Praying Preys by Kevin Murphy

In 2019 The Times reported “Most atheists and agnostics believe in supernatural powers and that there are “forces of good and evil”, even though they do not necessarily believe in God, according to a new study”

I have had a lot of fun throughout my life exploring the mystical, especially ghosts or hauntings. We always asked our cover teachers ‘have you seen a ghost?’

As a Street Pastor – simple Christian support to people at risk particularly from excessive drink or drug use – during the night time economy, for a few years we would be asked about our ‘god-bothering’ – as well as us bothering them.

There was some disbelief that people would actually stand around at 2am, ready to help them – voluntarily. I would often ask if they believe in that spiritual concept – god.

Many would say no. My follow-up self-test question was ‘would you pray if the plane went down?’ Most would then say yes, but qualify that by saying ‘just in case.’ Only one ever said, ‘No, I know that I won’t. My partner in a fire fight in Afghanistan had his face blown off next to me. I thought I really fancy a fag – yet I don’t smoke.’

The research referred in the Times asked Does religious unbelief exist? That soldier alone showed me the answer – yes, unbelief exists.

In itself it is a funny question – can a non-something exist? Black holes do, and they seem to be very heavy nothings.

I have never seen a ghost. I am convinced of many sightings reported to me; I have believed in a Holy Ghost: and pray that a spirit will guide me.

Sometimes I tell myself that I am wasting my time – I try to unbelieve.

Then something preys on my mind.

Is it Satan?

My Special Place by Angela Campion

Angela's lyrical response to the trigger Silence   

As a child I spent many happy hours in my special place, In my own company. It was my sanctuary away from the realities of a sick mother, busy father and three brothers. From home it was barely 800 yards away but once over the hill felt like a million miles.
    The border between our home, the family farm and our neighbour’s farm was a brook, a tributary of the river Trove. Just off the lane, a few yards from the bridge that crossed the brook was a small steep sided spinney. This was my playground where I built dens amongst the trees on the higher, more level ground and dams in the brook. Sometimes there was nothing better than just listening to the murmur of the water as it tumbled over my attempts at dam building, or the wind whispering in the trees where I'd built my mansion. The dam would create a pool deep enough to cool my feet on a hot summer day while the den provided shade or shelter on rainy days. 
    Once building work or running repairs were complete I'd wander. Upstream was a fallen tree that forded the brook protecting me from crocodile infested waters one day, became a gymnasts balance beam or cowgirls trusty stead on others. This magical tree just happened to have fallen next to a ford which livestock or farm machinery could cross. It was also shallow enough for me to drive my pony and trap anywhere my imagination wanted to go.
    Hunger would lead me back to the den where lunch would be stored away from hungry bears and wolves. In reality it was more likely to be a harmless squirrel after my apple or packet of crisps with its blue paper twist of salt hidden in its depths.
    Lunch over, I might venture downstream in the open pasture where the black and white Friesians would be quietly grazing, chewing their cuds or venturing to the watering hole nervously watching out for hungry lions and hyenas. 
The ground here was always wet created its own dangers, no deadly creatures lurking just Welly sucking mud. Many a day saw me washing feet, socks and boots in the brook if I'd landed in a hoof hole instead of on a tuft of dry grass. The risk was worth it for this side of the brook pretty flowers grew, delicate lilac milkmaid amongst the tussocks while vibrant, bright shining kingcups flourished at the water's edge as did the tall bulrushes with their velvety flowers while cotton grass swayed in the gentlest of breezes on higher, dry ground. 
    A heron might be standing like a statue, waiting poised to strike should an unlucky minnow, bullhead or frog pass by. A flash of blue catching my eye would be the only evidence of a kingfisher, flying upstream like a jet, looking for its next target. The more sedate snipe with its long thin beak could be seen probing for tasty morsels in the boot sucking mire, so long as I was very quiet and still. Like most things everything seemed brighter in the sunshine, none more so than this drab brown bird. When the sun caught its back, it displayed the most wonderful markings in every shade of brown from gold to bronze. All these amazing things for me to see but none where as magical as the lapwings. The acrobats of the sky, dipping, swooping, wheeling and turning, changing colour with every movement. From black to white then the most dazzling greens while continually calling peewit, peewit. Hence, it's other names, green plover and peewit. As if it wasn't beautiful enough when on the ground it also revealed a magnificent crest. 
    If peckish, I'd pull reeds from the water's edge, remove the outer leaves, wash off any mud and nibble on the sweet, tender inner shoots.
    Back in the spinney I'd be entertained by blackbirds and thrushes rustling in the undergrowth or by tiny wrens hiding in brambles out-singing any competitors while a robin would sit so close singing so quietly that I'm sure I was the only being able to hear it. At the water's edge wagtails, mainly pied but occasionally grey, would be bobbing. Bobbing their heads, knees and tails while darting along the ground or in the air hunting out unfortunate insects as they too searched for food. 
Almost to the minute, without fail, at three in the afternoon I watched fascinated as the cows, one by one, followed each other in single file, unbidden, to the milking parlour. It wouldn't be unusual to find me following to watch them queuing to taking it in turns to be relieved of their produce. The rhythmical sound of t tch, t tch as every last drop of precious milk was gentle squeezed from each distended udder was mesmerising. 
    Not every day was a perfect summer's day but no amount of wind, rain or fog could put a damper on my adventures, in fact it could add to the excitement. Giant leaves became umbrellas  as I pushed through the Amazon jungle keeping a look out for deadly tree dwelling snakes. My dam would be enhanced to create Niagara falls in the swelling waters that came after a rain. Maybe I'd just take shelter in my caveman’s den and watch nature take its course as I tried to light a fire with damp matches and damp wood to keep the wolves and bears at bay.
The walk home was reluctantly made when hunger said it was time to go. With one final task to perform, I'd climb down the steepest, shadiest bank on the far side of the bridge to where the tenderest, pepperyist watercress grew. The perfect accompaniment for Marmite sandwiches. 
    It was never silent, for if the birds weren't singing or the wind whispering in the trees and the cows weren't chewing their cuds or raindrops falling, there was always the sound of the brook merrily following its course to the Tove.
    The only silence was in my mind a quietness of the soul where everyday worries were forgotten as my imagination ran wild. 
             

