I read sporadically. So, it’s been a while since I picked up Arabian Noir again. (I’m simultaneously reading Mohammed Hanif’s Our Lady of Alice Bhatti).
I am now reading this collection in chronological order. The first story is titled The Reddest Dress. It’s both a glimpse of the life of expats who work at or in unglamorous jobs in Dubai as well as those high-flyers we keep reading about in the rare upper echelons of Dubai’s glitterati.
“The glint of her diamond ring is razor sharp.” Writes Sara Hamdan in the opening paragraph. This hint of Sara’s sharp wit and insight sets the mood for the rest of this gripping tale.
You feel for the protagonist, a hairdresser in a salon, as the lack of a tip means she must take a bus instead of splurging on the luxury of a cab. When she gets home, her careful roommate Elisabetta is going out on a date to an expensive hotel wearing the latest designer dress. Elisabetta has just received an expensive, genuine Chanel purse from her boyfriend. She also shows off her her latest acquisition, this ‘reddest of red dresses’. Our heroine is mesmerised by the dress.
You are swept up by its magical hold on her. She wears it. Goes to an expensive restaurant, jumps the queue, all thanks to this extravagant designer red dress. She meets a charming German and then comes face-to-face with her salon client … that’s when things rapidly start to unravel.
There is a heart-pounding dash to the end of the story… But, you know, you just have to read it!
‘Members of the jury, I have your note indicating that you have reached a verdict. Will the Clerk of the Court please take the verdict?’ ‘Mr. Foreman, has the jury agreed upon a verdict?’ ‘They have.’ ‘As to the count of murder in the first degree what is the jury’s verdict? ‘Guilty!’
Today I received my copy of Arabian Noir, the anthology that features my first crime story set in the Middle East. I rushed through the contents to read my friend Glen R Stansfield’s story: Footnote. As expected, it was Glen’s usual slow-burn thrill, with realisation and things clicking into place at the end of the tale.
Pardon my cliché, but this story truly was a page-turner. I absolutely had to know how it ended. I suspect every story in the collection will serve up its own brand of hair-raising tales. I am looking forward to reading them all. With titles like The Reddest Dress by Sara Hamdan, Dubai Heat by Alex Shaw, Jack and the Box by S.G. Parker this promises to be one screaming-in-my-head adventure.
Onto the literary scene in the Tri-City area in British Columbia
My first venture into the literary community in the Tri-City areas began on June 23rd, 2023. Close enough to the summer solstice. It was a warm and sunny day and St. Johns St in Port Moody was a-buzz! Pink flags marked out Shuffle venues. Guides and helpers in pink t-shirts with buttons were around and very helpful. The whole area had a bright carnival atmosphere. And, no wonder, I believe there were around 100 participants!
I arrived a little after four in the afternoon on June 23rd, and the feeling of being in the midst of a gala event immediately struck me. I stepped off the bus almost right in front of Barre Fitness Studio, hoping to meet the lively @Carmy Stubbs, but the lady at the reception didn’t know where the reading was being held.
By now, I was close to the recordings of @Pandora Ballard’s poetry, but I couldn’t find them! Fortunately, a couple of Shuffle Guides, who were shuffling by, stopped and showed me where the recording boxes were mounted. I may not have found them otherwise! To be honest, with all the hustle and bustle around, it was hard to hear.
I then rushed down to Clarke St. (no more shuffling, I was meeting friends near my exhibit, and they’d been sending frantic messages because they thought they’d lost me! Phone-stuck-in-handbag syndrome). And my what fun! Clarke St was the busiest little spot – it was like a street fair; it was a street fair! There were kiosks, and tables with art, crafts, and even a poet who offered poetry on the spot! I wasn’t able to speak to him.
A little beyond my exhibit I saw Karen Hein’s kiosk with her poetry and had the wonderful opportunity of meeting her!
Now, to my little footprint in the sands of Port Moody, plastered onto a wall on the side of Grit Studio and café that’s where it was. In the midst of all that was hectic, my translation of Gulzar’s Ahista Chal Zindagi – Slow down, Life, slow down…. And oh, the difference to me.
… and finally, if it stands up to scrutiny your story will find a home.
