The Survivor's Curse/Falling Idol

Well, it has been a long time since my last post here, and even longer since I posted any actual writing; I have been distracted for the last few weeks by editing a novel. Now, however, that process is complete, and I have found time to write something. Today's piece is another in the 'snapshot' series that began with The Dragon Awakens from a few weeks ago, and is a sequel of sorts, although it could well work as a standalone. As always, the notes on this piece are added below, so for now, enjoy!

The Survivor’s Curse/Falling Idol

“And so there I was, this bloody great scaly thing bearing down on me, and I bring up the trusty old iron and put a ball right in the bugger’s eye!” He finished, and allowed himself to be momentarily absorbed in the tide of adulation that rose from every corner of the inn.

Six men offered him a drink on the house, two maidens and one woman he knew for sure was married called out for him to sweep them away on his next adventure, a dozen children who shouldn’t have even been there cheered for more. Mouths hung open and eyes stared and hands clapped furiously as he concluded the tale.

Someone he didn’t recognise passed him another tankard and a hand seized his pipe to refill if from some other man’s supply of tobacco. It was every bit the hero’s welcome he’d expected and come to dread as he rode with the three unburdened horses and his own faithful steed from the furious Dragon’s rage.

He could tell them all that part of the tale; eager ears would lap up every word. He could embellish the story with deeds worthy of legend. He could watch them listen with baited breath as he imagined Dragonfire coming down mere yards from him, how he could have heard the roar as the great beast descended from the heavens. It would make a good story, at least.

But he could not tell them how he had lumbered, barely conscious, from the rocky crags, stumbled down the mountainside and slumped over his steed. He could never tell them of the tears that fell by the dozen as he tied together the three riderless horses that would never be mounted again. He could not ever tell anyone of the fear that gripped him at any moment that he too would be taken and devoured and lost to the ages.

He drained the tankard in one gulp, no longer feeling refreshed by the contents, and sighed. All these faces would expect something more from him. Another tale told, perhaps, or even a new one made. Yes, they would expect him to go forth once again to fight some other great evil, and he simply could not do it.

Abruptly, he stood, and forced his way through the crowd, feeling the ripple of disappointment spread as he made for the exit. Through the pike smoke and the press of unwashed bodies he fought, not meeting a single disappointed gaze, nor heeding a single pleading word. He stumbled out onto the wooden walkway and slammed the door shut behind him, bracing it with his weight before eager observers could force it open.

 

Slowly, he sank to the ground, and cast off his dented and pitted armour. The bracers and helmet he set at his side, and then unclasped the cuirass, letting it fall away at the front before shifting and allowing the rear plate to slide down behind him. He reached round and cast it aside, completing the pile of worn metal.

In the night air, sounds from inside barely seemed to reach him; a few steps had altogether separated him from their world. A honed warrior’s sense told him a scuffle had broken out within the inn, and that it was safe to move away from the door; anyone inside would be too busy not getting battered to pursue him.

He rested his hands on the wooden fencing that stood between him and the black water below, and stared into it, seeing the rippling reflections gaze back. A mirror of the stars above was so far distant from its heavenly origin, and the lights that shone in the water were lesser than those in the air.

His own face, too, was something different; the mirror-him did not have the tears on his cheeks, or old scars on his brow, or a permanent frown etched on his visage. It did not carry the burden of lost comrades on a foolish errand, or the expectation of greater victories born from a single lucky escape. It was another him, and maybe, it was the him he used to be.

Maybe, that was why the followed him, even into the dragon’s lair, that most ancient of terrors. Yes, they followed that younger, stronger, better man. The man not yet a hero. They followed him, and he hated them for it.

The two brothers who had fallen as the others tried to escape, barely more than boys. They could still be brawling in the desert dust if they hadn’t seen something in him that made them follow. That brave shield-maiden from the north that stood by him until the very last, until she too was torn apart could be with her tribe, none the wiser but safe, so safe. The toff’s boy, out for adventure, could still be with his father, pestering him for the coin to travel the land, bored but alive.

But no, they had all followed him blindly, as so many men had before, and now they too were dead. Dead like the band that stood with him at the Grey Pass against the Orcen, or the army he led in retreat at the Fields of Fire. All those men and women and boys that would haunt his dreams, all following that man that stared back from the calm waters.

The reflection was shattered, the mirror cracked by the point of his sword as he hurled it down into the depths of the water. He didn’t even realise he had drawn the blade, and now it was gone, sunk to the depths of that stilling lake, lost.

