The Girls.© Ceri Williams

But it was a dark place anyway.With something behind the

door.She was carrying the big china doll, all on her own even

though it was as big as her.The eyes moved.Thick blonde

lashes stuck to eyes that popped open, popped shut.She would

flick them with her fingers for a long time because the dolly

loved her to do so.

The dolly was called Fenna. Which was a bit cheating, because

Fenna lived with her.Mummy and daddy and Lemonade the

man who worked for them in the garden and kitchen rooms,

couldn’t see Fenna.

That was good .

Yes it was.

because Fenna was a bad girl.But she loved Rachel and slept

with her and helped her eat the potatoes and things.

Fenna and her would go for walks.And then she got in trouble

from Lemonade because daddy had said to keep her inside the

big walls of the garden room.But Fenna was a wriggly worm

and she could get through the bits, without walls.

stepping it up

Despite having finished the novel..oh let me see....a year ago?..despite sending it off to strangers behind desks and secretaries called Brenda that not even a military initiative could sway..despite uploading it to that vast labyrinth of books known as Amazon where it sank smugly rated 800,000 on the top seller list(hmm)...despite all this I have not yet sunk to the depths of despair.

Instead I have squirmed deeper into an assessment of self publishing.It would appear to me that this very definitely is the route to take.Albeit it one littered with e -book deaths and sod all reviews.What it offers is a freedom.From the rigidity of agents,publishers, and set genre models.A freedom to have control over the words I produced.The ideas that came to my deep in the night when I was distracted from sleep by a fly walking upside down on the ceiling.Clever fly.I have dispensed with grammar and punctuation.Such a strain trying to remember where to put this ' or these .... or one of them !

So regardless of the fact that I have sold a few copies of the novel whose ending had me sobbing un-controllably for days(bit dramatic that)I am content that not one hair on the head of my precious tome was harmed in its making.(Should there be one of these in its ' ?) And I shall ensure that this safety net applies to the other 5 lovelies that are being birthed this year.

Praise be to the "e".

© The Girls by Ceri Williams.
©Augustina by Julien Martinez

waterstains

Upon a paper there are streaks.sepiad and shallow.Yet they drip.long slow fat swallows that end up in their nadir.Are we bowstrings that quiver as the archers short fingers wrap themselves curling around a shaft?
am I an arrow.
not at all.
I have no passage that I will trail.

the man in the moon

The man in the moon creeps in through your curtain my darlingest of friends.He taps on your pillows to make sure they are cool beneath your cheek.He slowly turns back your covers so the light can sail upon your shoulders.He has been there for you for so very long.And will always be ...

he

he is my beach
a singular roar of surf
dependant on the moon and its wanings
a scurry of pebbles that skitter away in refuge
a circumstance and accident
small things beneath my toes that curl and grasp and hold
indeed
he
is

strawberry lip balm

I was a child and I met a woman. She had strawberry lip balm.She listened to Three Dog night.She made posters that said "Eat grass ,3 million cows can't be wrong."
We went to see Godspell.They fell in love with  her while she fell in love with a beautiful dusk coloured man.
She knew all and beyond.
She took so many photographs.They sepia with time.Unlike my memories that I tip into small wine shaded jars and stack in my cupboard.
I smoked her mothers' menthol cigarettes.
She baked cookies for the men who came down from the hauntings of the mountains.
She left.
I visited.
And in an age so very long ago, her husband held aloft a very small child and said
"Ceri- meet Meg " ...

Tinfoil

life affects us all.It is a series of speed bumps or buttlehs that seeks to switch our progress. if we view our life as a roll of cling film- see through fragile and ultimately flammable- then we are doomed upon the shelves of endless supermarket chains.

However if we purchase a jumbo roll of tin foil in which we enmesh ourselves..the flames will not catch us.We remain within the juices of which we are made.The secret is in the recipe..surely ...