On Writing – POV Point Of View

POV Point Of View by Kevin Murphy, with a challenge.

I should think I learnt about Point of View at school.

Only since 2012 have I been reading particularly in order to improve my writing. That is after I had written my first novel – I just wrote it from the hip – straight out, as a fantasy of my own, so in the first person. It is in the form of Journals two years apart. In the end, I decided to intertwine the two to show what ‘I’ learnt from the first year’s experience. This all came naturally – I knew what I wanted to write and also the time line. It had no flashbacks in the writing … I fabricated the sense of flashback by intertwining the second year after all was written – forward and back in time. It was an enjoyable process and a most satisfying feeling to have sat down and simply written a book.

I wrote it in the first person and only had my own thought s and observations to go on. But I am not omniscient, so that book is flawed. I now know better from having read and watched how stories are told.
I decided to write a crime mystery for my second novel. I have a favourite model – Case Histories by Kate Atkinson – and wanted to avoid as many clichés like the start with Police arrival at a crime scene, but to have a good deal of story before the arrival.

Page 69 became ‘magical’.

For this, I decided to adopt the third person POV so used pronouns SHE/HE, HER/HIS, THEIR /THEIRS, and IT of course, as in ‘it bit me’. I also wanted to tell the reader how characters felt, so the narrator must be like a god – all-knowing – and have full access to all the thoughts and experiences of all the characters in the story. I understood that this is using the third person Omniscient.
However, because it is a mystery, and the reader must be allowed to make up their own mind from clues, the narrator does not tell the reader everything.

