Creating a picture with words...a new passion! 

COMING SOON!!
MY FIRST NOVEL ....

ONCE UPON A TIME IN KAZIMIERZ
CURRENTLY UNDER PUBLICATION WITH MATADOR PUBLISHING

AVAILABLE TO PURCHASE SOON!

It‘s 1930 and Poland’s economy is beginning to suffer as a result of the Great Depression. Kindhearted but naïve Marianna lives with her parents in the rural village of Zalipie in southeast Poland.  This small farming community is all she has ever known and she dreams of a different life in the city. A whirlwind romance with Leon, a dashing but egotistical musician, leads to a hasty marriage providing her with an opportunity for change.
 
Leon’s father, Stanislaw, runs the local grocery store in Kazimierz, a busy district of Krakow. His fellow shopkeepers and their families are a close-knit, diverse community and they welcome the couple with open arms, but the lives of the inhabitants of this small row of shops will be changed forever by the arrival of the newly wed couple.  By nightfall, the seeds of new relationships will have been sown and the shattering of others begun as family rifts, unfulfilled dreams and personal resentments are tested by their presence.
 
Filled with rich and contrasting characters the story centres around Marianna and Stefan, a talented carpenter whose marriage is less than perfect; Tomas, an endearing street urchin who is given a new chance in life away from his alcoholic brother Eryk; Feliks, a philandering and exuberant artist yet to fulfill his potential and Lydia, a young woman downtrodden by her overbearing mother.
 
Using rich descriptive prose the author sets a series of scenes that provide a range of insights into the characters personal lives, recollections and sometimes wild imaginings.    
 
 
 
​

A DIVALI TALE

WINNER IN THE ROMANCE SECTION AND
NOW PUBLISHED IN THE HAPPY LONDON PRESS HARDBACK BOOK HIGH1

​Tomorrow I will show you something you will never forget, he had promised, as they parted at the end of another memorable day.

Rayansh has been her guide for three weeks. His expert knowledge and attention to every detail, designed to make her dream holiday a reality, has been more than she could have hoped for. It seems impossible that anything could outdo The Taj or the Amber Fort. 

But here she is at The Golden Temple. And it is incredible. A million diamonds shimmering on a lapis blue lake, with the temple, a nugget of shining gold, at its heart. The surrounding buildings so white, glow, translucent, in the glare of the sun. Women in their saris fill the space with colour. Pure, like the paint squeezed fresh on an artists palette. Or a rainbow. Fallen from the sky. 

She waits, impatient to see Rayansh again. His name says it all. Meaning ‘Ray of light’, this is how she thinks of him now. It is hot so she sits and arranges her pretty cotton skirt round her pale, bare legs to protect them from the sun. Pulling a canvas hat from her brightly coloured woven bag she covers her head and dons a chic pair of sunglasses. She is happy to spend time soaking up the atmosphere. Just being in this space she has dreamed about visiting for so long. 

Her thoughts constantly return to Rayansh. She had been warned about the charm of Indian men but as soon as they met she felt a connection never experienced before. His inner calm and gentle manner, so unlike the brash egotistical men at home. Overtly masculine, his angular jaw contrasting so perfectly with the sensuality of his full mouth, his face is handsome without conceit. His quiet assured confidence; the relaxed way he walks; the way his strong manicured hands rake through his hair when he is concentrating. She loves all these things about him. 

He arrives. She is momentarily astonished by his appearance and asks, boldly.  Why have you shaved your head? He hesitates. Stays silent for a while, then, gazing past her  ….It’s just a temporary thing I think. Come. I must eat before midday.
​ 
Will you join me? Yes. Of course. She smiles. 
 
They talk. Comfortable in each others company. Oblivious to those around them. Her hands expressive, her voice full of wonder for the places he has shown her, he listens attentively, occasionally touching his head as if confirming the absence of his thick dark hair. Her animated expressions fascinate him. He can’t take his eyes from hers. They glow like amber jewels lit by the light inside her. Her blond curls bob about as she enthuses and exclaims, darting from one subject to another. They share secrets. Newly discovered dreams. Likes and dislikes. They cannot see it yet, but they are soul-mates. 

Rayansh guides her through the temple grounds. Crystalline marble floors glow underfoot. Their eyes squint with the intensity of its reflected light. They visit the dark smoky kitchens. The air filled with a million specs of dust, like tiny fireflies. Steam rises and takes the pungent smell of spices on its journey, by way of a shaft of light, to the open roof and out into the wider world.

The Temple has surpassed her expectations. His time as her guide is over and they are both reluctant to say goodbye.  At the temple entrance he hands her a piece of paper.  Tonight is a special time for me. You will find me here.  I hope you will come. Your presence will help me decide. 

As night falls she makes her way through the dark narrow alleyways outside of the temple grounds.  Windows lit by a thousand lights cast flickering shadows on those passing by.   The hypnotic  sound of singing bowls draws her near to a small temple. Deep voiced chanting comes from within.  

Her eyes adjust to the light as she enters.  A stone Buddha dominates the space, lit by hundreds of flickering candles, his features carved sharp by the shadows. A dozen young monks sit cross legged in a circle. Their saffron and orange robes glow in the candlelight. Their skin looks silken. Their expressions are passive. Content.    

It is a scene of calm serenity, but she feels unsettled. One of the men turns and their eyes meet. It is Rayansh.  This can’t be so! She stumbles back into the black night. Clasping her hands over her face in despair, and cries. What a fool I am. 

                                                                                                             ——--

The water around the Temple has become silver foil in the moonlight. Reflections of the fireworks, like giant drops of coloured ink spread over its surface. It is a display, both above and below, like no other she has ever seen.  


