Tales From Wales SPRING PART 1 - Bitly

8 downloads 337 Views 10MB Size Report
for applications are the current 'must have', a feature that encompasses almost anything from health and fitness guides
Tales From Wales Spring 2018

promoting emerging Welsh authors and artists

NEW WRIT ING TALE NT

G N I C U D O R T N I New Authors heila Lewis mart hone he escue

om tephen s iot aul orthington tuart ear

Guest Author el

oberts ouch of loss ward inning hort

Author Extracts

an uth alamino y from the idnight y eries llan Lewis et ut f y Dreams manda udrey urden he host orse of alinas oor Da e Lewis trl lt Delete raham at ins he ron aster ob enbow s hilarious od a e s ll, t s ohn

tory

In Memoriam

Spotlight On Writers Groups eet onypandy riter s roup Best Welsh Blogs riting roups hat s the oint

Wales Across The World

" s the ise of logs to the Detriment of Literature " eet tar elsh logger Lucy itchel he Diary of oxy ollins

ntroducing from ustralia Debut o elist li abeth ane orbett he ides etween fan dwyn ones pro es its ne er too late

Discovering Welsh Artists he paintings of

neill

eredith

alfrey

Help For Frustrated Writers ow o elp for rustrated riters " et our haracters to ar et our ntroducing ernon op ip Lewis

oo

The cover photo is a painting by talented Welsh artist   Oneill Meredith. He used to clean our windows and we still owe him £5.!

The biggest kick any writer can get is seeing his/her book in print. Let's not pretend we don't care. Until the advent of self publishing aspiring authors relied on the capricious whims and fancies of editors and publishers. Most of us would kill for a book deal with a respected publishing house and don't even mention film or TV rights! The world has turned. Create Space and the like have opened up an alternative self publishing universe. The problem is most of us need a sat-nav to ensure we don't get lost in space. Through our blog, Tales From Wales intends helping you navigate this brave new, and somewhat intimidating, world. The ultimate objective is independence. Our magazine will feature stories and extracts by new and established writers, along with artists and photographers. Hopefully we can help everyone who wants to self publish their work acquire the essential knowledge and skills necessary. If you want to learn something badly enough, you will.

 Welcome to the the first edition  of our free digital magazine. How many more there are depends entirely on you. TalesFromWales.net ex ists for your benefit but it will need the support of established authors like  Bel Roberts to make it work. Thanks Bel. Our aim is to encourage,  support, showcase and promote self published,  emerging and aspiring  Welsh writers or those with an interest in  Wales.  Artists and photographers are also welcome.

Ever jumped in the shower to find the water is freezing? That's akin to the shock most aspiring authors get when they discover they have to promote their own work if they want to get noticed. Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, YouTube etc suddenly materialise like unwelcome spectres at the book launch. If your prospective audience is immediate family and friends then this is not an issue. If your sights are set on global domination we'd better start exorcising some ghosts.

We depend on your support. to create  a  mutually beneficial  community. Please get involved. email;  [email protected] 

A Touch of Gloss

A Touch of Gloss

el Roberts

The very first view I had of my father in the summer of 1945 was as a darkening of the fanlight over the front door.  No one had entered my pigmy world as tall as that before. His arrival seemed unexpected.  I don’t know why.  Everyone knew that the war in Europe was over.  The Third Reich lay in ruins and Hitler was dead.  Soldiers were returning like dazed strangers to their homes all over the world.  Yet, somehow, the world was too poor to receive them adequately.  Like most South Welsh valley families in 1945, mine had no fatted calf to kill; no garlands of laurel or triumphal bands with which to welcome home our war-worn ex-servicemen as conquering heroes. The only concession my mother had made towards my father’s home-coming had been to “freshen up” the passageway that extended between the front  door, which opened onto our steeply terraced street and the kitchen, which was at the back of the house.  This had entailed the scrubbing of the ceramic floor-tiles back to their original mosaic pattern, jewel-sharp brightness, and the application of a new coat of paint on the walls from floor to ceiling. Unfortunately, in that period of shortages, all my mother could obtain from the local ironmonger was an enormous drum of bottle-green gloss paint, which, when applied, only served to darken the already gloomy corridor and to give it a more tunnel-like narrowness and a dingier appearance than before. Worse, the paint had probably been diluted and it did not seem to want to dry.  It was as if it had a life and a perverse will of its own and, because of it, the whole house developed a sickly smell like rancid oil, that permeated everything we ate, causing us to cough and making our eyes water.

I can remember testing the tackiness of the newly painted surface at regular intervals, gingerly poking at the sticky veneer with the tip of my index finger, which lifted small circles of green skin off the walls, exposing the cracked buff-coloured emulsion beneath.  I must have tested it six times in all, just behind the front door in a well hidden corner; my tiny six finger impressions leaving a symmetrical dominodouble-six dot pattern, which remained fossilised in the paintwork for years after. My mother, having impulsively rushed to paint the walls at the last moment, now nervously regretted it.  She anticipated provoking ridicule or criticism from my father, when her sole intention had been to cheer and please.  She had felt a silly pride in confiding in the surly ironmonger, from whom she had hoped to buy the paint cheaply, that her soldier husband was due home that week after nearly five years’ active war service abroad.  She wanted to brighten up the place for him with “a touch of gloss”.  What did he have in sufficient quantity that she could afford?  And could she pay for it a little at a time, perhaps over a few weeks, as she also had new dresses to buy for her daughters, the younger of whom the father had not seen? The ironmonger had rummaged around for ages in a pokey, cobwebbed out-house behind the shop before staggering out with a drum of paint the size of a small barrel, which we had, all three, panting with effort and giggling with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement, helped to push up our steep hill home in my old pram. Now the mood had changed.  My mother’s manner was fretful and we could not comfort her.  She kept repeating that buying the paint had been a mistake and that the money could have been spent more wisely.  She also hinted at my father’s assuredly negative reaction and uncertain temper, which left an unspoken threat in the air. At the time of general demobilisation, my elder sister, Shirley, was ten years old.   She was already a golden, lovely girl with long glistening hair and beautiful white, even teeth.  From the moment that I first sensed she was my sister, I felt in her shadow.  She never inspired love in me; only a sense of awe. Besides being smaller than her, being five years younger, I felt less important; somehow darker and meaner than her. I became aware, very early, that adults meeting us for the first time acknowledged us collectively with a nod, but their eyes and smiles invariably lingered on Shirley with her aura of radiant innocence. The afternoon of my father’s return arrived.  Shirley and I had been dressed in new, striped, cotton dresses; hers blue and white and mine green and white. The dresses were of typical wartime style: square-shouldered, puff-sleeved, button-fronted, with collars and belts.  The material was stiff and the tailoring seemed designed to pinion our arms to our sides and to make any fidgeting painful.  We wore matching Alice-bands, but, whereas my sister’s hair fell in tamed, shining scrolls of dark gold around her ears, mine sprouted wildly; straight, stiff and mousey-brown from under, over and around the band in all directions.  I know this, because my mother had voiced her concern about my comparative unattractiveness, as a matter of undisputed fact, as she was preening us for my father’s arrival.   Perhaps she was, in as subtle a way she knew how, preparing me for my father’s brutal tactlessness.. Now the kitchen table was laid, significantly, for four.  A lamb stew, a rare treat, simmered on the hob of the cast-iron grate.  Expectation ticked in my ears like a time bomb. Then I heard the front door being pushed against the iron doorstop followed by the scrape of heavy metal-tipped army boots on the scrubbed passage tiles.  From the kitchen I saw the shaft of light in the dark passage way obstructed by his shadow.  It was summer but the air was chill.  It felt as if we were waiting inside a cave.   

Suddenly, I became aware of my mother’s trembling.  She seemed embarrassed; mouthing inanities in the panic of being reconciled with her long absent and not altogether kindly missed husband.  I watched as my sister walked tentatively towards the uniformed giant, then breathless with fear and shyness, I crept slyly behind my mother’s skirt hoping to be ignored; praying that he would not stay too long.  I sensed immediately that this stranger’s intrusion threatened the tranquil pattern of our ordered lives. For as long as I could remember men, apart from coal-blackened miners, had been in a very small minority in the village streets and I had never seen a man inside our house. It felt wrong. The whole axis of my existence changed with my father’s arrival and I felt threatened. My father broke the tension by lifting Shirley under her armpits so that she could reach to kiss him.   He said something quietly to her that made her smile, then he put her down and looked at me.  He bent his knees so that he was squatting at my height and extended his arms towards me.  He smiled encouragingly but I was rooted to the spot.    My mother remained girlishly tongue-tied, but she pushed me from behind her legs and untangled my fingers’ tight grip on the loose folds of her skirt to propel me into his outstretched arms.  I sensed that my reluctance would be deemed her fault and I was desperate not to disappoint her, yet I could not move.  I felt tears welling in my eyes and my nose started running.  Every muscle in my face seemed to be twitching uncontrollably. He dragged me towards him so that my face was forced alongside his.  His cheek felt as rough as our coconut mats and his breath smelled sour. He pressed my body against his and gave my cheek a loud kiss with wet, open lips but there was no mistaking my revulsion.  I held my arms stiff, arching my face and chest away from him and, at the same time, I kicked my legs against the coarse material of his battledress, desperate to regain my freedom.  His face hardened.  “Well I'm not too bothered about kissing you either,” he said harshly. “I'd far rather kiss your pretty sister any time.  You're a real ugly duckling, indeed to God!”  He turned half-jokingly to my mother who stood grimly helpless. “You’re sure she’s mine, are you?  She doesn’t look much like a Roberts to me!” Then, as if to assert his strength and domination over me, he seized me suddenly, lifted me towards the ceiling, kissed me fully on the lips and spun me round, half over-balancing into the passage as he did so and catching the skirt of my dress on the oily walls. “For Christ’s sake, Will, watch what you're doing!  The paint isn’t dry yet.  Oh, you’ve streaked it and I’ve used up all the paint.  And just look what you’ve done to Eileen’s dress.  It’s covered in paint and I haven’t finished paying for it yet.”  She took a deep breath and blundered on dangerously, revealing all her deepest doubts and fears.  “You haven’t changed, have you?  Still not grown up!  Why must you always mess about?  It’s been peaceful here for so long.” The air bristled.  From the stunned silence broke a roar. “Peaceful? Peaceful?” my father shouted, demented with disappointment, saliva flying from his mouth .  like spray.  “There’s been a war on, woman, or haven’t you heard?”I watched fascinated as a bubble of spit balanced on his nicotine-stained moustache, that looked in my childlike eyes to be a matching strip cut from his khaki-coloured uniform.  He gestured wildly with his hands.     

 “A man just back from the war has a right to a better welcome home than this.  Or perhaps you’re sorry I’m back?  Got too used to your own way of doing things, have you?  No room for me now in my own house.  Well, I’ll see if there’s a better welcome for me from Thelma in The New Inn.  Don’t bother getting me food.  I’ll get some fish and chips in Joe’s Caff.  I don’t want to put you out at all!”He stood for a few seconds seething at what he had just said, then he glanced around the kitchen as if to get his bearings.   His fiery stare settled on the broom, which my mother always kept propped in the corner by the back door.  He caught hold of it roughly and, for one awful moment, I thought he meant to swing it at the three of us, as if to scythe us down.  Instead, he stepped back into the passage and pushed the head of the broom directly and forcefully along the full length of the passage walls, gouging thick white stripes and whirls in the green, glutinous mess. “And that’s what I think of your stinking handiwork!” he shouted. He threw down the broom, causing the paint-clogged bristles to ricochet along the gleaming ceramic floor tiles.  He turned to give us all a demonic glare, then he strode towards the front door.  My mother followed him down the passage, as if to reason with him, but the front door slammed shut. Slowly, avoiding our eyes, she walked back to where the passage and staircase met and sat on the third stair, her head in her hands.  Tears rolled soundlessly down her face.  Her chest heaved.  My sister stood, her hands playing nervously with the knob of the worn wooden banister, her large, clear eyes dilated with shock. I climbed up to the third stair and sat down next to my mother, my face impassive but my heart as light as a feather, naϊvely confident that we had seen the last of my father, for ever.

Tales From Wales is delighted that Bel agreed to provide the first short story in our first ever maga ine.  Not every writer of Bel's uality is willing to submit alongside less established contributors. Bel has fully embraced the Tales From Wales philosophy. This is the first chapter of an unpublished semi autobiographical novel called Somewhere Under The Rainbow.   This short story under the title A Touch of Gloss was runner up in the SAMW Writers Competition of 1995 and was broadcast twice on BBC 4 to commemorate Armistice Day/ Remembrance Day 1995.

Well that's what Sir Peter Stothard,  editor of the Times Literary Supplement, concluded. Bloggers, In Sir Peter's literary universe, are a perceived threat likely to unleash a flood of, at best, second rate material onto an unsuspecting and undiscerning public. Well the truth, however unpalatable, is, not everyone's a Steinbeck, and not everyone wants to read him.

Tales From Wales takes the view that it's better for people to read something rather than nothing and the same goes for writing. Apart from correcting obvious grammatical errors Tales From Wales is not interested in critiquing anyone's writing - our aim is to encourage and provide a platform. Inevitably some stories we publish will be raw and unpolished. That's fine, no, that's exciting. The more writers are encouraged to write the more polished they become. We will leave the criticism to the readers. 

Blogging is now an accepted legitimate literary activity. Practically everyone from large corporations to individuals do it every day.  And they do it in as many ways as you can imagine. Sounds a bit 'Fifty Shades' doesn't it? As far as writers go some don't even bother to publish their books they just serialize them on their blogs.

One such writer is Welsh award winning blogger Lucy Mitchell. Her Diary chronicling the life and mishaps of single mum Roxy Collins are hilarious. Steinbeck may be my favourite author but he never made me laugh like Lucy Mitchell. I'm a fan! Once you've read a snippet from Roxy's diary I'm guessing you will be too!  You might even be inspired to write your own blog.  Over the coming year we will be taking a closer look at some amazing Welsh bloggers. Bet Sir Peter didn't have so much fun.

BlondeWriteMore THE DIARY O F RO XY CO LLINS P ART 2 SHO WE R NIGHTMARE Saturday 11.12 a.m. I am supposed to be getting a shower, but instead I am stood outside Matilda’s bedroom door listening to her squealing with laughter. Her new sixth form boyfriend, Adam, came round early this morning allegedly to help her with some maths homework. When I think back to my own school days maths never sounded this fun. Matilda and Adam have only being dating each other for about a week so I don’t know why I am feeling anxious. I am sure I don’t have anything to worry about them being alone together in her bedroom. Teenage relationships take time to get going nowadays – don’t they? I am going to carry on clinging onto the fact that something good will come out of this private maths tutoring. Adam could perform a miracle and turn Matilda, into a maths genius. I hope he realises that he does have his work cut out, as she’s currently in the bottom set in maths and likely to be re-sitting her exams. “OMG Adam – please do that again!” cries Matilda, making my heart stop beating. I press my ear to the door. I must keep the belief that Adam’s method for working out fractions excites her. Say to myself “they are doing fractions, not having sex!” I am interrupted by Toby who staggers out of his bedroom. “What are you doing Mam?” he asks, before letting out a huge yawn and rubbing his sleepy eyes. “Shhhhh,” I say, placing my finger on my lips. Matilda shrieks with laughter and I feel the blood drain away from my face. “Sounds like she’s having fun Mam,” exclaims Toby, making me wince. 11.16 a.m. Peel off my clothes and survey the grotty state of bathroom. The dilapidated shower unit against the wall has seen better days. The bath is sporting a few cracks and the toilet looks like it’s pre-war.

Rox y is a new sort of heroine. She is a single mother to three children; M atilda the teenage daughter from hell and her two young boys Harry and Toby. Her home is a rented house which is falling apart but she can’t say anything to her landlord, Brian, as he is her ’emotional rock’ in life. She has two useless ex partners and a job she hates. Rox y has hit the online dating scene and is looking for someone who will accept her wobbly bits, put up with her chaotic lifestyle, her unruly children and love her for who she is. Will she find her perfect man?

Matilda has switched on her loud dance music and pulsating beat is making the house shake. Repeat to myself hundred times that I can trust Matilda. I am entering the shower clutching my new can of Exotic Shower Foam Burst. When I bought it in the supermarket a woman nudged me to say that it had taken her to new heights of showering pleasure. I have never been so excited about having a shower. Switch on jet of hot water and shake can vigorously. I have squirted the soft white foam onto my body and I am now imagining myself relaxing on a faraway tropical island. As opposed to taking a shower in a tired old house and worrying about Matilda’s approach to maths homework. Matilda has cranked up the volume on her music and I am busy trying to ignore the disturbing rattling sound coming from the shower unit. Oh my goodness there is a horrible creaking sound coming from the shower unit. “HELP!” I cry out. The music is drowning out my voice. The tall glass panels surrounding me are falling in on me! Help – I am going to end my days naked and covered in exotic shower foam. Gasp – the shower panels have magically formed a weird triangular-shaped glass shower prison. I have turned off the shower and I am staring in horror at my new home. 11.19 a.m. I am naked, covered in white foam patches of Exotic Shower Foam and trapped beneath some heavy shower panels. The towel rail is on the other side of the bathroom so there is no hope of reaching a towel. On closer inspection I see that there are no towels on the towel rail. They are all in my laundry basket downstairs. I am just considering shaking myself dry, once I break free. The problem is that these glass panels look so big and cumbersome. I dare not move them. Gasp! Matilda’s music has stopped. I need to get help. “GET BRIAN!” I scream to Toby, who I know is now standing outside the bathroom door playing on his games console. He’s unlike my other children, he likes me. “GET BRIAN!” I am hollering a second time, in case Toby didn’t hear me. Brian is my landlord and my emotional rock in life. I think everyone needs someone like Brian. I call on Brian for just about any problem in my life; house repairs, removing spiders from the bath, removing drunken ex partners from my door step, locating Matilda after one of her teenage strops and ferrying me to the supermarket. Brian will always help me. I must admit that he does so, whilst muttering under his breath about why he ever agreed to let me rent his late mother’s house and why he can’t be left alone in peace, but I ignore him. I don’t think he knew what he was taking on when I turned up to rent his property with one sullen teenage daughter, two young boys, a suitcase stuffed full of clothes, a shaggy dog, two failed relationships behind me, no money and a broken heart. “MAM what’s wrong?” screams Toby. “GET BRIAN NOW!” I am yelling so loudly my throat hurts. The music starts again. I don’t understand why Matilda has to play it so loud. Reassure myself with ridiculous and naïve idea that Matilda and her new sixth form boyfriend are memorizing maths formulas to popular dance tunes. 11.20 a.m. I am just going to assess my current predicament: Brian, my rock, is going to come and free me from my shower unit disaster. Let me just think about this.

