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A Patchwork of Stories
Di Lynn Fowler
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggereLunghezza: 256 pagine3 ore
- Editore:
- Lynn Fowler
- Pubblicato:
- Nov 9, 2018
- ISBN:
- 9780463817063
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
A Patchwork of Stories is the anthology of the best entries from Birdcatcher Books’ 2018 Short Story Competition. With 21 authors ranging in age from students to retirees, and in experience from novices to established and widely published writers, stories in this collection cover a wide variety of themes and genres. Some will move you to tears, some will bring laughter, some will prompt you to think more deeply about issues. All offer an enjoyable reading experience to which you will want to return time and again.
Informazioni sul libro
A Patchwork of Stories
Di Lynn Fowler
Lunghezza: 256 pagine3 ore
Descrizione
A Patchwork of Stories is the anthology of the best entries from Birdcatcher Books’ 2018 Short Story Competition. With 21 authors ranging in age from students to retirees, and in experience from novices to established and widely published writers, stories in this collection cover a wide variety of themes and genres. Some will move you to tears, some will bring laughter, some will prompt you to think more deeply about issues. All offer an enjoyable reading experience to which you will want to return time and again.
- Editore:
- Lynn Fowler
- Pubblicato:
- Nov 9, 2018
- ISBN:
- 9780463817063
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Lynn Fowler is the owner of Birdcatcher Books, through which she publishes her own books and some by other people. Birdcatcher Books also runs an annual writing competition and publishes an anthology of the best entries.
Correlati a A Patchwork of Stories
Anteprima del libro
A Patchwork of Stories - Lynn Fowler
BOOKS
INTRODUCTION
In 2018, Birdcatcher Books ran its fourth annual Short Story Competition. The stories in this anthology are the best out of the 77 entries received.
Stories in the competition are judged individually, with nothing but an entry number to link them to the author and his/her details. Because of this, some authors have more than one entry in the anthology.
First, second and third prize winners from each year’s competition are invited to become judges for the next year. Two of the winners from 2017 took up that offer (the third was going to be overseas, and will be a judge for a future competition.) Each judge assesses the stories on the basis of plot, characterisation, style, originality and reader appeal, awarding up to 20 points for each category, with a possible total of 100 points. The scores are then added and averaged to determine the placings.
No theme was set for the 2018 competition, and as a result the stories in this collection vary widely in theme and genre. Some will cause you to cry, some will cause you to laugh, and some will cause you to think about issues.
The authors also vary, from young students to retirees and from fledgling writers to widely published established authors. Part of my vision for Birdcatcher Books is to help new writers to launch on their writing journey, so I am particularly delighted to have them represented in this anthology.
I’m sure you will enjoy reading this book. If you do, please take a few moments to give its authors an extra boost by leaving a review on your favourite site, or sending us one to put on the Birdcatcher Books website.
Lynn Fowler
Publisher, Birdcatcher Books
October 2018
PATCHWORK
Christine Johnson
CHRISTINE JOHNSON
Christine Johnson lives in Sydney. Since 2012 her short fiction has won prizes and been published in numerous anthologies. In 2014 she completed her first novel and received a grant from Amplify your Art (administered by Accessible Arts on behalf of the NSW Government) to work with a professional editor improving the manuscript. In 2018 she has won first prize in Positive Words Short Story Competition and Second Prize in the Trudy Graham/Julie Lewis Literary Awards. Another story has been selected for the Geelong Writers Anthology. Commissioned to write an 8-part drama podcast, 7 Seconds, the series is headed towards production. She is working on a second full-length novel.
PATCHWORK
Everyone gathered at the house, stunned as stones. They sank into chairs, sighed, communed in low voices and broken sentences. Everything had happened so quickly. One minute Catherine was there, her usual energetic, chatty self. Now she was gone.
John felt he’d never get used to it. It was only three mornings since disaster struck, and each one the same. After a night’s welcome oblivion he woke, forced to confront reality. He reached out to the trough made by his wife’s body, only to find it vacant but still obvious, there on her side of the mattress. He tackled head-on the dawning in him of a world where his wife was absent, vanished forever. It was like jumping into a freezing ocean, sinking into bottomless depths. Thinking, Oh my God, here I am again. She’s dead and I’m alone. He wanted to press his face into the pillow and sleep, always.
But then, he was forgetting Luke. His son needed him. He forced his eyes open and dragged his reluctant limbs out of bed. Stretching, he steeled himself to get through another day.
Now he shuffled around, uncomfortable, out of place in his own home. One finger returned over and over to scratch the skin of his neck, chafed by a too-tight collar. Being here at such a time dressed in a suit and tie felt bizarre. It reminded him of that other, happier formal occasion when his heart pulsed with love and pride watching Catherine, so radiant, glide towards him. When he lifted her veil and saw the warmth in her glance, meeting his.
Today was hot, not suited to the formality of dark dress on show amongst family and friends crowded into the small space. Summer: the worst time for a funeral. Not that there could ever be a good time. An acceptable time to lose a wife, mother, daughter and every other role Catherine once fulfilled for those present.