The sky returns to its starry self. A shooting star momentarily marks it like a silver pen. The buildings sleep beneath their dark cloak of night. The crowd disperses. She is alone.  The temple grounds have fallen silent. It is time to leave.
 
Deep in her troubled thoughts she is unaware that a familiar figure stands before her. He calls to her. Angelisa.  And moves towards her. Dressed once again in his denim jeans and black t shirt, his saffron robe is draped across his shoulder. He takes her hands in his. The robe slips to the floor. He has no further use for it. 
 
 


Note: Rayansh is an Indian name meaning ‘ray of light’.

​My Life In Bread       
 
 
A Crusty Roll nibbled before purchase
A guilty trail of crumbs.
 
The Split Tin
Multi functional
Broken in pieces for bread and milk
To soothe a poorly tum.
 
Spread with butter and sprinkled with sugar
When there was no money for sweets.
 
Sliced thinly for a jam sandwich
Eaten in the garden with dirty hands.
 
And sliced thickly for the best toast ever
On return from school in Winter.
 
Slices cut into triangles for bread and butter pudding.
Plump sultanas sprinkled between layers.
The edges curled up. Sweet and crunchy.
 
A Cottage Loaf. 
A coiffured head?
The top torn off. 
Its warm dough elastic.
Two loaves in one.
Served in wedges with homemade soup or a slice of cheese.
 
Crumpets.
Their honeycomb sponginess oozing with melted butter.
My chin greasy with pleasure.
 
Flat Toasted Teacakes.
A rare treat for holidays only.
Savoured in the steamy interior of a seaside tea shop on a rainy day.
 
Harvest sheaves.
Don’t touch. 
Bread of heaven. 
Too beautiful to eat.
 
Sterile ‘Wonderloaf’ sandwiches for work.
Damp and squashed beyond recognition by lunchtime.
 
A couple of ‘Buns’ in the oven. 
 
A crusty Baguette from the boulangerie. 
Filled with juicy ripe tomatoes.
Eaten hungrily on the cross channel ferry.
With the salty wild wind blowing in our hair.
 
Earthy Wholemeal ‘doorsteps’ for the childrens lunch boxes.
Insides picked out.
Crusts discarded. 
 
Fragile, sticky Banana Bread made by the boys. 
 
Endless French Sticks.
Warm from the supermarket.
Bent before reaching home. 
Eaten with everything.
 
An unnamed loaf.
With a hole inside.
Made by me. 
Not for its flavour, but pride.
Loved by the birds. 
 
Lardy Cake.
My husbands childhood treat.
Fed by his mother. 
Banned by me. 
 
Bread Pudding.
Stodgy and spicy. 
Waste not. Want not. 
 
Moving on to the more exotic.
Ciabatta, Focaccia, Naan and Chappati.
Bagel, Matzo, Vanocka, Grissini.
Pain de Campagne, Crostini, Bazlama.
 
Brioche. 
With its boot polished top and vanilla scented inside.
Topped with perfumed apricot jam. 
 
A bread-free period.
It was never going to last.
 
The discovery of an artisan baker shop.
Its shelves piled high with untried wonders.
 

 
A walk on the wild side
 
 
Storm Doris has arrived. I love a good storm. She’s a cracker though sadly she’s cut my pink may tree down in its prime and the honeysuckle trellis has collapsed in a heap on the ground. Watching from the window I felt the need to be amongst nature….in the open. So I drove to Hughenden Valley to experience the strength of Doris’ fury for myself and take a somewhat calculated risk or two by walking among the trees.
 
I’m going for a walk on the wild side I announced. Be careful said the concerned one… what will I do if you get stuck up a tree… laugh probably I say. Byee.
 
Boy was it blowing. I picked my way through the early sturdy shoots of the thousands of daffodils spearing through the grass and set off with the wind howling along the valley. The sky a glassy bright white. The sun a watery yellow. Grey and white storm clouds raced overhead.
One intrepid dog walker in the far distance. Otherwise alone. Bliss.
 
Dried leaves gathered in flocks and took flight on the updraft like starlings rising into the late afternoon light. It was exhilarating! And as each gust grew, gathering in intensity until
it reached its crescendo, I laughed. Not much more and I’d be over.
 
Trees creaked, their heavy branches laboring with the effort of staying joined to the trunk.
The wind swept upwards over the valley floor rippling the grass like liquid silver.
 
The four tallest fir trees that stand at the entrance to the valley, like a group of nightclub bouncers astride the path, swayed alarmingly as the wind caught their heavily foliaged branches and turned them into dark green sails. Their huge trunks visibly flexing with the movement. The speed of the clouds overhead appeared to make the trees move more than they actually were.
I looked up, tilting my head back as far as it would go.
I reached out with my arms to counterbalance
the feeling of dizziness.
 
This was the moment. The right place. Despite those warning voices in my head, I was going to take a chance. A risk. It’s now or never. So what if I’m told I was mad to be here. Just do it! I strode forwards and stood between the trees. Twigs and pine needles landing all around me like dry rain. I laughed as I moved closer and leant against the trunk of the largest tree, trusting its immense size to stay upright. I could feel the life within it’s warm spongy bark. It was like being supported by a giant who knew better than I its own strength. The cold wind made my eyes stream…. This is being alive! With nobody around me, I whooped into the winds roar, laughing again. Yeeeee haaaaa!
A moment of total euphoria was mine.  
 
Much later ……….… Help. Save me. I’m in the fourth beech tree on the left after the church.
Its dark now and everyone has gone home.
 

If you have any comments to make about the creative writing page please email me at beepearman@hotmail.co.uk