Brian, retired, in his late 60s, a shy man, who goes to church regularly, has led a sheltered life and has recently had a heart pacemaker fitted. Me, in my thirties, stark naked with my womanly wares on show, I have stretch marks, wobbly bits and I have been a stranger to hair removal cream for the last few weeks. I also possess an interesting tattoo, which I would rather not discuss, stood in his late mother’s collapsed shower unit. That heart pacemaker of Brian’s could be put to the test after he has set me free. 11.21 a.m. I have just had an amazing idea. I am reaching up to grab two purple flannels tied around the shower head and I am now bending down to remove the plastic shower mat. Carefully I am placing a flannel over each 42D cup breast and then wrapping the bath mat around my waist. That should do it….just! Brian’s heart pacemaker is safe. The music has stopped and I can hear a commotion outside the bathroom door. My kids are now arguing over who should go get Brian. Matilda is shouting at Toby and Harry, who has emerged from his bedroom. Whilst they argue I try to stop shivering. Someone is sent clattering down the stairs. Most probably Toby. Matilda slams her bedroom door shut and cranks up her music. Obviously desperate to get back to her maths. 11.23 a.m. Stand naked in shower prison with strategically placed flannels on breasts and wrapped in a plastic shower mat. Think about Toby knocking on Brian’s blue door. As I have had to call upon Brian, to rescue me on numerous occasions, and the kids always fill me in about what happens when they go to fetch Brian I can almost picture the scene down the road. Toby knocks on the front door and waits for someone to answer it. Brian appears looking tired and scratching his bald head. On seeing Toby standing on the doorstop Brian groans loudly and shuts the door on him. Over the years my kids have learnt to ignore Brian’s initial refusal to help me when I am in the middle of a crisis. Toby knocks for a second time. Patricia, Brian’s wife opens the door wearing a complicated floral apron. She says “I am sorry Toby but Brian is unavailable.” She smiles sweetly and closes the door on Toby. Over the years my kids have learnt to also ignore Patricia. I think persistence is a valuable life skill for the young. Toby knocks for a third time. Brian screams through the window, “Whaaaaat does she want now?” Toby finds his voice and shouts through the letterbox “Mam’s stuck in the bathroom.” Some bad words from Brian will be heard through the window. Toby assures me he never listens to them. Brian emerges wearing his old beige jacket and limps up the street with Toby trotting after him. I still feel bad for his limp. Reversing is not one of my personal strengths and he did take his life into his own hands when he let me borrow his car. 11.26 a.m. The music has stopped. I can hear Brian’s voice can be heard on my landing. “Roxy are you ok?” he shouts, through the bathroom door. “Help Brian!” I scream with chattering teeth. . Through the glass shower panels I watch the door open and Brian limp in. “Oh Roxy what have you done to my shower?” he shouts at the havoc that greets his eyes “Your shower collapsed on me!” I exclaim from deep inside my prison.

“Are you ok?” he asks, starting to lift off the glass panels to free me. “Oh Brian thank you for rescuing me,” I gush, fighting back tears. A warm glow is shooting through me as I think about Brian, my hero. Yes his late mother’s house is falling apart and in certain parts of the house its like going back in time, but the kids and I can live with that. I must thank God every night from now on for giving me my children and my rock – Brian. Euphoria is engulfing me as Brian gives me my freedom. I don’t have to spend any longer in my glass prison, wearing two flannels over my boobs and a shower mat around my waist. I am being set free! The final panel has been removed and I am making a tearful dash for freedom. “Brian my hero! Come and give me a hug!” I cry, holding out my arms for him to give me a hug. He has a horrified look on his face first and I can hear Matilda’s voice in the bathroom doorway “OMG that’s gross, Mam’s naked and coming onto Brian!” 11.27 a.m. In my rush to hug Brian I lost my two strategically placed purple flannels and the plastic shower mat. Brian – my rock has just seen a whole new side to me. To add further pain to my situation there are no towels.

You can follow Rox y's hilarious misadventures on Lucy's blog:

www.blondewritemore.com

ODE TO THE COLLIERS

Pale faced and muffled with trousers yorked And heavy boots they trudged with tin-cans corked, Along streets and laneways to the lamp-room For light, to light the walkways in earth’s dark womb; There, life of eons past was stored in leaves of shale As fossil casts of ferns, where streams once flowed With shoals of fish in forest glades. Dead and decaying dregs of lifeless plants Was the coal they dug in timbered stalls, But death demands its score for this bold task Of digging up plant spores which never asked To see the light of day again, this score was more Than that which, could be gained from coal’s heat store, With dusted lungs in pain, lives lost in gore, And bodies scarred and maimed. Odwyn

                    AUSTRALIA

Tales From Wales actively searches out writers with connections to Wales across the globe. The first to respond were two gentleman from Australia whose roots are still firmly in Wales. Brian Whalley was flying Whitley bombers over Germany until he got shot down and ditched in the N.Sea on 7 /11/41 – the sole survivor of a crew of 5 and rescued on Nov 9th. by the wrong side into three and a half years of P O W life. Brian committed his story, 'A Treasury of Memories' to print  for his grandchildren. It has never been published but with a bit of encouragement and practical help from people lik e Dave Lewis, who k nows?                                                           Ifan O dwyn Jones has lived a life James Bond might have envied! Along the way he has written many short 'stories' and poems that resonate with that wonderfully peculiar Welsh trait, a social conscience. Hopefully we can also get these into print soon.

talesfromwales.net - An Eclectic Community Tales From Wales primary concern is promoting and supporting aspiring, emerging and self published writers rather than the Catrin Colliers of this world. It would be fantastic to discover another Catrin though! With this in mind we hope more established writers will get on board and offer their support. We in turn will do all we can to promote their work, self published or otherwise. Support can take many forms. Author Dave Lewis runs a website called Publish and Print whose objective reflects our own: ". . . seeking good writers that have been overlooked by the mainstream publishing industry." Dave offers a wide range of high quality, services: paperback via Print On Demand (POD) Amazon kindle e-books typing up, editing manuscripts designing book covers your book available worldwide social media help, e.g. Facebook & Twitter high quality author website free quote professional service Dave is a gifted author and poet and has already taken advantage of the opportunity to promote his work on www.talesfromwales.net Here is an extract from one of his acclaimed novels Ctrl-Alt-Delete. Also available in PDF format from: http://www.talesfromwales.net/downloads.htm

D ave L ewis is a writer and photographer based in Pontypridd, South Wales. He has always lived in Wales ex cept for a short spell in Kenya in 19 9 3- 9 4 . He writes content for and still maintains many web sites. He has worked for BBC Wales and written local newspaper columns. He has also been published in a number of literary magazines and web sites all over the world. In 2 0 0 7 he set up the first ever Welsh Poetry C ompetition, an international poetry competition aimed at encouraging the wealth of creative writing talent that we know ex ists in Wales but currently languishes in the doldrums.

Featured Author Extract When beautiful Jenny Morris uses Facebook to get her ex-boyfriend Hal Griffiths to stalk her she has no idea what a dangerous game she is playing for someone else is watching from the murky shadows of cyberspace. And when an horrific murder in a sleepy Welsh village stirs a seasoned reporter, a conceited detective and an overweight I.T. expert into action, they too always seem to be one step behind the mysterious killer - Hagar.

                                                                 Ctrl-Alt-Delete (Extract)                                                            Prologue                                                         August 2010… Jenny had drunk far too much white wine. It was an easy mistake to make and now she was going to die. How long had she been unconscious? She had no idea. No concept of time. Struggling hard not to panic as she felt herself begin to hyperventilate Jenny instinctively knew she must absorb and assimilate every detail, something somewhere might save her. She also knew she must act immediately if she wanted to escape. She struggled for breath and forced herself not to give in to the gagging reflex as her desert-dry mouth filled with burning bile. Jenny’s swollen eyes strained to become accustomed to the murky gloom. She tried to shake her long, curly brown hair away from her face but dried sweat held it tight as the cold metal of the handcuffs cut into her wrists. Her whole body was aching and her pulse throbbed relentlessly in her head. Thinking back to earlier that evening she vaguely remembered her vision blurring and the muted sound of words slurring, like holding your head underwater in the bath. Then her stomach had tightened and warm flushes had begun to spread out all over her body. A distorted Daliesque clock face slowly slithered down the wall. As Jenny’s coordination flew off into the evening her knees buckled. She headed for the carpet in slow motion. A small, rough hand expertly plucked the free-falling wine glass from mid-air and delicately placed it on a low wicker table.

   Welsh International   Poetry                           C ompetition

‘Ten Years On’ is a celebration of the best poetry submitted to the international Welsh Poetry C ompetition between 2 0 12 2 0 16 . A diverse look at the world we inhabit – alive, energetic, melodic, unrepentant and moving. This anthology is for all poets who truly feel. For the brave, the ex uberant, the feisty, the outrageous and the rule breakers. A chance to revel in the moment and not be afraid. After 10 successful years and nearly 5 ,0 0 0 entries from all over the world the competition is now firmly established on the international literary calendar. This collection contains some formidable poetry, written by established poets as well as many new voices, all of whom were fearless enough to push back the boundaries.

Terror can manifest itself in different ways but all Jenny could visualize at this moment was Hal’s grinning face staring back from the centre of a computer monitor. In the first brief seconds of consciousness she searched for reassurance. She tried to reason with herself, to tell herself it would be OK.She tried to justify her actions, to make sense of it, to make it alright. It wasn’t her fault. What else could she have done? Stalkers don’t just stalk anybody do they? You have to give them a reason. You have got to make them want to do it.

   The 12 th international competition will be launched on 1st February 2 0 18. Our judge for 2 0 18 will be Sally Spedding.

Oh shit! What have I got myself into? The thought of being a lonely old spinster was suddenly very appealing… then unexpectedly, off to the side, a long penetrating torch beam flashed across her body and in a nanosecond she was catapulted back to the present. The harsh light settled on her pale face and blinded Jenny for a brief moment before an echoing click plunged her back into silence and darkness. With her senses heightened by fear she could taste the damp, musty smells of straw, onions and potatoes. The odour of mouse droppings mingled with the stink of rotting, wet vegetables. She desperately searched the dim recesses of her prison. Her funeral-black pupils frantically scanned the darkness for hope.

M ore From the Pen of D ave L ewis

Penetrating, probing. Looking for anything that could offer her a way out of this nightmare… and then she saw them. Laid out purposefully in a neat line on the small wooden bench in the corner of the barn. Almost out of sight. Not placed in front of you – for effect. Not staring you in the face, not carefully arranged like pretty glass ornaments on a living room shelf. Not meant to shock or terrify. These had been put there for a purpose. Practical. To be used. Jenny shivered, her big brown eyes grew to saucers, her face became china-white as the adrenaline kicked in and coursed through her blood. She tried to jerk free but the restraints held firm as she slowly traced the metallic shapes in perfect clarity. Her screams were muffled by the crimson scarf tied tight around her mouth, and an earthy taste of silk mixed with her briny tears as they streamed into her mouth. Suddenly and without warning she felt warm liquid flow down her legs as her bladder opened involuntary. She stank of fear. She missed her daddy.

Hal G riffiths is in Kenya taking photographs for National G eographic magazine, but cyber slayer Hagar is there too and wants revenge.

 Then, slowly but surely, the same rough hand emerged from the shadows and reached for a shiny, clean scalpel that glinted sporadically in the half-light. It edged closer to her, leaving the rest of the knives, dissection instruments and power tools set out clinically in the dark.

 

                                                                      One                                                             April 1st 2010… Hal Griffiths had been fast asleep. His head submerged deep in a pillow, Egyptian cotton sheets wrapped around his lean but muscular torso. A thick winter duvet lay in a pile on the floor next to a pair of old Levi jeans and a faded blue Billabong tee shirt. Bridgedale lightweight walking socks and a pair of Merrell trail shoes were close by. Smiling to himself, semi-conscious now, he kept his eyes closed The lives of Hal and J tight. These were the precious minutes just before waking when your mind knew it was time to face another day but your body craved another hours rest, or was it the other way around? Either way he wasn’t going anywhere, the voluptuous super-model Elle McPherson was with him.

Dave's n ovels an d p oem s are all available on Am azon or visit: www.talesfrom wales.n et/bookshop .htm

enny are turned upside down when a deadly serial killer returns to C ardiff. Struggling with love, despair and belonging the cyber- slayer desperately tries to uncover the meaning of ex istence.   A moving and ex citing finale to C trl- Alt- D elete and Raising Skinny E lephants.

Tonypandy Writing Groups - What's the Point? Writing groups are a great way of socializing. It's not uncommon for people to join simply for the company and conversation!  Their primary function though is to stimulate  a passion for writing with like-minded people. Tonypandy Writers Group was founded by two ladies  with very interesting backgrounds and a shared outlook on life. June Bacon was a tireless activist who campaigned against the  siting of nuclear weapons at the American Air Force base in Greenham Common.  This unassuming  and humble lady even had her telephone bugged by MI5. Lifelong friend and fellow activist Lesley Coburn hails from the tiny village of Blaencwm nestled around the base of  Pen Pych at the head of the Rhondda Fawr. Her father was renowned Rhondda author Ron Berry . Ron has never received the recognition his writing deserves - but that's another story!

TONYPANDY A Brief History Tonypandy is synonymous with  coal mining, male voice choirs,  Tommy Farr and the Tonypandy Riots. The best book ever written on the subject  was authored by two of my old  teachers at Tonypandy G rammar School, G wyn (Arty) E vans and D avid M addox .  Both inspirational  figures.

The group numbers fluctuate but there remains a  hard core of  seven members .  The oldest member Eileen is 96 years young with a penchant for writing stories that have a definite '50 Shades' edge. And she's a regular chapel goer mind! When June recently passed away  the group decided to publish an anthology of short stories in her memory.   'June in the Valley', is now available on Amazon. The book is published by                                      The group is  trying to persuade                                       Eileen to do the same.                                       Publishing  stories and memories                                        provides  a wonderful legacy                                       for your children                                       and grandchildren. 

Plymouth University Press. Available on Amazon.

Writing Groups - Friends in Need. . .  In September 20 14 this article appeared in WalesOnline. 

Sp otlight shin es on Rhon d d a authors in m agazin e for Welsh writers

"The second edition of a magazine for Welsh writers has been given a real Rhondda flavour this month. Together with the work of established and acclaimed Welsh authors such as Lloyd Jones, the magazine ETO also features the work of six local writers. . .  . . . ETO, which features all their work, is a joint Welsh-American venture between Oregon-based Ceri Shaw and Gaabriel Beckett, of AmeriCymru, and Phil Rowlands, a retired Rhondda headteacher. Phil said: “Our vision is to provide another platform for new and established authors who have a love, and a particular perspective, of Wales. I was particularly thrilled by Paul Worthington’s contribution as Stuart Keir has two stories featured called The D ig at the he is a former pupil of Pentre Primary School.”

Station Hotel and The V icar’s Wife, while L esley C oburn, Sadly the venture hit the buffers.  Having invested a considerable daughter of distinguished amount of time and energy  this was disheartening to say the least.  It was  the writing group who picked me up and encouraged me to carry on Rhondda author Ron Berry, has inherited her father’s talent but and consequently Tales From Wales emerged out of the ashes. developed her own distinct and    uniq ue style as ex emplified in The contributions they provided are available to download from  her contribution Filling Space. http://www.talesfromwales.net/downloads.htm Tom Stephen’s Riot, by Sheila I thought it only fitting to include Sheila's Story in its entirety given the  L ewis, is based on a true Tonypandy  Riots have defined our village and left an indelible mark on incident that occurred during the Tonypandy Riots as the history of the Trade Union movement. recalled by the wife of Sheila’s great uncle, Blodwen Williams. The story provides a fascinating insight into one of Wales’ most significant historical events. The Blue D oor by Ian D enning is written in the style of Niall G riffiths and M ike J enkins, while J ulie Samways provided three hilarious contributions Yvonne, The M irror and Welshcakes are classic ex amples of valleys humour. Paul Worthington is another young writer originally from Contact: [email protected] the Rhondda, who provided the story No Pressure. GET YOUR GROUP FEATURED

                                                                            8th November, 1910. ‘The Mounties are coming! The Mounties are coming!’ The shouts raced past Eli Jones as he burst into our meeting in the back room of the ‘Pandy Inn’. The cold night air ran a close second place as it rushed around us, chasing the voices, and reaching us well before Eli could open his mouth to yell at us. ‘Come on, gerroff your arses!’ he bawled. ‘We’re all marching on the Power House! Lindsay’s kicked our pickets out, Llewellyn and the management have locked themselves in with eighty ‘blacklegs’ to carry on with the pumping…and now the Mounties are here!’ No-one spoke. We were stunned until Eli yelled again, ‘By God! Are you all dead, or something?  Come on, let’s go!’ He ran back out along the passageway into the main street. Recovering our senses, we all moved to follow him. All of us -- except one. My son Tom remained in his seat. Throughout the meeting, he had been silent and absorbed, and I guessed that he was worried about Margaret, his widowed lady-friend, who walked from house to house with her sewing machine to earn money to support her two young children. Are you coming with us, Son?’ I asked him. ‘You go, now. I’ll catch up with you.’ I squeezed his shoulder, and went after the men. I stepped through the outer doorway, fully expecting to see them all nearby, when I was almost swept off my feet by the push of the crowd outside. I was forced backwards against the wall of the pub, and felt myself being dragged along with the flow. I battled with all my strength against the crush, looking back to see if Tom was following.

                                                                                                   2                               I lost sight of him in the dark swell of people, and when they made a sudden surge forward, I was scared. I was so afraid I would suffocate. I gasped for air, holding onto the stone wall and trying not to panic.  Pushing myself towards the pub doorway, I called out Tom’s name, but my voice went unheard in all the hubbub. And then I spotted him. He was squeezing his way along the wall of the inn…away from the direction of the Power House. Where was he going? Was he heading for our home in De Winton Terrace? I had to know. I believe God helped me in that moment. Somehow, I found the strength to push my way along the pub wall to follow him. I eventually managed to cross the street to the row of shops on the other side of Tonypandy Square, where the road was wider, and the press of the crowd eased. Tom was tucked in by the walls of the buildings. At first, it was difficult to push against the tide of people, but as we drew away from the Square, the crowds began to thin out and we could move more quickly. He was still a distance away, so I felt sure he would not see me, as the gas-lamps shed very little light. My main concern was keeping up with him on the uneven roadways. My burden of guilt increased with each step we took. Not only was I spying on Tom, but I had also let my friends down by not joining them on the march. So I made a decision. Once Tom had reached his destination, I would turn back to join my fellowmen in the protest against the mining management and the ‘black-leg’ traitors.                                              Tom travelled swiftly down through Tonypandy, up Tylacelyn Hill and along the streets until he reached Library Road in Penygraig. He stopped in front of one of the houses, lifted the latch, pushed open the door, and went inside. By this time, my head was pounding; my chest was tightening and I could not catch my breath; my legs had weakened in the strenuous walk. Using the walls and window sills as support, I made my way up to the darkened house and listened by the front door. My racing heart clenched when I heard young children crying in the kitchen. Then I heard Tom’s voice. There we are…a nice candle so I can see you. Now, then, Blod fach, where’s your Mam? Hasn’t she come home, yet?’                                               3 ‘No,’ I heard a little girl cry. ‘She went out with her machine this morning, and she hasn’t come back. We’re scared in the dark, and we’re hungry for food.’ ‘We’re starving,’ a young boy spoke up, tearfully. ‘And we’re both cold.’ ‘Alright, boy, don’t cry. I’ll get some food now. Don’t worry. I’ll knock on ‘Bopa’ next door to see if she’ll look after you for a bit, and I’ll go back to my mother’s to fetch you something to eat. Come on…both of you cwtch into me to warm up. There we are. No need to be scared, you’ll soon be alright.’ I realised that this was Margaret’s family. Although Tom had spoken to us about the children, we had not met them. I knew that Blodwen was almost five years of age, while her brother, James, was about nine. I now understood why Tom had not joined the march on the Power House. The lives of Margaret and her little ones were his main concern.

