Does Writing Pay?

I wrote the following a few years ago, tongue in cheek, but it seems appropriate Heh heh!:

Does Writing Pay?

By Len Morgan

 A silly question!   If it didn’t pay, nobody would do it, would they?

You research your target journal or magazine; get to know the house style by subscribing to, at least, three issues.   You read them from cover to cover analysing their format, content, and target readership.   You get a copy of the contributors’ guidelines then phone to confirm they will accept your submissions.   You work up ideas, writing a synopsis then full-length article/story, pull them apart and rewrite two or three times until you are happy they are the best you can do.

   You submit a 300 word article and wait and wait and…   Sometimes you’re lucky you eventually receive an acceptance letter and, much much later, a cheque.   You receive £30 (10p a word) for six hours work that’s £5 an hour.   But you had three other similar articles rejected so that will reduce your hourly pay to £1.25.   Then there is the cost of magazines, phone calls, paper, electricity, typewriter ribbon (just kidding) and postage, let’s call it £10 in all.   That makes your income 83p per hour, less tax and NI (National Insurance) of course, that's 40%, let’s see that leaves you with just 50p per hour.   But, you know you loved it really, the late nights, the dogged persistence…  

Think I’ll keep the day job.  

[But, alas there is no cure for this writing sickness!]

Copyright Len Morgan

WILDERNESS

WILDERNESS

by Rosemary Clarke

     Loretta stared out at the overgrown garden; neither lawnmower nor shears had made the slightest difference.  In front of one window was what used to be the carefully tended flowerbed but somehow bushes had invaded with thorns and spikes, and however much she cut them down new plants would spring up.
     She had found one tiger lily peeking it's orange and black head from among the greenery but of the roses, lupins and anemones there was no sign.  The crocuses hadn't appeared on the lawn either: what was happening to the place?  A large garden may be an envy to some but it was hard with only one person to upkeep it.
     At least the grass was short and walkable, but she had noticed those little white plants pushing their way into the lawn.  Was it worth it; should she, as many had done around her, concrete the whole lot and have done with it?
     Loretta thought back to when there had been a family; brothers, sisters, children, husbands and wives all snipping, sorting, planting, mowing and pruning...now even her niece could not come in case that disease harmed her or Loretta herself.

     As a child she had loved the wildlife; foxes in their red coats, bushy tails trailing behind like bride's veils, badgers Humph humphing as they nuzzled the ground and the birdsong that had awoken her every morning as the smell of toast heralded another day of school no, all gone and the garden was ruined and friendless.
     Just then a slight movement caught her eye, Loretta stared; a small brown sparrow was hopping among the branches of the bushes in the overgrown flowerbed, another sparrow swooped inside joining the first, were they building a nest?  She watched intently as comma butterflies on small brown wings flitted around the bushes, even the garish brown, red and black of a tortoiseshell with some cabbage whites in hot pursuit danced in the sunlight twirling up and down.  Transfixed she opened the window a crack to hear myriad birds chorusing amid the cooing of pigeons.  A stray black cat had flopped itself onto the grass nearby contentedly washing in the sun.  Loretta shook her head in wonderment; maybe the garden didn't need so much tending after all.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

The Carver Twins.

The Carver Twins.

By Len Morgan

Lillian started life as the third of four sisters, as different each to the others as porridge & peas pudding. Iris, the eldest, was married with a two-year-old boy and another on the way. Laurel, the youngest sister, was at Leicester Uni. Violet, Lillie’s twin and two minutes her senior, worked at the Bank of England, she'd been married for three years but though she dearly wanted to start a family, she couldn't conceive, because Jeff had a low sperm count. Violet & Jeff were saving up for invitro-fertilization, which was putting a serious drain on their funds.

