Santa's Slip

A huge bumpy bulging Christmas stocking awaited two year old Luke on Christmas morning. Installing himself in the middle of his parents’ bed, he ripped open the wrappings with glee while they watched with expressions of adoring satisfaction.

Later that day, at Grandma’s house, Luke excitedly told his big cousin, Matt, about his haul. “So what did your mum and dad give you?” enquired Matt amazed. “Nothing” was the matter-of-fact reply. Overhearing this, Luke's naive parents felt as dismissed as a Christmas tree on twelfth night, but consoled themselves that they were no longer Santa virgins.

Sad Rock

On stage you’re cool.
I’m proud but sad
I look at you
but see my dad

He died too young
Four times your age
Played drums, wrote songs
Enjoyed the stage

Your solo’s great
I watch you play
He would’ve loved
to see today

And see his grandson
play like a pro
You never met him
You’ll never know

A life in the year of a tree

Think its hard to write a short story? Try writing one in 100 words!
http://leafbooks.co.uk/New/For%20Writers/CurrentCompetitions.html#Nano

A life in the year of a tree

The leaf buds were bursting on the knobbly old oak tree as I opened the card: “Congratulations, from proud new grandparents.”

Phew it was hot in the summer - we lived outside under the tree. Painting "my family" smudgy pictures in the dappled shade.

Friends helped sweep leaves. Bonfire and fireworks, soup and toffee; last sleepover outside: “Adults keep out”. You came inside when it got too chilly!

A ring tone jarred as snow settled silently on the branches, and smouldering logs filled the house with a sweet smoky smell. “Hi mum, b home from uni b4 xmas eve, lol.”

Fibonacci Poems

What they lack in rhythm, they make up for in a mathematical pattern that has intrigued me since I found out about Fibonacci numbers occurring in sunflowers and trees and leaves and pine cones.

The search for the golden fib:

http://www.londonwordfestival.com/?page_id=283

Here's mine:

I
Love
My cat
Shiny eyes
Fight scarred frayed right ear
And tail that tells me what he wants

Hyperfiction

Read about these on cybermuse and have been fascinated. Find out about them at www.short-stories.co.uk

Link to my hyperstory will follow shortly.

oxymoron

I like this word; A non-running colleague said she thought "Fun run" was an oxymoron. Today I heard on the news that Barack Obama is appointing a "team of rivals" which struck me as being oxymoronic. Have you got any good examples to leave in comments?

Blood and Ice

Read my story "Blood and Ice" at:
http://lindasshortstories.blogspot.com/

Extract – Life’s compost heap

Looking around the garden one last time, Rosie hesitated by one specific tree that carried very poignant memories. The weeping cherry tree. Still quite a small tree even though it must be about 20 years old. “Well, Emma’s 19 and it was 2 years before she was born so it’s exactly 21 years ago that we planted it” she calculated out loud. Every spring the elegant drooping branches cascaded pink blossom. A momento of a life that might have been. The first anniversary, when the tree was a mere stick, the buds bursting in April was a painful reminder of the baby that Rosie miscarried. But over the seasons as the tree had grown and family life had become so hectic there has been little time to dwell. All the same, Rosie now felt a touch of sadness, and she hoped that the new tenants would treat this special tree with respect.

It was as if the painful feelings of losing her first baby had faded away over the years and become a part of what made Rosie the person she was now. As if all the things that happen to you in your life compost away in your head breaking down into nutrients that fuel new growth and confidence. As if the tough experiences we face become the egg shells and mango stones of our mental compost heap. These take the longest to decompose but eventually they produce a rich mulch when they’re mixed with the more mundane grass clippings and potato peelings of everyday life.

The wheels on the bus stay still

The atmosphere in the car was tense. Tommy, aged 2, was screaming; his chubby cheeks flushed with overheating and over-tiredness. Anchored in his car seat, the straps on his pastel checked dungarees were twisting out of place over his grubby white t-shirt as he tried to wriggle himself into a comfortable sleeping position. Felix was enduring this ear-piercing noise but I could see he was irritable and bored and his patience would soon run out. In the front, Grandma still looking immaculate, blouse and skirt clean and uncrumpled despite the exertions of an afternoon shopping with her grandchildren, was anxiously twirling her wedding ring round her finger.