With my throat tight with tears and my heart swollen with love for my son, I slipped away, and went into the doorway of a house further down the street. I felt weak with relief at knowing Tom was safe, but my strength had been sapped by the past two months of inactivity and  shortage of food. The brisk, uphill walk to Penygraig had taken all my energy, and I knew I needed to rest before trying to walk back to Tonypandy.   I decided to stay where I was until Tom came back with food for the children, so I twtied down in the doorway to try to keep warm. I was sure he would not notice me as he passed…after all, he did not know I had followed him.  As I waited in the still, frosty darkness, I thought I could make out the distant sounds of shouting. ‘You’re tired. You’re just imagining things,’ I said to myself. I heard the ‘thump’ as Margaret’s front door closed. The sound bounced along the street. Tom whispered to Blod and James as he walked a few paces, knocked on a door and lifted a latch. ‘‘Bopa’?’ he called.                                                                                              4 Poor Dat! He probably thought I hadn’t seen him. His hearing had never been the same since his last accident in the pit…but at least he’d escaped the blast and lived to tell the tale. He’s not completely deaf, but I doubt if he’d have realised that I could hear his ‘miner’s chest’, and the sound of his footsteps, as he followed me. It was very hard for me to keep walking without turning around to speak to him, but I decided it would be better to let him think he’d not been seen. I  just couldn’t settle at the meeting at the ‘Pandy’; my whole being was screaming to leave the pub to go to Penygraig to check on Margaret and the children. To be honest, I was really glad when Eli rushed in, because it gave me the chance to escape without anyone realising -- apart from Dat, that is. I knew he’d seen me step into the crowd, but I turned away from him as quickly as I could and tried to keep my head down. I’d hoped he would have been a distance from the pub by the time I left, but I hadn’t banked on there being so many people gathered outside. Still…I should have known better than to think I could have slipped away without him noticing. He’s my father. Not much gets past him!  I felt guilty about not joining in with the march, but I had to know that Margaret and the little ones were safe; I couldn’t have stayed away from her house if you’d paid me. The streets of Penygraig were deserted. I think most of the Rhondda Valley were in Tonypandy that night. When I found the children on their own, I decided the best thing was for me to take them into ‘Bopa’ next door. She was a widow, and although she was too old and frail to look after them for long, I knew she’d keep them with her while I went back to fetch some food from my mother’s in De Winton Terrace. I only expected to be an hour or two…after all, it was only about four miles, there and back. So, in we went, to ‘Bopa’. She hadn’t realised Margaret hadn’t come home. We were both worried about her. I told ‘Bopa’ about the march on the Power House, and how I was afraid there would be trouble now the Constabulary had arrived. She wasn’t keen on seeing me go…but I had to. The children needed food, and I needed to find Margaret. Between us we made a make-shift bed for James against the kitchen wall. We pushed two chair seats together, he lay down and ‘Bopa’ cwtched him up in a blanket and thick overcoat. I put the table in front of him to stop him from falling onto the floor.                                                                                        

                                                5 Blod wanted to go up to bed with ‘Bopa’, so I left them all together and quickly slipped out from the house to make the journey back to Tonypandy. I pondered briefly on what had happened to my father, as there was no sign of him in the street. I walked quickly down Library Road, and noticed a movement in one of the doorways. There was a man, huddled in closely, obviously sheltering from the cold. I lifted his cap to try to see his face. It was my father. Dat?’ I whispered. ‘Dat? Are you awake?’ He did not reply. His face and neck felt like ice, and I could hear his chest rasping as he breathed; he was probably exhausted from the long journey. Although he wouldn’t accept it, he was getting old, and his body was suffering from the hardship of the past weeks. If I left him like this, he’d probably freeze to death by the time I returned. It took all my strength to lift him up, as he was a dead-weight. I  managed to heave him upright, then half-dragged, half-carried him the short distance to ‘Bopa’’s house. She was just going to bed when I went back in. ‘You leave your Da with me, Bach,’ she said. ‘He’ll be grand in here with James. I’ll put some thick coats over him so he’ll be warmer. Don’t you worry, now.’ I settled my father into the rocking chair near the window. He mumbled slightly, but didn’t wake. ‘Leave his Dai Cap on,’ said ‘Bopa’. ‘It will help keep the heat in. Now…off you go. We’ll still be here when you get back.’ ‘Thank you, ‘Bopa’,’ I replied. ‘So long. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ ‘So long. Only, be careful!’ The old widow gently flapped her arms at me, waving me out of the room. I stepped out into the street, closed the front door tightly, and began my journey back to Tonypandy. I’d be quicker going back, as it was mostly downhill. In my thoughts, I was already back with the food for the children, with Margaret safe beside me…        As I reached the top of Tylacelyn Hill, I knew something was wrong.                                                 6 The shouts and screams of men and women hit my ears. I began to walk more quickly. I was approaching the ‘Empire’ when a small group of women and children raced towards me.   "Don’t go that way!’ they shrieked. ‘You’ll be killed!’ They disappeared into the gloom and I saw more women and children approaching. Their screams and cries mingled with the far-off shouts of men, and I moved closer to the shop walls to avoid being knocked over. The women’s breaths were laboured; the effort of running on empty bellies was proving too much, and one woman seemed about to collapse. With her sister’s help, I put her into the shelter of a doorway, then had to leave them -- I needed to get home. I travelled towards Tonypandy Square, and as I drew nearer I could see a host of people; their numbers seemed to have increased a hundred-fold in just a few hours.

 Outside the ‘Bridgend Hotel’, the crowd was almost impenetrable. I could barely make any headway as I forced myself along the wall, hoping to avoid an injury. The silhouettes of the Mounted Police loomed high above the heads of the miners; truncheons were smashed down and raised up like pistons. There was no escape -- we were too tightly packed. I could hear agonised cries all around, and battled hard to keep my feet on the ground in my attempt to cross Gilfach Road. The Lord only knows how I managed to move through the solid mass of bodies. I eventually reached the other side of the roadway, and flattened myself against the wall of the corner building. I could hear the sounds of breaking glass and screams of battle. I was scared. This was the nearest thing to a war that I could imagine. I had grown used to the horrors of the pit, but this…this fear of my own kind…was different. I pushed ahead. Progress was slow, but I passed under the bridge without any mishap -- until I reached the Chapel. By then, large numbers of foot Police had joined forces with the Mounties and were mingled in with the miners, their raised arms brandishing wooden batons. Keeping my head low, I tried to propel myself forward, clinging to the building. I was finding it difficult to breathe, and turned my face away from the wall to take in a gulp of air.                                                       As I did so, I saw the swoop of a truncheon, and heard a ‘crunch’ as it struck my head. I felt a pounding in my brain and the warm trickle of blood running down the side of my face.                                                                                                       7. I twisted away, and a second smash of the truncheon landed across my shoulders. I bent double to protect myself, but the policeman had shifted his attention to someone else. For the moment, I was safe. I held onto the wall. I felt sick and dizzy, and stayed still for a few moments, trying to get my thoughts in order. To reach my home in De Winton Terrace I had to move across the Square, pass the ‘Huts’ and go across Berw Road. I had no choice -- I had to keep going, through the fighting. Up ahead were more sounds of breaking glass; angry shouts; women’s screams; agonised yells; the snorting of horses and the thump and crack of blows being struck. I braced myself. It was time to move. Hugging the wall, I crept forward and arrived at the row of shops on the Square. I sidled past, treading on the broken glass all around me. The crowd had lost interest in these shops now that the windows were completely smashed; the sounds of shattering glass told me that other shopfronts were being damaged. No-one noticed me. I pushed a path through the crowd in the alley between the Chemist’s and the Barber’s; squeezed through the throng by the ‘Huts’; shoved my way across Berw Road and, thanking God, stumbled along De Winton Terrace to my parents’ house. I suddenly realised that the rain was falling in torrents, but had no recollection of when it had started. Soaked through, and with a thumping head and pounding heart, I pushed open the door.                                                                    

                                                                                                   8. I woke up when I heard the loud ‘click’ of a door latch. I thought, ‘Tom must be back.’ I rubbed my eyelids and slowly opened my eyes, expecting to be hunched in a doorway. To my surprise, I was sitting in a high-backed, wooden rocking chair, covered by overcoats and worn blankets. I was in a strange house. How was I here?                                                   Just above the point where the curtains had been pinned together, I could see a triangle of earlymorning sunlight forcing its way in to the dark, sparsely-furnished room. By this shaft of light I could see that two wooden chairs had been placed seat-to-seat as a make-shift bed, and on these lay a sleeping child, tucked in well with overcoats. The table had been pushed close to, probably to prevent the little one from falling onto the floor.                                                                                                A door closed with a ‘thump’ and the second ‘click’ of a latch, and I heard movement outside in the passageway. I started with surprise when someone entered. It was Tom. He placed a package onto the table and came towards me. ‘Dat? How’s it going?’ he asked, anxiously. ‘You’re in ‘Bopa’’s house, next door to Margaret, in Library Road. I brought you inside last night, before I went back home. You’d have frozen to death, otherwise.’ ‘'Open the curtains a bit, for me to look at you.’ He pulled apart the bottom sections of the curtains, and turned to face me. His head had been bandaged, and there were cuts on his face and hands; his clothes were torn and wet. He looked exhausted. ‘You look awful. What happened?’ ‘It was terrible, Dat. No-one stood a chance against the Mounties. There’s blood and broken glass everywhere. Lots of the shops have been ransacked, and Tonypandy’s in a hell of a mess. I don’t know if anyone died, but loads of people have been injured. I was lucky to escape with just this bash on my head. Mam bandaged it for me when I got home, and didn’t want me to come back… but, see, I had to, for the children. They can’t stay with ‘Bopa’ for too long, she’s not well enough.’ ‘So you came through the fighting again? Were you injured on the way back?’                                                                                                 9. ‘No, it was easier, then. But I’ll never forget this night, Dat, not as long as I live.’ ‘Have you found Margaret?’    ‘Yes, thank God. She’d managed to reach our house without being hurt. She was with Mam when I got home, and wanted to come back with me, only I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t know what the streets would be like.’ The sound of Tom’s voice seemed to wake the child; the anxious face of a small boy appeared over the edge of the table. ‘Tom?’ he whispered. ‘Did I hear you say you’d found Mam?’   ‘Yes, bach,’ Tom replied. ‘See, she’s safe with my mother, and I’ve brought food for you and Blod.’                                                                                   

‘Is there enough for ‘Bopa’ as well?’ ‘There’s enough for us all. I’ll shout upstairs to let her know I’m here.’ He called out, ‘‘Bopa’? Blod? I’m back, and Mam’s safe in Tonypandy.’ A small girl hurtled down the stairs, crying out to Tom. He bent down to pick her up, and she clung tightly to him. He brought her over to me. ‘Dat? This is Blod, and this sleepy young man is James.’ I held Blod’s tiny hand. ‘Hello, Fach,’ I said, and, to James, ‘Hello, boy.’ The stairs creaked as someone slowly descended. An old woman appeared in the doorway, and joined us in the room. Tom turned to her. ‘‘Bopa’? This is my father. He’s called Tom, as well.’ ‘Thank you for the shelter, last night, ‘Bopa’,’ I said. ‘Only, I don’t even know your proper name.’ ‘It’s ‘Ellen Roberts’, bach, and my home is always open to anyone in your family.’                                                                                                   10. ‘Come on, then, let’s have something to eat,’ said Tom. He began to unwrap the parcel of food which he had carried from our house in De Winton Terrace. ‘There’s enough here for us all to have a share.’                                                    As I watched him, I thought my heart would burst with pride and love. My first-born had proved himself to be a man, braving such conflict for the sake of this young family. I suddenly thought of God’s words, laid down in St. Matthew’s Gospel; ‘This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.’ And my heart sang, ‘This is my beloved son…’                                                                                   

Sheila L ewis

Introducing Authors From Across Wales Jan Ruth Jan Ruth lives in Snowdonia, a mountainous area of North Wales. Jan writes contemporary fiction about the darker side of the family dynamic, often blending life in rural Wales with a touch of city business. Her style is best described as fast-paced and realistic, with a sprinkling of dry humour. Jan has some interesting views on the publishing scene I hope she is willing to share with us  on the Tales From Wales blog. Amanda Aubrey-Burden was born in Cardiff but now lives in South East Wales on the Welsh Marches. Stories, myths and magic abound in our rich heritage, and like many of our Celtic cousins, Amanda is not immune to its allure. . . She's always had a profound interest in spiritual matters and how we tick when the clock goes tock ~ so there's an insight for you . . .

Allan John Lewis was born in the Rhondda Valley South Wales UK, a son of a coal miner, in August 1939, just before the outbreak of World War 2. He started work underground for the National Coal Board on his fifteenth birthday. Deep down he always wanted to be a writer but he felt thwarted by his lack of education. He would write a few pages and give up, frustrated by spelling and grammar. . . Then with the help and encouragement of his son he worked on five action novels to a first draft stage. Graham Watkins spent several years researching Welsh legends and myths. He explored rugged mountains, mysterious castles, enchanting waterfalls and golden beaches to discover the tales that have been handed down from generation to generation. Wales is a land of mystery and being a Celtic race the Welsh are fantastic story tellers. That’s how he started writing. His first novel 'The Iron Masters' was an historical novel set in Merthyr during the Napoleonic Wars when Merthyr Tydfil was rearming the British Empire, fortunes were being made through other's sweat and anything was possible. Today, he is a multi genre novelist, hobby farmer and explorer. . .  and the story isn’t over yet. When Elizabeth Jane isn’t writing, she works as a librarian, teaches Welsh at the Melbourne Celtic Club, writes reviews and articles for the Historical Novels Society and blogs at elizabethjanecorbett.com. In 2009, her short-story, ‘Beyond the Blackout Curtain’, won the Bristol Short Story Prize. Another, ‘Silent Night’, was short listed for the Allan Marshall Short Story Award. An early draft of her first novel, The Tides Between, was shortlisted for a HarperCollins Varuna manuscript development award. Elizabeth lives with her husband, Andrew, in a renovated timber cottage in Melbourne's inner-north. Tales From Wales extends Elizabeth a warm Welsh welcome. Philip Stuart Kear is a new writer and enthusiastic member of the Tonypandy Writer's Groups. Stuart is also a talented photographer. He has just published his first anthology of short stories  Short, Long and Tall Stories.  Stuart is a writer of considerable promise.  Hopefully Tales From Wales can inspire more 'scribblers' to publish their work.

Get Your Characters  To Market Your Book Who Will  Be Your M arketing D irector? Apart from writing one of my great passions is lawn bowls. I suppose it was inevitable that eventually I would combine the two and write a fictional novel about the game I love. The result was 'J ack's High'. 'J ack's High' was first conceived as a six part comedy drama centred around the hapless ex ploits of a Welsh V alleys' fictional lawn bowls club called Penypont. The BBC liked what they read but were not convinced that lawn bowls was a compelling enough vehicle for comedy and asked me to write about something else. I declined. Some of you reading this will probably think me mad. The truth is I have always believed in staying true to what I believe in and I believed in the characters I had created. They were real to me and I was not prepared to abandon them. How real are your characters to you? 

D on't G ive  It  Away  For Free -   Be A Tease   Instead Seth Solmes recently posted on a G oogle+ forum: "Is it possible to be afraid of your own characters?" Seth is writing a novel about a particularly dark serial killer. It seems to me Seth is on the right track because his character has come alive to such a degree he actually gives Seth the shivers! M ore about this later. To some ex tent the BBC was right. Bowls is not viewed as a 'sex y' sport even though it is played globally by large numbers of people like myself. Humour on the other hand is universal but how could I convince the general public at large that a novel about bowls could be both sex y and funny? Step forward V ernon Algernon L ewis. V ernon is one of the characters from 'J ack's High'. His uniq uely insensitive   and uncompromising attitude to life can freq uently be described as outrageous.   He is one of those people the 'politically correct brigade' would love to clap  in irons. The point is V ernon can speak and behave in a way that would get 'real'  people ostracised or worse! It seemed a 'no brainer' to appoint the unsuspecting V ernon to the position of  marketing director. One of the most effective marketing ploys is to give something away for free although we authors possibly flog this tactic to death  when we keep giving away books that we have slaved over for months if not years. The presumed logic is that somehow this will result in more sales. Instead why not provide teaser material that increases interest and a desire   to find out more by actually buying your book? 'J ack's High' is a 34 6 page novel  set around a bowls club. It is highly unlikely anyone is going to rush out  to buy it unless they can be persuaded it actually may be q uite fun.   Which brings me back to Seth's very dark serial killer.

   How About Hannibal L ector?

Apologies for those of you who consider this nex t ex ample in poor taste.   It 's   what you might call an apocryphal story   - using an ex treme to prove a point.  It also probably marks my  permanent ex clusion from the inner circle of  the Welsh  L iterati. Why not get this warped individual to write a short eBook describing 'M y Top 3 Favourite Kills' from his own perspective. A bit grisly and admittedly in bad taste but you get the idea. The eBook becomes the hook that nets you readers without having to give the book you slaved over for years away for free. D oes this make sense? 

WARNING ! Your C haracter C an take Over Your L ife. V ernon has stepped out of 'J ack's High'  to write something of his own. A much shorter and more specific eBook entitled: "7 Top Tips for Top Skips". This is the 'lead magnet' that will be made available to potential readers. If they like it you are well on the way to selling another copy of your novel. If they don't then what have you lost? The importance of providing q uality material cannot be overstated. It must also stand on its own merits. A sloppily written 'lead magnet' will do infinitely more harm than good! V ernon now features on: Twitter Facebook YouTube Blogger  This works better when you write about something you feel passionate about and enjoy doing for its own sake regardless of the positives that will flow from it. The call to action on V ernon's blog has already begun to attract subscribers who are more likely to turn into fans prepared to give 'J ack's High' a go because they have begun to 'bond' with V ernon. Isn't it time you got your characters working for you?

To

               o t The blurb for 'Jack's High' read. . . N        r           "Vampires, Aliens and Sinister Pagan Cults engulf the Hapless                b    O ? r u   u   r b     Members of Valleys Lawn Bowls Club in this Humorous Contemporary  l    l     Tale from Wales" B B To  One reviewer said . . . "Funny but far-fetched." REALLY!                                                        

Things C an G et A Bit C omplicated!