Despite the turnout, John’s grief crept close and isolated him. He remained dazed by this unexpected blow to his life. It hit with such power that startled points of light danced before his eyes, a great ringing threatened to fill his ears. Raw sensations came at him from all directions, emotions he never knew existed. From quiet desolation to sheer inner chaos, he sensed himself fraying at the edges. I’m threadbare, he thought. Yes. Catherine would have understood that.
John glanced around the room. The clothing hues those at this event wore were grim and gloomy, associated with bereavement. Nothing like the colours Catherine favoured. He imagined her tilting her head to one side, her eye assessing an excess of black, grey, navy and dark green. A slight frown, before her eyes lit up. In an instant, she’d supplement those dark shades with generous dashes of scarlet, azure, emerald, cream and gold. Bright choices cleverly made.
To highlight a chosen theme,
she’d say with a smile.
That was Catherine and any creative idea she came up with. It would be sure to toss aside the words dominating today’s story. Sadness, shock, tears; they played little part in her cheerful and complex fabric concoctions. Even elements of her funeral service focused John’s thoughts away from the intended, towards what Catherine’s interpretation would have been. The mention of heaven jogged his memory back to an early piece of work she’d completed. A rich, blue fabric background covered on top with bold eight-pointed stars. When she finished it, she stood and held it up to show him. He recalled her smiling face, the tone of her voice. I know what I’ll call it. It’s like gazing up into an Endless Night Sky, see?
She said it made her whole, as if she had reached up into heaven. John ached at that sweet recollection. Then, sadness returned. He felt dismembered.
Later, his eyes shifted to the wreath laid on top of her coffin. It was like the detailed leaves and flowers Catherine had stitched out of multiple scraps into an exquisite ring. The circle made an impressive highlight for the centre of a quilt made for a friend moving overseas. Friendship Surrounding Time and Distance,
she said. That was what she called that one.
John remembered the care she took. Every pattern was personal, stitch-signed and dated. She always gave them names.
Tidying up to prepare for today’s assembly made John shy away, aware how much of Catherine still existed in and around the house. She was so much a part of his life. He believed he’d seen her, what she did. But now he felt he’d hardly understood one half of the scope and depth of what she added. Her smile alone was enough to melt stone. She surrounded him, occupying the space like one continuous cluster of designs and patterns impossible to avoid.
He made a mental note. At some future time he needed to confront this. But today defeat tore at him. He clenched his teeth, bundled up whatever came to hand and heaped it into a corner. Placed chairs in a semi-circle, their resolute backs facing the lot. Hoped that would do the trick.
A circle of silence surrounded him in the kitchen as, thoughts elsewhere, he peeled cling wrap off plates of sandwich triangles, cut slices of cake and warmed miniature sausage rolls. These were provided by family members. His dull mind had only concentrated far enough to buy a few packets of biscuits, sweet and savoury. The occasion didn’t seem one to party over.
Fragments of conversation drifted towards him as he took two plates and made his way as host around the sitting room.
So many years together, never argued, always loving and supportive of one another.
Sorrowful heads nodded.
A perfect marriage,
someone else ventured.
John knew this wasn’t true. Why would it be? Why place him in a fairy-tale loss, not the real situation he faced here and now? His grip tightened on the plates he carried. These were all he had, to offer in reply.
Here I am, still alive,
said Auntie Mavis.
What’s that?
asked Uncle Jim, leaning his good ear towards her.
Alive! Twice her age and more, it should’ve been me taken.
Seeing John approach she lifted her voice, trying to end on a brighter note. Her ancient hand plucked a biscuit from the plate he offered. Well, she’s with the angels now, dear.
Yes,
he said, only wishing he could believe it.
Where’s Mummy?
four-year-old Luke interrupted.
With the angels,
said big cousin Nicola, becoming the stand-in mother.
This may become a permanent position, John thought, as he watched her take his son’s hand and lead him to toy-filled distraction elsewhere. Not an easy position to fill, either.
"Well, when is she coming back?’ Luke persisted. That one is harder to answer.
John returned to the kitchen to collect more food before moving off again. He knew eventually his route would bring him to Catherine’s mother. Here she was, looking stricken as before - a stricken gaze he sensed was unlikely to ever fully fade. Food was the last thing she wanted or needed. John braced himself for the words he sensed were coming.
I can’t believe it, John. Just the other day she was sitting here, sewing. And now…
Her desperate eyes scanned his face. Helpless, he continued on his way.
He loved Catherine’s grasp of womanly arts, worlds away from his masculine self. Sewing was her forte. Memories of shapes, colours, fabrics and techniques crept up on him. They carried images of her with them. Her patchwork provided a tactile comfort that surrounded them both. It had always been there, reassuring, normal.
John felt himself getting caught up in the web of associations that trapped and clung to him earlier when he tidied the house. He wanted to put Catherine’s things aside, out of public gaze. Still they sat there, even if concealed. Her influence and choices were writ large upon them. The uniqueness of her missing person embraced him. It was more than he could bear.
