Today I painted Tony’s tomb.

Today I painted Tony’s tomb.

Why?

Well, here in Greece people are buried fast. Often less than 24 hours after death. Every village has a cemetery and every cemetery has a few ‘common’ graves. Most people are buried in family tombs, but these common graves serve for strangers: visitors and foreigners.

When Tony died in July there was one vacant grave in our village cemetery, so I was able to have him buried close by.

The law here says that a grave cannot be opened for at least 3 years. After that time a body in a common grave is removed and re-interred in a family tomb or in an ossuary (bone store) if the family is poor. The common graves are re-used and so get a little scruffy.

I decided it was time to spruce Tony’s grave up a bit. He already has a great pot with silk flowers (real ones wither in an hour or two in the summer heat here) and a potted plant. He also has an incense burner and an all-weather oil lamp (must-haves if you want to keep in with local custom).
Next week his name stone will be ready to go on. In order to get the grave ready for that event I gave it a coat of acrylic white this morning.

You would have laughed to see me. I picked a Sunday morning because that’s the quietest day in the graveyard. These common graves are all together forming one monolithic slab. Tony’s is the 3^rd one in a row of 4. I had to crawl across Giorgio's next door then along Tony’s tomb on my hands and knees to get the job done.

Imagine a middle-aged English woman wriggling backwards over a large concrete box, wire brush in one hand and paint brush in the other, while my dog sits and stares at me as if I’ve gone completely crazy. Fortunately my timing was perfect and nobody saw me.

By the time I’ve finished Tony’s temporary resting place will look respectable. It will be used again when Tony’s remains are moved on to a new tomb in the planned graveyard extension.

Then he will have a smart marble tomb with room for me, no painting required.

Coughing and Spluttering

Up to 9300 and 81 whole words now. WhoopdeDoo! I'll make a novelist yet, maybe.

I'm honestly wanting to get on with writing, but the Fates seem to conspire against me. The ramifications of Tony's death still cough and splutter on every day. Buying him a tombstone from a stone mason who can't spell english names. Dragging along to the court to hear the Will being questioned by a local judge; with me not allowed to speak at all. Oh it's all good fun.

NaNoWriGloom

It's the 5th of November and I've not written more than 2000 words for NaNoWriMo so far.

I churned out the first chunk (see NaNoWriRoman blog) effortlessly on the 1st of the month, but since then I've decided I don't like the plot as it stands. So I've been p*ssing about instead of writing.

Why care about the plot? I ask myself. Nobody but me is ever gonna read it. That's the harsh truth.
Therefore today and tomorrow and every other day of November I'm just gonna bang out any old drivel that is even vaguely Romano-British Romance.

A Story to tell

Its time I tried writing again. I'm about to start NanoWriMo and see if I can churn out something novel length.

So far my production has been limited to short stories. I thought I'd start putting my stories on this blog.
If you happen to read any of them and like what you read , good.

Here's a recent one. A love story and tragedy because I'm still not over cheerful. The next one will be humourous.

THE HUNNISH PRINCESS

A great many years ago in the wild lands between Istanbul and Novgorod there once lived a beautiful and happy girl. This girl had no fine jewels but she had rich furs to keep her warm on horseback. She had no solid house but she had gaudy silks to decorate her tent.

She was a Hun, a girl who had sat her own saddle since she was four years old. She rode as well as any man and her skill with a bow was better than most.

Her name was Salska and it was her curse to be loved by two men.

The man who first loved her was called Basiat. He knew her from a child and all her life stayed always by her. So it was that he saved her from a fire. The fire destroyed all her belongings and killed her sister Maykor. Afterwards Basiat took Salska and her mother under his protection.

Despite his love Basiat never asked Salska to marry him, although at first her mother begged it. Basiat said someone so lovely deserved a young and virile partner. He was an ageing horse-master with burns that scarred his face, but he always cared for Salska and dreamed of her at night.

The other man in this girl's life was called Csaba and he was a handsome youth. Csaba had fine moustaches and far-seeing eyes.

After Salska came to his attention Csaba developed a habit that caused much giggling among the women of the clan. He began to hang around the tents, instead of sitting in the men's huddle. He would stand with hands jammed in his belt chatting to the old widows, while those deep eyes watched Salska's every move.

He grew to know all her ways. He sighed with envy when stray hairs fell across her face. He smiled because Salska stuck her tongue out when she strung her bow. He praised the speed with which she skinned rabbits. In short he fell in love with her.

