“There’s motion at the front door” Thanks Alexa that will be Geoff. ” Hi Geoff I see you’ve not come alone this time! Come on in we don’t want your, err friend alarming the neighbours they have only just got over your last visit . He arrived on my doorstep looking like this last time!

Right Geoff, can I offer you and your friend a cuppa or a cold drink?

Coffee fine, pardon. Not your friend, Oh! It goes right through him. While I get us coffee and cake tell me Geoff where did the idea for this great book come from?…. And who is that guy standing in the corner wearing a grin and a dark cloak?

While I started blogging for other reasons, I came across prompts fairly soon and was hooked. I found that having to write to a word count – though not every prompt I’ve followed imposed this requirement – made me better at writing succinct prose. I also became more comfortable leaving the reader to make up their mind what the story meant, where it might go. That has translated into my longer writing. It also meant I had a lot of material in the guise of short fiction which someone suggested I might pull together into an anthology; I’d published my first – Life in a Grain of Sand – following a Nano (national novel writing month, November 2015) challenge I set myself (to write 30 short stories, each 1667 words long, which was the suggested nano daily word count, each in a different voice, genre and tense and each based on prompts sent me by my readers.
That idea led to three other anthologies since 2016, using the best of my output (about two years worth) – Life in a Flash, Life in a Conversation and Life Sentences.

As for the guy in the corner, if you can see him, be worried – be very worried…

Right I have the tray ready let’s sit under the pergola I’ve put the furniture out ready. Is he not joining us?

How’s the coffee… cake lemon drizzle or Jamaican ginger cake all homemade. Can we discuss the first of three stories I have picked. The first one is The road to hell.

This is a beautiful story Geoff. One of a long lasting friendship. A kindness done daily unfortunately not quite appreciated.
I get the feeling that this story has a resonance with you, it certainly does with me. Have you had to care for a relative or friend who by either stroke or dementia has been unable to communicate their feelings.

You reach my age and it’s pretty inevitable you’ve seen people you care for decline physically, mentally and/or emotionally. Trying to allow them to hold onto their sense of self while giving support and eventually caring for them is one of the most difficult challenges. In some cases, some people are ‘locked in’ even when still capable of expressing themselves. That has been my experience. And it remains crucial to allow them to be their irreverent and natural selves. Incontinence doesn’t make them inconsequential; powerless doesn’t mean humourless. And the real and ever present danger of ascribing meaning to actions – here, assuming an emotional background to the sniffles rather than a prosaic physical one – is the point behind the humour.

I totally agree with you there Geoff, and it not easy to find that fine line…. I have been there more than a few times. Another cuppa?

The next story is History Repeats.

Now where did this one come from Geoff . Another story of friends supporting each other through a time of sadness. The story of Grandma’s sad end …. The comfort of knowing she was joined by her mother, such a poignant story.

I Think I was listening to stories from D Day survivors; not that many are left now. About the sangfroid of the participants. Their language was the opposite of histrionic. And that always makes me think, not so much of the obvious dead, the soldiers, but the crushed families left behind.To me death is at its most cruel on the survivors not on the deceased. That’s where the stories are, where grim reality hits hardest. And of course I left it open to the readers to think about the post mortem opprobrium that would be visited on the mother for selfishly sacrificing herself without a thought for her child; that would I feel have been the main conclusion.
So many people damaged by those set piece national events. The grandfather would have been celebrated for his heroism and sacrifice; the grandmother vilified for her cowardice and weakness. Both unjust. Yet, I hope there’s a little hope, a little redemption that comes through in the spirit of the granddaughter and the support of her friend.

There was a lot of that keeping up appearances and stiff upper lips in those days and times were as harsh as people’s opinions. I get the feeling that Sarah was convinced that her recently deceased mum had made peace with her mum and now and they were once again united. Hopefully that means Sarah can move on. ..just my opinion.

Yes I’ll show you around the garden mind you it’s not a patch on yours but we are proud of it. Would you like another

Now can we discuss my last choice Remaining Sanguine which is right up my street because I love a good Vampire and Werewolf tale.

Now this one is great, two star crossed lovers breaking all taboos and crossing boundaries ending up with fireworks….. Is that how you see it!…or not?

Funnily enough, I see this as a story that looks at what it means to be on the fringes. In the margins, things happen to you that the majority never experience. And often, those in the margins end up fighting others in the same situation for their very existence, with the comfortable majorities passing by. I also thought about a vampire and a werewolf who came from minorities and what that might mean. And I hoped to find some humour to leaven the seriousness of the idea. It’s my motto, when writing, I suppose: if in doubt, go for the funny.

I think that is what I saw too though with a slight variation on the fighting as opposed to star-crossed loves but very much set on the fringes and in the margins.