The twins were identical, both blessed with stunning good looks.  But, Lilly considered herself to be the dunce in the family, she did not do well at school, she wasn't stupid though, her problem was dyslexia.  She was an excellent people person; Lilly worked in a local call centre.  A good listener and problem solver she was popular with her fellow workers and clients alike many even asked for her by name. She was outgoing and had had a string of boyfriends but nothing seemed to last.  She enjoyed sex, but boys and men just seemed to be one dimensional.  There was a time when she’d thought she was pregnant but it was a false alarm.  The doctor at the clinic told her she would be very unlikely to have children because, in layman’s terms, her plumbing wasn’t conducive.

 The call centre wasn't the best-paid job so she’d been looking around for a line of work that would pay better and stretch her potential.  Sheila, one of her clients suggested she call round to interview for a job in customer liaison services.

.-…-.

Lilly arrived at the appointed time and was ushered into a small but neat office.

Sheila smiled and shook her hand, "Lilly darling you look just divine, I think our clients would be pleased to be seen with you on their arm."

Lilly looked puzzled. "I, I don't understand."

"We are an escort agency, darling.  Businessmen from all around the globe come here for meetings, they require an escort to act as their guide, and provide pleasant companionship during their stay."

"Escort?  Isn't that a polite word for a prostitute?"

"Haha! A popular misconception darling, no, an escort is a guide who provides intelligent conversation, companionship, eye candy to enhance the impression made when the couple enters a room. An Escort makes his or her clients stay as enjoyable as possible.  However, if you should choose to take things further, that’s up to you but there’s no obligation if asked you can just say no and walk away, without causing offence.  You get paid either way, £500 a day or part thereof, and the client pays for everything else."

"But, my wardrobe isn't really suitable for classy venues."

"We have an extensive wardrobe.  Follow me.” She opened a side door, lights came on.  She ushered Lilly into a walk-in wardrobe, three times the size of her office. “The racks are in size order, just go in and choose what you think is appropriate for the occasion.  Everything in here is available for your use.  After a few months, you may prefer to acquire clothing more to your own taste but until then...  What size are you 16?" she led Lilly to a row of top brand clothing all in her size.

“Prada, Gap, Chanel, Stella McCartney, Monsoon, Calvin Clein Gucci.  Oh, Jimmy Choo’s, can I try them?”

“Feel free, there’s a full-length mirror behind the door.  When you’re ready I’ll be outside at my desk.”  The phone interrupted her…

Half an hour later Lilly reappeared in her street clothes and Sheila switched off the hidden surveillance cameras in the wardrobe.

“Do you have an application form for me to fill out?”

“Just sign here darling, you will be self-employed so, I’ll give you the rundown on filling out tax & N.I. forms.  If it’s a problem we have an accountant who can take care of the paperwork for a small fee.  Just put your name and address on the application form.”

“When do I start?”

“Well, if you’re free, select your attire, and meet Mr Okasaki at London airport.  He will be arriving at terminal 3 in two hours. I’ll help you with your makeup, and arrange for a taxi to take you in one hour.  Mr Okasaki is a regular, a real sweetie.  Look after him well and he will show his appreciation.

Mr Okasaki looked at the image of Lilly sent to him from the agency and smiled.

.-…-.

She said no to one in three of her clients over the following six months, and received a generous bonus each time.  She found she had so much spare cash that she was able to offer Violet a generous contribution towards her invitro-fertilization fund.

The twins were close, so when Lilly found Violet in tears on one of her frequent visits she was concerned. “What’s the matter Vi, why the tears?”

“Oh Lil, Jeff says we are wasting our time trying for something that will never happen.  He wants to spend the remains of our savings on a holiday to Vegas.” 

“You could adopt Sis…”

“He’s gone off the idea of having a child; he thinks it will spoil things between us.  But, I think he’s having an affair with his boss.”

“I have an idea,” said Lilly.  “You do know I work in customer relations.  Well, there’s a nice guy I’m meeting tomorrow I think you would like him.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“What’s good for the goose…  Just meet me in the foyer of the Woodgrange hotel in Southend at 10:30pm tomorrow evening, and I think your problem will be solved.”

.-…-.

“He’s in room 1023, I’ve left the door ajar, just go in, leave the light off and enjoy…”

The client in room 1032 thought Lilly had changed her mind.