A story I’d written a long time ago and submitted over and over again through several rejections has been accepted for publication by The Missouri Review . It will appear in their Fall edition, in print, digitally, and audio. I have also been granted the honour to have it included (ahead of publication) in their annual anthology.
This has meant a lot to me on several different levels: an endorsement that what I knew deep down was not only well-written but also a good story. It’s also a re-affirmation of the age-old adage ‘try, try, try, again’.
Come Fall it shall be available for all of you to read. Watch this space, I shall announce it!
A special shout out to friends in the BWC (Bahrain Writers’ Circle), Lynda Tavakoli (your appreciation of it gave me the courage to submit) Glen R Stansfield (for introducing me to Allison – who, with a few tweaks, took it to another level), family members who read it and liked it: Mridula Singha!
Thanks everyone!
After their acceptance, I googled The Missouri Review, and they’re among the top 50 literary magazines in the world! Success is sweet.
Thanks also to Monisha Gumber and her YouTube Channel Vachi Audiobooks, for giving me enough practice in presenting my own stories’ audio versions, that I had the confidence to do this for TMR.
It took me a while to pick up the courage to narrate the stories for the audio versions of Twelve Roses for Love. I must thank Monisha Gumber for giving me the opportunity, in the first place to even consider doing audio versions of the stories, and in the second to encourage me to “go for it” and do the narration.
After a few tries, the first story I narrated was La Blue Luncheonette. I thought the whole thing had to be done in one “take”. So, I sat down with a glass of water and after a few tries I got it all into one continuous recording. Phew! It was only after she complimented me on, “doing it all in one go,” did I realise that I didn’t have to.
When it came to narrating Hearts for Valentine, I was much more at ease about the mechanics of the recording. However, the story is a bit of a tear-jerker and I worried that I might break down while narrating it.
I must confess that while doing the recording I did succumb to the words and the emotion of the moment (isn’t that what method actors do?). But… technology to the rescue! I stopped. Got my emotions under control. Used a few handy tissues. Had another sip of water and carried on. The audio expert who puts the visual and audio versions together has the necessary equipment to fix these stumbles and I think we have a good smooth rendition.
We have chosen several stories from the collection but haven’t translated all of them into audio versions. If you like these stories, I think you’ll thoroughly enjoy the others in the book. Trust me, although this is a collection of tales centred around the theme of love, they aren’t all about romantic love, there’s even one in there that I think will have you holding your sides laughing!
When old friends get together, after an hour or two of reminiscing it is often that we start to share stories. If it’s one of those cool evenings with a long twilight and bats swooping in the darkening sky and the occasional hoot of an owl or the high-pitched scratchy sound of locusts or other night creatures, how many of us turn to tales of the supernatural?
Well, this is what happened many years ago at an old school reunion. This is the story shared by a friend. He says it happened to him. I believe him. Do you? The Guesthouse Ghost
Hello friends, followers, family! I am going to try and place podcasts here of flash fiction, poetry or whatever comes to mind. I have been encouraged to try and do so by a dear young friend. I hope this works. And, of course, do let me know what you think.
Today I am starting with an old piece, a poem, bet you’re not surprised. The link is to my Soundcloud account: Another Farewell to Nova Scotia Song.
While clearing out my email I came across this story. I hope you find it as hopeful as I did. The message is very much a Christian message, and that is the faith into which I was born and continue to profess and believe in.
Author Unknown
There was a group of women in a Bible study on the book of Malachi. As they were studying chapter three they came across verse three which says, “He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver.” This verse puzzled the women and they wondered what this statement meant about the character and nature of God.
One of the women offered to find out about the process of refining silver and get back to the group at their next Bible study. That week the woman called up a silversmith and made an appointment to watch him at work. She didn’t mention anything about the reason for her interest in silver beyond her curiosity about the process of refining silver. As she watched the silversmith, he held a piece of silver over the fire and let it heat up. He explained that, in refining silver, one needed to hold the silver in the middle of the fire where the flames were hottest so as to burn away all the impurities.
