Goals:
* Recognition from competition submissions (short stories and extracts).
* Publication of creative writing pieces in magazines or anthologies.
* Completion of novel 1st draft - This is a personal journey in its early stages, although I'm enthusiastic to take my project further.
Could I write a novel? Let me share my scribbles and see where it goes.
It's hard opening up to feedback from others. I'm usually on the giving end of feedback, having spent a fair few years in my teaching role reading, marking, assessing, grading and of course enjoying reading students' written work.
At the moment, I'm embracing the term 'mind-dump' to describe what I'm doing, which is getting my thoughts and initial plot points down onto paper. I've coordinated and planned out as much as I've thought necessary, but now I just need to get on with the writing!
Please take a read of my various pieces and give me your thoughts (on instagram: @francisgilbert_bookclub or by email francisgilbertbooks@gmail.com.
I really am very interested and open to criticisms, ideas or suggestions.
SHORT STORIES
Here I'll be sharing snippets from various short stories I've attempted over the years. I like the genre though find the writing of endings a real challenge. There are also a whole number of features and formulae that help writers (from school age!) to fit into restrictive word-counts, but this makes the genre a tricky one to accomplish.
Dandelion Danger
Rain pelted the drivers, refreshing them whilst they waited with impatience. The race decision on whether they would have a rolling start was imminent. The asphalt quivered with anticipation.
All morning clouds had wrestled across the sky overhead, tumbling with haphazard twists like F1 drivers charging to escape chaos at the first corner. The nudging determination of the clouds meant that the sky was taut with tension. In this location, weather was a significant influencing factor for sporting events. Therefore figures in the pits, on the ground and watching from the stands held their faces with firm focus on the direction and speed of the moving clouds.
One set of eyes faced the other direction.
He looked downwards. As he entered the racetrack circuit, he directed his eyes upwards for a moment towards the grandstand. From that point onwards, he kept his vision lowered to the pathways. He followed the well-beaten tracks, caked in mud and the tiled floors. He traversed the rubber walkways mesmerised by the glisten of the black track. His steps showed no hesitation as he manoeuvred through and past the crowds of spectators. He knew not to stop and buy refreshments at the first kiosk. He moved through the crowd with purpose, ignoring the swarm of spectators pushing up onto the concession stand. He avoided any hindrance to his progress within the grounds. He also took no pictures, despite carrying a tripod, backpack and a full set of expensive camera equipment.
What he saw was the underbelly of the sporting event and he was intrigued by opportunities it had to offer someone like him. He saw patches of grass regrowth. He saw dried muddy grooves all facing in the same direction. Verdant sproutings, boasting sharp dandelion plants but lacking apparent direction, contrasted with leather-like dirt paths. The difference was stark. This intricate network and plan of tracks had been established and fine-tuned over a period of years.
The racetrack had evolved from a long, treacherous route for speed, using local public roads to a shorter, safer and more practised route. In the same way, the pathways had evolved and the whole story of this track was now etched into the grounds. He knew this and he continued to use historical, well-traversed tracings for his own benefit.
He was tall, built with angularity and an assured confidence. He wore a familiar F1 cap and a matching, dark, zipped up overall, making people glance at him more than once, but never question his actions here. He blended in, showing no hesitation as he continued to progress forwards towards the grid. It wasn’t going to take him long to get to his final destination.
That morning, there had been swift departures from the hotel accommodation and early arrivals of drivers and technicians to the team preparation areas. Even before the crews started to arrive, drivers knew where to go to view lap times, sector splits, telemetry data from their cars, as well as simulation and prediction data, which teams would have been poring over with breathless anticipation the last few days. Opponents were keen to find out their rivals’ lap times and what the weather was doing to foresee tire needs for the weather forecasts. Fickle weather of this area meant that even though it was likely to be warm and sunny, they had to be prepared for rainy interruptions.
This session, he knew was going to be a difficult one.
‘We cannot hear you, just flick your wear switch to two and back to one.”
‘Copy. Okay.’
‘Concentrate on our race now. This is good.’
‘Understood.’
At the last hurdle his mind lost focus. Instead of channeling determination and desire into his mental, physical preparation for the race, he found himself shivering and focusing his attention on stabilising his eyes. They were aching and needed movement to avoid dry discomfort. This was not conducive to positive, powerful preparation.
What he saw close range were moving patterns of slanted grey lines, when his eyes were closed but also when open. Every now and again he felt a blank white curtain transition so as to wipe the slanted grey lines clear.
Alongside the track, clamours of cheering at the chessboard caused chaos. Spectators were involved and watched with attention now. They saw the chequered flag. They watched the line-up of cars cross the line. They were charged with excitement.
On the track, prickles of uncertainty and hesitation started to cause ripples amongst those surrounding the cars and stutters of disbelief arose in the crowd.