OK, deep breath. V ernon, a fictitious   character from J ack's High has been persuaded to write  a blog  by  Raymond another character from the book. The book purports to ex pose the antics of the members of the local bowls club, namely  Penypont, and has been written by another of the members, Phil Rowlands (that's me). Have I lost anyone yet? C onvinced he is the main character, despite not having read the book, V ernon starts his own blog.  Will we soon see him on "I'm a C elebrity. ..?

Blog Alert!   C ontent Includes M ild References To S- E - X Raymond’s just ex plained what he meant by ‘ride the wave’. Apparently the wave he wants me to ride is a book called ‘Fifty Shades of G rey’. V ery popular at the moment it is. They’ve even made it into a film. Why anyone would want to watch a film about different shades of paint is beyond me. Raymond says if I can work it into this blog it will double the circulation and maybe even tempt Brylcreem on board. I told him, “Raymond”, I said, “I am a trained athlete not an interior decorator.” Raymond said he would show me the trailer before I write any more.

I’ve just seen the ‘Fifty Shades of G rey’ trailer. It’s not about paint! I told Raymond straight, “I’m not having anything mucky in my blog.” Anyway it’s something me and M egan never talk about, haven’t for years. Its common knowledge that s- e- x is bad for highly tuned athletes like me. I told M egan before we got married, “Bowls comes before ‘the other’ mind M egan”. She didn’t seem to object too much,  I’m glad my M egan isn’t the jealous possessive type.  She often says laughingly, “If they want you they can have you.”  Too much passion can play merry hell with your delivery. So I told Raymond straight, “No way is my blog going to be a platform for mucky stuff about ‘the other!” He said, “It’s a bit late for that now.” I started to get worried. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Haven’t you read our sponsors book yet?” he said smiling. “What,” I said starting to panic, “not that book Rowlands wrote?”

As it happens he had a copy of J ack’s High with him. He turned to a page that had a corner turned down and pointed to a paragraph. I had to sit down.

“Rose leads him onto the centre of the green just as Eve led Adam before the Fall. Jack knows he should be worried about his mother and the members who will shortly be arriving for the AGM but he no longer cares. He wants to be seen with this beautiful woman, his desire for her transcends any boundaries shame and decency might attempt to impose. She lay down on the grass. . . ” I couldn’t read any more! J ack Pryce our captain, and his floozie, rolling around on the green in the altogether when he should have been in the AG M - and his mother had spent all afternoon making the sandwiches. Are there no depths of depravity to which men will not sink when the sex ual sap rises? He didn’t even think about the damage they would do to the green. You’d never catch me and M egan rolling around on the grass, she knows ex actly what to do whenever my sap starts to rise and I am a better bowler for it. FROM : verns- lawn- bowls- tips.blogspot.co.uk�� 2 015 �� 02 �� fifty- shades- of- rhonddagrey.html

M ore Help On Its Way. . . C reating Facebook Fan Pages Adding Tabs to Facebook Fan Pages Adding C ustom C ontect to Facebook Fan Pages Using Kindle Format 8 - C reating Non- Fiction For Kindle Using Twitter to Attract Readers How G oogle+ E vents C an Help Authors How Being a Tease C an Help You G et Noticed C reating Your Own G oogle+ C ommunity G oogle+ Authorship - G et Your Face Out There Why Authors Should Blog G et Yourself Heard - C reate An Audio Book PL US. . . M uch M ore

The main deck was cool and quiet after the close, dark, fug of steerage, the ship’s three great masts tall and stark like winter trees against the dusk-lit sky. Laughter and pipe smoke curled up from the sailors’ quarters beneath the fo’c’s’le. A horse whinnied in its makeshift stable. Through her half-open door, Bridie glimpsed Mrs Scarcebrook, the ship’s pretty-as-a-china-doll matron, reading in her deckhouse cabin. Between deckhouse and horsebox, two small boats lay lengthwise in preparation for the morning’s departure. A hound had been kennelled beneath one of the boats. The other filled with cages of ruffling hens. Bridie gazed out over the blackened river. Mills turned slowly on the Isle of Dogs opposite. Small piers and granaries broke the smooth, dark, silhouette line of its shore. The sight strange and foreign, as if they had already crossed an ocean. Somewhere, beyond the docks, mudflats and the City of London, lay the cobbled streets of Covent Garden. The streets her dad had walked, their lodging house within calling distance of the theatres. The musical, magical cellar where she’d etched his fairy tales onto the crisp new pages of her notebook and run her finger over his final message and still felt his presence, long after he was gone. She didn’t know how long she stood there. Only that the light thickened and the night air fell like a chill shawl on her shoulders. Turning back towards the hatchway, she heard an eerie drawn out sound from beyond the deckhouse. She halted, nerves feathering her spine. A long slow note pierced the evening. The fiddle? Ah! Rhys. He was playing an air, an-oh-so familiar air, from the Beggars’ Opera. One her dad had played so many times—towards the end with tears coursing his cheeks.  She turned slowly toward the sound. In the shadow of the deckhouse she stopped, her breath coming hard and fast. Every piece of music held a story, her dad told her—a thread that attached itself to the heart. She’d become attuned to those threads, growing up to the strains of Mozart’s Magic Flute, and Purcell’s music for The Tempest, hearing tales of fairy queens, Arabian nights and midsummer dreams—and this was a sad song,

 quite apart from Peachum and his cronies in the Beggars’ Opera. A long haunting melody that spoke of a sadness and longing. Head bent, eyes closed, Rhys’ lashes made a smudge against the night-white of his cheeks. It might have been the melody, or simply her fear of discovery. Maybe the memories of her dad. But she saw a struggle in the lines of his body that went beyond the music. Something in the long, measured stroke of his bow, that put her in mind of a sapling bent hard by the wind. She found herself dissolving at the sight. She stood for an age, fist jammed in her mouth, trying not to sob aloud. Forever, it seemed, until the music drew to a gentle close. She didn’t clap, though his performance surely deserved it. She turned quietly to leave. ‘It’s called Ar Hyd y Nos,’ his soft voice followed. ‘All through the Night, you might say in English.’ Bridie stopped, hugging her arms to her chest. ‘Welsh, it was, long before Gay made use of it in his opera. A love song, recorded by Mr Jones in his Relicks of the Welsh Bards. I’ve heard it many a time, though, I’m not convinced of the lyrics.It speaks sorrow, to me, quite apart from the romance. Death, perhaps, or ambition gone wrong? A secret? What do you say, Bridie Stewart? Am I being fanciful on the eve of a long and difficult journey?’ He knew. How did he know she’d been listening? ‘I’ll not force you to speak, bach. Only seeking your thoughts, as you’re haunting the deck along with me.’ Silence. He waited. She stepped forward, pulse thrumming. ‘I can’t stay out long, Mr Bevan, because of Ma. But I liked your playing and I agree about the melody. It speaks sorrow to me too.’ ‘Indeed!’ ‘My dad was a theatre musician. So, I’ve heard that tune loads of times. I’ve always fancied it a lament —for a fairy who had died.’ She stopped, aware of how foolish that must sound. For some reason, she didn’t want to appear foolish before this soft voiced young man with truth-seeing eyes. ‘I suppose, if there are Welsh words written in a book, I might be wrong. About the fairies, I mean. Not about the sorrow.’ He laughed. ‘You mustn’t apologise, Bridie Stewart. Where I come from, beauty is often attributed to the fairies.’ Was he in earnest? She peeped up at him through her lowered lashes. Found his smile, a pair of warm, dark eyes, an eyebrow raised in query. But how to explain? About her dad’s love of fairy tales? How, in the early days, before he got sick, her world had been filled with wonder and stories, how they lived still in her memories.’

In 184 1, on the eve of her departure from L ondon, Bridie’s mother demands she forget her dead father and prepare for a sensible, adult life in Port Phillip. D esperate to save her childhood, fifteen- yearold Bridie smuggles a notebook filled with her father’s  fairy tales to the far side of the world. When Rhys Bevan, a soft- voiced young storyteller and fellow traveller, realises Bridie is hiding something, a magical friendship is born. But Rhys has his own secrets and the words written in Bridie’s notebook carry a dark double meaning. As they inch towards their destination, Rhys’s past returns to haunt him. Bridie grapples with the implications of her dad’s final message. The pair take refuge in fairy tales, little ex pecting the trouble it will cause. "A truly wonderful book whose incredibly vivid main characters will stay with you."

When E lizabeth J ane C orbett isn’t writing, she works as a librarian, teaches Welsh at the M elbourne C eltic C lub, writes reviews and articles for the Historical Novel Society and blogs at elizabethjanecorbett.com. In 2 0 0 9 , her short- story, 'Beyond the Blackout C urtain', won the Bristol Short Story Prize. Another, 'Silent Night', was shortlisted for the Allan M arshall Short Story Award. An early draft of her debut novel, The Tides Between, was shortlisted for a Harper C ollins V aruna manuscript development award.

                                                               The period between 1780 and 1833 was a golden age for some. For others a time of misery and hardship. Fortunes are made in wartime and Britain was going to war. It was an opportunity the Iron M asters of M erthyr Tydfil would seize with both hands to make their fortunes. M en like Richard C rawshay, Francis Homfray and J osiah G uest built huge iron foundries employing thousands of men. The foundries of C yfarthfa,   D owlais, Penydarren and Abercynon roared like thunder as they fed the war machine with cannon. The iron masters built canals and railways to get their wares to market. They fought, tricked and connived together. Anything was possible and nothing stood in the way of these powerful men. C annon production was important enough for Admiral Nelson to visit M erthyr to see for himself. 'C heer you buggers, It's Nelson,' commanded Richard C rawshay, to his workmen, when the Admiral arrived. Thomas C arlyle visited M erthyr writing that the town was filled with such 'unguided, hardworked, fierce, and miserable- looking sons of Adam I never saw before. Ah me ! It is like a vision of Hell, and will never leave me, that of these poor creatures broiling, all in sweat and dirt, amid their furnaces, pits, and rolling mills.' The story of the rise and ultimate decline of M erthyr which during the Napoleonic Wars was the biggest industrial city in the world, is very real. To avoid upsetting partisan opinions, I've used fictional characters but the events you will find them entangled in did happen and theirs is a fascinating adventure.

Nye Vaughn glanced down at the crude coffin. It looked smaller in the grave, too small to contain his mother’s body. ‘Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord,’ intoned the minister. His mother’s death had been cruel; consumption devouring her body and destroying her mind. Once, she had been a strong woman. Full of life. She had made a good home and kept it well. Nye had listened to her coughing and her cries as demons tormented her dreams. Nye’s father had deserted the marriage bed to spend the evenings in the ale houses of Llangadog, to forget his sick wife. The town was alive with drovers, gathering to walk animals to the profitable English markets. Every room was occupied. Drovers, unable to find a bed, slept in barns and outhouses. On the nights when Nye's father came home, he slept in a chair by the kitchen fire. The farm, too, was neglected. Hedges needed repairing. The barn roof had collapsed. The autumn nights were getting longer and there was no winter feed for the animals. Nye did his best to work the farm, more than anyone could expect of a boy of eighteen. Nye looked across the grave at his father, hoping for a smile, a nod, a gesture of compassion, of shared grief but his father stood motionless, staring straight ahead. Father and son were never close. Nye imagined his mother's death would bring them together. He was wrong; a void existed, as big as the grave between them, that would never be bridged. ‘May she rest in peace,’ said the minister and threw a sod of earth into the grave. It landed on the coffin with a thud. Nye shuddered. His father put on his cap and strode out of the graveyard.              The minister put his hand on Nye’s shoulder. ‘Your mother was a good woman. She isn’t down there, Nye. She’s with God now,’ said the minister and glanced up to the heavens. He closed his prayer book and followed Nye’s father from the graveyard. Nye watched the grave diggers shovel earth into the grave. It was raining as Nye walked back to the farm, a soft cold rain that penetrated his coat and chilled his back. Nye changed out of his Sunday clothes and did his chores. The animals had to be seen to. Nye collected eggs, shut the hens in and filled the carthorse’s manger with hay. The cow, her udders heavy with milk, was waiting by the barn. He milked her and cleaned the cowshed. The rain grew heavier as he worked. The heavy muck barrow slid in the mud as he pushed it across the yard. When the jobs were finished, Nye lit the kitchen fire, dried himself and sat in his mother’s chair. Her shoes were by the grate, her knitting still in a bag on the floor. The hearth mat his mother had woven with strips, cut from old clothes, looked shabby. Nye remembered cutting the cloth for her and helping make the rag rug. It was threadbare and greasy; ready to be discarded. ‘I’ll clear everything out tomorrow,’ he said to himself. He focused on the burning logs. Shadows danced on the walls as flames illuminated the room. Nye was dozing when the clock struck ten. He stirred. The fire had burned low and the kitchen was dark, except for a faint glow from the embers. Nye added sticks to the fire. There was a noise outside, voices and scuffling. Nye stood up, looked at the door and the loaded gun hung above it. The door opened and his father lurched into the kitchen, followed by a woman. What a dirty night. Let’s get these wet things off,’ laughed his father and grabbed at the woman. She giggled as he pulled at her coat. The woman noticed Nye and stopped laughing. Nye’s father turned and saw his son.

‘This is Jean. Jean, this is my boy, Nye,’ said his father, swaying as he spoke. ‘Mum’s not even cold in the ground and you bring a woman into her house,’ said Nye angrily. There was silence as Nye's father digested what he said. Rain beat on the window. Drops of water came down the chimney. The fire hissed and spat a burning ember onto rug. Nye’s father stepped forward and slapped his son across the face. ‘ 'Your mother is gone. This is my house and you've insulted my friend,’ said his father. A trickle of blood ran down Nye’s face. ‘You’ll apologise to Jean.’ Nye pushed past his father, snatched his coat from behind the door and ran out, into the darkness. 'Go after him,' said Jean. "What for? He's got nowhere to go. He'll be back,' replied Nye's father. The rug had begun to smoulder. Nye's father carried it outside and threw it in the mud. Nye's father peered into the gloom, hoping to see his son but the farmyard was empty.

G raham Watkins  spent several years researching Welsh legends and myths. He described it as  a wonderful project and great fun as he ex plored rugged mountains, mysterious castles, enchanting waterfalls and golden beaches to discover the tales that have been handed down from generation to generation. Wales is a land of mystery and being a C eltic race the Welsh are fantastic story tellers. G raham collected eighty of his  favourite legends together in his book 'Welsh L egends and M yths.' That’s how he started writing. His first novel 'The Iron M asters' is an historical novel set in M erthyr during the Napoleonic Wars when M erthyr Tydfil was rearming the British E mpire, fortunes were being made through other's sweat and anything was possible. Today,he is a multi genre novelist, hobby farmer and ex plorer. He says, " It’s all been great fun and the story isn’t over yet." He recently published 'A White M an's War,' the story of a terrible siege during which the Scouting movement was born and 'The Sicilian D efence' a novel about a young American Woman lured to Sicily to a terrible fate.  Right now he is working on a modern day political thriller in which terrorists, computer programmers and a big brother state fight for their very survival. 

All G raham's books  and those of  all the  featured authors  are available from: www.talesfromwales,net bookshop.htm

Women’s fiction with a strong equine background, set in North Wales. ...She waited until Ben rumbled back out of the yard and the roof of the box was lost to sight. James smoothed a hand over O’Malley’s shoulder and turned him to face the gate, then it was just herself and the horse. There was something about the sound of his hooves and the tremble of his flanks against her legs, something that lifted her spirits but at the same time connected her firmly to the ground. The horse walked faster than if she’d put him into a trot and they reached the track which would lead them onto Garreg Fawr, within minutes. He shied at all the dirty plastic bags suspended in the hedge, witches’ knickers she used to call them and Laura used to believe her. The way ahead stretched before them, an endless rutted bridleway with a horse-sized strip of wet grass running up the middle and disappearing into floating, suspended skeins of light fog. The second his hooves touched the grass, O’Malley tasted freedom, but he waited. Two strides of trot and then they slipped into a bouncing canter, covering the ground with gradually lengthening strides. So much for a warm-up, Maggie thought, but the joy of it! O’Malley attacked the incline as if it were virtually flat, spooking at an old sheep dip clanging and screeching in the wind but Maggie closed her legs around his sides and crouched over his neck. O’Malley didn’t need much encouragement, even his ears turned aerodynamically flat as he stretched forwards into a gallop. Sodden hoofbeats, and a second of suspension… sodden hoofbeats, and a second of suspension… Her eyes were soon streaming tears from the wind, horizontal lines wetting the sides of her face. It was a brutal landscape, a criss-cross of footpaths with the sunken, stone-strewn Roman road snaking across the lower slopes of the Carneddau towards  Aber in one direction, and dropping to Rowen in the other. Ahead, lay the great bulk of Drum, suspended in fog. She eased O’Malley back to a jog where the track zig-zagged sharply to the left and besides, her own muscles were starting to burn. The big horse was barely out of breath but his velvet nostrils were wide, sucking in the damp 

air. Maggie took in their surroundings. There wasn’t a pony in sight. Goodness knows how anything survived a winter on the Carneddau, it was bleakly inhospitable. The wind roared relentlessly off the sea, crushing the acres of spongy heather and gorse, bending the small gnarled trees – hawthorn, and covered in pale green algae – almost to the ground. But there was evidence that lives had been lived here, in the old slate fencing, poking up intermittently like broken teeth, the remnants of walled enclosures and stone cottages, long since abandoned to the wind, and the sheep. Above this historical wasteland, fizzing pylons marched a crooked line across the hillsides. ‘No wonder we get the odd power-cut, huh?’ she said to the horse, allowing him to pick over the tough grass. In the distance, she could hear the faint roar of engines as the quads and vehicles negotiated the incline. O’Malley suddenly lifted his head to listen in mid-chew, foliage dangling from his mouth. Closer to home, it was the cawing of ravens and crows and the constant fizzing, crackling pylons. She gathered up the reins and they jogged on, anxious to get well ahead of the advancing army of wheels. They were already close enough to make out some detail. Rob led the way, almost standing on his quad, gesticulating to the camera crew. A couple of them were already hanging out of the windows with telescopic lenses. A long procession followed behind and it looked as if they were headed for the summit of Drum, clearly intending to do a sweep of the mountain, driving the ponies towards the lower ground. Maggie followed the Roman road, thankful for it’s clear definition in the swirling fog. She heard them first. A rhythmic drumming, like the heartbeat of the Carneddau rising from deep in the ground. And then a miraculous sight came out of the mist: a long ribbon of ponies on the skyline cantering, leaping and  whinnying to each other across the heather. They found the tiny sheep tracks running like rivulets down the hills, re-grouping as they neared the plateau and gathering speed, manes and tails flying behind them. ‘Well, would you look at that,’ she sighed softly to Mal. He lifted his big head, watching with her as the stream of moving colour brought everything to life. They were the colours of bracken and stone, rainclouds and earth. Following behind, the camera crew were in prime position, moving as slowly as possible, while the quads and scramblers formed a wider circle. As they neared, whoops and shouts sounded across the valley. She heeled O’Malley on, cantering to catch up as they moved towards Llanfairfechan nestling below. From her vantage point, Maggie could see the ponies trotting in a tight group, forming the shape of an arrow-head as they approached the sectioned-off field above Pony Jones’ place, flooding the farm with life and colour. Already, the low winter sun was beginning to pierce through the opaque veil like a torch, revealing vast peaks and valleys for hundreds of miles, the scenery dipping and climbing in every direction. Her mobile rang. She fumbled to get her gloves off and locate the phone. ‘Maggie, did you see them?’ Laura said. ‘Yes! What a sight!’ ‘James says there was around eighty but he thinks about a dozen of them broke away, so they’re going back up again.’ ‘Oh, well it’s still early, I’ll go a bit further then.’ They disconnected and Maggie looked up towards Drum. Now that the fog had partially dispersed, the tracks were clear against the cold blue sky. The roar of the engines echoed across the valley, 