I did not intend to write my next book, I wanted to find out what in the end I had to research myself – I had to write the book I needed in order to tell the experiences people had of the WW2 POW camp system. As an aspiring creative writer, I needed to do this in an original way, but I am still telling a history. So I had one character writing in the first person what he found out from others – so other people’s own stories – as he found it on a timeline, with some recall of memories of his own.

The book I wanted to write next is my magnum opus, the great work I have wanted to write for forty years. It is a fictionalised story of my love life, or an autobiographical novel. But wanting to be original, I also needed an original POV. I chose to have an observer, Liam, writing about my experiences, and connecting them with his own. I tell some of my story to him as Tack in an exchange of emails. Liam has a life of his own, which, though his relationship with Tack ended just a year after they left school together, until the first email arrived decades later. So I have three different points of view: Liam’s first person; Liam and Tack have second person memories of each other so can say second person – you; both write their own first person; each writes of the other as him.

It is a rite of passage novel and I have studied that genre and seen a number of films and series. They are told from every point of view including Omniscient. I read a very recently successful author’s three books as they seemed to be telling rites of passage.

Now I am only a short way into the third and am shocked enough by the way she has decided to use her POV, that I am sharing this with you.

I read the opening and some clunking which demonstrate just how even such a great writer can struggle.
Third person POV is historically the most popular, second is the least, and variations and mixtures are being attempted by original literary aspirants. There is a another form of third person besides omniscient and it is less popular. I think because in its purest form it is the most difficult: the narrator knows nothing of what s/he is telling except what happens – it is totally objective – almost. It is called Third Person limited.

In this latest of the three books, the narrator observes situations and in the ‘show don’t tell’ rule, she calls the characters ‘the man’ or ‘the woman’ until she narrates how she and we find out what they called – during introductions and comments. Initially I found reading this was difficult, it was strange to me. It had even made me question my belief that she is the rightfully critically acclaimed literary figure, revealed in her academic background, and the very clever first two books. I loved them and they have already been made into TV series.

Therefore, I offer you a general writing challenge – to write a same short piece in different voices – this can be done with even a pure description piece. Try it – for fun and for literary impact. And when you start a new piece, make a conscious decision what point of view you will tell it from.

Here is a mnemonic to help you

 POV         POINT OF VIEW            PRONOUNS

You can determine the point of view of a story by the pronouns
the narrator uses to describe the central character(s).

I, ME, MY         YOU, YOUR             SHE/HE, HER/HIS, THEIR /THEIRS          

First Person         Second                                           Third                                           

                                                        Omniscient: Knows all inc thoughts

                                                                                      or            

                                                Objective –  Knows only what is happening

From the POV of this essay, you don’t need to know who the writer I refer to is, but you may like to know that it is Sally Rooney.

My own published books can be explored by Googling Kevan Pooler – my pen name

Mark Twain in the Holy Land by John Holmes

Mark Twain in the Holy Land 



‘I have seen old Israel’s arid plain.
It’s magnificent — but so’s Maine!’


(New England - Jonathon Richman and the Modern Lovers, 1976)

When I think of Mark Twain (real name Sam Clemens) I think of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn and a few famous quotes. But those titles were not his bestselling book in his lifetime. That was The Innocents Abroad, still one of the most commercially successful travel books of all time. This piece is about the background to that work. Subtitled The New Pilgrim’s Progress, it is about a trip Twain made across Europe, ending in the Holy Land, the voyage’s principal destination.                 
                    
The year was 1867. By way of context, this was two years after the end of the American Civil War (1861-65) and the assassination of Lincoln, and nine years before General Custer’s Seventh Cavalry were routed at the Battle of Little Bighorn. In England it was almost halfway through Queen Victoria’s 63 year reign. 

Twain was a brash 31 year old reporter when he persuaded the Daily Alta in San Francisco to send him on the first ever cruise aboard the Quaker City, a retired Civil War gunboat, on a five month trip to Europe and on to Palestine. It was agreed that for $1200 he would write fifty articles for the paper. He was also to send despatches to a couple of East Coast publications. He had grown up in the Calvinist tradition with a love of Bible stories and a desire to believe in the New Testament message, despite feeling unable to do so. He was counterculture, endlessly curious, energetic and humorous. The other 64 passengers were mainly small-town businessmen and professionals - little travelled but mostly well up on the Bible and religious. 

