If writing is a performance art then I’m tap dancing in wellies.
Praying on the weak
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. It showed my lonely chambers, in the back of a cold church. It showed Alby Duncan and his daughter, Lucy, standing behind me. Alby had been a member of my flock so long that I remember Lucy being born. 19 years ago that was. It was always a delight to see them. Lucy smiled at me in the mirror. “Hello, Father Morris,” she says.
Hooptedoodle and Flim Flam
Nothing bothers me more as a writer and, more importantly, a reader, than hooptedoodle. We all do it. Vocal is rife with it. You do it, and you, and you at the back thinking this doesn’t mean you, you’re the worst for it, but we all perpetrate it under the mistaken apprehension that we’re “writing”. What is it? Do you need it if you don’t have it? Is it expensive? Am I actually doing it now? Take it away, Elmore Leonard:
Reader, if you’re here for my usual commentary on the week's events, then turn away now. This week's article is an altogether different beast. I was invited to experience a scientific breakthrough at the Somafree Institute, who were claiming to have discovered a way to communicate with animals.
The Bridge Across Time
Andrew Temperson was always early. Now approaching his mid-sixties he knew that time was no longer on his side, but he’d made peace with it. As Principal, for Newbury Middle School, he still led by example and arrived well before everyone else.