Her Prize
Our Nan Connie had inexplicable luck, she could win a prize in any raffle. A randomly plucked ticket always struck silver or bronze. My mother had no such luck. We laughed at her leaden tokens, while Nan piled up perfumes, food baskets, ribboned condiments. One fabled day at the seaside arcades Mum’s luck finally cashed-in. A year’s bottled tuppences fed into the game that tongued them over lips, some back, most gulped down. It was the taste of luck we slobbered over. 20p for three goes on the hand-grabber game, the slippery claw that always let slip. Mum’s last attempt: clunk! The claw suddenly snaps off its arm and crashes to the base, flailing fingers in the collection tray. Giggling, Mum handed the limp claw to a teenage manager, his eyes widening with wonderment. Mum claimed her prize: a lasting family myth. Winning Hands Sometimes the most fun we had at Christmas was when every tipsy adult could be coerced into a seat at the table for card games. Nan and Mum presented their collections of two pences, gestated by months of quiet collecting. Nan shuffled the cards, revealing hidden talents. Grandad prepared his pint and promised not to cheat, which he did, outrageously. So funny to my brother and me, but less as we grew up and he played less despite our begging. Back to the card games. Pontoon was the favourite and could last hours, bronze coins shuffling back and forth, cards hiding under the table, a break for cake. For a few priceless years, we prayed for 21, always laughing – that was the best hand. Years on we continued to play but the table featured fewer players as life’s random gambles took its toll: ageing adults and evening fatigue, sudden cruel illnesses, empty chairs. No chance now we can ever be reunited for another game though my childhood was dealt a winning hand. Blue Curacao For Glynn ‘Go on boy! Go on!’ cries the butcher waiting nervously at the winning post, punching the air as his greyhound, Blue Curacao, streaks along the arterial track. ‘Go on! For me, boy, for me.’ All week he’s up to his elbows in joints, loins, portions, quick cuts, friendly manner; as tender to customers as he is to meat. The betting slip in his bony hands drips with sweat. ‘Come on! For your old man!’ Suddenly the crowd cries. ‘Come on boy!’ The butcher’s heart thumps hard. Here come the hounds. ‘Come on boy!’ Voice hoarse, lungs straining for air. Here they are. Blue Curacao’s in the lead! Like a flash of steel, the sliver of meat and hard muscle pumps past Glynn. ‘Come on boy! For your old man! For me!’ Blue Curacao slices through the finish line. The butcher chops the air triumphantly. Birdman School assembly we flocked to the fanfare of a rare treat: Birdman. Superhero simplicity. Perched on stage in armoured overalls, behind a line of cages, beaks poking out. No memory of the actual man – a beard, perhaps. It was all about birds of prey: the hawk on his arm with its hungry globes, slowly creaking beak, tensing claws. Volunteers called up. No way. Most impressive were the owls. We learned of how stories misled us to believe in too-wit-too-woo. We oohed at the snowy owl as she arced her white head all the way around childhood. When her white wings opened and she flew across the hall, everyone ducked like mice, cries of glaciated fear. Mrs Hanlon, shaking her sensible headmistress head, but the damage was done. I would always love owls now. Birdman packed up the birds, squawking protests from us all as. We flapped out to the playground, waved Birdman away and became the hawks and owls of stories. Published in Borderless Journal, September, 2020.
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Poetry Biography:I have had over 70 poems published in the following worldwide magazines and literary journals: A Handful of Stones, Acta Victoriana (Canada), All the Sins (UK), The Amethyst Review (USA), Amsterdam Quarterly (NL) The Blue Nib (Ireland), Bolts of Silk, Borderless Journal, The Brasilia Review (Brazil), Bushfire Literature & Arts Review (US), Cadenza, Cake Magazine, Carillon, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal (Hong Kong), DASH (USA), Clackamas Literary Review (USA), Cooch Behar Anthology, Dawntreader, Dreamcatcher, The Dillydoun Review, Earth Love, The Ear (US), Eastlit (East Asia), Erbacce, Envoi, Finger Dance Festival, Ginosko, Gloom Cupboard, Hidden Channel, Inlandia Journal, IS&T (Ink, Sweat & Tears), Into the Void (Canada), The Journal, The Lakeview Journal (India), Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Lunch Ticket (USA) The New Writer, One Hand Clapping, Orbis, Oregon English Journal (USA), The Passage Between, Prole, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Sonic Boom (India), Third Wednesday (USA), Of Nepalese Clay (Nepal), New Contrast (South Africa), One Hand Clapping, Opportunity Publishing, The Oregon English Journal (USA) Origami Poems Project (USA), The Paddock Review (USA), Panoplyzine (USA), Paper Swan Press, The Passage Between, The Peacock Journal (USA), Pens on Fire, Poetry Salzburg (Austria), Potomac Review, (USA) Prole, Pulsar Poetry, Rear View Poetry, Queen Mob's Teahouse, Qutub Minar Review (India), Red Ink, Shiela-Na-Gig (USA), South Bank Poetry Magazine, Stand, Waterford Teachers Centre, (Ireland) We Are a Website New Literary Journal (Singapore), Weber - The Contemporary West Review (USA), Windfall (USA), Writing Magazine, Words for the Wild and Verbal Art (India). Archives
March 2024
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