Twain soon found the self-righteousness of the pious folk distasteful with their nightly prayer meetings led by the humourless Colonel Denny. He organised his own group: the Nighthawks (later Sinners) who drank, smoked and played cards. When they went to the Old World - Spain Italy and France - he soon tired of the docile reverence expected of the travellers, feeling tour guides were manipulating them. In Italy he was outraged at the sight of the well-fed priests compared to the starving lay population around them. He was constantly annoyed by all the hyperbole and adulation for things merely because they happened to be old. Europe’s traditions were suffocating it to death. After stops in Greece, Russia and Turkey, they arrived at Beirut where the passengers divided into groups. Twain chose a challenging three week trek on horseback, paying English-speaking dragomen $5 a day to guide and protect the eight Americans, although not from the conditions - hot, dusty desert. Water was scarce because Islamic villages refused to allow their wells to be profaned by Christians. Tents, however, were luxurious with ample food and drink. In that respect at least, the travel books had been proved correct.

                    

When a three day trip in the Bekaa valley was crammed into two so the pious could avoid travelling on the Sabbath, Twain objected but without success; fearing for the horses, he believed their mistreatment sinful. On reaching Banias, their first stop in the Holy Land, Twain’s sense of wonder revived - to be walking where Jesus once trod! But the feeling soon passed, irritated by the pious weeping over relics and chipping off fragments of the temple to take with them. He branded them ‘American Vandals’. Approaching the Sea of Galilee, where Jesus performed healing miracles and walked on water, the pious were full of excitement, seeing their lifelong dream of sailing over it within grasp. No price could be too high for such an experience. But when the boatman quoted them the equivalent of $8 (a dollar each) they tried to persuade him to accept $1. So disgusted was he that he departed without them, causing a squabble amongst the pilgrims as to whose fault it was, and leading one wag to ask, ‘Colonel Denny, could this be the reason Jesus walked?’ For Twain, having earlier dismissed Lake Como as inferior to Tahoe, Galilee was similarly unimpressive. The relative smallness of everything, compared to its depiction in the Bible and at Sunday school, was central to his disappointment with the Holy Land. He discovered that the kings of mighty nations he’d thrilled in reading about as a boy, had no more to their domains than the average American small-town mayor. He also felt travellers were betrayed by earlier writers, in particular William Prime with his overly sentimental prose and frightening tales of his heroics fighting bloodthirsty heathens.

The journey on to Jerusalem was rocky and desolate, and pious and sinner alike rejoiced on seeing the Holy City before them. They stayed in the Mediterranean Hotel in relative comfort, so much so that Twain spent the entire first day enjoying its luxury. Jerusalem, however, proved another letdown. Once again, he simply could not reconcile the city in the Bible with it in real life ( saying a fast walker could circumnavigate it in an hour). He found it dirty, crowded, noisy and smelly, people in squalor unimaginable to the average American, everyone yelling ’baksheesh’ and pestering him to do deals on things he didn’t want. Even the pious seemed disillusioned with the city. 

At the Muslim Dome of the Rock situated on the ruins of King Solomon’s temple, Twain was disgusted by Colonel Denny’s refusal to remove his shoes as was the required custom, simply because it was not his religion. At the Tomb of Jesus his Protestant sensibility gagged at all the ‘gewgaws and tawdry ornamentation’. He was bemused by the Tomb of Adam, suspecting it was, like much he’d seen, fraudulent. But then he thought that if genuine, it was, after all, a blood relative buried there, ‘True, a distant one, but still a relative’, and he wept at the fact of never having known his ancestor. A decade later, the tomb had became a tourist stop as the place where Mark Twain wept. He softened at the site of the Crucifixion, however, prepared to accept that, given its significance, it must have happened there or close by, and gained from it an appreciation of the power of religion. It was after this he ordered a special Bible with cover made from three different woods to take back to his mother. He was respectful of her faith and that of anyone else when it was genuine. 