Next to fall were the gauntlets, cast from his wrists into the dark water, and piece by piece, the rest of the armour was similarly discarded. Piece by piece, he stepped away from that life that had seen so much death, and stared aimlessly into the night for something new. The sounds from behind him subsided, and soon, all was silent, cold and still. The water settled, the dark closed in, and he was left to wonder. What now?

***

The boy watched from the shadows as this hero of heroes stared, mad-eyed and motionless, into the dark. He was unarmoured now, and there was no sword at his side. For a moment, the boy did not understand; the stories of the bold Dragonslayer and the broken figured before him trying desperately to reconcile themselves in his fevered imagination.

How could this man, so bold and proud and might, be reduced to something so mortal, so fragile? In the moonlight, the boy thought he saw tears on the old warrior’s face, and this too he did not understand. Brave warriors did not cry. Little boys, scared of their schoolmasters, cried. Mothers watching their sons leave for glorious battle cried. But warriors did not.

Seized by a concoction of boyish intrigue and a slight fear, not for himself but for the man before him, he stepped out onto the walkway, out of the shadow of in inn, and stood quite visible in the moonlight. The warrior did not turn. He took another step, and another and another.

Loud, so loud, a plank creaked under his foot, and in a flash the warrior turned, suddenly alert, hands going for a blade that was not as hit side. Then, frozen as if bewitched, he seemed to wither a dozen years, and collapsed to his knees, eyes fixed with horror on the boy.

The boy didn’t step back, or run away, or do any of the cowardly things that the voice in the back of his head commanded, and nor did he heed the imagined warnings of his mother about talking to strangers at night. This was no stranger; this man was a hero, and he knew it. There was nothing else to do, in that childhood mind.

“’Scuse me, Sir. Yer all right, en’t ya?” he asked, taking another tentative step forward. The man made no reply. “I asked if you was all right.” He repeated. Still nothing but the look of terror on the warrior’s face. The boy laughed in the moonlight. “Ha, ‘course yer all right, yer a man, and a hero, and you’s killed dragons, en’t ya? ‘Course yer all right. Just a bit too much o’ the ale, then?”

He turn cheerily to go, leaving the warrior to his silent madness. What more could he do?

Before he could take a step, an icy cold hand closed around his trailing wrist, and the boy turned again, to stare into those incensed eyes that were only inches from his own. He slowly withdrew his arm, and it slipped through suddenly relaxed fingers. He could almost feel the strength of this greatest of men ebbing away.

“Yer all right, Sir?” he asked for the third time, this time unable to hide the tremor in his voice that existed somewhere between fright and awe.

“No, lad, I’m not, and I shan’t imagine I will be.” He replied sullenly, and the boy felt his heart beating faster. The Dragonslayer, the legend himself, was deigning to talk to him. It took him too long to find words, and the warrior spoke again. “Not all right. There’s good men and a good woman dead because of me, and I come back, and they call me a hero.” At this point, the boy had no choice but to interject; he would not be lied to.

“Buy y’are a hero!” he insisted. “Who else’d creep inta a Dragon’s lair and face the beast? Who else’d beat it? You gotta be, sir, ‘cos all them folks in there think y’are. Yer an ‘ero to them, sir. Yer an ‘ero to me.” His voice trailed off.

“A hero to you? Tell me, boy, you ever lifted a sword? Fired a gun? Course you haven’t, and mark my words, you die having done none of them things, you’ll die an old and lucky man.”

“But what about the glory, sir? The adventure? Surely that’s worth it, en’t it?” He gave a hollow bark, shattering the night quiet.

“Glory? What do we know of glory, we warriors? We make our living in other men’s death, and taking what don’t below to us, and we come back and you think us good men for it. There’s no glory in the killing, boy, and even less in the deaths.” He wiped a tear from his unblinking eye, and the boy could tell he was nearly sobbing.

“Ya lost someone, sir?” he asked, and the man nodded, nearly whimpering, so far apart from the bold, brash and confident façade he had worn inside. Without knowing quite why, the boy placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then I’m sorry, sir, for yer loss. But grieving won’t bring ‘em back.”

“You think I don’t know that, boy?” the man shook his hand away, and rose to his full height. He glared down, a shadow against the moon, and almost snarled. “They’re not coming back, boy, and neither am I. You’ve had your hero, you’ve watched him, now you’ve met him. Tell me, boy,” he went on, leaning in closer, “am I what you expected? Eh? EH? Is this the man you think of as a hero?”

