The
idea for my Snowflake story came about when I thought how strange it would be
if someone was taken to Heaven too soon, due to an administrative error which
was out of his control. This then led to me wondering exactly what would happen
in that situation and how – if at all - it could possibly be resolved.
My normal style of writing is quite quirky (or
so I have been told). Twenty-two of my stories have been published by Alfie Dog
Fiction – entitled ‘Eclectic Moments’, the book is a
collection of short stories based on the different dilemmas – both small and
large - faced by people in their everyday lives.
Examples of storylines include
the reunion of two friends after one of them has suffered a breakdown; a young
boy’s search for a butterfly to help his family; a girl’s pursuit of sanctuary
in surprising places; a woman faced with the problem of how to dispose of her
husband’s body.
The genre of the
book is that of linked literary short stories and these include studies of
family conflict, mental illness, murder, loneliness. I wanted to create a
selection of narratives which examine – sometimes subtly, sometimes humorously
– the sort of situations that people could find themselves in at some point in
their lives.
I write in the
library at the front of my house, where I can look out of the window and watch
the birds if I need inspiration, and I tend to write first thing in the morning,
whenever possible.
An extract from What's in a name?
It was very sudden, I’ll grant you that; one moment I
was staring out of the office window, calculating how many more minutes until I
could nip out for my ciggie break and the next… well, to put it bluntly, I was
dying! Truthfully, when the mist had swirled around me, I’d thought – as would
be perfectly natural on a Friday morning – I was just daydreaming. Albeit
realistically. After all, I wasn’t expecting this; I wasn’t ill, involved in an
accident or even that old! Anyhow, this pastel haze was quickly followed by
short cinematic-type excerpts. Of my life. The good bits, the bad bits, even
the mediocre bits. By then, of course, I knew I was in trouble – we’ve all
heard all about those moments just before death, when your life is projected
before you. In order for you to take stock, I suppose. So now it was just a
question of waiting for the bright light and guardian angel to appear and that
was me. Done.
Not that I wasn’t annoyed about this occurrence. If I’d had
time to gather my thoughts rationally, I’d definitely have been peeved that I
was dying way before I was ready (although I suppose most people would say that). But equally, I’d have
berated myself at my lack of achievement in life; the things I hadn’t done,
hadn’t said, hadn’t realised. The usual really. But, as I said before, it was
all happening so fast. Too fast.
And before I could even protest, there he was – my guardian
angel! Or so I assumed, he being the only person travelling towards me on a
strong beam of radiance with his arms outstretched. Wide smile on his face. Although
he was rather shabbily clothed, to be truthful - not quite what you’d expect.
Man at Oxfam I’d have described him, if pushed to do so. Still, it didn’t do to
be too picky about these things; I myself was not the sharpest dresser in my
work or social circle. Good clothes didn’t necessarily maketh the man, after
all.
Before I could so
much as pose a question, or even comment on this turn of events, the slightly
dishevelled – angel? - grabbed my hand and quickly led me into the beam of
light. Whereupon we were whizzed upwards. And innerwards too, if that makes
sense. Next thing I knew, we were standing outside an impressive pair of golden
gates surrounded by whirling clouds and mists of sorbet-delicious colours. In
front of this entrance was an elderly man, sporting a long beard and carrying a
bejewelled clipboard. All rather clichéd, I felt at this point. And still incredibly
dream-like; I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d blinked and suddenly found
myself back at the office, still staring out of the window. But I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
The older man peered at me curiously, from head to toe. Then
slowly shook his head. Frowning deeply, he turned to address my scruffy
companion, his voice low and resonating. “He’s not expected.”
Now I was the one to frown (though probably not so
impressively). I turned to my scruffy companion – now to be referred to as SC.
My voice came out shakily and at least a semitone higher than normal. “What
does he mean, not expected?”
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