Escaping to the kitchen he pulled a beer out of the fridge. He yanked at his tie, wanting to pull it off, change into everyday clothes and take flight. Escape. Down to the pub, share drinks with his mates. In the past Catherine accompanied him sometimes. There was nothing of her there now. The layout of the place was unconnected to any design she’d invented. Despite that, she’d always fitted in, her laughter buoyant, her smile speaking across any distance. Another thing he loved about her.
But where she shone was in the company of others who sewed. They did it often. Friends, they came together to work on projects, either individual, or large-scale pieces to celebrate certain events. Her marriage to John was one occasion she and her sewing partners worked towards. He remembered Catherine explaining the pattern she chose. Circles,
she said, interconnected circles, Once Unified Never Broken.
It was clear she was thinking of the wedding rings they would exchange on the day.
He recalled dropping in at her parents’ house on his way home from work. The big day was drawing close. Watching Catherine sewing it was obvious she’d won the respect of the party.
The skill with which she used her needle! She could laugh and chat, even around a mouthful of pins. She worked with painstaking precision at her own stitches while playing hostess to everyone else. He observed her enjoying everybody’s industry, giving decided snips to completed threads, keeping a quick eye out for any needs arising among the group. Considering and matching cloth, passing thimble, scissors, or thread, she was always at the ready.
John’s admiration for Catherine that evening made him believe their future was secure. He looked at her and it occurred to him, like patchwork, she radiated being settled, locked into a place, and fitting. She was one distinct piece, contributing beautifully to a larger whole. In her element, that was how John saw her, happy and full of life.
The memory brought him back to the present with a thud. Thinking of Catherine working away made him realise he now faced many of the questions she’d approached in her craft with such creativity and gusto.
What goes where? One choice rather than another, what would be the final effect, the final impact? Futures come in all kinds. John knew that. Organising to move forward, bringing things together, Catherine was a dab hand at that. She’d want it to continue, for him and for Luke, now she was gone. That, at least, must force him to hold his fragmented self together.
When he went back into the area where everyone was sitting, the inevitable had happened. The men had congregated in a huddle. Their talk was about everything but Catherine’s all-too-recent departure from this world. The women were gathered around Auntie Mavis. To his dismay John saw she had somehow discovered Catherine’s work-basket. The pile of incomplete fragments and larger sections he’d tucked away out of sight were scattered everywhere.
Well now, look here. I believe this was in the making before they even met,
Auntie Mavis said. There, I knew it.
Spectacles balanced on her nose she pounced, forefinger pointing. There, there and there! Those pieces of green check, they’re from a shirt Uncle Jim used to wear, visiting over at our house.
She looked around, triumphant. If there was one thing Auntie Mavis prided herself on it was her perfect memory.
That’s a good many years ago,
Catherine’s mother said, unconvinced.
But John saw Auntie Mavis was already fossicking, moving on.
And here, see? That old curtain fabric I gave her when we redecorated. I never could understand her wanting it. Still, pity it’ll go to waste.
As the women continued to scrutinise these scraps of Catherine’s unfinished works, discover remembered leftovers, clothes and curtains, John turned away. He fixed his memory on those projects Catherine completed. What lived on in him was her exhilaration, designing and creating. In his mind’s eye he saw the profusion of themes and dreams she wove. He recalled the process of choice, the collecting and coordinating of fabrics and templates. Her growing excitement as she stitched towards an end in sight. Her pride in concluding and telling the story she’d set out to realise.
Solitude pressed down upon him as he thought of those patchworks she’d completed. He almost envied them. All those bits of fabric, granted a second chance, not left to be alone. Catherine fashioned them, reincarnated them into something whole again. Over the past days the only way he’d coped was by reducing his frame of reference down, shortening it to now, this minute, his and Luke’s immediate needs. He’d shrunk, become a scrap. Perhaps, surviving this way for a while, he’d be able to return to a reality where the past was bearable, the future workable: a patchwork yet to craft.
For now John only knew he felt lonely, and frightened. Without Catherine the sunshine had left. Laughter departed. He longed for her touch, her smell and voice. The words she always had at the ready as his best friend, his one true love. The ways she found to make him feel strong, able to face whatever lay ahead.
The afternoon was drawing to a close. Its quietness crept into every room through the open windows. Its advance made John uneasy. Just as the house seemed to collapse around him with a sigh, disintegrating in a hopeless way, living within his head was no longer comfortable. Once it was full of fertile ideas, information and intuition. Now it seemed incomplete and empty. People were preparing to leave. John saw them gather up things. Work as couples. Felt the massive gap opening within him even more.
Little Luke skipped towards him. Seeing each small step his son took brimming with potential, John welcomed an instinctive, inner leap. Here was one precious thing remaining that he could lift into his arms, fold close to him. He scooped him up and hugged him. Luke pushed him back, leaning away.
"Can I go to the park, Daddy?
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