The boy stepped back, uncertain, and for the first time realising he had been scared the whole time, but too proud in front of this man he praised so highly to admit it. His breaths became shallower, his hands got clammy. It was all he could do not to run.

“Nnn…no, sir. It en’t.”

“And what was it you did expect? Tell me, boy!”

Just a few more moments. A few more moments, and the guards would come, and they’d take this mad man away. Just a few more moments.

“To tell the truth, sir, I expected something… better.”

“What?”

“Better, sir.” The boy laughed, and then laughed at the fact he was laughing. It was a brittle, shaking laugh, but it was a laugh. “’Cos all them things ya did; I thought all of ’em was for us, and I thought that ya’d know that, and that that was why ya did them in the first place. But no. No, you did them for yerself, and yer gonna stop doing them now, for yerself.”

“I have that right, boy.” he seethed.

“No, you don’t. ‘Cos when you picked up that sword, and killed them men and orcs and whatnots, we was safe, and we trusted in ya to keep us that way. And now yer walking away and ya don’t get it. You got a duty to us, sir, and if you don’t do it, all of us is gonna die someday.”

There was no answer, and by the time the boy had finished looking around, even the sound of boot steps was fading into the night, leaving him there to cry like he had been wanting to ever since he saw that man, staring into the dark.

He cried for that man he knew he’d never see again, and his friends that he’d never see, and cried for himself for the lie he’d believed. But most of all, he cried for those people, safe and snug in their beds, that had no one now to defend them.

And in that moment, he knew what he would do, and the world seems to fall away to let him.

***

A boy’s hand plunges into icy midnight water, sending ripples across the surface, smudging reflections out of existence.

Thin fingers fumble in the dark, groping for something they had lost, desperately trying to hold on to nothingness

After an age of wandering they find their prize, seize it, and pull, five fingers on cold metal, and soon they are joined by five more in that struggle to pull from the depths a memory and a ghost and a shadow.

And then it is done, and the hands rise, and a blade pulls free from the silt, soaring upwards and glinting in the moonlight. The metal reflected a smile; it had a purpose again. 

***

Author's Notes: 

- For this piece, I've adopted two rather different and idiosyncratic narrative viewpoints, in an effort to create contrast between young and old, reality and expectation, despair and hope and experience and innocence. Interestingly, though, by the end of the piece the young boy ends up claiming a moral high ground over his former hero, in many ways growing as a character just through his 1000 or so words of involvement. He's certainly not the same at the start as at the end. 

- The other thing I inadvertently found myself doing with this one was fulfilling a brief I read months ago in which one character teaches another, but in turn learns something profound through the process. However, in this case, that comes through the presentation of the learner rather than the teacher, so it's left to the imagination to decide what exactly was learned by the elder 'teacher'. It also highlights the fine line between wisdom and naivety; the boy may seem to be idealistic and childish, but above all he's right, which is part of what triggers the reaction. 

- The last section is really groundwork for expanding the story rather than this piece itself, but I thought I'd leave it in for the sake of it. Perhaps unfortunately, I now envision a much larger work growing from this, so I shall see where this leads... 

As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to leave a comment below. 

CILIP Carnegie Winner 2014 announced:Reassessing The Bunker Diary (again...)

Yesterday afternoon, the winner of the UK's most prestigious book prizes was announced, and my utter disbelief, that winner was none other than the novel I reviewed back in March as being the most disturbing, distressing and utterly unsuitable book I have yet to encounter on the Carnegie Shortlist: Kevin Brooks' The Bunker Diary.

So why did it win? 

Setting aside my own personal opinions of the novel itself for just a moment, I want to consider some of the reasons why this book has been selected as the winner, despite being surrounded in controversy and regarded with disgust by several readers, both those I have read online and those I have encountered personally.

'The Carnegie Medal panel can’t resist a controversy,' The Telegraph's Lorna Bradbury writes, and I cannot help but wonder if this is the case. Certainly, there has been no attempt to shy away from controversial subjects, and the majority of the shortlists in recent years have included a deliberately contentious novel, thrown in among innocent children's books to place a cat firmly among the pigeons. In 2011, it was Jason Wallace's Out Of Shadows, which deals with racism, violence and class oppression in Zimbabwe, in 2012 it was Ruta Sepetys's Between Shades of Grey, which presented a harrowing presentation of life as a minority in the Stalinist regime. In light of this, it can't be denied that the judges are no strangers to putting books on the shortlist that pull no punches. 

