Showing posts with label Patsy Collins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Patsy Collins. Show all posts

Wednesday, 23 November 2016

Walk a Mile

 Patsy Collins 

a big mug of wishful thinking

Walk a mile in someone's shoes before you truly know them. That's what 'they' say. Maybe they're right; I wouldn't know.

I'd like to wear ballet pumps. Stand on the points of my toes, even if it gave me calluses. Or don flippers to swim in warm pools, or cold, dangerous seas. Skis sound fun, rushing downhill so fast my eyes wouldn't focus on the whitescape flashing by. Maybe I'd break my leg. I wouldn't mind the cast, not if it came after trying the skis. I'd put on trainers and run, Army boots and march, or struggle upstream in waders if I could.

Look at my shoes. Pretty, lots of colours. If you want to know me, put them on. Don't walk a mile. Or even a step. I can't you see. To know me, sit in my shoes and think where you'll walk when you've taken them off.

About the autor

Patsy is a novelist, short story writer and co-author of From Story Idea to Reader – an accesible guide to writing fiction. getBook.at/FSITR

Sunday, 8 December 2013

DECEMBER 7 2013: FAMILY


DECEMBER 7 2013: FAMILY

Patsy Collins

Keep it in the Family

A glass of champagne

My brother fidgeting with his silk cravat looks understandably nervous. I am marrying him today so I’m nervous too.
We’re wearing new outfits, in honour of this mutually important occasion. Our suits are crafted from the same material, but I have a long tulip skirt in place of tailored trousers. My smile belies my nerves.
An unusual situation but we’ve always been very close; we’ve done everything together throughout our childhood why should we stop now we are adults? Our family are delighted for us. Glad my brother eventually found the perfect woman; happy for me beginning work as Registrar.


About the Author
To learn more about Patsy, and get details of free to enter writing competitions, please visit her blog. http://patsy-collins.blogspot.co.uk/

Monday, 23 September 2013

100 Worder Hot Air

100 Worder
Patsy Collins
Hot Air
Take away coffee

Ah! That’s good. I needed this cigarette. Had to work for it mind, struggling down all them stairs; it’ll be worse going up again. 'Course smokers must go outside even if, like now, it’s raining. There's no consideration.

All the fuss is just a lot of hot air. Forty a day have done me no harm. Nor Sonia. Having a lightweight baby actually made things better for her.

Shall I have another ciggie? I think I’ve got time. No, the disapproving nurse is calling me. Way people carry on you’d think I was to blame for my son’s chronic asthma.

About the author

Patsy Collins is a regular contributor to CaféLit and has been featured in The Best of annual. She has had several books published including novels and a collection of Patsy's short stories is available as an ebook here and at special low price: LINK

Wednesday, 3 July 2013

How to Tell it's Midsummer

Patsy Collins

How to Tell it's Midsummer

Warm Pimm’s in a plastic cup

There’s cricket on the telly.
Dad’s says he’ll cook if he doesn't miss the highlights. He grabs a cold beer and lights the barbie.
Grandma comes out to supervise and does so without her coat. She tells us the shops have sold out of fans and suntan lotion. There’s a hosepipe ban in force and flood warnings too. The temperature is front page news. Again.
You’ve started another diet, but one burger won't hurt. Someone says, “Only 182 shopping days to Christmas.”
You laugh to hide the sadness as you realise that your spring's over and summer won't last.

About the Author
Patsy Collins is a successful short story writer and novelist. Two of her stories have been selected for the Best of CafeLit 2012 out NOW
New book out: Up The Garden Path



Monday, 28 January 2013

Heavenly Bodies


Heavenly Bodies

Patsy Collins

A beaker of orange juice and a milky way


The sun sank low, finally slipping below the horizon. After him came the moon.

As she rose, she looked down on their children. Beautiful combinations of his bright warm light and her cool silent serenity, gazed back. They watched her from every pool and lake, each sea and ocean. Even tinkling streams carried a myriad of their tiny offspring.

She felt wistful that their father was unlikely to ever fully see them. There would be no better chance than tomorrow’s eclipse. For a moment he embraced her, smiling happily at the bright glimmers of smiles on their now darkened faces.


Author Bio
Patsy Collins is a successful short story writer and novelist. You can buy her latest book here:
Two of her stories have been selected for the Best of CafeLit 2012 out soon.

