Snowstorm by Catrin Kean

Catrin Kean is a Welsh writer who is working on her first collection of short stories. Her work has been published in Ripside Journal, Bridge House Anthology 2015 and The Ghastling. She has been awarded a Literature Wales mentorship and a Literature Wales bursary, and in 2016 won a place on the Literature Wales/Hay Festival new writers' scheme 'Writers At Work.' She currently lives in Cardiff. 

I was at the bus station throwing chips at the seagulls. They screamed and spun around my head and the dog howled and people stumbled away from us all hunched like the sky was too low. A long time ago a charity lady came round with presents for everyone and mine was one of those glass snowstorms that you shake, and it felt like that now only better because now I was inside it with the seagulls and the dog and all of us whirly and blurred. But then Chappy came striding through and it was like bursting a pillow, the birds all blown into the sky. Chappy is big and loud with a face hairy as a coconut and he has that effect. The dog growled and slunk under a bench.

Chappy went, 'Hey girl, where you been all my life?'  Which was what he said when I first met him, only then I was thirteen and I'd run away and I wasn't laughing, I was crying.

I don't cry any more.

I like it when he calls me girl.

He went,"'Wanna come to a party?" That's what he said the first time I met him as well. I wished I had something better to do, but I'd ran out of vodka and I didn't, so I went with him. He held my hand and the dog dragged behind, a bit sulky.

We got on the bus and the driver went 'You'd better keep him on the lead,' about the dog and a woman glared at me and wrapped her arms around her baby hard enough to squash him which made me cross, making the baby scared for nothing because the dog's never bit anyone since I had him. But I didn't say anything because the woman was the type to talk back which would make Chappy have a go and we'd end up getting kicked off the bus.

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In Celebration of Short Stories (Bridge House and CafeLit)

They say writing can be a lonely journey, and certainly one often paved with rejections and hardship. So when you do have successes then you must celebrate.

And when groups of writers come together it's a wonderful thing.

Before I ever worked alongside Gill at Bridge House, my first publishing success came in 2008 when my story Jigsaw was published in the first Bridge House collection Making Changes and so began my personal journey. And the journeys of many now successful writers.

The first reading I gave was with the other writers celebrating its launch in London and all those years and successes later (for us all, not just myself) we were back at the same venue on Saturday, the Theodore Bullfrog Pub, celebrating the publication of the latest anthology Light in the Dark, a return to the advent idea of 24 stories, one a day in the countdown to Christmas; as well as the latest CafeLit title -- both projects being founded by Gill James.

We tried to make the event as informal as possible this time with a meet 'n' greet by our lovely intern Amelia, free drink and mingle that turned into an exchange of marketing ideas/writing tips speed date session to ensure that everyone mingled.

Gill and I then said a few words while we waited for our buffet lunch to be served; explaining how Bridge House was born and our intentions. We did get a little overzealous with the number of titles when we first started out and hence lost money! Now we are on one title a year and hope to repeat the event like this for all Bridge House, CafeLit and short story writers to come together.

After lunch we had readings from some of the authors, proving just how much talent there is to celebrate and we ended with a short Q & A.

We also asked people to bring along books they were published in for the table and at the end of the evening we all took a different one home!

For me the event was special because it was a chance to all be together, to finally put faces to many names I have known only as virtual people, Twitter, Facebook etc. Nice to talk to the person behind the avatar!

Gill and I ended our day with our Christmas meal. The only form of wage we ever take for all our work is just that one meal a year as we toast another title and that we're still here. Since I have now moved, instead of Chester, we had it in London -- this is when we got to digest the lovely day and plan the direction for next year, do we want a theme this time, or open again. But one thing's for certain, no competition with fees that pay for the books. We think too many do that and it's just a way of making money. So there might only be one book a year and we might just about break even in sales, but you get published and we get to celebrate and no one is ripped off!

So thanks so much to all those who came to the party and we hope to see some of you there again next year!

I will leave you with the photo gallery!

Dr Gill James (Founder of Bridge House and CafeLit)

Fabian Acker reading

Sarah Evans reading

Sarah Hegarty (Bridge House Winner 2013, Something Hidden)

Catrin Kean reading

Paula Readman reading

Helen Shay with her performance poetry

David Wilson reading

Sorry if some of the photos are a little blurred, me and my iPhone! Doing my best!

I had a wonderful time and I hope everyone else did too!

Roll on 2015!

Day 5 Air by Catrin Kean

I woke choking, like someone was pushing down on my chest. It was her thin arm, weighted with dreams. There wasn’t enough air for the both of us and I had to get out. She smelled sour and sweet and she didn’t wake when I pushed her away. Her moist hair tangled on the pillow. I gathered up my clothes and escaped to the kitchen.

Beer cans, an empty vodka bottle, takeaway food cartons overflowing with butt ends. It was like an oven in there with the sun poking spiteful fingers through the frayed curtains. I ran the tap and gulped down coffee-tasting water from a dirty mug. I was so dry I felt like I might crackle and burn, and I smelled rank. I couldn’t remember whether we’d shagged. We had probably tried, or pretended, because we were both lost, two lone flies banging up against a window. I had to get out. I thought about leaving her a text but there was nothing to say. I deleted her number instead.  

Outside, I swayed in the brightness of an ordinary day. There was a kite flying and a dog yapping and some kids running. Two women from the next door caravan were sitting on deck chairs talking. I sat on the steps and pulled my boots on. One of the women was crying and the other one said, “Look Sue, honest to god you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known and you’re going to get through this.” I walked through the caravan site past men reading newspapers and women stretched out on sunbeds and some kids taking turns on a skateboard. The sun was low and fierce. I felt enormous, like a giant striding through a toy town. I wished I hadn’t smoked so much. I wish I’d drunk coffee before I’d left. I got into my car which was airless as a coffin, and sat there. “What now?” I asked Cal.   

    “Let’s break the sound barrier,” said Cal, from somewhere in my head. 

    I started the car up, wound down the windows and skidded down the narrow lane. Birds leapt from the hedges and branches bent and snapped and the car filled with leaves and clouds of little seeds and broken petals.

About the author:

Catrin Kean is a scriptwriter who has worked for film, radio and television. She was one of four writers awarded the Dennis Potter award in 2000, and her film Gwyfyn (S4C) won best a Wales Bafta award for best drama. She has recently started writing fiction and her first short story, Dust, was published in the Riptide Journal number 8. 

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