said Vera.

“I’ll take your plate then,” she said. She and Julian collected the dishes and carried them through to the kitchen.

The pair deposited the dishes in the sink, and Julian closed the door.

“Look, about the wine –“ he said.

“No, darling, it’s my mistake,” said Theresa, interrupting, “I should never have invited our mad old neighbour over for dinner.”

“Well, at least it hasn’t been too dull,” said Julian, giggling as quietly as possible.

Theresa lent against the door and closed her eyes as the laughter overtook her.

“My God – wasn’t that the death of Rasputin she just claimed an involvement in?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so,” said Julian, “she must have played that role in a performance at some stage. The poor confused woman.”


Note:

This story is based on Vera Karalii: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vera_Karalli

How unfortunate it is that she left the world only as a ‘reported’ conspirator in the death of Rasputin, over 50 years after that event.

I wonder what the reporters in Austria in the 60s were doing failing to interview her. Then again, some things are perhaps best kept as a mystery.