Wednesday, 12 December 2012

A Dish Best Served Cold


Patsy Collins

A Dish Best Served Cold

Bitter black coffee

I remember the first time I met Peter and I wish I'd known then what I know now. It was quite a big deal, us meeting him. Joanna had told us so much about him but this was the first time she'd persuaded him to come and meet 'the parents'. Silly I know, but I'd got myself into a bit of a state about it. It should have been him on approval to see if he was good enough for our darling daughter, but I found myself wanting to make a good impression.
    Perhaps I should have stuck to something simple, but I'd heard so much about his exotic life travelling all over the world that I decided to make paella – a dish I'd never attempted before. I bought the ingredients well in advance and had a practise so hadn't completely taken leave of my sense.Then Joanna called on the morning to say he couldn't make Sunday lunch after all. Some business problem of Peter's. I should have been suspicious then, I suppose. Anyway, he didn't come until Friday and by then the seafood had gone a funny colour and smelled, well I don't choose to remember how it smelled. I made a cottage pie that seemed to go down well.
    Since then, Peter has let down our lovely Joanna, time after time. We learnt why when his wife turned up. That's the wife in Spain, she tracked down his English wife and the French one.
     I wished I'd known that rancid seafood is toxic. I'd have fed him the lot.


Bio:
A collection of Patsy's short stories is available as a free download here - https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/245814

Also do check out Patsy’s fab blog:

Thursday, 12 April 2012

Fitting End

                                                 
                                                                           Patsy Collins
                                                              Water coloured to look like beer 


 He’s dumped and humiliated her. She’s now a women scorned: showing her
fury. He must die.

How?

Accident, murder, cancer, volcano? Nothing is beyond her control. She
will watch him ugly with pain, humiliated, begging forgiveness.

Or maybe she won't. Perhaps he'll just vanish without trace. Will he
be missed and mourned, or quickly forgotten as though he'd never
existed? It doesn't matter - he won't be back.

When you’re a soap actor, you must never, never upset the script-writer.

If this is accepted, at the end could you put ...

Patsy's Debut novel is out now - buy it here!
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Escape-Country-Patsy-Collins/dp/0956853587


Friday, 2 March 2012

Seeking Salvation

Patsy Collins
 

Communion wine


Nobody had ever done anything to help her.

"God will provide," forcing to exist under their disapproving gaze
tying her down to the dreary town she longed to leave. If she could
get away things would be better.

"You can't run away from yourself," Mother had said on her way to church.

The woman spoke in clichés; the girl found the imagination to escape.

She didn't get far. No further than the bottom of a glass. She escaped
the flat and warmth and food. Each grey morning she awoke; in a
doorway, bus station, cardboard box. She couldn't get free.

The state was no help. It was begrudgingly forced to give her enough
money to exist. Never enough to live. She'd never really lived. Never
would.

"Ask for God's guidance," Mother pleaded. That was no help, the girl
didn't believe in Him.

The church. Oh yes, the church thought she'd live on after death.
Maybe they were right, who knew? They knew they were right about sin.
She'd sinned. Not much, she didn't know how to do more and couldn't
afford to find out. The church would forgive her wouldn't it? It'd
forgive her if she asked on Sunday. Sunday before the Priest ate his
lunch, or if that wasn't convenient for her, she could come back after
he'd finished his tea. On Sunday.

It was Wednesday. The church would be closed to her. She'd spill her
blood on its wide stone steps. They'd see she'd tried the door and,
finding the way to sanctuary and salvation blocked. She'd find her own
way. Away from trouble, from pain, from forgiveness.

Mother would come to church an extra day next week. Sunday to pray for
herself. Again at her daughter's funeral. What would she pray for
then? Forgiveness maybe. Can the dead forgive?

She climbed those falsely welcoming steps. She pushed against the door
barring her way.

It opened.
 
 
Patsy's novel 'Escape to the Country' has been accepted for
publication at the end of March. For more info, please visit her blog

Thursday, 12 January 2012

A 2 Z of a Rodent Feast             
Patsy Collins
Drink thrown out because it was past the sell by date.