Right Geoff let’s get the Blurb to your new book, Life Death and Other Characters out there…I rather like the way you have approached it:

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What would you do if you were to host a dinner party and the sky wasn’t what you’d ordered? Could you find someone to shake out the creases from the clouds and tone down the wind to an acceptable zephyr? And what are the challenges facing a Portal Management Volunteer as they steer the recently departed to their chosen Hereafter? Or how would you organise your life if you were called to do God service just when you’d planned on making marmalade that weekend? Life, DEATH and Other Characters will inform and, where necessary, guide you through these and other complications amongst a lot of other short fiction that will educate inform and entertain. Well, maybe one out of three.

*********

Now here are my three favourite stories from Life Death and other Characters , yes the very ones we discussed.

The road to hell

Roger Penstick didn’t begrudge helping his old friend.

It had been hard watching him slip into that cloudy state where the absent-minded forgetfulness that meant you couldn’t remember where your car keys were became the tormented senility that meant you could no longer remember what they were for.

At nine every morning he let himself into the small cottage Arthur called home and met his friend in the kitchen. The carers had already been, made sure he was dressed and fed and left him in his comfy chair for Roger and their morning’s constitutional.

‘Where shall we go today, mate?’ he asked, hopeful of getting some sort of reply. Occasionally, he was offered a smile, sometimes a “Lovely sun” or “Where’s Madge?”, his long-deceased wife. It mattered not. Not these days. It was all about giving him those fragments of pleasure he could still access.

Arthur didn’t really cope with walking far, not these days, but he seemed happy enough to settle into the wheelchair provided by the surgery.  Roger manoeuvred the “beast” through the narrow door and onto the path, before encouraging Arthur to sit down and be tucked in.

Roger wasn’t that young himself and the short, steep incline wasn’t as easy as it used to be. By the time he’d reached the ornamental gates, he was red in the face and short of breath. Sometimes he would mutter to himself, cursing the placement of the Peace Gardens that Millennium money had funded. He couldn’t deny, however, how well it had settled to be part of village life, how established the roses and lavender borders now appeared.

But, were he being honest, he would have preferred a walk into the village itself, not this way. They could have sat outside the shop, chatted with those going about their morning affairs, maybe slipped into the Coach Inn for a coffee. There were several pluses to taking that route, not least that it was flat.

He chided himself with this uncharitable thought. The effort was worth it for the enjoyment Arthur got. He clearly loved it here. And it kept Roger fitter than the pub would.

They entered the gates and already Roger could feel his friend sit up. Someone told him those whose minds were closing in sometimes found memories in other senses, in song or, in this case, scent. The fragrance of the early roses was replaced by the saturated delights of the lavender.

‘Pretty amazing, isn’t it?’ he offered as he wheeled the chair so it brushed against the overhanging pendulums of blossom. He saw his friend’s shoulders heave, aware a tear would be forming on his lids, his nose beginning to run.

What memory was it he now accessed with such a deep passion? Whatever it was, Roger was pleased to bring even a moment’s joy while he still could.

And Arthur?

What would he have said if he could? How would he have explained the tears?

‘Bloody hay fever.’

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History Repeats

‘She’s there, just by the shore.’ Sarah glanced at Martine, who knew she wanted some reassurance.  

‘How far?’ Martine still struggled to be sure what was the right thing to say.

Sarah sighed. Martine knew that sigh so well. It spoke of her quiet despair, desperate to be believed.

Sarah seemed to force out the brittle smile. ‘About two hundred yards, at two o’clock. She’s staring out to sea.’ 

Martine followed the direction her friend indicated. If only…

‘You don’t think I’m bonkers, do you?’

Martine put an arm round her friend. Yes, maybe a bit, she thought. ‘Course. Always were. But only after a couple of peach mojitos.’

The smile, when it came, was more natural. At least Martine hoped it was. 

‘She never looks back. Not once.’ Sarah sounded wistful.

‘When did you find her?’ Martine didn’t need to ask; she’d been aware of this vision – was that the right word? – for what? Three years?  And no one else had ever seen a thing, which she knew was slowly eroding Sarah’s sanity. 

‘Three years ago. I thought I was mad, too.’ She snorted a short laugh. ‘I think the really mad bit was coming back the next year, to check. I had to know.’

‘Know?’

Sarah shook her shoulders, as if freeing them of tension. ‘Come on. I’ll explain as we walk.’

‘Where are we going?’ Martine vaguely hoped it was coffee. June on the beach wasn’t always welcoming.

‘To prove I’m as sane as you.’

Good luck with that, thought Martine as she followed her down the steps.

Sarah started speaking in a flat voice. ‘Her name was Kate Atkinson. She was nineteen, married, with a daughter. On 7th June 1944 she came here to stare at France, knowing her beloved husband, Albert, was there, part of the D-Day landings. He was a radio operator.’ 

When Martine glanced across at her friend, she could see her throat moving as if she was swallowing hard. 

Sarah continued as they stepped onto the sand. ‘He was killed outside a small town about ten miles inland. A gas explosion, apparently. Kate received a telegram the next day.’ She stopped and looked at Martine. ‘You wouldn’t think they could have been that efficient, what with the war going full tilt.’