some of them on their way back up. There were a few walkers and a couple of children on ponies, drawn out by the improvement in visibility and the activity on the mountain. Despite O’Malley’s enthusiasm, Maggie took a lower route which would eventually bring her back round to the farm and hopefully ahead of the action. Due north, the restless sea was flecked appropriately with white horses. Surely with a big landmark like that she couldn’t get lost! After an hour, she dismounted and found her bottle of water, an apple and a chocolate bar. Sat on a rock with the horse nibbling the sparse grass at her feet was a vast improvement to the majority of Saturdays; supermarket shopping or arguing with Jess. Everything seemed so much smaller on the mountain, so much further away. She gave O’Malley the apple core and his mouth foamed appreciatively. She could hear distant shouts, whistles and engines.  ‘Sounds like we’re in business again,’ Maggie said, zipping the chocolate wrapper and her mobile phone back into her pocket. She led the horse alongside a rocky knoll where she could mount more easily and he stood stock still while she managed, albeit ungracefully, to scramble back on. From her position on the lower slopes, she could see the quads, headlights full-on but crawling carefully along the top of the ridge behind a small herd of mares and yearlings. What happened next was so fast, so unexpected it was like watching a film set with the wrong script. First of all, something backfired, not once but several times. It sounded like gunshots. O’Malley flung his head up. Presently, the mares and young picked up speed, dispersing down the mountain in a panic. They chose the most difficult descent, sliding on their haunches down boggy slopes of heather and moss, strewn with boulders and rocks. ‘What the hell? Bloody horses will break their necks! This isn’t good,’ she muttered, gathering up the reins. She nudged O’Malley on, keeping to the wide track, looking towards the skyline but there wasn’t much to see. The sun had already dropped behind the ridge and the chill blowing off the incoming tide sent a shiver down her spine so that when the shout came, followed by something falling down the hillside, bouncing and tumbling over and over, it was as if she’d anticipated it. ‘Oh… oh, my God.’ A helmet flew up in the air, a flash of shining metal skimmed off a rock. There was shouting, a lot of shouting. The cluster of ponies bolted past her, leaping across the rough terrain as if it were a smooth svelte of grass. She saw the whites of their eyes and the atmosphere seemed charged with their terror, running and running until only the pale grey mare was visible amongst the rust-coloured bracken.  O’Malley was agitated, tossing his head and marching on the spot. It was a huge testament to his training that he trusted the restraint of her hand and leg, heard her voice. Whatever had plunged off the mountain, there wasn’t much left of it. She cantered cautiously up the wide sloping track, presumably the one the gatherers were meant to come down with the ponies trotting calmly before them. The closer she rode the less she liked the look of it. There was a commotion at the top of the incline, a couple of scrambler bikes coming down towards her, men running behind.  ‘What’s happened?’ she shouted, standing in her stirrups. No one answered. A 4x4 traversed down the slope towards Maggie, headlights blinding her for a moment but O’Malley didn’t falter. As they neared the scene, she could see Rob crouching in the undergrowth. There was a body, the body of a man lying at a disjointed angle in the dead bracken. It was only when she saw the red sections of bike dotted across the hillside that her stomach churned. And then Rob’s head shot up. ‘Maggie! Where’s your sister?’

‘I… I don’t know, she was with the camera crew.’ ‘How calm are you in a crisis?’ She slithered off O’Malley, somehow finding the strength of mind to slip the halter over his head and tie him to a tree, then she clambered over the ground towards Rob. ‘What do you want me to do?’ He looked wretched, but not as wretched as James. There was a lot of blood but this didn’t concern her, it was the peculiar angle in which he lay suspended. ‘I need you to support his head and neck. Don’t move him, whatever you do.’ ‘I can do that.’ She had to kneel in an awkward crevice, where rocks had lain in that position for centuries, hard and unforgiving. She resumed the position Rob had taken up, sliding her hands beneath his head. His hair was matted with blood and there was a terrible gash above his eye but she crouched as still as she could, the cold wet moss and lichen seeping next to her skin in seconds. More of the party came flying down the hill. Riders left bikes and quads on the track and jumped into the undergrowth alongside, arms and legs flailing wildly. ‘What the fuck happened?’ Rob was in complete control, his directions full of intensity, daring anyone to disagree with him.  ‘Form a line here, when Maggie seizes up, someone needs to take over. Don’t move him.’ They understood instantly and hunkered down in the mattress of sodden heather. Laura came running towards them like a silent scream. Rob, shouting map references into his phone, caught hold of her with a big beefy arm. How long did they stand there on that cold mountainside, Rob holding on to Laura like that, her white face rigid with shock? Maggie couldn’t recall the last time she’d looked at her watch but minutes passed like hours. James was already feeling cold and his lips looked colourless despite the coats piled on top of him. He was flat on his back, one arm across his chest as if he were sleeping. His left arm was in a strange position and every single finger looked blue and swollen. Her arms quickly tired trying to keep the same position, her legs and back numb with crouching in an unnatural position. Someone knelt alongside her and carefully inched into place so she could move, stand upright. They continued in this way some forty minutes before a paramedic arrived – on a motorbike. Rob was furious...

Palomino Sky: Part Two of M idnight Sky A golden promise for the future in a lonely palomino mare, but life deals a cruel hand for J ames and L aura. J ames is still running from the past after the loss of his wife, and a devastating accident forces him to face his final demons, but at what cost? L aura is forced deeper into his rural world – a life she once despised – but discovers empathy and hope in the palomino mare she calls Song.

 CHAPTER 5 Special Agent William Jefferson and his partner, Special Agent Amanda Smith, were on time. It surprised Alice to see that Jefferson was black. On the phone, his voice had sounded more like a fifty year old white schoolteacher. Jefferson was in his late thirties, tall, and good-looking. Amanda Smith was short, well-built, and in her fifties. Alice offered them coffee,  which they declined. With all the introductions over, Jefferson and Smith sat down on the sofa. John and Alice sat on the love seat opposite them. “Mr. Timberlake, shall we start with you?” Jefferson asked in a businesslike tone. “I’d rather you call me John, and the wife is Alice.” The four of them smiled in unison. “Okay then … John…” Jefferson had his notepad out and read from his list of questions. “Did you have any dreams last night?” John shifted uneasily in his seat. “Yeah … the same old dream.” John hoped they wouldn’t be able to tell he was lying. “I opened the cell door and let three prisoners out.” “You let them outside … where?––the prison walls, or just their cells?” “Hmmm … I think it was to the yard so they could jog. At least, I think it was the yard; it was all mixed up.” “And these three men are the same three in all your dreams?” “Yeah, the same three every time.” “And you don’t know these men?” “No, I’ve never seen them before, and there’s no one on my wing with the same names.” As soon as he said names, John wanted to bite his tongue. “They gave you their names in this dream?” John hesitated before answering. “Yeah … Tony and Vince, and the other one had a nickname, Horse.” Agent Jefferson smiled, while Agent Smith wrote the names down. “Did you walk in your sleep last night and come down and take the bolts off?” “Yes.” John was hoping he wouldn’t ask Alice if she changed the code.

 Agent Jefferson turned to Alice. “Sorry to have to ask you this,” he looked at his notes, “but, did you wake up to find your panties on top of your slippers?” “Yes … I did.” Alice could feel herself blushing. “And were your panties just tossed anyhow, or were they folded neatly?” “They were laid tidily on top of my slippers.” Jefferson turned back to John. “Were you naked when you woke up?” “Yeah, but what has that got to do with my sleepwalking?” Jefferson ignored his question. “Was there another condom used?” John looked at Alice before he answered. “Yes, there was an empty packet on the bedside table.” “Alice, do you have any recollection of having sex last night, or of a sexual dream?” Jefferson returned his attention to Alice. Alice blushed again, not so much at the question, but because she had to lie. “No, I slept like a baby until John woke me.” Jefferson nodded and looked at his partner, then turned back to Alice. “I think we’ll have that cup of coffee now, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Timberlake.” “Yes, of course.” Alice was glad to leave the room. “John,” Jefferson gave half a smile: “Do you mind if we have a minute alone?” He pointed his hand to Agent Smith. “Not at all, I’ll give the wife a hand.” John was out of there like a shot. In the kitchen, he whispered in Alice’s ear. “They think I’m going to help someone break out of prison." Alice gave him a strange look, and then asked, “Then why ask about my underwear, and if I  remembered having sex?” John shrugged. “Beats me.” “Shh … he’s on his cell phone with someone.” They strained their ears to hear, but couldn’t make sense out of the one sided conversation. Agent Smith came into the kitchen. “Anything I can do to help?” John and Alice assumed she was only there to prevent them from listening in. “No, we’ve got it.” John followed Agent Smith back into the living room, with Alice right behind him carrying a tray with four mugs of coffee, a jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. She put it down on the coffee table in front of them, and then nervously sat back down. Agent Jefferson had finished his phone call and nodded to Agent Smith. Without so much as a thank you for the coffee, he continued the questioning. “Mrs. Timberlake, what kind of work do you do?” “It’s Alice,” she reminded him. She sat up straight and spoke proudly: “I’d like to say I’m a journalist because that’s what I want to be; but, I’m more or less an assistant to the Agony Aunt columnist in our local paper.” Alice saw the look of concern on the agent’s faces as they looked at each other, and Jefferson sighed before motioning for her to go on. “I read the letters that come in, mostly complaints, and then research for the answers.” Agent Jefferson looked at his notes before he spoke: “Can we trust you both not to say a word about what we are about to tell you? Especially you, Alice, can you promise me that you won’t go running to your editor with this story?” John gave a nervous smile. “What is it, something top secret?” He gave a little snicker. “Are you going to shoot us if we spill the beans?” He laughed a little harder at his attempted joke.

 Alice felt Jefferson’s stare go right through her; he hadn’t even cracked a smile at John’s humour. “I can’t see John’s sleepwalking grabbing the headlines, can you?” she asked. “Alice,” Agent Smith spoke in a soft tone. “We need to know we can trust you with this information … if it was to reach the press…” She left the question hanging and shook her head. Alice looked to John for help. “If it’s that important,” John leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, “then, of course, you can trust us.” Jefferson looked to Agent Smith, and she nodded. “All right, how shall I begin?” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We think you two have been hypnotized, and when I say we, I mean the Bureau––the FBI.” He saw the look of shock on John and Alice’s faces as they looked at each other. “There’s a man out there that likes to hypnotize people and get into their dreams.” “You’ve got to be kidding.” John sat back, shaking his head. Alice’s jaw dropped open, and she sat there dumbfounded, unable to speak a word. “Let me go on,” Jefferson held up his hand. “There have been many cases similar to yours, where people have behaved uncharacteristically in their sleep.” He looked at John. “Just like you getting up and turning your alarm system off and taking the bolts off the door, but not remembering doing it.” He turned to Alice. “And, there’s been an instance where a woman has woke up and found her panties folded tidily on the chair next to her bed, and she swears she wore them to bed every night. Over two weeks that went on, and her panties were on the chair every morning. She did, however, recall having erotic dreams. And all her windows and doors were locked.” Alice sat there, too spooked to say anything. John held her hand, and then asked Jefferson, “You think this guy got into our dreams?” John corrected himself quickly: “I mean, into my dreams?” “Yes, we do.” Agent Smith didn’t seem to notice John’s slip. “We call this guy the Magic Man. It’s the nickname the Bureau has given him. We think he’s gotten into your dreams. And,” she leaned forward and gave Alice a sad smile as if to apologize for what she was about to say, “he used John’s body to make love to you. He made you fold your panties, and he made John walk in his sleep.” “How can he control us like that?” Alice was in a state of shock as she tried to make sense of it all. “Are you saying he used John to rape me?” Alice’s mind was in turmoil as she stared at Smith. “He must have hypnotized you both so you’d play along with his fantasy. We don’t know how he does it,” Smith replied. “We say he, but it could be a woman, however, that’s most unlikely. Our profiler thinks it’s a man, possibly a psychiatrist or psychologist, based on their use of hypnosis. We don’t think it’s your runof-the-mill hypnotist that goes around doing shows, like the kind that takes people out of the audience to do embarrassing things.” She smiled sympathetically at Alice, noticing her discomfort. Jefferson took over from Agent Smith. “The Magic Man could even be a lawyer or a judge as he seems to have an interest in justice, as well.” Jefferson tried to smile when he saw the mystified look on their faces. “The Magic Man helped to turn a case around where a man was convicted of murder. He made the guilty woman write a confession of what actually happened, and then made her walk into the police department and hand over the confession, only for her to come out of the hypnosis later and ask what she was doing in a jail cell. She had no idea why she had confessed.” Jefferson could see his explanation of what the Magic Man could do only added to John and Alice’s confusion. He flipped a page over in his notepad. “Anyway, our profiler hasn’t gotten much to work with; she thinks the Magic Man gets his kicks out of watching through the eyes and mind of the husband as he makes love to his wife.”

“Then he’s a sick Peeping Tom?” John felt like hitting or kicking something.  “Yes,” Jefferson nodded. “He’s a voyeur from afar. He’s more than likely in his bed, somewhere, yet he can get into your dreams.”

Alice and J ohn Timberlake lead a q uiet life in the suburbs of C alifornia. J ohn is a prison officer at the C alifornia State Prison, and Alice assists the Agony Aunt columnist, with big dreams of becoming a reporter. One morning they awaken to their lives turned upside down J ohn is on the couch with no recollection of how he got there, the front door lock is unbolted, and the alarm is disarmed. Alice’s underwear is neatly folded on top of her slippers–– she knows she went to bed wearing them. Fearing they may have been victimized in their own home, they contact the authorities. J ohn and Alice discover they have been the latest victims of “The M agic M an,” a rogue hypnotist that gets into people’s dreams, makes them do his bidding, and has them reveal their darkest secrets. The FBI considers him a threat to the country. Some departments within the Halls of J ustice want him eliminated; others think his talents could help solve crimes. They ask J ohn and Alice’s help to bring the M agic M an to heel. None of them realize that their intended target is manipulating them. E veryone has secrets, and the M agic M an knows them all. When a steamy fantasy shared between Alice and the M agic M an unveils a uniq ue connection between them, it changes the rules of his game. All Alice and J ohn had ever wanted was for the M agic M an to get out of their dreams–but now, they can never go back to the life they had before… G et Out of M y D reams is the captivating first novel of Allan J . L ewis.

"Load up your coffee, get comfortable, and allow Lewis to entertain you with this little gem…" Dexter Don

D iscover all our authors books  in one convenient place: www.talesfromwales.netbookshop.htm

The young woman turned her troubled gaze back to Tegid who nodded slowly his face set, “Do they scare you, Miss ... these strange happenings?” “Sometimes,” she said carefully, “although if I am honest, I am as intrigued by them as I am perturbed, for what is the reasoning behind it? Why would anyone want to try and frighten me like this?” “To draw attention to themselves, perhaps..?” Beth looked into the grizzled old face questioningly. Tegid looked away, his gaze settling on the stable clock above the arched entry to the yard. Do you believe in ghosts, Miss?”

Fury was beginning to build around her with all the savagery of a storm, and Llyr wished the stone slabbed floor would swallow him up as the creature once called Sarah recalled the injustices done to her like a vengeful, snapping beast. "A witch, I tell you, a witch! Destined for unimaginable torture and to die at the stake! Oh yes, once the finger was pointed and the charge was made, a death sentence then was passed upon me! For she, aided by the Church and egged on by her father, would settle for nothing less, and I was doomed to die and I knew it! But they reckoned without the passion of my wayward heart, and so I resolved I would take hold on my own destiny, and with it, the last and damning word...“ She leaned in close and the eyes narrowed to icy slits and Llyr felt her breath like an ancient frost that prickled against his skin. "I brought myself here, to this very place. And made good my demise for by then I cared not for my soul, or the consequences . . . so great was my sin!"

At this point a jingling of the keys to announce our presence would merely irritate and get things off on a bad foot, so I emit a feeble but very politely executed ‘ahem’ instead. They chatter on. I clear my throat more loudly and by the time they both turn around I’ve assumed ‘the position’.  Standing, but only partially erect and with a definite slump. The eyes are weary, the mouth slack and I maintain this pose for a couple of seconds so as to have the maximum effect before quavering in a high reedy voice, ‘We’re all done, we’ll be off now...’ Their response is vague and disinterested. The housekeepers are done for the day. Big deal! You can almost hear their thoughts as they turn back to their coffee and each other. ‘But....’ They turn back with an air of impatience. We all know what’s coming. As I said before, it’s like theatre. We play the part of the underdog; they the lofty work-colleagues, and so we play out the scene as we do most weekends, but the finale always rests on what mood they’re in and their performance so far isn’t encouraging They’re both looking at us much with as much warmth as the White Witch did at Edmund when he rocked up at her Winter palace. I slump a little more. ‘As there are only two rooms in tonight I was wondering if...’ I trail off as one of them narrows her eyes and my heart stops in anticipation of a blank refusal. I drop my gaze so that she cannot see the rising anger in mine

Welsh writer Amanda Aubrey- Burden has only recently come on to the literary scene and hit the ground running with no less than 3 books penned published in under one year. From a modern- day paranormal, to G othic, to a light- hearted memoir, her style is as versatile as it is creative, and this is never more evident with her latest project; a Box ing Biography as commissioned by top Welsh C oach Tony Borg

Out M arch 1st -   'The J ourney of J onas L lewellyn' The preq uel to   'The D evil's M essiah'.