A big cat drops everything feline. Great, he's intelligently,
justifiably keeping low. Mice now overrun puss. Quietly, reaching
sideways, Tom unleashes venial war. Extermination (and consumption).
Yawns. Zzzzzz


 patsy-collins.blogspot.com

Friday, 2 December 2011

Small Ones Are More Juicy


Patsy Collins


 Advertise your beverage here


“You’ve been Tangoed,” I say playfully slapping young Clementine’s
bottom. You'd have thought Miss Jaffer would have heard that one
before, but she just smiles.
I’m really something in the world of advertising, so you’ll understand
why I’m so delighted with Clementine. Got plenty of va va voom, but
she’s really naïve. She actually believes low fat chocolate cake will
help make her slim.
“Murray, it’s 95% fat free, so I can go ahead,” she tells me.
She has a slice each morning with her richer roasted, fuller flavoured
coffee whilst I explain our latest campaign.
‘Our’ such a useful word, it makes dear Clementine think we’re a team.
Mr Bannister offered her another position with a higher salary. That
was close, thought I’d lose her there. Luckily I didn’t lose my head,
explained that with Bannister she’d be nothing but a pretty little
typist.
“It’s the business that impressed him, that’s why he bought it. He
doesn’t care about the staff. Go compare the two of us.”
Working for, no with, me was different. I was teaching her all my
skills, with me she’d progress to great things.
“It’s the real thing, sweetheart. The team works, and you’ve got to be
in to win it, you know that.”
Didn’t tell her I’d have to hire two girls to get through all the work
she somehow manages. Organisation she says, that’s what she’s good at.
Learnt it from the Sunday glossies apparently. Reads all them articles
on de-cluttering your life and developing inner potential. They write
that she can improve herself. She reads and believes every word.
That’s not all she reads. She believes those shoes advertised in the
supplements really will be the most comfortable she’s ever worn. Or if
by some unlikely chance she found better, her money would be refunded
in full, no questions asked. She believes that those uncreasable
skirts sold in three different lengths actually are stylish. Not
passion, not fashion if you ask me.
Clemmie turns eagerly to the horoscopes, surely no one but a fool
could swallow the idea that one twelfth the population were about to
be unlucky with money but forget these problems when they fell in love
by midweek.
There she is over by the vending machine. I’ll have a chat with her,
tell her about my new car. She’ll be impressed, a man likes to be
appreciated when he’s doing well. Clementine will understand what a
sound investment it is too, how necessary to my professional image.
Not like that nag of a wife at home. A boost to my ego she said. Even
asked if I wasn’t just slightly too young for a mid life crisis and it
would be difficult to get the baby buggy in. Must be that time of the
month I suppose.
“Nice skirt Clementine love, is it new?”
“Yes Murray, I bought it from a magazine. Do you like it?”
“I'm loving it.” And this is true.
The skirt gives me just the reason I need to take a long lingering
look at Clementine. Maybe she’s not quite the best a man can get, but
she’ll do me. I’d like to let my fingers do some walking there, I can
tell you. I’d thought her a bit of a frump before, had the right
attitude, couldn’t do enough for me of course, but not really worth
much of my attention. Now I see things have changed.
“Go on give us a twirl.”
She spins round, very agile she seems, I like that.
“Nifty on your feet aren’t you?”
“It’s these lovely new shoes, they’re so comfortable. I’ve bought a
pair in every colour, so I’ll hardly ever need to wear ordinary shoes
again.”
“Getting a drink were you?”
“I was, but I’ve just lost my last pound in the machine.”
“Please allow me.”
I put in my own money. An investment of a different kind, every little
helps.
“What would you like?”
“Diet iron-bru please, someone told me I was looking a bit pale today.”
What a girl, so suggestible that a chance remark convinces her she’s
anaemic and an old ad. campaign still has the power to persuade her a
combination of colouring and flavourings can do her good. Something
she’s eating or drinking must be powerful stuff though. That dumpy
assistant I started with has blossomed into a very attractive young
woman. I put a pound in for the 60p drink and pocket the difference.
Simples!
Time I explained the benefits of being nice to me I think. She might
not be the brightest, but give the girl her due she is trying hard.
She’s there at every meeting taking it all in. If anything needs to be
checked, she’s there.
“I’ll just ask Jeeves,” before she’s right back with the answer.
She must have bought every product the firm has ever handled. She says
she likes a touch of luxury everday, well that’s fair enough.
She drives the make of car we promote.
“I’m a thinking person and I thought as I’m on my own, I only need a
small car, not a driving machine.”
She wears the clothes, the make-up to good effect, she is every bit
gorgeous. She eats the food that makes life taste better. We all use
some of the brands of course, because of the discounts though. I mean,
why pay more? The rest of us aren’t brainwashed like dear Clementine.
She sounds like an advert too, every phrase she uses is either
currently promoting our clients products or soon will be. She is
sympathetic too, listens when I tell her how little my wife
understands me. I’m sure Clementine could understand me very well.
It’s good to talk and I talk her kind of language don’t I?
Old Bannister’s been chatting to her again. I’d better nip in the bud
any thoughts of moving her loyalty to him. He’s the managing director,
and I don’t want her getting ideas.
“You stick with me Clementine, love. Together we’ll go further.”
“Are you sure you’re not just using me because I love the jobs you hate?”
“Calm down dear, it's just commercials.”
“I don’t want to just be an assistant, can’t you give me more
responsibility?”
“At some point in time I will.”
“Why not just do it?”
“Remember, you can’t hurry a Murray.”
I’m just explaining that it's Mr Bannister wants to take advantage of
her not me, when I knock over her silly stuffed toys, a kitten and a
bird.
"Cat's know the difference," Clemmie mutters. “Murray, please pick up
that penguin.”
I retrieve the fluffy green object. "Well, that's different, but it's
not a hen."
"Things are going to be different, all right."
I’m still trying to work out what she means when Old Bannister calls
me into his office.
“Murray sit down. I’ve been hearing all about your marriage problems.
I think it would be best if you took a few weeks off to sort things
out. Treat her well, remember mums are heroes.”
“There’s no need, and my work...”
“Don’t worry about that, Clementine will take over your department,
I’m promoting her because she’s worth it. Walking advertisement that
girl. She’ll go far, the future’s Orange.”