Away from Jerusalem the party swam in the Dead Sea and the River Jordan. From his Bible readings he had anticipated the latter to be miles across but found it no wider than Broadway in New York. In Bethlehem with its beggars and relic-peddlars, he was able to touch the spot where the infant Jesus had once lain — and he experienced nothing whatever. Two days later, the party, by now keen to return home, travelled, despite it being the Sabbath, to Jaffa where they boarded ship. Even the pious were relieved to be free of the desert, and, as Twain observed, ‘They wept not over Jerusalem.’ 

The Quaker City arrived back in New York in November 1867. A publisher approached Twain about a version of the articles for a book. He worked on them, refining the prose, and the book was published in 1869. He dedicated it to his mother. It was a great success with critics and public alike. There was a laugh on every page and after the ravages of the Civil War the nation was in need of it. The book transformed his life. He could now turn his full attention to writing books. He travelled extensively, but never again to Palestine. He mellowed over time, however, saying that looking back one doesn’t recall the heat, thirst, squalor and so on, only the pleasant memories of Jerusalem.

                     

His book is still read today, or at least quoted from. In 2009 Benjamin Netanyahu, Israel’s Prime Minister, gave President Obama a first edition. Twain has sometimes been criticised for depicting Ottoman-ruled Palestine as such a desolate place — it has been used in arguments over the state of the country before Zionism - and also criticised for his flippancy. But Twain was young and relatively unknown. He was writing his impressions, originally as articles, not an academic text book or political treatise. Moreover, as indicated by the title, he was as interested in his fellow travellers as the countries they visited; it was in his nature to mock almost everything and everyone, including himself. In The Innocents Abroad he sought to convey what contemporary American eyes saw, rather than what others might want those eyes to see. Americans felt inferior to the Old World, which the Old World encouraged, and he wanted to show them they had no reason to feel so. Their New World offered much more. 

Finally, there was an interesting postscript to his love affair with Lake Tahoe. In a scenario that would no doubt have amused him, it was formally proposed that one of its coves be renamed after him. However, the local Washoe tribe protested against this. For all his progressive views on issues such as slavery, his public openness to other faiths and races did not extend to the American Indian, and the Washoes’ complaint went beyond his disparagement of them as a ‘digger tribe’. After reflecting on it, even the man who’d suggested the change declined to support it, and in 2014 the idea was dropped. It is unlikely to be revived.

Picture Credits - on line, copyright unclear. Will remove if offending.

‘Greetings’ by Kevin Murphy

Our thanks to Kevin for this thoughtful response to the prompt ‘Wave’

The greatest impact of Covid 19 on the human race could be an invisible one – not microscopic like the virus itself, but actually not visible. It could alter key fundamental behaviours, which may not be addressed at the UN or at the family level – a psychological element, one affecting mental and therefore physical health of the population of the earth.

A Doctor Zunin made a discovery on which management ‘guru’ Claus Moller built a theory of good management, which he has taught to internationally successful organisations and companies. Simply put: the first four minutes of any relationship set the tone of the rest of the relationship. This includes anything from a short conversation to a marriage for life, and every time we meet and greet.

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SHE FOUGHT FOR A GREENER PLANET by Pete Brammer

Pete’s response to the trigger green

SHE FOUGHT FOR A GREENER PLANET

The world was astounded by a little school girl who took on their governments, her name Greta Thunberg. She was fighting for this planet of ours, against pollution and destruction of the ozone layer. We will never forget how she took on single handed, Donald Trump, the President of the United States of America, addressed the United Nations whilst winning all our hearts.

Then, an invisible creature decided to rear its ugly head in Wuhan, China; its name, ‘Coronavirus’ (Covid 19). It grounded aeroplanes; stopped trains, kept vehicles off the road and confined communities to their homes preventing them from disposing of their litter in public places. It did what Greta could not do.