The woman thought about God holding us in such a hot spot – then she thought again about the verse, that He sits as a refiner and purifier of silver. She asked the silversmith if it was true that he had to sit there in front of the fire the whole time the silver was being refined. The man answered that yes, he not only had to sit there holding the silver, but he had to keep his eyes on the silver the entire time it was in the fire. For if the silver was left even a moment too long in the flames, it would be destroyed.
The woman was silent for a moment. Then she asked the silversmith, “How do you know when the silver is fully refined?” He smiled at her and answered, “Oh, that’s the easy part — when I see my image reflected in it.”
If today you are feeling the heat of the fire, remember that God has His eye on you and will keep His hand on you and watch over you until He sees His image in you.
One after another nine of the stories from my short story collection, Twelve Roses for Love, are being featured by Vachi Audiobooks. This is a unique and refreshing way to listen to or read-along as a story unfolds. As one listener said to me, just close your eyes and let the words flow directly into your mind.
This story presents a mystery. Anita, the main character in our story, has nurtured a soft spot for her old school friend, Jake for many years. He was her secret love. Now, ten years later she is being invited to join the class reunion. She’s apprehensive. Life has been a bit hard on her and although she was once the school beauty she has let herself go. Now, she doesn’t want to attend the reunion for fear that they’ll tease her for putting on weight. And, for fear that Jake, who once seemed to care for her, may not care for her any more.
She meets him… or does she? You decide. Is he for real or a figment of her imagination?
In Twelve Roses for Love I wanted to highlight not only romantic love but love in so many different ways. This story addresses the all-important issues of ‘self-love’. Confident, happy people are often unaware that their very confidence and that glow of being comfortable in their own skins stems from the fact that they are loved.
This is supposed to be a natural phenomenon. But it’s not as common as we believe. I have read of, heard of, listened one-on-one to people who haven’t been nurtured in that beautiful cocoon of parental and familial love that some of us take for granted. And this was the background to the story that grew from a poem I initially wrote about domestic violence. I had read many cases of how abused young women try and cover up their bruises with make-up.
At that time I had taken up the challenge of writing a poem-a-day and the prompt was ‘Dark Lipstick’. A short poem was born on this subject. Later, I explored the sentiment of the poem and made it a bit longer for Womania, a winter festival in Bahrain in 2019, created by a friend who runs a PR, communications and advertising company called CreaTree Services. The event was developed to highlight the need for women’s empowerment.
Finally, when I was sorting through various short stories that I have written over the years, to include in Twelve Roses for Love, I came upon this poem. I remember looking at it and thinking, ‘Hmmm, self love, I really should have a story that talks about that.’ This story grew from that poem. You can read or listen to it here.
I don’t recall whether I entered Twelve Roses for Love for the cover of the month contest at All Author, or whether it was randomly selected. But one evening, in the midst of a Skype conversation with our daughter and while simultaneously checking email (yeah, I do that sometimes), I saw this email from All Author informing me that my book cover was up for the Cover of the Month contest for April.
“Oh, dear me,” I declared in a rather C-3PO-ish voice to myself, “I better do something about promoting this.”
First I sent out emails. Next I posted it on Facebook and Twitter. Then I sent it to family and friends’ WhatsApp groups. The votes started to come in.
When I first looked at the rank it was at #24. Hmmm not bad, I thought. Then obviously the votes started to come in. Now the excitement began.
Friends and even some folk I don’t know voted for the cover. It rose rapidly through the ranks. Then it got stalled at #9. But after a while there was another spurt and it shot up to #3.
My heart was beating and I got quite caught up in the thrill of the chase. The next time I looked it had gone to #2!!!
Wow wooooow! I thought. OMG as they say these days. I started thanking everyone. By then the better part of the day had been spent in checking the status and trying to bake my annual batch of hot cross buns 🙂 I was emotionally and physically still on a high, although my legs, by now were aching.
Last thing at night I looked again and it had dropped to #4!
Oh dear, I thought, this is nonsense. But I can’t stop myself! I looked again just now so it’s hopped up to #3 again
And the latest, as I go to “press”, is that it has fallen to #5.
Dear readers, can we boost this up further? If so please visit and vote…
I haven’t really used FictionPals to write book reviews, but for some reason Amazon won’t let me post a review for this book. Can’t figure it out so I’m posting it here.