‘This isn’t our driver,’ said the technician, ‘who is this man? How? When? Where did he take control of the car?’
Silence as the technicians removed their helmets.
Everyone heard the announcement:
‘All staff, take discrete but urgent control of procedures please. Code Yellow.’
written by Christina Francis-Gilbert
Short Story - September 2022
Phosphorescence
Pavia, Italy
Emilia opened the envelope with her pewter letter knife. The sound of paper ripping in a neat line satisfied her. By contrast, the lonely jigsaw piece falling from the envelope did not.
She placed the piece on her desk, where she willed it to lie for the rest of the day, hiding behind her coffee cup. Emilia knew she had a busy day ahead and wished she’d delayed opening her post until after work. Her first lecture was at 8am, followed by appointments in the library and a succession of tutorials that would lead up to the point in the day she enjoyed most: aperitivi and evening cafe time. Social occasions.
An insect hummed at the window, harmonising with her antique clock and bringing her back to the moment. The comfortable collaboration at sunset would wait for her.
*
Emilia swatted the hum away and looked out at the Piazza della Vittoria, away from the hidden piece on her desk. She felt its loneliness. The square was almost derelict. Empty of chattering shopkeepers, no one seemed to be present and active with their morning duties yet.
Any second now there would be a cacophony of voices from every second doorway alongside shutters being raised in rattling roars and cheerful first greetings of the day.
First the square rested; an arena of calm. Only one disparate noise came from the main entrance to the piazza, where five young people, old enough to be university students were gesticulating and communicating with each other in a covert but conspicuous manner. From a distance they could have been arguing, but just as likely could have been making plans for the day with hyperbolic enthusiasm. Eerie echoes bounced from the walls of buildings, of the square and from the group’s high-pitched outbursts interrupting the atmospheric calm.
As lone observer, perched up high, looking out from her small wooden-framed window and stone surround, Emilia tutted to herself as the peace was pierced. This time in the morning deserved respect. Why did it have to be ruined so frequently by thoughtless students? Her fingers toyed with the alternating tabs and blanks of another small cardboard piece she had retrieved from the floor on her way through to the kitchen. Attempting to distract herself from the obtrusion outside, her eyes scanned the irregular piece, seeing a crowd of faces all facing with awe in the same direction. ‘Piazza del Popolo,’ Emilia thought, and she calmed herself into the fragment of the picture.
Outside, her adopted Italian town continued to veritably glow. Light everywhere. Light in the doorways. Light glinting from every glass surface. Light, winning against the shadows of the buildings on the one side of the piazza, then waiting patiently for the schizophrenic light to complete its energetic conquering of buildings, doorways, shutters, steps, and the entirety of the square. Light on the spire of the Duomo, light on the hands of the clock. Light creeping into every crevice of the ancient constructions, so comfortably bordering the central piazza with their beautiful brickwork and simple warmth of existence. Gently illuminated figures, both stone, bronze and real could be seen quietly stationed in these lit openings, absorbing, and soaking up the positive energy of this light.
Emilia’s bijou apartment and its dark and shaded, cool interior lured her back in so she could make herself a coffee. Sitting down now on the rickety stool that fit between her small wooden table and the kitchen door, she reached across sideways to the stove to turn off the heat and grab her “Bialetti Moka”. She opened the cupboard door next to the stove for one of her artisan espresso cups, grabbed a scrap of paper and pen from the side, all whilst remaining precariously on the rickety stool. This apartment suited her. It fit her: a perfect match. As she sipped her coffee and enjoyed a brioche, she copied down her timetable for the week, planned with efficiency when she would do her grocery shopping, when she would visit the library, canteen, and pharmacy. She folded the paper and placed it under the shadow of her resting espresso cup. She knew that espressi were supposed to be drunk quickly, but Emilia only did that when she was in the presence of Italians. Otherwise, she preferred to sip and savour the strong flavours in a lazier fashion.
*
‘Basta cosi, allora andiamo,’ she said to herself, but also to her sleepy parakeet who peered out at her from his perch across the apartment. She placed her books in a pile and allowed the mosaic pieces of her planned day settle into position. She felt ready to leave.
‘Ciao ciao. Ciao ciao. Ciao ciao!’ her parakeet was awake.
‘I said enough Ciccio!’
‘Ciao ciao. Ciao ciao. Ciao ciao!’
‘I’m off now, Ciccio. Be good. I’ll tell you of my day when I return. Ciao ciao,’ Emilia left the apartment echoing her brightly coloured flat mate. She regretted not having spent a few more moments with him this morning.
Her heels on the fifty-two narrow steps down to the street were punctuated by Ciccio’s ‘Ciao ciao’ on repeat. Her innocent feathered flatmate was a delightful component and a welcome constant in her life.
