Sugar Child

The Tobacco Child

The playground stretches out before me beneath a bright grey sky. Silver puddles turn tarmac into a shimmering lake. Boys and girls everywhere, darting, hopping, skipping, kicking, jumping. The sound of a school of children laughing, chatting, shouting and shrieking grows into one loud unbearable din in my ears. I don’t know what to do. Where do I go. How do I play. How do I join in. What if I…

In my dream I started rationalising the devastation to soothe my pain which is something I don’t often do in dreams. I told myself – ‘It had to go. It was built in the ’60s. It wasn’t safe anymore. Things move on. Make way for the new.’ Flow by Alfred Grupstra https://pixabay.com/music/electronic-flow-239529/

He went first. Then her.

I’ve been a bit stuck. I haven’t wanted to write. I haven’t wanted to look inside because that’s where the pain is. I know it is good for me. It will help me. But I don’t know where to start. I suppose this is my start.

The ground is dry Rust-coloured sand and stones The giant J-cloth is crumpling and grumbling My heart begins to race I run Cloth chases me I run and run. I dreamt about the Giant J-cloth chase when I was a child. I have never forgotten it. Perhaps I worried the J cloth would wipe me away and I would be rinsed down the plughpole with the breadcrumbs. Maybe I was part of the mess, rather…

I am standing in the doorway looking into the dining room Soft afternoon light filters through thin clouds And fills the air with timeless calm The dusky rose rug clasps gentle blue to its heart Muffled television seeps through glass doors Teenage strings echo through study walls The house is alive It knows all I dreamt I was stood in the doorway between rooms, looking into the dining…

On 25th August 2021, I received an email from my very dear cousin, with subject line: ‘A question on my mind…’ Below is my reply which I have updated, because I wanted to think about these issues and share my thoughts with you. Forgive me. It was a very big question to answer so my response is heavily flawed but it is just the start of a thought process. —-Original Message—–From: Lindie…

The 1960s table with the black fake leather chairs is in the middle of the kitchen. It is nighttime and the lights are on. The walls are covered in the old wallpaper that we all loved. It has a sepia-toned newspaper print, stuffed full of gardening news.  The article with a picture of a plump, ripe tomato, sits below the old cream wall-phone with the long, curly wire. The wallpaper starts to…

Birds flock above the winding river valleyCars vroom on the road to the villageWhite egret at river’s edgeRed jacket, green welliesVelvet-brown dog with the lolloping gate of youth Tinkling tributary joins the swollen riverCrunch of frozen field underfootOne watery stream to crossIcy dread seeps between tongue and boot Over pooh sticks bridgeHidden bottom of the brook revealed Collie crouches…

Click here to grab “The Tobacco Child” free on Amazon from Thursday 18th to Monday 22nd January. Or read for free now on Kindle Unlimited! The year is 1663. Avis Wynter is a foundling, adopted by tobacco farmers. Her hair is black as night and her skin, brown as apple pips. Not like the flaxen-haired, milk-skinned maids of Edenham. In her sixteenth year, the villagers witness Avis’s first…

What I really want to say is‘Buy my fucking book!’Not say, shout.Its got words and a coverPages, chapters, look I shout in the face of the world in unbridled fury Spittle shooting from between my teeth I don’t need no Amazon jury. I need some self-belief I am yanked from a world of creativityWhere authenticity is a requirementAnd peace, the preferred environmentWhere the only voice is mineI…

The year is 1663. Avis Wynter is a foundling, adopted by tobacco farmers. Her hair is black as night and her skin, brown as apple pips. Not like the flaxen-haired, milk-skinned maids of Edenham. In her sixteenth year, the villagers witness Avis’s first falling, and begin to blame her for their misfortunes from crops failing, to wayward husbands, to murder. Forced to flee the noose, Avis sails…

Dark wood panelling and frosted windows divide the old London boozer into corners and crevices for loosened tongues to reveal hidden truths. I am with a friend. I get up to powder my nose and follow a small ‘Ladies’ sign at the back left corner of the pub. As I walk past the fireplace, I notice a man sitting on a wooden bench. He is large, angular with choppy grey hair and ashen skin on a square…

The Queen has diedThe nation criedThe son is made a King Funerals cancelledFood banks closedCyclists on roadsBy authority, forbode I cried for a woman I have never metIt was Dad for whom I truly weptHis passing quiet and smallHers drenched in sovereign wealthAt the expense of the nation’s health 1953 a Queen was made sheWhile he sailed upon a shipOppressors stealing island brainsOpportunity…