So here goes…
Every now and then, I thoroughly enjoy a good WWII story and when I picked up Operation Leonardo by Robert Cubitt, I was not disappointed. This is the first of Robert’s Commando books that I have read. He has written a total of five books on them, in particular the (fictional) group, 15Commando led by the charismatic Steve Carter. This team is based on the real Commandos in the British Army, an elite force that took the fight across several different geographical locations of the WWII theatre.
Leonardo is one of many operations under the umbrella of Operation Husky, the Allied Invasion of Sicily in July 1943. Under direct orders from General Montgomery, 15Commando is tasked to take and hold a bridge over the River Gabriel. According to the intelligence brief they were not expecting any enemy resistance and, they were told, that there were no German tanks within miles. General Montgomery was wrong. And Carter and his Commandos end up having to capture the beach and battery at Cassibile and then make for and take the bridge. They also had to ensure that the bridge doesn’t get blown up by either the Italians or, by the unexpected arrival of the Germans. That too none other than the Fallschirmjäger (paratrooper) division that parachuted in to take or blow up the same bridge.
When the going gets really tough, with the arrival of German Tiger Tanks, the Commando division is given an “everyman for himself” order. And from that point it’s a pretty heart-thumping charge to the finish. I’ll not give away any spoilers here but there are enough twists and turns to keep one guessing.
I felt it had a bit of a slow warm up with lots of initial explanatory detail. But overall, it’s an engaging story that captures and holds one’s attention. What added to the sense of authentic danger, is the fact that the series was inspired by Robert Cubitt’s own father, which gives the reader that extra edge of connection. And the incident too is based on real events. I also enjoyed the occasional literary references and quotes. A good read, with much to enjoy and learn.
On the advice of a fellow-author, publisher and friend, I decided to re-jig the contents of Twelve Roses For Love. This meant that the first story, the one about Saint Valentine, became part of my author’s notes. As a result I was one story short. So, the paperback version of Twelve Roses for Love has an extra story, for some reason that extra story hasn’t uploaded to the e-book version. I’m working on fixing that.
In the meantime, I think it only fair to share that extra story as a free read here. I’m hoping that when some of my followers read this one, they’ll realise that the stories contained in Twelve Roses aren’t your typical romances. There are a few that are, and as I have mentioned before, there’s one rather amusing and saucy story at the end of the book. For now, here’s your bonus story…
Dark Lipstick
Theresa still couldn’t believe she had put up with all that for so long. It had been an almost textbook case. How had she, of all people, allowed herself to become that person. She loved Jake. Correction, she told herself as she sat on the bed in the women’s shelter, she had once thought she loved Jake.
He wasn’t your typically handsome guy that she’d met at the gym two years ago. But there was something about him. An almost shy lop-sided grin, dark brown hair that fell over one eye, which he constantly pushed back. They had dated. He’d told her he’d had anger-management issues and the gym was to help work these out.
She understood. That’s kind of what she herself was working on. But hers were more a case of self-esteem. Feel good about your body and yourself, all the support groups had said. And it had worked. When she met Jake, she was trim, the curves were where they should be and she had muscles.
“I’ll arm wrestle you,” she’d said to Jake who had an impressive set of biceps himself. Her smile always lit up her face and danced in her eyes. Who would have predicted that that would be her undoing! The friendly roughhousing in bed began to lead more and more often to Jake actually using his strength against her.
The first time he was all apologies. The classic, “I’m sorry babe, I didn’t mean it, it will never happen again.” Followed by flowers and chocolate.
She’d worn dark lipstick to work and made some empty silly excuse about slipping in the bathroom.
Later he was all sarcasm, laced with jealousy, for what she never knew. “You think you’re kick-ass tough? I’ll show you who’s tough.”
The dark lipstick was always handy, a great cover-up. But her eyes held the hurt she continued to hide.
Then quite by accident he figured the button to push to hurt her the most was to undermine her hard-won self-esteem, “You don’t smile any more. It’s the only time you’re pretty.”