But even considering their track record, The Bunker Diary stands apart from such novels. There is no lesson to be learned from the book. There is no theme to be presented. There is nothing to take away of any meaning. As I discuss in this article, there are themes that could be detected, such as the overriding atheist nihilist perspective on life, but only after extensive analysis of the plot, character and content. 

The upshot of the victory is an upsurge in publicity for both the medal and its winner, which will, of course, lead to greater book sales and awareness for both. Whether it is the journalists that are praising the win as marking a 'new direction' in children's literature, or those like myself lambasting the choice, it's all more publicity for the writer (who has produced several similarly disturbing reads) and the medal (which presents itself as the foremost prize for children's writing. While this is no bad thing, I find it a worrying prospect that this most depraved of books will soon be being placed into the hands of unwary children. Is the publicity gained by CILIP worth those many nightmares, I wonder? 

More to the point, are such themes as do exist in the novel right to be presented to children? (They are, after all, the target age group of the Carnegie medal, as much as 'Young Adult' is the word of the day). Of course they are not. But maybe, the judges and most of the readers remain, by dint of age and outlook, blind to this. I was lucky enough to join a discussion group on the book before the winner was announced, and found that I alone was horrified by it; none of the other adults or children in the group shared my opinions. 

The adults suggested they were less shocked as they were perfectly aware of the horrors of life, and of the issues around violence and drug use presented in the novel. The children, on the other hand, seemed to miss the point in several cases. Some remarked that the book was 'boring and repetitive', citing horrifying scenes such as the suicide of a character using his own glass eye as a knife and the attack of a rabid dog as 'exciting' highlights in an otherwise boring novel. So perhaps, it is nothing more than ignorance that has taken this novel to the top of the list; the adults already know what it's going to say, the children self-censor it to the point where they are blissfully unaware of the bleakness and depravity. 

There is also the argument that children and teen literature is taking a turn towards presenting more adult themes through dystopia that renders the Bunker Diary nothing more than a natural extension of such a trend. What this argument fails to consider is the context within which Brooks and other authors present their chosen subject matter. Themes of murder, drug use and cannibalism are just as common in Michael Grant's bestselling Gone series as in The Bunker Diary, but presented in an altogether different environment. Grant's works are set in a town surrounded by an impenetrable forcefield, in which mutations are triggering young people to exhibit strange powers. In other words, the whole thing is a science-fiction fantasy, and while every bit as well-written and -presented as Brook's novel, it is ultimately far-removed from what life 'really' is. Brooks, on the other hand, has a habit of writing far too close to reality in this and other novels, making the content all the more vivid and relatable. While I don't deny that as a purely literary feat, it is a great achievement to present such matters so vividly, it is not something that should be being pressed into the hands of children. 

The only other answer I can think is that the novel was selected as a winner was purely for its literary value, and having not read the remainder of the competition, I can't pass judgement in that regard other than to say that The Bunker Diary is, for what it is, well-written, but as I point out above, rather too well-written. I also don't think the value of that outweighs the potentially damaging effect that the novel may have on a reader that is no thoroughly prepared for what awaits. Given that the book will now be being presented in bookshops worldwide as what is essentially the 'children's book of the year' without any kind of warning or alert about the content is a thought that is alarming in itself. As adults who read (and presumably understood) the book, do the Carnegie judges not have a duty of care to ensure that, if this book is to be plastered across bookstores, it is done so in a way that makes it quite clear the journey to the final pages will not be at all pleasant?  

This, then, is my real issue with the book: it should not be presented to children in the way that a Carnegie medal winner inevitably will, and to me, selecting it as a winner is at best misguided, and at worst, irresponsible and dangerous. 

So what is it about? Is this time to reconsider?

One question that has been playing on my mind, aside from why the novel was successful in winning the prize, is precisely what Brooks aimed to achieve with it, and there are some clues in his reaction to receiving the award. In his acceptance speech, Brooks suggested an interest in challenging the 'ingrained' attitude that books must offer some hope, or reach a satisfying conclusion, and also stated that 'teenagers do not want' to be presented with what he termed 'artificial hope' in novels. He concluded that it would be 'patronising' to reward the readers who survived his harrowing novel with something even close to a happy ending. 