Csaba was an elder son and likely to inherit the leadership of his clan, which made him a worthy suitor; so when he came to ask for Salska her mother sighed and agreed the dowry. There were no flaws in Csaba's nature, other than those of all young men and Salska was not in love with Basiat or anyone else. Therefore when at last Csaba summoned his courage and told her to marry him she accepted the decision.

But Maykor didn't.

Maykor, when living, had daily determined Salska's life. Maykor was the elder by an entire morning, having been born as Dawn rose while her twin hadn't struggled free of the womb until after Noon. Salska had never been allowed to forget this and she grew used to her sister's high-handed ways. Salska was easygoing by nature and biddable. Thus when Maykor died Salska simply waited for someone else to tell her what to do.

Marriage to Csaba suited Salska; her life was not much altered. When her new husband demanded her attention she gave it to him. When she had free time she played with the dogs and the babies.

Maykor had been unable to prevent the wedding, her spirit being now constrained in the body of a Golden Eagle, but she began to haunt Salska. There were many nights when Salska had strange dreams. She dreamt of flying far up in the sky to where the blue turned black, but her days were bound up with the tasks of women and she shrugged the dreams away.

In time Maykor's approach grew more direct. At every camp-site Maykor came to Salska and called her name. She flew past low and fast whenever Salska rode out. She sat on the poles of her sister's tent. She hopped after her sister when the girl collected berries. It didn't take long before Salska recognised the voice of her sister in the Eagle's cry.

"You must kill Csaba. He must die and you will get his gold. Then you can marry Basiat and be happy for my sake."

As Salska rode, sat and walked Maykor repeated this message; day after day. Her sister stopped her ears. Maykor grew ever more frustrated and increasingly angry. Whenever the clan made camp the Eagle would pester Salska continually and the other women began to mutter that she was bewitched.

To gain peace Salska eventually spoke to the bird. "I do not want to kill Csaba. He is a good husband to me. He loves me as he should. Men sing of his deeds. He gets much ransom and he brings me silken trophies. Why should I kill a good man?"

"You must kill him in order that you can marry Basiat. Csaba is too strong to die of a fever or a fight."

"But why do you want me to marry Basiat? He is kind and always thoughtful, but he is old and spends too much time with horses."

"Because I love him, you stupid girl. On the night of the fire I asked Basiat to come to our tent. I wanted to give myself to him. He is wise and gentle and I longed for soft hands on my skin; the likes of Csaba are always rough men."

"I still don't understand." said Salska "How could my marriage to Basiat help you? It would surely make you jealous to see me in his arms."

Maykor's voice softened with laughter. "Once you are married to Basiat we can exchange places. You have lived three summers since the fire. I want my turn."

Salska paled and could no longer bear the Eagle's fierce gaze.

"You must agree that it is only fair. You have a good man. Life as an Eagle has it's compensations, but I have longed for Basiat every day. I will give you only a short time to think for I have had too much brooding. Meet me tomorrow and I will instruct you how best to take Csaba's life."

The Eagle slipped sideways from it's perch then soared into the clouds above.

That night Salska could not find sleep. She lay in Csaba's arms while tears wetted her hair. Finally understanding drifted into her mind. She realised that she cared for Csaba; she wanted to give him sons. She loved her life and it was not her fault that Maykor was dead. She didn't want to do as Maykor ordered; she wanted to fight her sister.

Eventually Salska fell into a restless sleep, in which she dreamt of the Eagle's eyes boring into her and stealing her spirit. She cried out in terror and reached for Csaba, who woke and covered her face with kisses. Salska rubbed her breasts and moaned. He grunted and pulled her to him and their love-making was very sweet that night.

Before daylight Salska was awake again. She had determined to seek Basiat and enlist his help. Quietly she crawled from the bed but Csaba woke.

"Come back to my arms Pretty, it's still early." He patted the furs.

"No, no my Love. I must wash myself. There is a rite this morning for a woman sick in her blood." she said.

Csaba sighed, there was often women's business. He lay down again but he was uneasy. He said nothing as she dressed, but he noted how she stole away through the tent-flap like a thief. Csaba decided to follow her.

"Basiat Basiat." Salska walked around the ring of horses calling for him. A figure pushed through the steaming flanks.

"Why are you here?" He asked soft and smiling.

She clutched at Basiat and said through tears " My sister wants me to kill Csaba. Come with me please and speak with her;I fear her reason has gone. You can talk with horses, perhaps you can talk sense to a bird." Then Salska hurried off towards the rock where she had last seen the Eagle.