Emilia reached the street as the hourly chime from the university clock a few hundred metres away rang. It made her jump. She crouched down to retrieve her dropped keys, only delaying her departure further by hesitating to view the missing stone in the cobbles. It had meant the keys had landed to fit the empty space, like a final piece in a puzzle.
Once retrieved, the key gravitated towards its receiving shape in the door with a satisfying click. This wasn’t the case in many of the ancient doorways in the university, where she might sometimes spend a few minutes twisting and toggling the worn key in its lock. Here at her home, she was thankful it was an easy fit.
*
Bikes were starting to traverse up the Via Strada Nuova, the main street of the old town with students heading to their lectures. Emilia had her lecture prepared so she knew she had just enough time to saunter up and into the cloister where she would present. She mumbled the Latin phrase of Alma Ticinensis Universitas, as she always did to settle her flustering self and prepare for the sea of eyes, most of which would focus on her as she entered the ancient lecture theatre.
She gathered confidence from the knowledge that this was one of the oldest universities, not only in Italy, but the world. This little city in Lombardy had had teachers residing here and passing on their learning since 1361, when it was officially considered by the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV to be an institution for study as good as the University of Paris and Bologna. She was proud to be a part of its continued existence, even if it took her a while to click into gear each time she was due to speak in her lectures. There was always a missing piece each morning: one cloud too short in the sky seen from her balcony window, a step on the stairwell she forgot to count as she juggled her keys on the way down towards the street, one important tutorial time or scheduled meeting she couldn’t remember from her plan for the day. She willed herself to remember that greats like Alessandro Volta, Girolamo Cardano, Camillo Golgi and Vincenzo Monti had all succeeded here and she was following in their footsteps.
*
‘Buongiorno studenti, ragazzi e ragazze. Vi mi presento. Sono Dottoressa Emilia Perdita. I will be presenting in English today and will offer some translation of certain phrases or words where appropriate. Please contact my PA or myself if you feel you may need further assistance. All the components of your course and its study will combine to clarity very soon,’ Emilia scrunched the sides of her mouth to meet her eyes, wincing at her hypocrisy.
Her mind continued with random, incongruous words, ‘Combine. Come together. Combinare. Venire insieme Unire. Oh, dear god, will that ever happen.’
‘Allora, let us begin. I ask of you first and foremost, my dear students, to recall all that you know of political theory and its main concepts, for example: liberty, rights, justice, oppression, democracy, power and now environmentalism, multiculturalism and secularism. Our focus for this course over the next six weeks will be a most valued Roman statesman who was also lawyer, scholar, philosopher, and academic skeptic. None other than Marcus Tullius Cicero.’
Emilia’s pause at this moment was planned and purposeful. She scanned the hall and pinpointed two or three students who were sitting too comfortably close to their partners or those who now peeked their heads out from the side of other heads hiding theirs. Emilia inhaled dust from the ancient aula and converted it to confident pride and power for her own position here on the stand. She took a moment longer to admire the ordered patterns her new students had made in mostly seating themselves in equal spaced points along the benches. There was some order and connectivity between her students already, which she admired.
‘We know of Cicero but what is he famous for in political theory? Certo - Giurisprudenza - Law – of course, natural law at its finest. He’s one of the first theorists of natural law. He’s the oldest advocate of the higher law idea but most interesting for us is his support for the doctrine of the mixed regime. The view that the best political order is a mixture of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy. He wrote of this in his text: Republic.’
There was another amalgamation of silent moments following Emilia’s echo of her final word.
‘She’s missing something, isn’t she? I can’t quite make it out. What she says is so apt but missing something. It’s giving me a headache,’ a voice simmered from the back of the aula, so that a few students at the back turned around, but no one further than the fifth row registered.
‘Maybe you’re not paying enough attention. She’ll have you for that!’ came a reply at the same noise level. There were a few snickers.
‘She can’t see the whole picture,’ came another whispering reply.
‘Statazit. Cosa vuoi dire? What she’s trying to do is make us understand the whole picture – monarchy, aristocracy, democracy. Scemi,’ punctured the whispering simmers from students at the back of the lecture theatre. The student’s staccato response was still quiet enough for the Dottoressa not to hear.
*
What Emilia did hear at that moment was something to make her inhale more dust and scrunch her eyes to listen with careful attention and surprise.
‘Ciao ciao.’
It couldn’t be, she thought. ‘O Dio, oh no,’ she exhaled, causing two of her papers to flutter to the floor, and her confidence level to plummet to a lower level along with them.
Her successfully attained silence within her aula walls was broken by a green spluttering of distraction. Dottoressa Emilia Perdita crumpled in front of her students as she rushed up the steps in between their astonished faces all following with focus the parakeet who was now the pivot of their attention.
