Wednesday, 25 July 2012

A Murmuration, Three Rules and Lots of Elephants

Summer’s here at last…and what better way to celebrate than with the summer edition of Vintage Script? Here’s a preview of what’s between the covers…

Death on Stephen’s Green
Eamon Murphy

Eamon’s tale is a thriller in a nutshell. A man is shot in Stephen’s Green, Dublin, to the backdrop of a tumultuous episode in Irish history. Eamon skilfully pulls together the threads of personal and national history, slipping easily between the detail and the bigger picture.
Of Time and Newmarket’s Heaths
Edward Clark

You can see Edward’s artist’s touch as he describes the heaths and training grounds of Newmarket, capital of horseracing: early summer mornings on Warren Hill, he says, ‘…were obscured by a veil of mist, rapidly erased by the climbing sun to reveal a splendour of colour. Pale greens, yellows and siennas of dry grasses and foliage becoming clear, vivid against the blue’. Edward can bring any subject to life with his visual and lyrical prose.

Smokehouse Fulton
Eamonn Griffin

Here Eamonn captures the spirit of musicianship and of Americana with a subtle supernatural twist. Our Eamonn’s a smooth operator—my favourite quote from the master of understatement is, ‘Man, he felt alive’. Merely reading his words makes you feel like one cool cat.
Bathing Machines and Bloomer Costumes
Kirsty Ferry

Kirsty’s known in Blaydon and beyond for her revealing insights into times gone by. Here she recounts the history of a trip to the seaside. She talks of ‘Victorian ladies tethered like dogs to bathing machines by a piece of rope tied around their waist’, and what the Victorians did—or didn’t—wear to go bathing.

The Pillbox
Alexandra Clare
Talking of the seaside, Alexandra’s story is set in the Suffolk resort of Southwold,
and describes the reaction of the home front to events in France in the summer of 1940. Alexandra succeeds in bringing a poignant tale to life, which is both entertaining and revealing.
Our House
Michael Montagu

You feel like you really are enjoying a very personal tour round Michael’s childhood home in Henley-on-Thames in this piece. The detail draws you in and makes you smile: his mother’s preoccupation with the pile carpet being constantly brushed to avoid untidiness, the antiquated heating system and the frost flowers on Michael’s bedroom window. Michael’s talent is to make you feel right at home—go on, sink into one of the comfy sofas in the morning (or “all day”) room, that’s it, right next to the fire, and help yourself to sandwiches, cake and a nice cup of tea.
Aunty Ettie’s Elephant
Jacob Edwards

Jacob—our first antipodean contributor—paints a warm portrait of forgetful Nanna, based on his own grandmother, and sets the scene beautifully with lychee and banana trees shifting in the breeze and a conifer creaking before the rainstorm.
Mr Stephenson’s Regret: A Review
Emma Louise Oram
Yes, it’s me, reviewing old Vintage Script favourite David Williams’ novel about railway pioneers George and Robert Stephenson. Here I describe David as a master storyteller, and revel in his taut and passionate prose. Go, David!
Three Rules of Newgate
Katy Darby

We are honoured to have a sneak preview of Katy’s novel in progress, Hannah Hawking: A Newgate Story. If the ‘rain-darkened granite steps and forbidding black door’ and the redoubtable Mrs Arcombe don’t keep you on the straight and narrow, then nothing will.

Strawberry Tea and Reversible Jackets: Martial Law in Poland
Michal Franaszczuk

In his informative article, Michal reveals what it was really like to grow up under martial law in Poland. His personal touches bring life to the history. I especially loved the image of a young Michal queuing up twice for butter, deftly reversing his jacket between purchases as if he was a completely different boy…
A Murmuration of Starlings
Neil Coley
A reluctant hero ponders a murmuration hundreds of starlings in the evening sky. He marvels at the patterns they create, their skill and synchronicity. A touching and thoughtful piece from new Vintage Script writer Neil.
The Blacksmith’s Wife
Janis Pegrum-Smith

A happy ending is always a good thing, and a happy ending set in the late Suffolk summer that tells of true love is a bonus! Janis makes you want to linger in that churchyard in Darsham, tasting the sweet, plump blackberries and watching the sun set. Ah, bliss!

The summer edition of Vintage Script is on sale now.

Sunday, 24 June 2012

Vintage Script SOS!


We are reopening for submissions to the summer edition of Vintage Script…but only till the end of the week!

We’ve had more quantity than quality this time, and still have some space to fill with original and well-written stories and articles with historic themes—see the Submissions page on our main website for guidelines.

The new deadline for the summer edition is 11.59pm on Friday 29 June 2012.

To increase your chances of getting published, please note these tips. We are looking for:


Originality
Definition: a unique way with words, denial of clichés and a fresh take on history.

Simplicity
A good piece of writing should resemble a sprig of cherry blossom against a clear sky: understated and striking.

Thoughtful content
The topic we get most of here at VS HQ is the First World War and the Second World War. Of course, they are both deserving subjects, but you’ve got more chance of being published if your piece is both well-written and on less familiar ground.

We love both unpublished writers and those who can contribute regularly to Vintage Script.

I’ll be letting all writers (including those who contributed before the original deadline) know during the week commencing 2 July 2012 whether or not they’ve been selected.

Friday, 8 June 2012

A Letter To My Mother


It all went off well. There was a good turn-out—the tennis people, family, neighbours, even the solicitor came. Heavy showers gave way to sunshine and a pheasant walked in front of the hearse as it made its way up to the church, not a care in the world. The churchyard was so pretty—oxeye daisies and other wildflowers I glimpsed out of the corner of my downcast eye.

A skylark was singing its heart out as we got back to the house. We’d polished the wooden floors and brought flowers in from the garden. Oh, and we had a lovely Victoria sponge—you would have enjoyed that. ‘Not too sweet,’ you would’ve said. We’d had a good tidy-up as well—moved all your boxes of paperwork. The house was so alive with all the people who came back for the do. But it echoed with your absence.

Then yesterday we took you back to your South London roots to lay you to rest. It started to rain as we got to the cemetery. It brought out the lemony scent of the roses and the clay of the dug soil.

The vicar said something about the frailty of the human body and the release of the spirit at death. You’re free now from this world and we should wish you well. But still I long to hear the creak of the floorboards in your room, your careful tread downstairs, the click of the kettle as you switched it on. This is a new beginning, though, for you and for us, and I wish you bon voyage and I’ll see you there when I’ve finished what I’ve got to do.