Theresa looked at herself in the mirror then. It was true. Her face only lit up when she smiled. She wasn’t pretty. Her face was too long and her hair hung lank unless she washed it every day. She bit her lip, the tears welling up as she repeated the mantras that were supposed to build her up, “You have to love yourself.” What the hell did that really mean? And what was there to love? A face too long. Arms too thin. And ever since she’d stopped going to the gym her muscles had gone slack sagging under the weight of her low spirits.
With hindsight she saw that it wasn’t a case of anger management for him. He just enjoyed the power it gave him. Last week she learnt what it meant to love herself. Last week he had pushed that button way too far when he came to her in the kitchen and for no reason twisted her arm, his lop-sided grin twisted into a grimace, and his words twisted into an auger of hate, “You’re ugly bitch!” He’d yelled, “And I’m going to make you uglier so no one will ever look at you again!” He raised a broken bottle to strike her.
In that moment Theresa knew what it meant to love herself. It burst with all the warmth of a heart full of deep, fathomless love. A love so pure it gave her the strength to wrench her arm out of his, raise her leg and land a full-bodied kick in his groin. As he doubled over, she grabbed the hot pan from off the stove and struck him in the face. He fell down and passed out. She felt for his pulse, knew he was still alive. Then she packed all the things that were hers and walked out.
“No,” she said, “that’s enough!” She smiled grimly to herself. “Whatever it is long, thin, ugly, it is my face and I love it.”
I think, JRR Tolkein put it better than anyone else, “I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.” Love is a hundred different things and this little collection that I’ve put together explores twelve different ways in which love enters our lives, defines so many little aspects of it and will, I hope, give you insights into your own love.
Many of the stories were previously written, Hearts for Valentine was written when my previous publisher, Robert Agar-Hutton, needed a blog post in time for Valentine’s Day. I thought of all the stories that are written about young love and so few about the love that you and I and many other couples experience. Of course, there was that initial thrill and aching depth that we all feel when we first fall in love. But, how many stories celebrate that everyday love that we know? The one that grows deeper with every passing year that we spend with our spouses. That’s how come and why I wrote that one.
When I put this collection together, although I wanted it to come out in time for Valentine’s Day, I also wanted to write about ‘LOVE’ as something bigger than romantic love. I wanted to explore the love between sisters, and the funny idea that perhaps inanimate objects could inspire love or maybe even love their human partners. Okay I had a bit of fun with that one, where an armchair looks back on the love he had for his mistress. The story was originally based on a prompt given for one of our Bahrain Writers’ Circle challenges. I must confess it’s a bit titillating! The collection also features four new stories that have not appeared anywhere else.
Here’s a little excerpt that’s not on the Amazon ‘Look Inside’ feature. It’s a bit of a challenge to you as a reader to guess who the love interest is, in this one.
FIRST IMPRESSION, FIRST LOVE
She lay there in all her innocent splendour. Virginal white not a single mark on her visage that suggested any other. Never had a bride been quite so innocent of everything.
There was no suggestion that she had undergone a lifetime of pain. Of being crushed, beaten, and then beaten again. Every ounce of her strength had once been sapped. She had been ripped from limb to limb and then put together again. All those who had been part of her earlier life had been taken from her. And when she was bereft of all support, her captors had thrashed her until there was not a fibre in her being that could hold her upright. That’s when her spirit broke. She wept until she could weep no more. She was drained of all the tears that nature had once given her.
Feedback from a friend: Caught me out! My visualisation went from people trafficking to mannequin to waxwork before you sprung the surprise…
My independent publisher in the UK (Ex-L-Ence Publishing) decided he needed to close down. What was I going to do? My childhood dream of becoming an ‘author’ was about to go up in proverbial fumes. ‘Oh that this too, too, solid, etc.’ except of course e-books aren’t really solid. You get the drift, basically ‘waaaah’.
Followed by a deep breath. A long hard look in that reflective material called a mirror that just throws light rays back at you and usually does nothing to encourage contemplation other than, ‘oh dear, I need to go to the salon’. But in this instance, followed by a “No! I will, I shall, I must…”
Thankfully, Robert Agar-Hutton the publisher, and another Ex-L-Ence author Bob Cubitt – so filled with the milk of human kindness his cup ran over- provided us abandoned authors with a self-publishing guide.