Bio - Patsy Collins lives on the south coast of England, opposite the
Isle of Wight. She writes about and photographs the things which
interest her. To learn more about her and her writing, and for loads
of links to free to enter writing competitions, please visit
patsy-collins.blopgspot.com  

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

Once in a Lifetime


Patsy Collins

Extra rich hot chocolate - with whipped cream,
marshmallows, candy stirrer, flake, sprinkles, and chocolate cookies
on the side


At least once in every lifetime there will be a day more full of joy
than any other. When a smile is never absent. A day when the sun seems
to shine a little more brightly just for you; when the wind drops to a
welcome breeze. When the lights are always green and the milk doesn’t
spill. It might be your wedding day, or last day at school. You may
discover God or a friend you had lost. Perhaps you’ll win the lottery,
or the Champion's League. Maybe it will be the first time you hold
your child, or hear her call you Mummy. For a few there will be many
such days, fortune will favour them. Their joy will smile from their
mouth and sparkle in their eyes.
Some will have little luck, enduring a lifetime of hardship and
suffering. But joy may reach even them. Someone might care enough to
help. Perhaps there will be a day when there’s enough food to eat and
the promise of more in the future. With help they could have many such
days. There can be pleasure too in saving a life, feeding the hungry,
doing the right thing. Joy can be a gift we bring when we share our
money, or time or talent or love. Happiness is contagious, make sure
yours is passed on. Offer a smile and watch it spread.
Others will have a chance to create their own joy. Their once in a
lifetime moment will be reaching the mountain summit or learning to
stand without crutches. These peaks and supports may be real for all
to see. They may be personal, metaphoric challenges. Learning to face
our fears can release us from their powerful hold. Risking failure and
disappointment allows us to aim for success. Try for the job you want,
send your novel to the publisher, tell your lover how you feel. Sow
the seed, maybe it will flower. Your smile will continue on another’s
face after you have walked by.
But it’s not for me this one surge of happiness. There won’t be that
once only day of joy. Every moment of every day is here but once. I
want each and every one to be happy. I’ll try not to hear the traffic
and arguing neighbours. Instead I’ll listen for birdsong and
children’s laughter. I’ll look into scruffy gardens for a flower
freshly opened. If it rains I’ll look for the rainbow. If I don’t see
it I’ll watch the grubby streets as they are washed clean. When the
sun shines I’ll know the warmth is there for me. When night falls the
sparkling stars will dance for me. I’ll sow lots of seeds, some will
surely flower. My smiles will be reflected in every face I see.
Life is a once only event. Some things will happen once only it that
lifetime. But the moments that can be happy, the times that we smile -
there’s no limit for them.