.-...-.

Six months later Jeff moved in with his boss, and Lilly moved in with Violet to help her through her pregnancy.

Three months on Violet gave birth.  To Lilly’s surprise, it was a petite black baby with brown jewel-bright eyes and a lusty voice.

Lilly looked perplexed. “Vi, did I say go to room 1032 or 1023?”

Violet smiled and thought: Dyslexia is a wonderful thing!

Copyright Len Morgan

Look

Look 

By Robert Kingston

A Fort once stood upon my mount, its history held within.

Look, look now, come see me,

My heritage few will know, but revealing it can be.

Visual delights are plentiful, its people proud, smitten, maybe.

Look, look now, come see me.

Trespass from whichever point, my windmill you will see.

A treasure of architecture on your path, a pleasure most will agree.

Look, look now, come see me.

Stained glass windows adorn our church, tell stories of bygone times,

A mention in the doomsday book, a place seen as earned.

Look, look now, come see me.

Bustling High street, busy shops, cuisine a plenty, places to stop.

Idle chit chat, laughter too, set amongst markets with flowers in bloom.

Look, look now come see me.

A skate park, bowling green, swings and slides, tears and laughter, cheers of pride,

It called Rayleigh town this place to be.

Look, look now, and come visit me. 

Copyright Robert Kingston (2014)

The Look of Lorna

 The Look of Lorna

By Janet Baldey

Even today, I hear the name Lorna and I’m transported back to a time when I was both at my happiest and most miserable.

 She first came to me late one night after the whispers, sighs and creaking of bedsprings finally ceased as a dozen girls drifted off to sleep.  Silence deadened the room and it was only then that my body unclenched and the tears flowed, soaking my pillow. Wracked by loneliness and grief, I lay remembering my father, his death and the way my life had changed.

‘Hush…’

Clad in a long white nightgown, she stood by my bed.  Moonlight, streaming through the window shone upon her red gold hair turning her into a candle holding back the dark.

Covering her lips with a finger, she drew back the sheet, slipped in beside me and held me tight.  Her kisses dried my tears and her body made me forget.  By morning, she was gone but as time passed I grew to know her and learned her story.  Like me, she was fatherless and like me, she pined for a life that had vanished as completely as smoke blown by the wind.  She already knew about me.  Everybody did.  A poor relation kept afloat by charity, every day was turned into purgatory by a myriad of petty slights and humiliations. Only the nights spent in Lorna’s arms made my life bearable.

But even that comfort came to an end when suddenly the covers were stripped from our bed leaving us naked and shivering as if doused in iced water. An oil lamp dazzled as we stared into the face of a gargoyle. Disgust and the wavering light had transmuted the Head’s features and her eyes glistened with malice as she hissed like a snake and hauled us from the room.

* * *

‘Sit down girl and don’t utter a word.’

Steel grabbed my shoulder and pushed me towards a chair.  Hardly daring to breathe I perched on the wooden seat and listened to the scratch of pen upon paper.  Head bowed, I stared at the floor. Darkly varnished, its knotholes were filled with the dust of years and my eyes blurred with the effort of concentrating on the filthy wood.  My shoulder was throbbing but I feared to move. Too well, I remembered the hiss of the cane as it whipped through the air.

There was the sound of a pen being thrown down, followed by the screech of a chair and the rustle of silk. Suddenly I saw the tips of highly polished boots and my gaze travelled upwards….. black skirt, black blouse, a rope of glistening jet. Before  reaching her face, my scalp burned and my head was jerked backwards as I was pulled to my feet by my hair.

I closed my eyes, sickened by pain and the smell of onions on her breath as her tirade began; each vitriolic word honed to slash, wound and scar.

‘Worthless…perverted….a disgrace on the road to hell.’  

 Her speech was familiar and had lost its power. Nothing could touch me now that Lorna had gone. Suddenly her litany slackened, her tone changed and despite my misery, I began to listen.