Basiat frowned but he followed her; he'd heard the women's talk. She was hurrying ahead, but he dropped farther back when he saw the Eagle swoop, then settle on a crag. It's voice, the voice of Maykor came clear to him.

"Ah sister, you are prompt, good; let's to work. Look on the ground and you'll see a mound of berries, poisonous but kind. Mix these in Csaba's beer and he'll not notice. He will sleep deep enough so you can smother him."

"When Csaba dies what then? What happens next?" Salska asked loud enough for Basiat to hear.

"Then you raise the alarm and say your husband choked on his beer. I do not want you blamed for this. Cry bitter tears, rend your clothes and when Csaba is cold go to Basiat and declare your love. At that point you and I will change places. I shall have Basiat and you shall soar above my wedding feast."

Basiat had heard enough, he left his hide at a run and shouted. "No, you cannot do this Maykor.I have never loved you; I love Salska. I shan't let you harm her."

The Eagle screamed." Treacherous bitch!" and flew directly at Salska's face with talons spread.

Basiat pounced. He grappled with the bird, seizing it by one foot and stabbing at it with his knife. Salska struggled to get free.

The shrilling of the Eagle ended abruptly as an arrow sang its way into the melee.

All movement was caught in a hearts beat.

Then the bird fell to the ground, with Basiat's knife sticking in it's breast.

Salska remained on her feet only because Basiat held her upright; blood running from the arrow in her back.

Csaba rushed up, his bow dropping from his hand. "My lovely Bride, how could she plot my death with you Horsemaster?"

He pulled Salska into his embrace."I loved you always Salska. Pity me for I still do."

The girl's eyes focussed and she whispered.

"I never loved you till last night. Forgive me Dearest. But I never loved Basiat at all.."

Basiat said "She speaks the truth, as we all must at point of death. It's true I loved her but Salska never looked my way.

"Maykor did offer herself to me, but she had no value in my eyes. I rejected her and it soured even her new life." He touched the bronze feathers caught in Salska's hair and bit hard on his lip.

On the funeral day the men stood a long while around the grave. Salska was lain in the ground wearing her wedding gown. Her mother placed evergreens all around her. Csaba laid gold leaf on her breast; Basiat spread the Eagle's body over Salska with it's wings stretched out protectively.

Then Basiat cut his beard and the mane from his mare and dropped these offerings onto the corpses. He said "In future lives may they both be always happy. I look forward to our next meeting" then he turned his face away.

Next Csaba slashed his arm and gobbets of his blood dripped on the ground. "This woman shall be mourned without tears but I give my blood in token of our reunion."

He gave an order for the grave to be filled. Basiat fetched the horses and the clan rode West.

StreetSweeper

I'm still here. I'm doing a lot of crying and a lot of thinking, but the writing won't come back.

I'd like to say something beatiful but everything that I think of is too trite for the feelings I have.

Please, bear with me.

StreetSweeper

StreetSweeper

On Saturday the 23rd of July my darling partner lost his fight with cancer.

I'm too numb to write or think.

Freshen to force 4

After too many weeks in the writing doldrums I've finally caught some wind in my sails.

This week so far I've written the first draft of a short story, a poem (see below) and I've half done two crucial scenes in 'The Novel'.
One scene is the major turning point for my hero . It comes about midway through the book. It's the point where a terrible event shocks him into re-evaluation and change.
The other scene deals with the failure of his hopes in the last pages of the story.

I shall now have three strong pegs to hang this novel on. I already have an outline, but that's a vague and changeable entity.
With these scenes I have an opening situation (a Hook, I hope), a crisis (with loads of dramatic effects cascading over the reader) and a satisfactory resolution(please God).

This may not be quite as significant as Virginia Woolf's
"Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.",but it feels GOOD.

I'm hoping for things to freshen up to a force 4.

“Seventy-six per cent of Finland is covered in trees.”

One vast firry blanket. How many trees is that?

I can’t do the maths. I never could, too many variables.

But I looked on a map and all the rest is wet.

So where would you find the folk?

Do they stand amid trees, arms pressed close at their sides, listening as the forest falls? Do Gnomes make sport and haunt poor woody Finns?

I don’t know. Can this be?

The map says people live in the South, where the water is.

Maybe up to their necks in lakes, catching fish in their mouths? While runic eels entwine their legs ?

Then again, perhaps not.

Whatever did happen to the humans; now, maddened Moomins work the factories, drink vodka and plot ‘The Doom of Europe’.