Unfortunately it sadly killed millions as it swept across the globe, taking governments like ours unprepared. For years our government had been slowly running down and destroying the Health Service by privatising areas bit by bit, hoping we wouldn’t notice. This is when it came back to bite them, and boy did it bite them hard. Our nurses, doctors, porters, care workers, and others, too any to mention stepped forward with the ‘Dunkirk Spirit’ putting their own lives at risk, fully aware of a shortage of protective equipment. Unfortunately some paid the ultimate price to protect us. They were angels and we salute them.

During this time, there has been one person who has been overlooked and not given a mention, in any way, shape or form. That person was one of the greatest politicians this country has ever known, Aneurin Bevan the founder of our wonderful NHS.

In order to rectify this, I have written to Her Majesty the Queen, requesting he receive a posthumous Knighthood and appear on a future banknote. This is the least we could do.

Thank God we have great people like Greta Thunberg, Aneurin Bevan and not forgetting Captain Tom Moore.

‘Revisiting the Trolley Problem’ by Andrew Bell

Following our link to Dandelion Sleeves post ‘Reinterpreting the Trolley Problem’, Andrew Bell has written this thought provoking response:

Revisiting the trolley problem: a cautionary note.

The self evident truth of the value of the preservation of life is rightly stated to be the best steer through the ‘Trolley Problem’.

But when we came to the gatekeeper, the only person who has actual control of the lever, Kerry simply tells us that their primary concern and only impetus for action, is to the preservation and continuation of the runaway train. But I wonder whether this is true?

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‘Reinterpreting the Trolley Problem’ by Kerry Swarbrick

A great piece by Kerry posted on her own blog, ‘Dandelion Sleeves’ today. You can read it at:

While you’re there why not take a look around – Kerry is a talented writer and her pieces are always fun and informative. There are some wonderful illustrative photos, taken by Kerry, too!

Junk by Kevin Murphy

I have had an affinity with junk since I asked my Dad what the ‘Rag and Bone man’ was, and it has tickled me right up to now when my son and friends have developed a multi million pound company that even has the word ‘junk’ in its title.

Junk itself is a fun word, not easily used seriously – however much one might disagree with the notions of Stalin or Thatcher, they didn’t spout a load of junk – but perhaps rubbish?

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The Scar by Kevin Murphy

The Scar

Sitting in our autumn holiday cottage, I said to my grandson, ‘Look at the light on that hillside, Isaac. It’s strange and misty, but there is no mist.’

It was a tiny window in the converted seventeenth century barn. We were warm and cosy, but outside, days of rain drenched the countryside but not our spirits. The sun had come up at the other side of the escarpment, but slight haze caused the light to skim across the very heavy dew – the grass was grey.

Suddenly all changed. Had a cloud moved away? The hillside was a gleaming emerald in a golden frame of storm tossed leaves.

‘Look at that tree, Grandpops, it’s got two trunks.

We leant into the frame for a better look. The row of trees running to the horizon did look as if it was tipped with the mature skeleton of a doubled-trunked oak, fully exposed, all its leaves already stripped.

It was a good observation by the lad. It had me bemused for a minute. ‘Ah, I see now. That’s a pair of trees, Isaac, standing beside each other, but from here they are almost in line, one behind the other.’

Later, after embalming ourselves with a swim in the heated pool, we took a walk out along Brackendale Lane towards Carsington in the hope of catching the early sunset over that great expanse of water. The lane is supposed to follow Brackendale Brook, but today we couldn’t tell which was which. Isaac had the wellies on so could ford the many streams the lane passed through – so he did.

Towards the top end of the lane, the land on both sides levelled out in a plateau. I reflected how that skinny brook was today doing what it had patiently been doing for perhaps millions of years – scratching the deep scar out of the plateau, carrying silt down towards the river Dove and onwards to the oceans.

The scar it has left, like a beauty spot, is what has attracted Isaac and all my family to gaze upon – this weather changing face of Derbyshire.