Guest blogpost: Bernice Wicks

As part of this blog I asked some writer friends of mine to share their work on my blog. 

Today's Guest Writer is  Bernice Wicks 

Bernice is currently writing a historical novel, Gwenni. 

A Walk in the Park by Bernice Wicks

I was plodding, in a pitiful sort of way, back across the field. It was another damp, cold Monday morning and I was tugging the old dog behind me on her lead like a reluctant kid to school.  A few brave birds tried to start a sing song in the bushes but there’s so few of them nowadays it faded away and they sat hunched up, sad amongst the branches. I was due at work in 20 minutes and if the drizzle got more business-like there would be another 5 minutes dog drying time, another 5 to feed them, or maybe they could wait, the journey took at least 15 minutes. No matter how I played it, I was late. All this and more buzzing through my head, and still half a field and a cemetery to plod through. A voice drifted over from behind and I turned ready with a ‘Good Morning.’

‘Your dog,’ she pointed to the more sprightly younger dog trotting towards me.

‘Your dog,’ she continued airily and waving a hand, ‘Did a poo, back there.’

I narrowed my eyes and gave her the thousand yard stare, as she was only about 200 yards away she should’ve shrivelled on the spot but the effect was spoilt by my ridiculously darkened reactolights. So I did my best truculent teenager impression and said, ‘Well I’m not going to find it now, am I?

What I should’ve said was, ‘Cripes, how remiss, come let us go and find the poo, show it to me that I might gladly scoop it up as I always do!’

She was only momentarily dazzled by my repartee before replying with,

‘You do have to keep an eye on them.’

Now if I hadn’t been late, damp, downright grumpy-as-hell I might have been amused. Keep an eye on him; he was much more likely to keep an eye on me! He was a very nervous sort of a dog and liked to keep his nose as close as possible to the back of my legs, in a constant panic that another dog is going to appear. We live in a city, dogs do appear and then he whimpers and puts his hackles up in a vain attempt to appear heroic. He’s a big dog, looks a bit like a half starved wolf, the look of a dog that swaggers through  the park picking off Staffies and Jack Russsells alike, that cocks his leg against the swings and rolls in the sandpit, a dog that has a lot of deals going down with the local Rottweilers. In fact he acts like a rabbit, a rabbit that’s had some hard knocks but is pathetically willing to come back for more. I welcomed him back with a reassuring pat and drew myself back up to full height and flung back in a shout that had the nearby crows rise from their perches in a cacophony of sound.

‘I think I’ve picked up enough shit over the years!’

Yeah, I’ve picked up enough shit.

Copyright: Bernice Wicks

Competitions to enter - go

I have an aversion to entering competitions. It seems like a good idea but I don't do enjoy the waiting around - I tend to forget what I've entered, forget deadlines, forget when the results are announced, and sending off my entrance money into such a void seems a gamble when the certainties of the weekly shop are pressing.

Maybe there's a competition app for that - if so let me know!

So, I don't want to end up as a writer whose work was discovered after she died, tucked away in a forgotten place - such as this one at the wonderful Arnos Vale Cemetery. It's lovely to linger there and look at the statuary, but I'd rather make an impact here and now.

So I am entering the following competitions - small scale, local and hopefully winnable. They are:
Southville Flash Fiction and a poetry competition for the Easton Arts Trail.  The challenge for that is to write a poem within 140 characters.

I'd advise writers to join local writers' groups or writers' groups on Facebook to find out what's going on locally in your area. In the UK Mslexia is a great resource for women who write. Rather than re-invent the wheel I will point to a fabulous blog and blogger, Tania Writes, who has collated a fantastic collection of small magazines to try. Then of course there's the Writers and Artists Yearbook - and I've just realised the deadline for a flash fiction piece or writing was yesterday. Doh...

Do you enter competitions? What works for you?

Story: Cornwall inspiration

At the weekend I visited Cornwall. Here's a little something that emerged from the trip.

Cornish Water

Water, rock, survivor, water, rock, survivor. The sea boomed and called whilst the moon continued to shine over the jagged coastline and the container ship anchored far out to sea.

In Watch Tower Cottage Peg picked up her thread and continued with her cross-stitch tapestry of rhubarb and shears. She'd found it lying in a charity shop.  Someone had lost their thread and failed to complete the pattern. Peg was naturally a completer finisher and took on the challenge gladly. You could discover a great deal about people's lives from charity shops.

She wondered about the scent of death - if the person who donated the mac or the pair of trousers had thrown things out or whether someone's entire wardrobe had been donated after they died. On principle she did not buy clothes which looked as if they were worn by anyone under 60. An arbitrary figure but one she felt comfortable with. Her mobile began its irritating trill. The screen flashed a message from Anthony.

'Sorry Peg, but it's over. No hard feelings eh?'

 She laughed; her feelings weren't hard they were raging explosions. She swam in the heat of them - a hot flush slicked her body with an instant sweat. It was true then, he had been sleeping with her. She looked down at her hands, her thighs, thought of what she'd given and got. No hard feelings eh?

She texted back: 'Of course. Come round to say goodbye.'

Then she began to plot: Water, rock survivor, rock, needle, spine.