Nokian ringtones taking revenge for the lumber industry.

It's the little things

I've changed my template AGAIN!

I like this one because of the ancient, yellowed vellum look. It think it gives me gravitas and makes me feel like a right Pseud.
It's akin to the way that a new pair of shoes used to make me feel sexy; back in the days when I could wear high heels.
Expect more pretensions in the days ahead.

Just-a walkin' the Dawg

When I was working in daily thrall to frustration and stupefaction, dogwalking gave me energy. We lived in a busy seaside town so walking the empty coastland gave me space, the literal space of wide skies and 30 mile horizons. The dog seemed to find it life-enhancing too, although his view was concerned chiefly with bitch location. We'd find golfballs, chat to friends and fetch the papers. Both of us would return tails wagging, fit for the fray again.

Now, retired from the world but within sniffing distance, another dog and I totter over cretan hills.Walking here is more hazardous, you must skirt sheep shit and pick-ups to get off the tracks and explore through wire-locked fences. We get our kicks watching mobiles of clouds and light and chasing lizards. We imagine mythic creatures come to life and say 'Kalimera' to all and sundry, then we come home to rest.

Sometimes I get writing ideas while we walk, more often my mind empties the recycle bin. One morning will be calm and cool, with birdsong everywhere, another day will be dessicated by hot winds and dust gets in our eyes and noses.
Just recently we've had unseasonably late rains. For three days the dog and I splashed through puddles and watched the garden drown. Zeus came and roared from Psiloritis. When that was ignored he struck hard with lightning and power cut out across the island.
All this has greened up dead grasses and encouraged another round of mating and nest-building. Today we have warmth and light and flourishing weeds in the garden. The dog is catching up on her sleep.

I’ve done something useful.

The planning stage of my writing resembles one shakily planted footprint followed by another wobbly tread, rather like a drunk’s homeward trail through mud. It lurches along, but now and then I get to put the next step down on firm ground. Today is such a day.

I’ve been fretting over my hero’s character for three months. I know a lot about him, but I couldn’t decide what made him tick. I needed some episode in his life before he comes into the book that would rationalise his behaviour.

I tried various motives on him for size, but none of them fitted. I tried to change him into someone different, but then he wouldn’t fit in with any of the other characters.

It came to me this morning, and it was so bloody obvious that I nearly didn’t see what had happened then. My hero needed to have been hurt as a child, but he also needed to have erased that because he couldn’t live with it as an adult. He doesn’t know he’s damaged, that’s why he’s such a difficult person. No wonder the other characters don’t understand him or like him much.

But now I understand him; so I can love him and I can write him. That makes everything worthwhile. I'm a happy Bunny.

Chemo Crusader

The knight in rusty armour, fists clenched in pain, lies on his back, exposed.

His folfox’d shield upon his breast, the mighty sword Avastin at his side.

Fetched low by the monster, hobbled by the weapons handed him.

Not skilled in aggression, sometimes despair wins.

Grendel roars within and he has no answer.

It should be me on that embattled bed.

My teeth and claws are itching for the fight.

Does it weaken him if this frail damsel, leads the charge to rescue him?

My ferocity transfused would surge victorious through his veins.

But this fight is his alone, Poor Lover.

The Reason for this blog

Do I need a reason? I suppose I do, that's the kind of person I am. Therefore here are reasons.

I'm a writer in training. I've so far written half a dozen short stories and around 5 draft chapters for several different novels. I'm currently on the 'Only a Novel' two year writing effort over at fmwriters.com and I hope to get something finished that I'll feel good about.
I have read vast quantities of advice to would-be novelists that boils down to read, read, read and write, write, write, no matter how crap the product.
So rather than write and toss it all in the waste basket I decided to blog. (Is there a difference?)

In the unlikely event of anyone stumbling across StreetSweeper I should say that I am an OLD novice. Most writers starting out seem young and fresh and convinced that the world is waiting for their words . I am just hopeful.
If there are any other ancient scribes out there, Hail !

The Name of this blog

Many centuries ago in a far distant place.........
My Headmistress told me that I would "end up sweeping the streets, because you are nothing more than a Vandal." Little did she know.
I do sweep the street outside our house now. I live on Crete and in our village there is fierce competition in efficient removal of dust, olive leaves and food wrappers.
I am not up to the level of my neighbours, but I keep trying. I just thought you'd like to know, Miss White , that I've never forgotten your words and this blog is named in honour of you.