He looked down at the young man’s back. Saw the as yet immature muscles softly rippling under the fair skin as he worked down on his knees, stripped to the waist hewing at the narrow seam of coal.  He noticed too the fine blond hair running the length of the workingman’s spine.   It had collected coal dust abundant in the air, and his sweat had created narrow channels as it ran down his back. He was surprised at the acuteness of his vision in the limited light of the lantern, and he momentarily observed the differences in their physique.  The younger working man was taller, slimmer and fair of hair.  Whilst he, the observer, was of shorter, thick-set build, typical mining stock with thick black wiry hair.  His other senses were also heightened too.  The sound of the tools hitting the coal reverberated in his ears.  His touch was clammy yet sensitive.  The adrenaline coursed through his body as his brain anticipated his impending actions. They had been working together until a few minutes before.  When under the pretext of being thirsty he had gone for a drink of water.  This had not actually been a lie.  His mouth was dry.  But his main intention was to be in the correct position when his signal came. He stood behind and slightly to the workingman’s left.  His stealthy movements covered by the gentle singing of the other as he worked.  He stood there, temples pounding.  The actions he was about to take would achieve the main objective of his plan, namely the death of the man before him.  He was about to kill him.  No going back. He grasped his chosen weapon, a heavy working shovel with a curved blade.  The normality of the tool was crucial in his plan for a strange implement found later might jeopardize the whole plot. He had based his plan and the timing for the act upon an explosion made by shot blasting, loosening stubborn deposits of coal further into the workings of the mine.  The blasting was inevitably punctual. Everyone had to know when and where it was going to happen.

He and his partner were working just far enough away from the area to be considered safe.  Safe is a relative word working in low tunnels a mile beneath the earth’s surface.  Unpredictability was the only thing to depend on.  He was, he knew, taking an extreme calculated risk in carrying out his dangerous actions, but if successful it would be foolproof. The plan had been devised quite coldly and logically over some weeks, after waking one morning and realising that he was quite simply determined to commit the act of murder.   The act would banish and expunge from his life all possibilities of further humiliation, frustration, jealousy and emotional turmoil caused by the other man. Upon hearing the shrill whistled warning, and the muffled boom of the controlled explosion his body vibrated, sweat flowed freely from him.  He grasped the smooth wooden handle of the shovel firmly, forced himself to breathe deeply once, twice, he then raised the weapon behind him and swung it down in a flat scything arc.  Down with all his pent-up emotions, the amalgam of hatred, bunched in his biceps and shoulders driving the curved edge of the shovel blade directly at the workingman’s neck, just at the base of his skull. But in those previous seconds, probably as a result of vibrations caused by the explosion, three stones fell from the partially unsupported roof of the tunnel.  One the size of a dinner plate fell harmlessly to the young miner’s right.  Another smaller stone fell behind him, but the third stone about the size of a walnut fell onto the crown of his helmet.  It caused the most natural of human reflexes.  The man looked up.  Not out of injury or pain, merely satisfying a basic self-protecting instinct of curiosity.  Where had the stone come from and were there more to follow? That simple reaction now acted as double security, for upon looking up the physical movement of his head re-positioned his helmet further down and covered his neck. The assassin saw all this happening before him. As his weapon flashed towards its target, everything appeared to slow down into a dream-like state.  He saw the stone fall and hit the helmet, he knew what the response would be.  The man’s head raised and the helmet tilted down protectively, and yet he was powerless to stop the swing of his arms. He was rudely brought back to reality by the shuddering impact of metal on metal.  His aim has been true, but instead of yielding flesh and bone receiving the blow here was hard metal cushioning the skull.  The result was tremendous.  The shock of the impact sent tremors up the shaft of the shovel up through his hands, arms and ultimately his brain. He shuddered under the after-shock. The action had been literally stunning, but not as he had planned, mortal. His victim lay prone on the floor of the tunnel at his feet. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows, nose and chin, and his breathing came in short gasps as his body reacted to the emotional tempest of what he had done. He bent over the still figure to confirm its pulse was still beating.  He glanced furtively at the badly damaged helmet.  It had done its protective work. He had to finish the gruesome task he had started. Using the largest of the stones that had fallen earlier he executed an unplanned secondary strike. Then he could loosen and cause more stone to fall from the roof of the tunnel.  His actions would be covered.  His mind raced down the pathways of his plan, the now enforced small detour of another blow incidental.

The deliberate creation of a small roof fall had been the main strand of his alibi strategy.  If he could make the roof fall look genuine then the assumption would be that a tragic accident had occurred.  The death would be recorded just as another statistic. it  happened all too often in the mining industry.  It was feasible, he had the skills to make it so, and if he could he would be free forever. He forced his thoughts through his now focused brain as he realised the stakes in his premeditated gamble were at their highest.   He now had a race against time.  Men would be returning to clear away, and to load into drams the coal blasted free further into the workings.  He had to be somewhere else, anywhere, before that occurred. He stood astride the legs of the still motionless figure beneath him.  Removing the nearest roof support beam, he worked at the roof with an iron bar.  He prayed that something large enough might fall and save him the gory task of the terminal strike.   The sound of a low rumble made him stop.  He cocked his head to one side listening intently, like a rabbit hearing the on-coming traffic and trying to ascertain its direction.  At first he thought it was empty drams being brought up to be filled.  The sixth sense born of years’ of underground work made him realise that the sound, like distant thunder, had come from above, his whole being screamed at him to run.  This was the point of evolution giving you a tenuous sense for self-preservation. However, his hatred and his determination to end the existence of the man at his feet, held him fast.  He told his natural instincts that its message was awry and there was yet time to finish his task. He was wrong. He should have obeyed that primeval call. As he reached over the body, the tunnel along its whole length collapsed about him in a roaring, terrifying, crashing boom.  Rocks flattened over him and pinned him to the body of his victim.  In that last excruciating moment before his life was forced from him, he thought that if only he had waited one more day, fate and the forces of nature would have achieved his savage desire for him. The rescue parties took some ten hours to reach their bodies, as rock, shale, coal and earth was cleared away carefully.  Roof supports vigilantly replaced for fear of further falls, the rescuers moved inexorably forward, until a tattered and bloody trouser leg appeared from the rubble.  All other work ceased. All hands now concentrated on carefully removing and clearing the immediate vicinity of the find.  Slowly, everything was hand- picked away, and the bodies were exposed.  They lay one on top of the other.   Legs and arms twisted into unnatural shapes.  The topmost body, back broken, was covered in coal-saturated blood. The rescuers stood in a silent circle around the grisly tableau that lay before them.  In the dust-laden air, turned yellow by the lights from their lanterns, they heaved and panted from the pace of their efforts, and looked down on this demoralising spectacle. The First Aid man was quickly on the scene, examining the bodies for signs of life.  He sadly shook his head as he searched for a pulse on the larger upper body.  Then he drew an excited short breath as his fingers located the faintest of beats on the lower body’s bloodied neck. “Carefully now boys,” he said gently. ”The young one’s barely alive, but alive he is, let’s get them out and away from this Hell-Hole.  Perhaps your work and that man’s brave actions will not have been in vain, this terrible day.”

“What actions do you mean?” asked one miner, his eyes shining white in his coal-dust blackened face. “Why surely you can see what happened here?” replied the medical- man sharply. “The older man realised there was no escape for them, and so threw himself over the youngster in an attempt to protect him, and I’m going to see that it was an act that will not go unrewarded.” The other miners murmured their approval of this version of events, and rejuvenated by their discovery of life, set their faces once more to the wall of rubble that confronted them.  Their hopes rekindled belief that perhaps other lives might yet be saved. The two bodies were put on stretchers and quickly borne away, onward and eventually upward into the light and fresh pure air. The news of the discovery raced ahead of the stretcher party, passing excitedly along from explaining mouth to eagerly recipient ear, each version being embroidered upon the last.  The unofficial version hammered on the front door of the anxious and grimly expectant family of the victims.  It was immediately admitted. As with families and carers the world over, in the aftermath of disasters large and small, the waiting is a dark moonscape of peaks and ridges of raised hopes, plateaus of past memories and abysses of blackest fears.  The final news, good or bad, at least produces a shaft of reality, and the human mind’s defence against madness, the emotions, are released. The messenger stood respectfully before the Mother of the two men and imparted the news, twisting his cap in his hands, exposing his nervousness at his task. “Your sons are found,” he almost whispered, “and one is alive!” He raised his voice exultantly, as if bringing forward the good news would somehow lessen the impact and inevitable consequences of his statement.  “But one was lost outright by the force of the roof fall.” He started to move away, when the woman before him spoke, her voice strained and hesitant with emotion. “Which one......?” Her voice trailed away unable to complete the inevitable question, but her eyes held his firmly. The messenger stood his ground and answered, “Your eldest son died protecting his younger brother with his own body.”  He looked deeply into her eyes expecting to see only grief and sadness, but he caught something quite unexpected.  In that sober face he saw for the briefest of moments, jubilation and relief burn brightly, before returning to a sorrowful, downcast stare. The morning of the memorial service was bright and cheerful; the service of remembrance had been preceded by a ceremony.  The Mother of the two brothers had been presented with a medal commemorating her eldest son’s actions.  The Choir had sung, and the minister had been exhaustive in his plaudits.  The congregation had begun to leave the Chapel, when two old friends greeted one another. They had been neighbours of the mourning family, but one had moved away some months before the accident, and they had not seen each other since that time.  They embraced warmly and both agreed that it had been a very moving service, and how marvellously the younger brother had sung. “What a voice he has, and what a poignant figure he struck, still so pale and his arm in a sling.  I think everyone cried,” said the old neighbour.

“Yes he is the soloist with the Choir now and soon to go on to the college of music.  He passed his examinations just before the accident,” informed the other. “That is excellent news indeed, but wasn’t the elder brother a member of the Choir too ?” enquired the visitor. “Not of late,” his friend replied. “He certainly had been a member quite a good voice too, but he appeared to lose interest, and stopped attending Choir practices some months ago”, then leaning forward, voice lowered in the best gossiping fashion he added, “Did you notice the girl in the front seat gazing rapturously at our soloist this morning?  They are engaged to be married, planning to be married as  soon as his college course is finished.” “Yes”, admitted the visitor “you could not help but notice, and I thought I recognised her”.  Needing to confirm the suspicions building in his mind he enquired “But wasn’t she walking out with the elder brother when we lived here” “It all came to nothing”, informed the conspirator. “His Mother put a stop to it, telling him the girl was too young for him and not strong enough to be a miner’s wife.” “Really” mused the other thoughtfully. “Still there could not have been any animosity between them could there ?”  The question hung mildly in the air. “Good Lord no,” the question was dismissed immediately. “I think actions speak louder than words don’t you?   Greater Love Hath No Man Than To Lay Down His Life For His Brother, the Bible says doesn’t it?” the neighbour quoted irritably. “Yes of course you are right,” the friend said condescendingly, and they walked away in the pale sunshine together.

Stuart embodies everything 'Tales From Wales' is all about. Having joined his local writing group Stuart was encouraged not only to write more but also get his work published. His anthology  'Short, L ong and Tall Stories' is a testament to his achievement. Hopefully we can encourage more budding but reluctant authors to, 'Take up their pens and write'. Thanks also to established authors like Bel Roberts, J an Ruth and G raham Watkins for their willingness in supporting this venture. Anyone interested in submitting ex tracts or stories please contact : phil@ talesfromwales.net

Smart Phone

When a person reveals that they have a new mobile phone no-one ever asks any practical questions such as, 'Does it pick up a good signal?' or 'How long does the battery last?' The only details that interest 21st century mobile consumers are what functions other than simply phoning and text messaging the said handset can perform, namely what gadgets it possesses. The ability to pick up radio stations, music and video players and of course E-mail and internet capability are all common place these days and are expected by the majority of consumers. Apps which for the uneducated is short for applications are the current ‘must have’, a feature that encompasses almost anything from health and fitness guides to foreign language dictionaries. An 'app' can be bought or even downloaded for free and cover everything from the useful to the ridiculous.   The other essential gizmo for any half decent mobile is of course the camera that comes in many different mega-pixels, a term that is lost on most people but endlessly preached about by few. Lord knows where human kind would be if it did not have a device with which to photograph or record every mildly interesting occurrence and then be able to display the evidence on any low rent social network site. The planet surely must spin that little bit easier knowing that hilarious clips of people’s trips, falls and pranks are ready and waiting to be viewed anytime and network coverage willing, anywhere.  One of the most challenging aspects to the whole business however is to not fall behind the times, the embarrassment suffered from announcing the arrival of your new phone only to discover that the damn thing is already old news, shall never be forgotten. The shame can be seriously prolonged if you are unfortunate enough to sign up to a pay monthly contract just before one of the manufacturers unleashes the newest upgrade, then you will be stuck with last season’s loser phone for two years and in a world of hurt and ridicule. The crowning, albeit fleeting glory of actually presenting your friends and colleagues with the right handset at the right time is a joy to be quickly savored before everyone's interest moves on to someone else’s next-gen handheld masterpiece.

One person lucky enough to have experienced the sight of her phone being held aloft in the office like Excalibur was Jen, who instantly became the envy of the entire office. A fresh faced very pretty young women even at a tender twenty three years old, Jen was clever and possessed the good sense of someone twice her age. She knew it was frivolous and materialistic, but the sleek lines and large bright screen were enough of a pull to get her to part with extortionate £449 for something she knew would be obsolete within a few months. Jen's policy was that if she wanted something then she would buy it and to hell with the price, not that she was wasteful in any way, but she wanted to make up for lost time. Jen's available funds hadn't always been so plentiful especially as a young child to a single mum, forced to wear ill-fitting clothes and to play with second hand toys. When compared to third world standards Jen's upbringing would seem privileged but in Britain at that time, her family’s circumstances were considered  marginally above the poverty line. Considering the rough part of town she'd called home Jen had done remarkably well to earn a place in university, but those three years of higher education had almost run her into the ground. Five days of lectures followed by six evenings of waitressing left little time for sleep and absolutely no time for fun but after a long slog the hallowed degree made it all worthwhile. With the right qualifications and a good attitude Jen walked right into a well-paid career and hadn't looked back since.  Once out in the real world with a healthy disposable income then why not treat yourself from time to time, no-one could blame her after years in an unfashionable wilderness. Jen had seen enough joy riding and drug dealing to last her a lifetime so once employment had been secured and with her mother’s blessing she moved into a trendy apartment in the recently regenerated part of town, a newly designated area for the upwardly mobile. It was a few weeks before the novelty of the picturesque harbor view wore off and simply became a part of everyday life. Her existence had become so happy that it was hard to walk around with a straight face, as opposed to a beaming, cheesy grin. The comfortable abode had been first, and then a flashy sporty hatchback had been purchased soon after, but that had been 'it' on the retail therapy front for quite a while. The quest for a new phone had been prompted by an incident that occurred one evening in a bar just down the street from Jen's office. Whilst chatting to a friend over a glass of red and a Panini, Jen received a call that made its presence known through the sound of an awful, cheap synthesized ringtone. As usual when a person receives a phone call in public there were many gawpers, two half-cut idiots in particular took quite an offence at the sight of Jen's old clamshell style piece of Chinese made technology. The two boneheads laughed and jeered throughout the duration of the call, one of them even compared it to a string between two cups. Even though deep down she knew she shouldn't take any notice, the embarrassment still stung, and it reminded Jen of the verbal abuse she had suffered at school because she had worn tatty shoes or a hole riddled jumper.  The very next day was a Saturday which presented Jen with the perfect opportunity to go phone shopping and to ensure her place in the cool crowd once and for all. After securing the purchase through a swift card transaction Jen rushed home where she spent the whole weekend thumbing through manuals and potching about with its many available features until she had reached the point of total phone enlightenment. On the Monday all those who asked were given a whirlwind tour of the phones most amazing features by the then expertly proficient Jen. The only rest afforded to the handset was when Jen was either hard at work or asleep, at any other time of day or night Jen could be found staring intently at the 5x3 inch touch screen and that included both meal and bath times.  

If you sit down and think about it though, most people are guilty of overdependence when it comes to the mobile smart phone and the more features that are crammed in, then the more battery life we will eat away at. Checking up on the latest current affairs, downloading and reading Ebooks, and even remotely programming a satellite T.V receiver to record the latest smash hit series from America can all be done these days literally from the palm of your hand. For most people the very first thing they hear upon waking is the sound of an alarm call that has been set on a mobile phone and that sets the handset influenced tone for the rest of the day. Whether it's using a search engine to answer a difficult question or simply to update one's status and check up on everybody else's, the mobile phone is there by your side, not as affectionate as a pet dog or cat but a damn sight more useful during everyday life. At the end of that week, at 5.30pm on the Friday Jen once again ventured to the same bar after work with two aims in mind. Firstly, to exorcise the demons that remained in her mind from the previous visit and secondly of course to relieve the tension of a long working week by getting absolutely plastered on cheap wine and cocktails. During the course of the night both boxes were mentally ticked, leaving a wobbly, drunken Jen to stumble home wearing a 'mission accomplished' grin beneath her barely open eyes.  In the morning there was no need for an alarm due to it being a Saturday but a combination of a desert dry throat and a pounding, fragile head woke Jen up at the crack of dawn. After much moaning and groaning followed by the usual promises to never drink again, a promise that is always broken, Jen managed to drag her disheveled carcass out of bed and to the kitchen for a drink of cleansing water. As soon as the cold, crystal clear liquid reached her stomach she was forced to run straight to the toilet where she vomited, profusely. After a halfhearted cleanup of both herself and the bathroom, Jen retired back to bed where she lay in a state of self-inflicted discomfort for several hours, not asleep but also barely awake. Sometime close to noon Jen rolled onto her side and tapped a button on the phone in order to find out the time and to see whether she had missed any incoming calls or texts.  She was shocked by how late it was and confused by the picture on the phone's screen, it was different to the one of her proud, smiling mum that had been there previously. Mum's photo had been replaced as the screen's wallpaper by a dark, grainy picture of something lightly coloured and flat, like a wall or something. Jen scrolled through to the phones built in camera album and cackled loudly when she discovered half a dozen blurry, out of focus photographs depicting ornaments and other random corners of the studio apartment. Exactly what she had been drunkenly trying to take a picture of was a mystery and would remain so; the discovery did manage to raise a smile however even through the deathly hangover. The remainder of the weekend was spent lounging around the flat consuming lots of vitamin C and absolutely no alcohol at all, along with plenty of rest and recuperation.  Monday morning began with a mad scramble because for the first time ever in her life, Jen had slept late, she arrived at work barely on time but in a frantic and panicky flap. Jen spent all that morning in an outof-sorts muddle and it took until dinner time before she had regained her usual composure. The reason behind her impunctuality bugged her constantly until, whilst eating her salad she finally had some free time with which to check that all was well with the Sumsing V402.   Much to her bewilderment she discovered that the alarm time was different to the one she was certain she had set.