I have to take issue with this; if anything, an ending that provides a hint of positivity or hope acts to make the previous events more poignant. While it is a harsh fact of reality that happy endings are largely the realms of fairy tales, that doesn't mean that such depraved reality and utter nihilism that is seen in The Bunker Diary needs pressing into the hands of children that, in many cases, are largely unexposed (or so I would like to think) to the events and situations presented within. 

Brooks puts a lot of focus on how the number of young people 'reading for pleasure' is dropping and becoming a minority, but then produces a book that is impossible to enjoy, which seems something of a dichotomy to me. To me, reading for pleasure is something synonymous with escapism, and escapism is not in any way compatible with depravity, cannibalism, insanity or extreme and undiluted violence of character. There seems to be a thread within Brooks' work of moral ambiguity, and that reaches a head in The Bunker Diary. His comment about it being 'patronising' to provide all the facts or answer questions or offer hope strikes me as a sign he is out of touch with readers. 

This may perhaps be a less innocent age than the heyday of The Chronicles of Narnia or The Famous Five, but sometimes, we as readers want a sense of justice. We want the Good Guys to win and the Bad Guys to get their comeuppance. We want the hero to escape and be rewarded in some way for his endurance of the unendurable. Leave the grim realism to the newspapers; it's impossible to escape the sometimes horrible real world if we are only presented with the same in fiction. There is a line between fiction and reality that Brooks does cross expertly well, but it's arguable as to whether he does so in a way that warrants being given to unprepared, unsuspecting children. There is no education to be had from The Bunker Diary; even the obvious 'don't talk to strangers' that one would expect to result from the capture of the bunker's inhabitants does not exist. They were all powerless to prevent their capture. The only moral is that 'as flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport', or in the case of The Bunker Diary, abandon us and let us kill ourselves. Not really a message we want to be presenting to children, is it? 

So the Carnegie medal is over for another year, and a novel that is unprecedented among the winners for its sheer and devastating bleakness has been blindly selected as a winner. I remain convinced that it even being selected for the shortlist was a mistake, and appalled that it won. Feel free to leave a comment about anything in the article, and as always, thanks for reading. 

A Poem: Ways of Seeing

What's a poet without any poems,
A notebook that's empty of rhyme?
A blankness that's worthless is all that it is,
So I'll fix that and now is the time...

As noted, there is really a distinct lack of actual poetry on here, largely due to my recent focus on short fiction, but today I finally got around to writing some more verse. This one is still only a first draft, so may well evolve (in which case I shall post again for comparison), but for now, enjoy:

Ways of Seeing

I see the world through the eyes of a child,

But not one so mild

As raging and torn, too old for my time

Seeing the rhyme

But not knowing why.

I reach out and touch with a tentative hand,

So strange in this land,

A frozen hand that cannot feel

If this is real

This heart that can’t heal.

You see the world through eyes looking back,

Not fearing attack

But searching and lost, between two worlds, not alone,

Both worlds your own

But neither quite home.

You hear my promise, a part of the world,

A flag unfurled,

A word too clear but it’s better this way,

I might run away;

I’ll be back some day.

They see us both through the eyes of the world

Snarling lips curled

At me for being and you for seeing

Not fleeing

The world that I call my own.

What I cannot see is what you are to me,

What we could be

If the eyes of the world turned their gaze,

Lost in the haze

Of numberless childhood days. 

*** 

Poet's notes:

- This poem is something of an experiment and a departure from my usual, somewhat more structured work, with the shortened second and fourth lines of each stanza being particularly atypical. I can't quite decide whether they help or hinder the flow of the poem, as I've not yet recited it aloud. 

-  The rhyme an rhythm are deliberately broken in places, and the format purposefully a little looser than usual. I'm not sure precisely what this adds, but I did feel right when writing. I'm interested to hear thoughts on that if anyone would like to comment. 

The next few of writing exercises should be complete within the next couple of days, as soon as I have time to write. 

That's all for now, thanks for reading, and any comments are welcome as always. 

Last Call

I've got a couple more stories done today, the Phone Tag and Backwards exercises are both done now, and both were very nice to write given how much trouble I'm still having with 'The Reluctant I'. The backwards one I have a few reservations about, but more on that later. For now, here's the Phone Tag exercise. Just a couple of quick notes beforehand: pay attention to the date at the start, it's important, and be prepared for quite a dark and tragic piece.