patsy-collins.blogspot.com

Thursday, 6 October 2011

Fickle Fortune

Patsy Collins
Blackcurrant Cordial
When Tony’s luck was good, he’d place his winnings on another race. And another. And another. His bets and winnings increased. He was filled with joy and confidence. He took his winnings home; gave his wife a small share. Almost enough for groceries and this month’s rent.
When Tony’s luck was bad, he quit betting; he wasn’t stupid. He drank instead, his anger increasing. He was filled with self loathing and frustration. He took his fury home; gave his wife a large share.
patsy-collins.blogspot.com

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

No One Can See Where There Is No Light

By Patsy Collins

Drink Choice - bitter expresso.

You think I'm free, don't you? Because you saw me leave, you imagine I
can stretch my wings and fly away from you. Stay away. You think you
set me free - as though you had that power. You do have power. Not
enough to keep me loving you and not enough to release me. But you
could have.

You must find the power.

I did love you once and you loved me. We thought we had a future
together. We have futures still, I suppose. There's more to come. It's
not what you dreamed though. Not even in those dark dreams that made
you moan and sweat 'til you woke and sat staring into the night. A
blackness that wasn't as dark as what you'd seen. I thought then that
you'd seen into my mind, but you couldn't have done. No one can see
where there is no light.

Do you think of me and know I'm not really gone? Do you know that what
you almost glimpse, almost recognise is not a shadow? It's the
silhouette of our love. It's what remains when the love is gone. No
love, but no release. No freedom. I'm bound to you until death do us
part.

And you must set me free.

patsy-collins.blogspot.com

Tuesday, 29 March 2011

You Used to Buy Me Wine

You Used to Buy me Wine
By Patsy Collins

Mineral water with a twist of lemon.

You used to buy me wine.
You smiled and asked what I'd like. All I wanted was you, but I
accepted the drink.
In winter it was rich and red, mulled with sweet spices. Warm and
promising as a lingering kiss.
During spring we braved the cool air for that first taste of sun and
of love. Crisp rosé, pink as a valentine's card.
In summer the wine was white and chilled. Poured into cocktails,
topped with fruit and ice. As light as our mood.
Autumn was full-bodied and generous. Claret and burgundy, reflected
in the fallen leaves we walked through as we made plans.
But you're gone now. The wine has drained from my life, the dregs
bitter and dark.
I drink spirits, but they don't help me forget the pain or recall
happy memories.
I drink beer, but do not feel the sun's warmth or winter's chill.
I drink cider, but don't taste the fruit or promise of the future.
The drink doesn't help, but I beg and steal for the money to buy more.
You used to buy me wine.


Drink choice - nothing stronger than mineral water with a twist of citrus.

http://patsy-collins.blogspot.com/

Monday, 21 March 2011

Ever Decreasing Circles

by Patsy Collins
Lucozade

'Oh I give up!'
'Don't be like that; you said you wanted to talk.'
'Yes, but this conversation is pointless.'
'Oh?'
'We're just going round in circles.'
'Really, what makes you say that?'
'We're not getting anywhere are we? Just doing the same things over and over.'
'I wouldn't say that.'
'I would.'
'You're entitled to your opinion.'
'I am?'
'Of course.'
'But you never listen to me.'
'I do, it's you who doesn't talk to me.'
'What's the point?'
'Don't be like that.'
'We just go round in circles and never get anywhere.'
'That's not true!'
'It is, you never really listen; just keep saying the same things.'
'How d'you know that when you'll never talk to me?'
'I'd talk if you'd listen, really listen.'
'I'm listening now.'
'You are?'
'Yes.'
'OK then. I'd like to stop cycling round this track and go on a proper ride - to somewhere, not just back to where we started.'
'But we'd have to go home eventually.'
'Of course.'
'So we'd be where we started.'
'Yes, but we'd have been somewhere.'
'We've been somewhere when we go to the track.'
'Oh I give up!'
'Don't be like that.'

patsy-collins.blogspot.com