Just as she was busily perusing menu's and sub-menu's Jen's friend, colleague and drinking partner Suzy rocked up to Jen's desk with her own collection of debauched, drunken tales to share from the previous Friday night. With not a hint of regret or shame, Suzy owned up to getting out of a taxi five minutes from home legging it without paying thereby leaving some random guy she'd just met to face the music and cough up the fare. Jen's night had ended in a tamer fashion, but still she showed her friend the inebriated attempts at photography that littered her album of random but interesting pictures. Suzy laughed as she thumbed through the shots, occasionally throwing in the odd sarcastically funny remark such as "good use of light" or "I like your angles". Jen was taken totally by surprise when Suzy studied one picture and said, "This self-portrait is a good un... just try and keep your eyes open next time". Jen glanced over and sure enough there it was, a previously unseen close up of her own face complete with smudged make up and her eyes fully shut, " It's a wonder I made it home in that state" she joked. By the weekend Jen had reached the end of her tether with the phone's unreliable alarm clock that had gone off early once, late twice and on one occasion hadn't sounded at all, and that was in the space of one week. The acne ravaged know-it-all in the phone shop couldn't understand what had gone wrong but refused to be flummoxed so he connected the errant handset to a laptop and began a furious five minutes of frowning and button bashing. When he finally handed the phone back he didn't say what had been wrong with it, in truth he didn't know and had used the strategy of installing a few updates and hoping for the best. Jen remained skeptical but over the course of the following week the phone performed every task with consummate ease, putting itself back on the road to justifying its ludicrous price tag, well almost. Jen's well-earned carefree existence carried on at pace and with little to no problems at all, almost everyone has a run of good fortune but they never last, ever.  One innocuous afternoon whilst pivoting back and forth on her office swivel chair Jen suddenly remembered the cracking pair of gold enamored stiletto’s she  had seen in a shop window the day before. The sight of the ostentatious footwear had halted her march along the high street and reeled her in so close that her breath misted up the glass, luckily she had taken a quick photo so that she could drool at her leisure. Clasping the ergonomically designed handset with one hand,  Jen flicked through the phone's album by gliding an outstretched digit across the screen repeatedly until the desired snap-shot appeared. Jen's eyes widened as she studied the photo intently, the shoes stood out as if placed there by an angel. Like a beauty spot on a model’s face, the strappy mixture of sequins and leather shone out from the sumptuous window display as an unintentional focal point. After a minute or two spent lusting over every single curve and stitch, Jen moved a thumb in order to exit the album, but flicked to the next picture instead. Jen's stomach felt like it had flipped right over when yet another picture of herself appeared, lying on her bed in the dark seemingly asleep. She tried in vain to recall taking the picture but couldn't, so she hit the menu button and brought up a screen detailing the pictures facts and figures.  The report showed whether or not a flash had been used, what resolution formed the photo and most importantly at what time and date it had been taken on. The date showed that it had been a week night when there could have been no alcohol involved and more disturbingly that the image had been recorded at just after two in the morning, a time when Jen would certainly have been fast asleep. A cold chill ran over her skin bringing goosebumps through its surface, as though an invisible veil had been dragged over her body. She could not bear to say it out loud but knew deep down that there could only be one explanation...someone had stood over her while she slept; at once Jen felt sick and had to rush to the lavatory. 

 For the rest of the day Jen agonized over who had been watching her sleep? How they had gotten in? And why they had just photographed her when she was right there, asleep and defenseless. The questions continued to race through her thoughts even when she was stood at her apartment door, key in hand but too wary to enter right away. After a few minutes a neighbour walked past and realising that she was stood there like an idiot, Jen mumbled a quick 'hello' before racing into her flat and slamming the door behind her, locking it with the key and for the first time the three bolts situated at key locations. Before even taking off her coat, Jen armed herself with a, as yet unused, carving knife from the kitchen and then conducted a thorough search of the apartments many nooks and crannies. The hunt proved fruitless which was no bad thing given the amount of fear and anger that contaminated Jen's blood stream, if she had discovered a hidden intruder then a blood bath would surely have ensued.   The fact that there was nothing or nobody to be found, apart from dust and cobwebs came as a relief but still left a worrying conundrum to be solved. Safe in the knowledge that she was alone, Jen made sure that she remained alone until morning. After a hot shower Jen picked over a luke warm and fairly bland microwave meal-for-one before cracking open a medium priced pinot grigio and settling down to watch whatever the realm of reality television had to offer. A combination of strong wine and tiredness helped to melt away worries concerning the mystery photographer. Jen remained fairly upbeat until her eyelids could take no more and she curled up on the sofa until morning. She woke in the same place at the sound of her alarm to be greeted by the bright lights of the television and the awful taste of last night's wine on her tongue. Not exactly the ideal way to start any day.  After a quick cleanup of the previous evening’s debris and then rushing through her morning routine, Jen finally made it to her car for the beginning of her daily commute. It was during the short drive when Jen sat stationary in one of the many early morning traffic jams that she received a text message. Luckily, she had come to a halt or there’s no doubt she would have attempted to read the text whilst driving, a perilous task to undertake for anyone. As it turned out the message and its sender were of no concern to Jen, who stared disbelievingly at the phone's screen which had as its wallpaper a photo of Jen asleep on the sofa from the previous night. She could not believe her eyes and sat staring at the picture with such curiosity that she failed to notice that traffic had started moving again, much to the annoyance of the cars behind who beeped their horns furiously.  No other thoughts were allowed to enter Jen's head that day apart from who was responsible and why? That night after work Jen armed herself and searched the flat again from top to bottom. Still nothing to be found, but she had concocted a contingency plan in the form of a locksmith who fitted a new lock to the front door complete with a brand new key. It was unlikely that someone else had a key to her flat but a new lock made sure she was the only one who could gain access easily. During the evening meal and lounging in front of the telly that followed, Jen  managed to restrict her worries to the odd moment here and there which was enough to allow her to retire to bed unfazed.  At the sound of the alarm the following morning there was no hitting the snooze button for Jen who had to check the album right away for anymore mystery pictures. The home screen hadn't changed anyway which was an encouraging sign but... Jen's hand shook as she thumbed through the menu to the album, a thorough search of the thumbnail previews revealed that no unaccounted pictures had been taken. Thoroughly elated and relieved Jen enjoyed a light breakfast followed by a quick shower, and once dressed she locked up the apartment securely before breezing down to the car.

Outside however the mood was soured when she discovered that her beloved car had been vandalized and covered with rubbish, an unfortunate side effect of living so close to so many trendy student bars. Such acts were commonplace although that was the first time Jen had suffered the indignity of being targeted. Rather than threatened Jen just felt annoyed. To document the evidence Jen used her phone's video capture feature to record. herself stating the time and date and then showing how the car had been violated from numerous angles, in close up and wide angle and in high definition. After clearing the debris and re-attaching the wing mirrors, Jen got behind the wheel and hurried to work resolving to visit the police station and present the evidence later that evening.  It was while parked up in the street outside the police station that Jen thought that she should check her attempt at amateur film making before barging in and ultimately looking foolish. The 40 odd second clip resided in a video library file along with some free footage of animals in lush scenery and a cheesy guide detailing in a 'groovy' way how to use the handset. Situated right next to the evidence clip sat a video entitled 'unnamed 1' that Jen was certain had not been there before. Thinking that she must have recorded it during that first weekend when she had investigated every feature, Jen carelessly tapped the play button. She sat transfixed for the clips whole minute and a half duration. The film started off just a black screen and with no sound but at about twenty seconds in, the phone's light illuminated her living room. The camera panned from side to side and then began to roam around the apartment as though looking for something, even though she could not remember making the video she tried to convince herself that she had.  The mystery film maker paused outside Jen's bedroom door causing the poor women to hold her breath in anticipation, the door was gingerly pushed open and there in the bed lay a figure obscured by the duvet. The quilt began to shift a little as the sleeper fidgeted and then the person turned over while still asleep to face the door, the camera zoomed in on the sleeping face.... Jen's sleeping face. She threw the phone onto the passenger seat and burying her face in her hands she sobbed and wept uncontrollably with not a care for any gawping passers-by. Unfortunately for whoever was trying to intimidate her, Jen possessed two qualities that made the job difficult, inherent stubbornness and the mental toughness of an endurance athlete.  Once the tears had dried and her composure returned, Jen forgot about reporting the vandalism to the police and instead opted to race home in a furious rage. Jen phoned her boss and lied about a family emergency in order to secure the following day off, and then armed with a rolling pin and some strong black coffee resolved to stay awake through the night and catch her tormentor. That night she sat on the sofa in the pitch black listening to the creaks and groans and the whistles of the odd draught as it forced its way under the front door. Jen's phone lay on the table in front of her. She waited and waited her knuckles white from clutching the rolling pin so tight, as the hours ticked away depressingly slowly. As with most endeavors when a person tries to stay awake they ultimately end up dropping off to sleep and Jen was no different. Her weary eyes could not take the burning a moment longer, and at around three-ish she slumped into a deep slumber failing miserably at the night time stakeout.  She awoke a few hours later, furious at her own ill-discipline and dreading what she would find on the phone that seemed to be in the exact same spot that it had been all night. It soon became obvious though that it had been moved, the photo album had not been changed but there was a new addition to the video library, 'unnamed 2'. Part of her felt too afraid to look but the part that held the majority vote had to see what had been recorded no matter how unsettling it turned out to be. Upon pressing play Jen appeared on screen, sleeping soundly on the sofa at what must have been only a few hours earlier. The only sound was that made by Jen as she snored obliviously. He or she holding the phone did not make a sound, not even a footstep as they creepily circled the sofa while aiming the camera at Jen.

After two slow methodical laps the camera came to a halt in front of Jen, the light beaming onto her unaware face. Whoever was operating it possessed a steady hand, managing to avoid any bouncing or shaking and remaining perfectly still.  Instead of using the zoom Jen was brought into close up by the phone being positioned about two feet from her face. She already felt sick but what she saw next insured that fear induced vomiting was a certainty. The camera lingered not far from her face for quite a while and then suddenly the operator’s other hand appeared in shot, reaching towards Jen's cheek. The hand was as white as chalk and from its size and form easily identifiable as that of the female variety. The fingernails were long, cracked and black with dirt, the skin that held the unnatural appendage together was taut like leather but as thin like paper, something about the whole image just looked wrong. The finger tips stopped only millimetres away from Jen's skin where they paused, as though the hands’ owner were debating whether or not to touch the skin and feel its warmth. The hand drew back out of sight when Jen's head moved slightly as she fidgeted in her sleep trying to find a comfortable position. Unfortunately, Jen was unable to escape physical contact on that occasion. A stray strand of hair had fallen when she had moved and hung over her face, the hand re-entered the scene in order to gentle brush it aside, almost caringly. The video then ended just as Jen's stomach decided that it could no longer hold onto its contents. After returning from the lavatory Jen sat on the sofa in a daze, her hands shook, and her mind raced with fantastical and spine tingling theories. Events had taken a sinister turn and were escalating daily, Jen almost broke down when she considered how far things could end up going. Jen reasoned that the apartment was the root of all the trouble and in a knee jerk reaction resolved to move out right away.  Jen leapt up to start packing immediately and almost suffered a heart attack when a pounding at the front door startled her witless. She froze on the spot debating whether or not to answer. The voice of her friend Suzy shouting, "Is everything okay Jen... are you in?" convinced her to open up. The sight of Jen in her pyjamas looking tearful and exhausted shocked Suzy who had never seen her friend and colleague in such a state. Jen found herself consigned to the sofa while Suzy prepared two piping hot mugs of milky coffee, she sat at the sofa's other end in readiness for Jen's tale of woe. When the cups were dry and the story had been explained Suzy wore a less than convinced expression and inquired "Are you taking any medication or drinki. . ." "I'm not off my head" interrupted Jen snappily. "Here take a look for yourself". Jen thrust the phone at her patronizing friend, directing her firstly to the photo album and then to the sinister video recordings.  Suzy sat still, and completely aghast as the short films played through. She cracked however when the white hand appeared, shrieking in terror, and swiftly handed the phone back to its owner. Jen explained that things were getting worse and that she planned to leave and never come back. “You’re not going anywhere!" fumed Suzy, "we're not going to let someone run you out of your home!" "We?" asked Jen. "What do you mean we?" "That’s right we!" stated Suzy rather forcefully, "I'm staying here tonight and when the joker shows his face they'll wish they hadn't!" "I don't think it is a someone though," argued Jen, "What if it’s a..." Suzy interrupted, "A ghost?"  Jen felt a little embarrassed and tried to avoid eye contact at all costs, preferring instead to stare at the floor.

Suzy reasoned, "Just listen to yourself Jen, a ghost... really? Someone is getting in here I don't know how but they are and they’re trying to frighten you away. If I hadn't turned up you'd have given in and ran, this ends tonight don't you worry!"    The pep talk did a world of good, convincing Jen to fight for her home and to catch the person responsible and push all thoughts of supernatural forces out of her mind. The rest of the day was spent gossiping and chatting and the evening was spent eating pizza and watching a movie that happened to be on TV, not a Rom-Com mind but a full blooded action romp. The night was filled with coffee and chat until both were too tired to speak and then the inevitable happened, closed eyes and much snoring.  At around three in the morning Jen was awoken by the alarm on her phone that she quickly turned off. A quick check of both her albums revealed that no new photos or videos had been saved. The phone suddenly vibrated which startled Jen a little and a box appeared on the screen with the words 'message not sent' inside it. Jen scrolled through until she found the offending text message, no number had been entered but the chilling message read, "Get a knife and kill her or none of you will see the morning." After a few seconds sat open mouthed in shock, Jen spat, "I'll kill you if you come out of hiding!"  A dinner plate containing pizza crumbs sat on the table in front of her, it had a six-inch kitchen knife laid across it. Jen could not believe her eyes when the knife suddenly began to move on its own, the point remained at the centre of the plate while the handle moved around the whole circumference like the hand on a clock. She was sure there was no-one there but visibility in the dark was not the best so she activated the camera on her phone thereby allowing the flash bulb to shine like a search light. Jen had been right in the first place, there was nobody to be seen but how the hell was the knife circling the plate seemingly under its own steam. She looked down at the phone so that she could turn off the camera and light, what she saw forced a tiny shriek of panic to burst from her lips.  Twirling the knife with one finger, grinning insanely, staring intently and sitting on the floor opposite Jen was a ghoulish young women exuding evil from every pore. Dressed in a torn nightdress with skin as pale white as a polar bears fur, her face gashed and disfigured with chunks of her hair seemingly torn from the scalp. Her gleaming eyes burned through the camera lens and the screen, right into Jen's own tired eyes. She dared to look over the top of the phone but could see no-one there, the apparition only visible through the camera lens. Glancing back at the screen Jen found herself faced with a gruesome close-up of the women’s ghostly face that startled her again; it had leaned over the table and become even closer. With Suzy snoring obliviously by her side Jen dared to ask, "Who are you and what do you want?" The spectre's thin colourless lips curled up into an abomination of a smile and in a husky, breathless voice she spoke, “This is my home... I wanted yours but she’s  prettier so now I want her face... get it for me." The knife slid across the table stopping just short of the edge, "Use this, I want that face!" Demanded the extremely vocal spirit.  Pinning herself back in the sofa to get as far away as possible, Jen answered in a hush tone, "I can't she's my friend... we'll leave I promise, you can have your home back." "This is my home" barked the ghoul raspily, "now cut her throat and peel off her face!" "No way!" spat Jen. "You want it you do it," she dared before mocking, "I'll bet you can't do it that’s why you need me." The increasingly heated conversation woke Suzy who rubbed her eye in the way that exhausted toddlers do, "Who are you talking to... what’s going on?" she asked.     

Jen thrust the phone in her friends direction to show her the talkative ghost, "Look here's our prankster." Suzy squinted at the bright screen but could see only the empty plate on the table, eerily illuminated by the flash light. "You been on the vino again?" asked Suzy, "There’s no-one there." Jen pulled the phone back in front of her own face and gazed into the screen at the nothingness Suzy had described. In a panic she flailed the camera around the room in an effort to locate the vengeful spectre. "What the matter Jen?" asked a concerned Suzy, "calm down it’s only us her..." Before she could finish her sentence, Suzy's head was yanked against the back of the sofa, leaving her looking up at the ceiling in bewilderment. She tried to pull away but was unable to move, her stomach churning she cried out, "What’s happening Jen help me!"  Jen spun to her right and instantly saw the predicament her friend was in. She knew the cause even before raising the phone. Through the camera Jen could see the woman’s figure complete with manic grin, stood behind the sofa and clutching  a handful of Suzy’s jet black hair. Her disfigured head swiveled to look at Jen, her eyes wide and wild and her lips grotesquely curled, "I don't need you I can do it myself," her words as sinister as her smile. Jen looked on in horror as the apparition raised the pizza encrusted knife into the air and smiled, "It’s just messy when I do it."  The horrified apartment owner stood next to two blasé police detectives, looking down as the bloodied, hacked corpses of Jen and Suzy were zipped into shiny black body bags. "What the verdict?" asked the owner of the building shakily and with a grimace upon his face. "It’s a bit early to say but looks like a murder suicide," surmised one of the detectives. "Yeah odds on," agreed the other policeman. "A gruesome example this one," he added. The owner scratched the crown of his head and lamented, "I'll never be able to rent this place out again... people will say it’s cursed."  The officers looked puzzled and one of them asked, "This place got history has it?" The owner’s eyes filled with tears as he explained. "The last tenant... pretty little thing... her boyfriend found something on her phone that he didn't like, she'd had a fling or he thought she had...whatever." "Things turned nasty?" inquired one of the officers. The owner stared across the room as though he could see the past unfolding before him. “He dragged her out of bed in the middle of the night and beat her severely, cut her face to pieces and then stabbed her to death... Not a good end for anyone." One of the policemen nodded. "This place has seen some action... fair play." The other officer interjected "There'll always be someone desperate for somewhere to live... this place won't be empty for long." Paul is a former pupil of mine who did not start writing seriously until he was thirty. Paul is  a writer of considerable talent and potential. Reminiscent of an embryonic Stephen King he will only get better and better. D ownload a another taster story from Paul,   'The Stump' from our D OWNL OAD S  page. Paul's 'A D ozen Tales of M isfortune' is the first Tales From Wales  'Book of the Week'.

A Touch of Gloss

God Save Us All, It's John Palfrey It had been a long hard ride and yet they were still some way behind Hopkins. “I suspect he’s already found four witches”, Palfrey mused to himself.

el Roberts

John Palfrey’s great mentor Matthew Hopkins, the self styled “Witchfinder General” had already been abroad in Essex for a year. In that time he had captured and has had hanged a great number of witches. What Palfrey liked best was the fact that Hopkins had been paid nearly 20 shillings by local magistrates for each witch he discovered. Palfrey liked that sum of money and rolled it around in his head. “20 shillings. 20 shillings. What a glorious sum.” Palfrey’s assistant, Henry Lendale, was beginning to question his employer on whether hunting witches was the very best way to make a living as they hadn’t found any. They had merely been following Hopkins around from village to village living of scraps of information. Lendale had given great thought to Palfrey’s epithet and believed a change may serve their enterprise well. “Look John, have you thought about your soubriquet. Matthew Hopkins has named himself “Witchfinder General. That’s good. It tells you what he does and adding that military allusion gives it that gravitas. You on the other hand are John Palfrey and you go by the name of “I generally find witches”. I can see what you’ve done, and yes I like the word play, but it just doesn’t have that pizzazz, that va va voom, now does it.” Palfrey looked at Lendale. “What do you mean Henry. You think a change in my title would go down well with the locals.” “Absolutely John.” “I must admit I have been thinking about this and you know that these old crones tend to have animals around them that they refer to as familiars.”