The opening lines were so comforting I almost fell asleep… admittedly it was 2 a.m. Trust me, when you think about approaching something as daunting as a dragon, and you read the lines, “If you are only going to publish an e-book, this isn’t difficult…” said dragon is rapidly transformed into a puppy. Bob’s step by step instructions, literally just five steps, encouraged me to take the leap and I went to Amazon’s Getting Started page.
All went well until I inserted the header. At first, I was ambitious. I wanted it to have my name on the even pages and the book’s title Twelve Roses For Love on the odd pages. I also made the mistake of adding the cover to the Word document. This screwed everything up as the header kept appearing on the cover page. Several sessions of frustration resulted in fist banging on the desk to taking a walk and yelling select expletives at MSWord, KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing), and other inanimate objects that I sincerely believe regularly conspire to confound us. Eventually, I settled for a simple header and, tbh as they say these days, I don’t quite know what I did but the header issue was resolved. Sorry, but if you’re reading this in the hope that it’s a guide, then you are sadly mistaken. Also does anyone know how to delete a blank page in MSWord? The new version just will not let me do it.
Here’s where young Glen Stansfield (yes, Glen, in my book you are young) provided some real-time excellent support and why I’ve acknowledged him in my paperback version. Great advice on what to do if I wanted to insert a little rose at the end of each story. Cheesy? A little! But, what the hey. Also instant advice on what to do if I wanted to upload a re-laid out version of the ‘book’ (it’s just 61 pages, so not sure if it’s a book or a pamphlet).
The cover. KDP does offer some cover templates but they just didn’t work for me. So, good old Canva. I love Canva. I mixed and matched a couple of free templates and created a cover, downloaded a jpg version and used that for the cover. Worked a dream on the Kindle version, but it needed a lot of adjusting and fiddling to get it right for the paperback. A few more headaches and hand-wringing and I decided to use one of their templates with the e-book jpg as an image for the front. What to do? Ce’s la vie!
Glory- be! Success. It was accepted. And I’ll only know if I have got the hang of it properly when I do it again.
If you’d like to check out and (maybe, pretty please) buy this little volume, click here.
Your leaving would take the middle out of my life. To say that I would miss you is like beggars’ alms, for they are a beggar’s words. I would be desperately alone and the world would not know it. I would laugh as I always have: too heartily. But, I would not cry. To think of life without you would be like drinking tea from a saucer, too hot and then too cold. It would be like climbing Mount Everest and not finding ice and snow there, yet having lost a limb to frostbite. To think of every day, crystallising without you is emptiness so vast I cannot comprehend it, like light not comprehending darkness. The very aliveness of the world, the very death in me, a zombie; gyrating from one true pure function to another; that would be me without you.
The loneliness of the heart you have already known, but picture the strangeness of my soul without you.
It never ceases to amaze me how the connection between writers can lead to all kinds of advantages. Being featured on Debra Martens’ Canadian Writers Abroad is one such bonus.
I am not particularly good at that all-essential self-promotion tool called networking. If I connect with someone, that’s just it. I connect. It maybe they’re great punsters… that’ll do it most times for me, or we like the same books, connect over poetry, or a love of tea in a teacup (not a mug) inconsequential stuff, but a connection nonetheless. For the most part I find it hard to deliberately steer a connection towards a benefit. So, for this above-mentioned honour, I must thank Susan Toy.
I met Susan on Facebook a few years ago and she too is another wonderful promoter of writers and books. She has graciously featured me and my books a couple of times on her Island Editions. Susan has served as a reviewer for the monthly challenge we used to hold as part of encouraging the writers of the Bahrain Writers’ Circle. And so lots of connections and bonding there.
It has taken me a while for me to think of myself as a writer, but now to be part of a list that includes Ann-Marie MacDonald author of one of the most memorable books I have read, had me, to put it in pedestrian terms, gob-smacked. I am reduced to non-verbal expressions like Wow!
Many, many thanks, Debra Martens and Susan Toy. Whodathunk, eh?
FictionPals 