I had just negotiated 13 clockwise down ramps to exit the multi-storey car park in my husband’s large left-hand drive car, experiencing the sensation of dropping over a blind summit at each one. The relief and tranquil river view as I drove over Kingston Bridge was short-lived - now quashed as I turned left at the roundabout and hit the back of a traffic jam. A large red bus in front obscured my view but I suspected the worst.

“Let’s listen to this CD” sooths grandma, recognising our Chansons Maternelle as a favourite, but not even attempting to pronounce the French name. Result! Within seconds of the disc gliding into the state of the art audio system and the familiar notes beginning to dance round the car, the screaming stopped and grandma’s hands relaxed and rested calmly in her lap. I glance in my rear-view mirror; Tommy looks so beautiful when his intricately detailed lips are still and his long lashes are shut. Felix, being very grown up on his booster seat, starting singing along in fluent French. His eyes - as blue as his T-shirt - were twinkling, revealing how he so enjoyed a stimulating challenge to occupy his busy brain. “Is that big red bus in front the one in the wheels on the bus, mummy?” he asked in a gap between tracks.

Visiting Kingston, with its shops full of English books and games was a real treat for us. Living in mainland Europe, our children were deprived of the Early Learning Centre. Our continental term times meant that we could come and stay with family in early July before the English schools broke up and have the opportunity to do kids things without the crowds. Hence the trip to Kingston.

After a long afternoon in the Bentall Centre with 2 excited children and their grandma to supervise, I was sticky, thirsty and very weary. But if the rest of the occupants of this car were calm and quiet I was quite prepared to sit in the queue and nudge slowly back to grandma’s house the other side of Hampton Court. I didn’t even mind that Tommy’s nap would cause him to be awake late into the evening; that was a tiny price to pay for peace now!

In a flash of a radio signal, our charming, calming chansons cease and are replaced by talking voices. An indignant yell from Felix causes his brother to open his eyes and stretch in an ominous preparation for awakening. The prospect of returning to a noisy, awake toddler, a frustrated little boy and a stressed grandma focuses my attention instantly. I stab, frantically but randomly at the flight-console of radio buttons in a futile attempt to bring back our music.

“…… and for cars on the A208 near Kingston warnings of long queues caused by visitors leaving the Hampton Court Flower Show. That’s the only traffic warning for …. ”. Then, as abruptly and automatically as it had started, the message ceased and our music returned in mid-song. Our tranquillity interrupted by technology – assaulting me with the news of the traffic jam in which we are currently trapped.

To my enormous relief Tommy stretches, sighs, turns his head revealing a clammy red patch where he has been resting, and closes his eyes again. I lean back in my seat, bracing myself for the long wait and as I look up, the sign on the bus in front reads “Private Hire; Flower Show Special”!

Gee, can I take a look at your map?

Weary, struggling to find my route, and having been running for over an hour and a half, I’ll admit I was plodding so maybe she didn’t guess. But I was very taken aback when I was approached by a lady seeking to borrow my map to find her way back to the car park at Waggoner’s Wells, a very scenic open area near the Devil’s Punchbowl. On this autumnal Sunday, it was a location popular with walkers and dog walkers as well as us runners. “I’m sorry”, I puffed, “I’m in a running race, can’t stop”. “Is this the way to ….?” the plump American lady with small dog persisted. “I’ve no idea.” I shrugged. I was pretty sure her destination wasn’t on my map and I didn’t want to unfold it to look. So while dodging a big puddle so as not to splash her with mud, I suggested she ask some of the walkers ahead. In the unlikely event that this should happen to me again, I will just show the walker my map and let them realize how little sense it makes the first time you see an orienteering map!

Crossing the stile - Exercise for the mind

I’m leaving behind the muted light and pleasant musty smell of decaying leaves. Stepping up from the soft woodland track, the weathered tread of the stile feels firm under my foot. Jumping down into the open field I’m startled by intense light as if emerging from a cinema in mid-afternoon. However many times I cross this stile, located at the boundary of a farming estate and the woods, I am still taken aback by the contrast in landscape.

My running route is clearly mapped out ahead of me – a well worn track across the grassy field. I glance around, as my eyes adjust to the light. Will the cows be here today? Eying me suspiciously and then backing away as I approach. No. They must be in a distant part of the farm today but watch out for the cow pats, especially the fresh ones!