“Yes John.” “It’s normally cats.” “Yes John.” “Well, what do you think of John Palfrey, Cat Finder.” “Er.” “I thought that if we found the familiar they would lead us to their owner and subsequently the money.” “Don’t get me wrong John, but I see one major flaw in this. We would need to know the name of the owner before we were able to look for their cat.” Palfrey thought long and hard about Lendale’s curt response to what he had thought was a great idea. “Ok Henry. What about dog finder.” “No John.”

A Touch of Gloss

The sun was beginning to set and Palfrey and Lendale were still some way outside the village of Mistley a well know haunt of Hopkins. “He tends to hold court in that pub there, The Thorn, said Palfrey. “No doubt he’s there now regaling customers of his exploits, and how many witches he’s caught and hung. I can’t wait to get there.” Lendale was less enamoured about seeing Hopkins and was more intent on making a living. After all, he was only in the witch finding game for the money. That was the sole reason he had become Palfrey’s assistant. He was hoping to make enough money to escape the Civil War that was ravaging the country and spend some time abroad until everything had blown over. He liked the idea of Spain and  sunshine was a guarantee nearly all year round, especially in the South of that country. Lendale considered himself a Parliamentarian, but his support fell short of actually fighting for their cause. The main reason for this was the fact that he could get killed. Dying was currently at the bottom of Lendale’s list of things to do with his life. Palfrey on the other hand considered himself a devout Puritan, but a devout Puritan who had to get by in life. If that meant finding witches, and getting paid for it, then so be it. The moon was high in the night sky over Mistley casting eerie shadows amongst the cottages of the main street when Palfrey and Lendale eventually arrived.

el Roberts

“Right, I can see The Thorn just along the street. It’s the large building with all those children outside. You’d think a law would be passed allowing kids into pubs wouldn’t you”, said Palfrey. “I don’t think they’re children”, stated Lendale. “They look like a troupe of dwarves. The circus must be passing through, perhaps they’re on their way to Manningtree.” “Perhaps they are. Anyhoo, let’s get in there and have a drink. I’m just about parched. It’s been a long ride. With a bit of luck Hopkins’ is still there. If not perhaps the barkeep has some information.” Palfrey and Lendale stabled their horses and walked hurriedly to the pub, almost running. There was an unwritten agreement between them that whoever arrived first in any drinking establishment, bought second. Lendale arrived at the pub first running headlong through the dwarves who were loitering outside the door, scattering them like leaves in the wind. He loved beer, but hated paying for it, even if it was the second pint. Lendale approached the bar. It was about twelve feet long with a canopy, off which hung pewter and ceramic tankards of different sizes. Behind the barman were three wooden casks each laying on their sides with taps protruding from the front ready to deliver foaming brews to thirsty travellers. “Evening barman, two pints of your best ale please, he’s paying”, said Lendale pointing to Palfrey who had just arrived gasping for air with two dwarves hanging on to his back. “Oi. I’ve told you more than once. You’re barred.”

“Who? Me”, choked Palfrey. “No”, said the barman, “your little friends.” “Why are they barred? And they’re not my friends.” “They’re all the same, dwarves. Whenever they have too much to drink, they start juggling.  I like a bit of juggling now and again. I understand that it’s a very difficult art and I can certainly handle one or two dwarves juggling, but ten of them juggling at the same time, I’m sorry. Then it’s only a small step, especially for dwarves, from juggling to pissing in the ash trays, so I’ve barred them.” “You could always serve them small beer”, joked Lendale. “Oh very funny, I could also have you barred”, said the barman pointing to a sign over the bar that read, “NO COMEDIANS”. On hearing what the dwarves were capable of, Palfrey shook them off his back and kicked them out of the door, “and stay out,” he shouted loudly.

A Touch of Gloss

Free of his human shackles Palfrey moved towards the bar to pay and also to question the barman about Matthew Hopkins. “Has the Witchfinder General been in here lately?” “Yes, as a matter of fact he has. He left the village about two days ago with six witches. I’ve heard there’s going to be a bit of a jamboree in Chelmsford. It’s rumoured that Hopkins has nearly nineteen witches to hang. It’s going to be a fun day that day. That’s why the circus is here. They’re on their way from Norwich to Chelmsford.” “So we’ve missed out again John. This can’t go on, we’re rapidly running out of money.” “Did Hopkins have the misfortune to miss any witches”, Palfrey asked the barman. “Well, he didn’t go near Meg Whitlock’s place. I don’t know why, because everyone in Mistley has had their suspicions about her for quite some time. “And where does this Whitlock creature live.” “At Rose Cottage, you can’t miss it. It’s about half a mile down the road. It has a load of rose bushes growing outside.” “This could be the start of something Henry. We’ll question Whitlock first thing in the morning, Barman, two beds for the night.”

el Roberts

At first light Palfrey and Lendale arose from their beds, put on their best witch hunting apparel and stepped out into the chill morning air. “It’s a cold one John. Are you sure you’re prepared for this interrogating lark.” “No probs Henry. She’ll be like putty in my hands.” The two men walked purposefully down the main street of Mistley intent on finding a witch, a witch that had not been caught by the great Witchfinder General Matthew Hopkins. Palfrey imagined the prestige and praise that would be heaped upon him if he could complete such a deed and smiled euphorically. “I hope he doesn’t cock this one up”, Lendale thought to himself. Palfrey and Lendale arrived at Meg Whitlock’s cottage just as the sun was ascending over the roof. Wisps of smoke were rising from the chimney, so the men knew she was up and about. “Right John, I’ll secrete myself behind this rose bush, any trouble give me a shout.” “Ok Henry, but I can’t see me having much trouble here.” Palfrey stood outside the door of Rose Cottage and proceeded to knock. An elderly woman who was very small in stature, but carrying more weight than was good for her answered. “Are you Meg Whitlock?”asked Palfrey. “I am”. “Are you a witch?"

“No I am not,” said the woman indignantly. “Alright. Sorry to bother you.” “Ask her if she has three nipples,” a voice was heard to say from the bushes. “One further question, do you have three nipples?” The next thing that Palfrey felt was the end of a very prickly brush as it caught him full in the face. “You are a very rude man. Who’s that hiding in my roses. If you don’t watch yourselves I’ll get my cousin. He’ll find you and give you a damned good thrashing.” “Yeah and who’s your cousin?” said Lendale who had now revealed himself to the woman. “Matthew Hopkins.” Palfrey and Lendale stared at one another, “shit!” cried Palfrey, “I think we’d better run.” They turned and ran as fast as the fastest thing in Christendom, returning to the Thorn in order that the barman was apprised of the situation.

A Touch of Gloss

When Palfrey and Lendale arrived back at the Thorn the barman was clearing up dirty tankards from the previous night. “Good morning sirs. You startled me. I didn’t expect you to be up this early.” “We’ve been down to Rose Cottage to see Meg Whitlock. Did you know she’s Matthew Hopkins’ cousin?” “Well I never, no wonder Hopkins didn’t go near her place. I’d better get the word around and stop the villagers from making any further accusations.” “One thing I did find out from my interrogation,” said Palfrey, “she doesn’t have three nipples. To be honest, I don’t think there was much room up top for a third nipple, given her ample bosom.” “I don’t suppose there’s anyone else that Hopkins’ may have missed”, Lendale asked the barman. The barman thought long and hard. “Well, there’s Mary Williamson. She’s just moved into the area from Suffolk. We all know that Suffolk is a hot bed for witches, so I’d say she must be one.” “And where does Williamson live”, enquired Palfrey. “She lives North of here on the outskirts of the village at Rose Cottage.” “I’m sorry, Rose Cottage?”

el Roberts

“I think you’ll find there’s quite a few Rose Cottages in small villages like this. At the last count we had twelve.” “And apart from its name, how else will we know that it’s Mary Williamson’s place.” “She keeps pigs. She’s the only pig farmer in the village and that’s why she lives on the outskirts. So the smell should lead you there.” Palfrey and Lendale left the pub and headed for the stables. They retrieved their horses, saddled up and followed their noses North to Rose Cottage. On their arrival at Rose Cottage, the sun was high in the afternoon sky. Both Palfrey and Lendale had large handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses. “Bloody hell Henry, this place stinks. Whatever we do, we must not enter the cottage. If we do, I know that you’ll have to carry me out.” The men dismounted and headed for the door of the cottage, coughing and spluttering. “I’ll start the questioning,” said Lendale. Lendale knocked heavily on the wooden door of the cottage. A large woman wearing a black apron answered. “Good morning Madam. Are you Mary Williamson recently arrived in Mistley from Suffolk?” asked Lendale still wearing a large handkerchief over his mouth. “I am,”,said the woman. “Are you a friend of Lucifer?” “Well. I haven’t heard that name in a while. Come on in, come on in.”

“No thank you we’d rather do our talking here”, gasped Palfrey.“John, if we go in I feel certain that we’d get a confession,” whispered Lendale. “Alright then, but on your own head be it.” The two men entered, a cool breeze coming from the rear of the cottage made a welcoming change from the heat of the mid afternoon.

A Touch of Gloss

The inside of the cottage was small and tidy. A table with four chairs lay in the middle of the room they had entered. The woman beckoned them towards the chairs. “Sit down, sit down. I haven’t heard Lucy’s name in such a long time.” “Lucy. Who’s Lucy?” questioned Lendale. “Well Lucy Furze of course. You asked if I knew her. Of course I know her. We go back years, Lucy and I. We used to meet every Wednesday back in Suffolk. We’d meet at the Church after doing a bit of retail therapy in the market. But tell me how do you know her?” Thinking on his feet, Lendale answered quickly. “Well, I don’t actually know her, but we did hear that you knew her and John here is her cousin. He’d like to know her whereabouts in order that he may reacquaint himself, not having seen her for such a long time. When was the last time you saw her John?” Palfrey stared blankly at Lendale. “What did you say to me this morning John? You last saw her about six years ago.” “Yes that’s about right,” answered Palfrey. “We’ll talk about it over a nice cup of tea and a piece of cake. I’ll put the kettle on. You must try a piece of my special cake. Everyone in these parts calls it my “happy” cake, because they always find themselves smiling after eating a piece.” “That would be nice”, chirped Lendale.

el Roberts

The old lady busied herself in her kitchen while bellowing into the parlour. “The cake has a special ingredient you know. It came from the Americas. It was brought back by one of the sailors who travelled with Raleigh. The sailor was a very good friend of mine and he gave me the seeds. I still continue to grow the plant”, shouted the woman. “Apparently the natives used to sit around in large circles and smoke the stuff until they fell over. I don’t like the smell of smoke so I tried it in my cooking. I’ve always found that the plant adds something pleasant to the taste of my cake. You’re very lucky boys as last night was my night for baking. I’ll cut you two large pieces of the cake to go with the tea.” The woman stepped from the kitchen carrying a large tray with three large cups and two plates with the biggest pieces of cake that Palfrey and Lendale had seen in their lives. The tray was placed before the men who immediately tucked into the cake. They devoured every crumb as if it was the last piece of food they were ever likely to have. “Would it be possible to have another piece of that delicious cake Mrs Williamson,” chimed Palfrey and Lendale in unison. The old woman returned to her kitchen and came back to the parlour with another two pieces bigger than the original pieces she had seen eaten. Once they had finished the second piece of “happy” cake, both men found that they could not stop smiling. Then they started to laugh uncontrollably. After which they fell over. The sun was beginning to rise and its first rays caressed Henry Lendale’s eyes until he awoke. He found that his arms were wrapped around the legs of John Palfrey. He punched Palfrey on the knee.

“John wake up, it’s morning and where in God’s name are we?” Palfrey yawned noisily, “I don’t have a clue. What the bloody hell happened last night? And why are we naked?” “I’ve no idea what happened last night and I haven’t a clue where our clothes are. All I do know is this isn’t Rose Cottage.” The two men stood up to find they were in a woodland glade. There were trees everywhere. A note had been nailed to one of the trees, attached to which were several miniatures. Palfrey pulled the note and miniatures from the tree. “That’s a very good likeness you know Henry.” “Let’s have a look.” Palfrey handed the miniature to Lendale. “Never mind the likeness, what are you doing John and why in the Holy Mothers name are you doing it to me. Quickly pass me the note.” Lendale snatched the note from Palfrey and read aloud. “Should either of you ever return to the village of Mistley, copies of the miniatures, and we do have copies, will be passed to people in high places. You are aware of our Country’s history and the practices portrayed in the miniatures have been severely frowned upon for some time. I’m sure I only have to mention red hot pokers. I think you know what I’m saying gentlemen.” Lendale looked at Palfrey and said, “So John, dog finding, were you looking to specialise in any particular breed?”                  

A Touch of Gloss

el Roberts

 M ost of us know someone who has 'dabbled' at writing sometime but never had the confidence to seek publication. Tales From Wales believes writing should give pleasure to the  author and the reader. M y late friend Rob Benbow's alternative take on witchfinders' certainly makes me chuckle and I can imagine a smile on Rob's face as he wrote it. If you know someone whose writing deserves to see the light of day and a wider audience please let me know by emailing: [email protected] Writing is not all about winning the Booker Prize.

Writing Groups in From Anglesy to Usk writing groups thrive across the lengthWales and breadth of Wales.

The Literature Wales website lists sixty such groups. The list is not comprehensive as there are groups, like my own, that do not appear on the register. (See: http://www.literaturewales.org/for-writers/writers-groups-literary-societies/) Many groups happily accept new members with no restrictions. Others apply limited criteria. The very word, ‘group,’ implies social interaction. The aims and objectives of each group listed confirm this to a greater or lesser degree. My own group would fall into the ’greater’ category. Neath, Bridgend, Cwmbran, Llanfair, Ruthin, Teifi, Malvern, Irfon Valley, and Llanelli have each produced their own anthology. Some groups, like the Bardic Group (Newport), are working towards their first. Other groups’ stated objective is to publish as individuals. There are more technologically advanced groups with their own websites, like Mold (Absurd Writers Group) who accept submissions for inclusion on their website and Ucheldre, Anglesey (http://www.ucheldre.org/clubs.htm) Frequently groups interact with the wider community by running competitions (Cardiff Writers Circle), including schools (Pontypool).  Given their location it is no surprise that probably the most active group in Wales is the ‘Hay and District Writers Circle’. They hold three major in-house competitions annually (Fiction, Non Fiction and Poetry) with external guest judges. The Cellar Writing Group in Bangor has grown to such an extent that they also run satellite groups for short story, poetry and novel writing. Long may it continue. There is a remarkable consistency in the frequency certain words and phrases appear in the ‘Group Aims’ of the individual groups. Top of the list by far was ‘encouragement’, followed by ‘support’ with the emphasis upon ‘sharing,’ and ‘constructive criticism/feedback,’ close behind. ‘Promote’ and ‘publish’ were also commonplace as were ‘(develop)skills/confidence’. Surprisingly the words ‘meet’, ‘social’, ‘fulfill’, ‘potential’, and ‘enjoyment’ surfaced less frequently.  Within this context I must mention two groups formed for a specific purpose: 'Copper Writers' (North Anglesey) was formed, “To encourage creative writing within a supportive group. To enable members to reach their full potential as writers. To use creativity to combat the effects of social isolation and disability.” The brilliantly named ‘Word Ward’(Cardiff Millennium Centre) is, “A creative writing group for anyone with a long term health condition.”  These groups exemplify the essence of the supportive, encouraging and creative environment found within a typical writing group. They acknowledge the profound cathartic power of the written word to transform and heal. Writing is a creative force that nourishes the soul, and that is why groups exist, because people love to write and share what they have written with kindred spirits. 

 Whether your intention is to seek a publisher, publish within your group, or merely simply enjoy the sheer pleasure of writing for its own sake in the privacy of your home, matters not. The fact you have engaged with writing is a reward in and of itself, no matter the size of your intended audience.  Where does Tales From Wales fit in? Tales From Wales was an idea born of my involvement in a writers group. Why shouldn’t people have somewhere they could make their stories, poems, novels etc available to everyone without having to worry about suffering rejection? Grammatical errors and offensive material apart Tales From Wales adopts a non-judgemental attitude. I don’t believe it’s my place to decide what is ‘good’ writing and what is ‘bad’. That is the reader’s prerogative and totally subjective.  When Ceri Shaw, Gabriel Beckett (AmeriCymru) and I collaborated on ETO many authors would refuse to commit to the project if they perceived their work was being included alongside that of, ‘inferior’ writers. Perhaps they should have taken the position that, “At least if my story is in there the reader will be exposed to one quality submission!” New and emerging writers will write material that is often rough, unpolished and immature. But that can also be exciting! Tales From Wales exists to give them a platform, a voice, a chance for embryonic voices to be heard. Tales From Wales commits to supporting writers, whatever their current standing or future aspirations. Single manuscripts and book extracts can be made available on our Downloads Page. Published novels included in the Bookstore. Opportunities exist to write Guest Posts for the Blog or Short Stories for the Quarterly Digital Magazine. Tales From Wales would also love to promote your anthologies and competitions. I have already received offers of help and realise that if something worthwhile is to emerge then it will need the support of others to maintain and eventually carry forward. Your support is essential. This is not a project designed to make any kind of profit but a co-operative venture that people will either support or let die SHOW YOUR SUPPORT TALES FROM WALES NEEDS YOU! To register your support for the Tales

From Wales project please sign up for our newsletter on the website www.talesfromwales.net Future copies of the  magazine will be delivered via the newsletter as well as   any events or competitions you might want advertised. THANK YOU

If you would like to submit work or have your group featured please contact: [email protected]

Where Rowans Intertwine by Margaret Grant

‘Where Rowans Intertwine’ is a novel about the spiritual journey of a young novice Druid priestess and healer, who battles with the cultural and spiritual challenges of a world governed by Roman invaders. It is set on the island of Mona (Anglesey in North Wales), two hundred years after the attempted annihilation of Druidism by mass slaughter. Although its genre is  historical fiction, it will also interest healers, those with a broad, spiritual, investigative nose, those interested in things Celtic and people fascinated by the mystical teachings and practice of Druidism.

SPECIAL MESSAGE ST. DAVID’S DAY KINDLE EDITION OF ‘WHERE ROWANS INTERTWINE’ IS ON SPECIAL OFFER 1-4TH MARCH 8.00 a.m PST and 8.00 a.m GMT For 99p from: amazon.co.uk For $1.99 from amazon.com Whether you buy from Amazon as a paperback or ebook, or go down the route of a signed copy from me, ALL MY PROCEEDS WILL BE PASSED ON TO A LITTLE NEPALESE ORPHANAGE IN NEPALGANJ which nurtures nine children who have been either orphaned, abandoned or rescued from child labour. If you come to one of my book signing exhibitions you will see their lovely faces, but I am not allowed to post them on the internet. MARGARET GRANT  WILL FEATURE  IN  THE SUMMER EDITION  OF TALES FROM WALES - IF YOU HAVE NOT ALREADY DONE SO PLEASE SUBSCRIBE TO THE NEWSLETTER TO SECURE YOUR FREE COPY OF FUTURE EDITIONS FROM www.talesfromwales.net

S

2018

Oneill Meredith