‘For the good of your soul, you must make your own way in the world.  A post of scullery maid has been found for you.  You leave on the morrow.’

My lids flew open and I stared into her eyes. Their colour, shifting from slate blue to grey, reminded me of the sea in winter.  

* * *

It was late when I arrived and I sat at the scrubbed table staring at broth congealing in its bowl.  It was the first food I’d seen all day but, nauseated by the lurch of the carriage, I couldn’t bare to taste it.  My head felt heavy and a yawn threatened.  Desperately, I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek and pain chased all thoughts of sleep away.  Staring at the woman seated opposite, I tried to concentrate.  The cook’s face shone as if oil oozed from every pore, stray wisps of hair escaped from her bun and she seemed almost as weary as I, but her manner was kind. Ticking an imaginary list off on her fingers, she detailed my duties.  They seemed endless and just as I began to despair, the drone of her voice ended.

‘Off to bed with you now.  Molly will show you the way.’

Through the door, along the corridor, up some back stairs I followed the sway of her hips until we came to yet another flight, almost hidden behind a dusty curtain.   Pausing only to light a taper, Molly continued to climb.  No longer wood but metal, the stairs coiled upwards disappearing into a soupy darkness barely pierced by our frail flame.

‘Ere we are then.’

Only slightly taller than my head, the cramped room was hot and its air smelled sour. Plaster was falling off the walls and in each dim corner, a smudge of cobwebs clustered. I walked towards the window but it was sealed shut with age and mouse droppings decorated its sill.  The tiny space was empty, save for two small beds nestled close to each other. 

‘You sleep here as well?’ 

She nodded.

‘Its not much. But it ‘as its good points.  Nobody, ever comes up ‘ere.’

Her bed groaned as she threw herself down.  Her cheeks were stained with scarlet and her eyes had the glitter of fever. 

‘It’s very private.’

There was something in her voice. Startled, I noticed her skirt was rucked and showed a glimmer of flesh.  My pulses throbbed as sudden realisation banished my fatigue.   Plump not slim; dark not fair; rough not gentle;  still, she had the look of Lorna.  

Copyright Janet Baldey

     

           

Ode to a Blog (and all you lot! :-))

Ode to a Blog (& all you lot!  : - ) )

By Dawn Van Win

How do I value thee

Let me count the ways...

In times of Covid crisis

When the whole world feels shut down

You are a valued safe space

Where our work is shared around

All members and the wider span

Of folk around the globe

Can come and read 

And share our tales 

of mystery and hope,

Adventure, joy and derring-do

And subjects many varied 

(I’m listing just a few!)

This magic space in a virtual sea

A home to share and so connect

Our words and rhymes 

With one another

All members of RLWG

Our blog meister extraordinaire

Len of course, deserves a mention

All of this here brought to exist

By his ever true attention

Not only posting to and fro 

All work we do submit

But timely updates

Informing all of latest numbers hit

The times indeed 

‘They are a-changing’

As Bob so rightly sang

so in virtual spaces

Like our blog 

Our hat, coat and verse we hang

Until we all may meet again safely sharing words and tea

There’s not much more that I can say

‘cept I miss our writers' gang!

Copyright Dawn Van Win

A Walk in the Country

A Walk in the Country

Peter Woodgate

Like a painter with his canvas I viewed the morning scene, 

Clouds were drifting overhead The dark hills could be seen 

And in the fields the clover was a haven for the bees,

The rhythm of their crazy flight Quickened by the breeze. 

Meadow grass and thistles Swayed gently to and fro,

A swallow dipped and swerved in flight Keen to join the show.

A rabbit, in the early light was cropping sweet damp grass

And a pheasant, with ungainly step, In front of me, did pass.

The brushstrokes of my inner eye Sketched tranquil harmony

And foxgloves, by the garden gate we’re full in bloom for me.

But something strange and sinister Stood there before my eyes,

Rubbish, heaped, to curtail the joy And rob me of my prize.

Fly-Tipping

Copyright Peter Woodgate