‘Ciao ciao. Ciao ciao. Ciao ciao…’
Emilia heard it, but her green companion’s chirps were soon swamped by students’ laughter and hilarity as some jumped up to point, others crouched down to take cover, and a few stayed still and shrieked about the excitement. The aula, always having felt large and vacuous to Emilia, was now small and claustrophobic. Her bird’s phosphorescent glow emanated through the crowd and above them.
‘Here’s your monarch!’
‘He rules the roost!’
‘We vote he stays!’
‘Dottoressa, Dottoressa!’
‘Ciao ciao. Ciao ciao.’
Emilia was perspiring. Her confidence was shattered as she managed to scramble over some of the students at the back of the lecture hall and take hold of her precious emerald parakeet. His feathers glimmered and she loved him for that. However, her heart was not still with pride. It was pumping with frustration and embarrassment. This was humiliating, she thought. Why had he chosen today as the day to escape their enclosed apartment, today as the day to sweep up the Strada Nuova and descend upon her lecture? The jigsaw pieces which fell from his beak and landed neatly on her lectern when she made it back down to the front gave some explanation. It was only a moment before Emilia had to give her apologies to her students and leave the lecture hall to find a place to contain her naïve feathered friend. Time slowed for her as she saw and read the jigsaw puzzle pieces delivered to her.
The two pieces she’d been delivered did not fit together. It bothered Emilia. The outlines of each piece had the customary circular sockets on the left-hand and upper sides and corresponding protruding loops on the lower and right-hand sides. One showed the curve of a cupola whilst the second was angular and sharp-edged. In slow motion, grasping the puzzle pieces in one hand and her bird in the other, she leant forward and spoke with authority. She told her students the lecture would take a pausa and it would reconvene in twenty minutes, she hoped. Emilia had to retreat from the aula ahead of her students and she did so with grace before rushing to find a room in the library. She found one empty of books and holding discarded boxes and old desks, which would suffice for looking after her avian gatecrasher until the end of her workday. She hoped he’d be less adventurous now he had found her and delivered his treasure.
*
The lecture did not reconvene.
*
Emilia departed with embarrassment from the university’s prestigious cloisters. She was visible and watched as she hauled the cat crate with her feathered, not furred friend home.
‘Ciao ciao, ciao ciao!’
‘Be quiet, Ciccio. This wasn’t how the day was supposed to pan out, my young friend,’ Emilia said to the crate.
‘Ciao ciao, ciao ciao!’
‘Grazie. For delivering the pieces, that is…’ she continued, ‘…they were on my mind. We’ll finish it when we get home.’
She knew she had three pieces left to place.
She anticipated the drag of dopamine she would feel as she filled the gaps and succeeded in completing the scene. Her eagerness to finish the experience was strong, yet she knew the downward spiral of ill-feeling and dissatisfaction after having finally finished the picture would be bad for her.
There were further distractions.
‘Signora, caffe?’, the waiter called to her as she neared the stairwell to her apartment.
Emilia hesitated un’attimo before nodding and placing the crate in the shade of the counter. She remained standing.
‘Si, grazie,’ she replied, knowing that she only had a minute before she had to get upstairs to free her escapee.
*
The scene of Giovanni Battista Piranesi’s Veduta della Piazza del Popolo
in puzzle form lay sprawled across her coffee table. It ached for completion and Emilia felt its taut pull as she finally made it through her apartment’s front door.
Her heavy heartbeat had been pulsing with exertion as she’d reached the top of the stairs. She’d struggled with the key at the bottom, which had not clicked into place, as usual and she had taken deep breaths to calm her familiar dependable frustration. Her steps on the stairs had been interrupted by having to rest the crate on every fifth step and the echo of her parakeet’s chorus had sung to her in an onerous hum.
The humming was replaced with Emilia’s tutting when, having opened the cat crate and enabled the frazzled bird to emerge, the creature had inevitably scurried outwards, upwards, across and around the small living space within her beloved apartment. Her tutting reached an absolute ‘TSK!’ when his frenzied flying diminished and descended to her so nearly completed puzzle as his landing runway. The Eqyptian obelisk in between the twin churches which dissected the scene was obliterated to her view by green feathers, but she strained to keep sight of the crowds of faces, dwarfed by the immense monolith. The coaches seemed to her to squirm away from the central drama, and she could now see the three avenues extending outwards towards other places of importance; other avenues.
Emilia grabbed pieces of puzzle from her bag, from her pocket and from inside the cat crate. She ignored her flat mate and placed pieces into position. The magnitude of the actions meant Emilia’s heart fluttered yet again. She enjoyed the feeling. It felt better than the rushing of blood she’d felt when ascending the stairwell just ten minutes before.
Colours of the sunset through Emilia’s window heightened the shine of green feathers. Even the elongated shadows lying across the puzzle and reaching the opposite wall gleamed.
It was almost time for aperitivi.