‘How’d you find that out?’

‘The coroner’s court records were put online a few years ago. Kate came here the same day she heard the news. She dressed her best. Nice skirt and blouse. Patent leather shoes. Shoes for dancing. She took them off and walked into the sea.’ She checked her watch. ‘In about five minutes.’

‘Geez, you’re not serious?’ Martine stopped and stared at the empty beach, trying to imagine being that depressed. Especially a mother of a child.

Sarah had kept going, but she paused and Martine hurried to catch up. ‘I don’t get too close until she’s gone. I worry I might see her expression. I don’t think I could cope with that.’

‘Earlier, when I said how did you find out, I meant how did you find her name?’

Sarah smiled. ‘It’s why I came the first time. She was my grandma. When Mum went into the home, I found a shoebox in her wardrobe. There were pictures of Kate and Bert and a newspaper article about his death and hers. They only knew it was here she walked into the sea because she took off her shoes. It was foggy that day, a real peasouper, and no one saw her go.’ Sarah turned towards the shore and stood very still.

To Martine, it looked like a thousand-yard stare, but she knew now what Sarah was seeing. Then Sarah sighed, her shoulders dropping as the tension left them. Like the relief at the end of the minute’s silence, Martine thought.

‘Is it over?’

Sarah nodded. ‘Come on, before the tide turns.’

In silence, the pair trudged across the wet sand, both of them gazing towards France as Kate had done seventy-five years before. Sarah began hunting for something, her head down, concentrating hard. ‘Here.’ Her voice spoke of relief not triumph.

Martine walked over. Sarah stood a few feet from a set of prints: the sole and heel of two size six, or so Martine guessed, women’s shoes placed side by side. Leading away from those two prints and into the sea were more prints, but these were bare feet, deep and determined. She looked up and met Sarah’s gaze.

‘You can see them?’

‘Yes. Yes, I can. Oh, my dear, how utterly poignant.’ A thought struck her. ‘If you can see your grandma, what about your mum? Do you think she might? Even now?’

Sarah crouched down and traced the edge of one shoe print with her finger. A wave curled across the toe, softening the edges. She stood, brushing away a few grains of sand. ‘Let’s get a coffee.’

As they headed across the beach, Sarah peered at the flat white sky. ‘I thought about that, but it’s too late.’ Tears, which Martine had expected earlier, poured down Sarah’s cheeks. ‘She’s gone into the fog, just like Grandma did.’ She sniffed and took her friend’s arm. ‘Let’s hope they find some comfort in there, eh?’

Behind them the waves spread across the sand, smoothing it for another year.

Remaining Sanguine .

You know what’s the worst thing about being a black vampire? People laugh at you when you say you can’t stand the sun. They think you’re a wuss. Drives me nuts and it’s meant I’ve gone undercover, spending my days in a doorway, hoodie up, head down. I’m just another vagrant, invisible. I told my cousin Leroy in Milwaukee that it made my blood boil and he just laughed. ‘You don’t have enough to boil.’

Truth is, being homeless worked for a time. Then that bloody dog appeared. You know it, don’t you? A solo panhandler is ignored, but give him a pet and they’re all over him, cooing and giving him bits of burger. Humiliating for a Count of Transylvania; mother would spin in her grave if she hadn’t been skewered by a length of two by four.

I told him to bugger off or he’d get it in the neck. I felt stupid as soon as the words came out and blow me if he didn’t laugh. I should have smelt a rat then, a dog laughing.

So, the sun was sinking and I was testing my teeth to make sure they were sharp when he started this twisting and roaring thing. It was dead impressive. Turns out he’s a werewolf. Did you know being infected as a werewolf could cross the species barrier? Me neither. I thought it was a wolf/human thing.

It was dark, the moon was out and he was drooling at me, and I was lusting at him. We went at it like two worlds colliding, fur and hair, blood and guts everywhere. Two hours, we were in bits. Any likely punters were long gone. It’s been the same all this week.

The paper says it’s a half moon tonight; hope so cos I’m gasping for a pint.

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Geoff’s Bio and links

Geoff Le Pard started writing to entertain in 2006. He hasn’t left his keyboard since. When he’s not churning out novels, he writes some maudlin self-indulgent poetry, short fiction, and blogs at geofflepard.com. He walks the dog for mutual inspiration, and most of his best ideas come out of these strolls. He also cooks with passion if not precision.  

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.com

Geoff Le Pard’s Amazon Author Page.

Well Geoff I have to say that Life Death and other Characters is a must read Book ! There is something for everyone there. I can honestly say I really enjoyed every story. Not always for the same reasons. Some made me laugh, some made me cry (and some made me do both).with sadness and in fun too they all made me think I recommend it to everyone there is something there to suit everyone. Well done Geoff Le Pard another string to your bow. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐.

Okay Geoff it was great to discuss the new book this afternoon. ….. Where is your friend…. Oh! He left a while back? How odd I didn’t notice….how rude of him…… Oh! He’s like that is he.