Last Call (Phone Tag exercise)

Norfolk, England, August 1940

Stanley waited patiently by the phone, just as he always had, while Ella (he should really call her Miss Stapleton, but she never minded) made the call. As she spun the dial and asked to be put through, he sat in silence, sipping his hot chocolate and trying not to wince at the heat. He was nearly seven, after all, and it wouldn’t do for him to be upset by it. Not in front of Ella, anyway. She was a Grown Up, and never upset.

The call seemed to take longer than usual, and when the phone finally seemed to connect, Ella did not immediately hand it over like she usually did. Instead, she seemed to stiffen, and when she spoke, her voice that Stanley had come to know meant safety and strength suddenly seemed to say ‘help me’.

 “’Hello? Hello?” she began, and Stanley leant forward to try and hear. He knew he shouldn’t, and that mother would think it awfully rude, but something wasn’t right. There was no ‘Hello, Mrs Wallace, can I pass you to Stan?’ or even the bright and lilted ‘How are you, Mrs Wallace? Good, good, I’ll pass you over now.’ that he sometimes heard if she was in a particularly good mood that day.

“Hello?” she said again, and then “Oh.”  A long silence followed, in which Stanley could do nothing but wait, perched on the edge of the step.

“No, no, he’s here. But I’ll hear it first, please.” Stanley noticed that she was doing the cross voice that he only got when he was naughty.

“Right…. Right… Oh crikey… Oh God.” Ella paused for a moment more, swallowed, and seemed to calm herself.

‘Close your eyes and count to ten.’ Stanley wanted to tell her, just like she taught him, but he said nothing. It would be rude to interrupt, especially a Grown Up. Still, she managed to regain composure as he knew she would, and started speaking again, her voice even more ragged now than before, a tapestry fraying at the edges.

“Ok… Ok, I’ll tell… Oh God no. How did it…?”

Stanley began chewing his lip and tapping his fingers in patterns of four beats on the bannister, counting each and trying to understand. Why wasn’t he allowed to speak to Mother? Or even Father? At the very least he would like to have said goodnight to them. Confused, he went back to listening to the call, fighting to understand. Like in the stories, Sherlock Holmes solving a mystery. Those stories always had a happy ending, didn’t they? Especially when Ella told them.

“Right. Right. Both of them?” Another age-long pause.  “Ok. So what will you do about… what will you do about him?”

Stanley noticed the pointed look his way that Ella must have thought he hadn’t. His mind was flying now, running through idea after idea. Maybe they were coming to visit, and they were already on the way? Maybe they had gone on holiday away from the city? But why hadn’t they told him?

“Right. Of course I will. Of course I will.” Ella put the phone down and stepped back as if it were a live snake, or a dead rat, or a monster from under the bed she always promised weren’t there. “I’ll tell him.” She said hysterically, voice high like it went when she was singing, but not as happy. That voice made the world better, this one seemed to tear it apart. “I’ll tell him… I’ll tell him.” She stared into the distance at something Stanley couldn’t see, but because he tried anyway, he didn’t see the tears flooding her eyes.

After Time (he didn’t quite know how much), he finally spoke up.

“Can I speak to Mother and Father now, please? Are they going to phone back?”

Ella appeared to evaporate before his eyes. She still stood there, not moving, but all the life and soul had left her like a sparrow flying south to warmer climes. She looked down at him, but not into his eyes, and finally, finally told him.

“They aren’t going to call back…” She sobbed, sinking to her knees and clutching desperately at Stanley. “Oh God, Stanley, they’re never going to call back.”

***

Author's notes:

- First off, a note on the tone of this piece. It really is upsetting and tragic, but again I hope I've handled it well. This is probably one of the saddest and most unpleasant pieces I've written, but at the same time, I think it is in a way quite touching and relevant. The story touches on a lot of themes that I do like, such as the innocence of childhood, the bond between parents and children and the way this is affected by various circumstances.

- This piece is also unusual for me in that the setting is not only a new area in terms of my writing, but also massively informing of the piece, without being explicitly explained. The first person that read this missed the date at the start, and the piece took on an entirely different meaning. So that's something I've not really done before, and I'm interested to hear whether it works or whether the story as a whole is too vague.

- I hope that the perspective on the story works well enough. I think I've managed to capture the mind of a 1940s child well enough, but I'm of course open to criticism.

I'll post the next one later today, and for now, any comments are welcome as per usual.