Out in the open sun, I see a tall lean runner keeping in pace with me. She’s wearing exactly the same clothes but I’m envious of how tall and lean she looks stretched out on the ground in front of me.

Ahead of me now the mature trees stand majestically guarding the field boundary. “Global warming is causing UK trees to produce autumnal colours rivalling those of New England”, says the Tree Council Charity, causing “the most spectacular leaf displays ever here in the South”. Seeing the paint-chart array of greens interspersed with vibrant cranberry and mango shades around me, I am inclined to agree.

Apart from a distant clatter of a train, the only sound is the breeze in the trees. My mind wanders. I hear a stampede of footsteps. Hundreds of runners, their trainers trampling the long grass into a channel, churning the muddy puddles into thick brown custard. I can hear their laboured breaths as they push up the hill. I recall the one day of the year when the estate is open for our local charity run. I’ve seen the photos of competitors five abreast, just where I am now.

The sunshine and shadows today are so different to last week. The trees loomed, monochrome, and the grass was soggy underfoot. Returning from my run, my shoes were muddy and the stile was shiny with damp moss. I climbed cautiously, wary of slipping – imagining the local paper headline “runner found dead by stile”: SOCO found hair fragments on post… head injury….coroner concluded....accidental death….found several hours later by shocked lady dog-walker.

Sometimes when I go for a run, I think my imagination gets a better workout than my legs!

Running in pyjamas

We watched, puzzled, as our friends produced a roll of sticky-backed plastic and covered our control descriptions to stop them disintegrating in the pouring rain. It was February 2007, the LOK regional event at Holmbury Hill but we didn’t know any of this at the time as it was our first try at orienteering. Our friends from SLOW had great faith in us: they lent us compasses and gave us a quick initiation around a white course where they showed us how to hold the strangely-coloured map. Empowered with the information that a rhododendron was called a thicket, we then set off on the orange course. After my first few controls, and a couple of 1800 errors, I was relieved to bump into my 13 (at the time) year old son, who was also finding it quite a challenge. Between us we worked out where we were and decided to stick together.

We ran, we scrambled, we puzzled and we searched and I experienced unbelievable triumphs at finding the orange and white markers! The words on our control descriptions – washing away despite the plastic – were not a lot of help:
“What on earth is a ride?”
“I’ve no idea – do you know what a re-entrant is?”
We ambitiously headed directly from one control to the next not realising that a more cautious route via paths was the normal way for beginners on an orange. Totally focused on the route to the next control I was unaware of the time I had been running or the torrential conditions and so it was a bit alarming to meet someone collecting in controls. He helped us locate our earthwall and reassured us that our course was still set and that we wouldn’t be left here all on our own.

After our taster in such appalling conditions you might be surprised that we ever went orienteering again! I wasn’t free for a while as I was race director for a local running race. But, a couple of months later, the same friends took us to a SLOW event in the sunshine on Wimbledon common. This time, my son and I worked as a team from the start, and we finished in 3rd place and were hooked. The next event we stumbled upon thanks to my husband spotting a poster while playing pitch and putt at Frimley Lodge Park. It was the SN “come and try it”. We came, we tried it and we decided this was the sport for us – only to discover that it all seemed to stop for the summer. But we left clutching details of the Saturday league starting in September.

In the last year we have been to locals, regionals, the Compass Sport Cup and the JK. I now know how to find out about events – although actually locating them in a field is sometimes another matter! As a late starter to your sport I have to say that I have found it hard on the TD5 courses competing in my age group class – I prefer to choose a light green if I can. The progression for youngsters through longer and more technical courses is ideal but if you start at my age you are in at the deep end!

My next step, as a relative newcomer to orienteering is an unlikely one. This summer I took a level 1 and 2 coaching course and I am organising introductory primary school orienteering sessions – gym and school field activities. The reason: because I think that the sport makes running interesting for young children. Having helped organise all sorts of running-sports events, cross-country races, triathlons, the Surrey Youth Games and set up a local charity run, I want to do things that inspire young children to run. I am really glad I discovered orienteering and I think the sport has huge potential – although I don’t yet understand why everyone wears such odd clothes!