The barn looked interesting?...
But it was HOT and STUFFY and gave her hay fever.  
Rats and mice ran about the barn all night long.
She didn’t sleep a wink. 

Sebastian the rat was born without a tail.  So he set out to find one.  
The first thing he saw when he emerged from his hole was Mrs Williams dusting.
Sebastian stared at the bright pink feathery duster. NOW THAT WOULD BE A TAIL!

The little shrimp swam over to an eel, who was lying in a long muddy brown line in the muddy brown mud.
'Wouldn't you like to be pink?'  asked the little shrimp.
'Mmm, let me see,' said the eel, watching the little shrimp through his beady black eyes.
He came closer. 
Too close!
The little shrimp darted away.

“Here we are.” Nigel suddenly crouched down in the grass and pulled Vanessa with him. “At least we’re out of the wind here. Not too cold, are you?”
“No.” Vanessa shivered, but it was more from nerves than cold. She peered over the edge of the cliff. “Where are they?”  
“You’re really taken with those birds, aren’t you?” 
 “Yes. I am.” She could hear the smile in Nigel’s voice yet she knew he was not laughing at her.
“They’ll turn up.” Nigel lay back on a grassy tuft.  He made no attempt to touch her. “Just look at all that blue sky.” 
Vanessa sent him a quick look. He had tucked his hands behind his head and was staring skyward. Lulled by his unthreatening posture, she wriggled down beside him. Really, Nigel was surprisingly… She almost came up with the word “nice.”
She wriggled some more. It was sheltered here. Not warm, exactly, but somehow secluded. As though they were on an island. Vanessa watched the grass all around her bending in the wind and felt quite snug. The smell of the grass brought back memories of picnics in the country with her family. She wanted suddenly to embrace the world, and when an albatross swept over them with a regal dip of its great black-and-white wings her throat tightened, and she made a little choking sound. “You’re not crying, are you?” Nigel raised up on one elbow and peered into her face.
“What…if I am?”Vanessa dug in her pocket for her handkerchief. Strangely, she felt no embarrassment crying in front of him. “Here.” He found his own handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. “Funny little Vanessa.” He leaned over and kissed her wet cheek.
Vanessa all but threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Nigel. It’s so…horrible!” She didn’t know why she was crying. She hadn’t cried before, but now the tears wouldn’t stop. Instinctively, she snuggled into Nigel’s warmth. She missed her children, her marriage, Ron, her friends. Why had they all turned so hostile? Ron, going off in that way. Henry, so disapproving. Lisette, all suspicious. And Dora—pretending to be friends but really hostile and snobbish with that "I’m still married” air of hers.
“Come on.” Nigel pulled her closer and nuzzled her hair.
“All those years!”Self-pity swamped Vanessa. She didn’t care that she sounded like Dora. She thought of her children. Hardly a postcard between them! “The selfish…ungrateful little bastards!” She sobbed into Nigel’s shoulder. 
“Kids?”
“Yes!” Nigel understood. He was married, too.
“This is your holiday, you know, Vanessa.” He kissed her forehead. “You don’t have to think about them.”
Vanessa liked the feel of his kiss on her skin. She sighed and turned her lips up. His face was just a blur. It was his warmth she needed. After a moment’s hesitation, Nigel bent and covered her lips with his, plunging his tongue right into her mouth, pulling it out to wash her lips then plunging it back inside again.
Vanessa squirmed and gasped under such a wet onslaught. Her eyes opened wide, and she tried to pull away.
“Wanted to shock you.” Nigel lifted his head, dark eyes gleaming down into hers. “Made you stop crying.”
He was breathing hard and now, somehow, lying on top of her. Vanessa found she welcomed his weight. She liked the way his chest moved in unison with hers. His kiss had made her dizzy. Or perhaps that was from being high up on a cliff with the grass blowing about her head.
Before she could say anything, he bent and kissed her again, harder, wetter and sloppier than before. It was the most erotic kiss Vanessa had ever received. But she was still quite shocked.
“Want to kiss me back?” Nigel slicked his tongue along her bottom lip then opened his mouth over hers, waiting.
Cautiously, Vanessa slid her tongue into his mouth and was startled when he closed his lips around her tongue and sucked it further inside. That was even more erotic! She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her.
“Don’t you like kissing?” He licked his way along her cheek. “Mm, tasty tears.”
Vanessa giggled. 
“I want to kiss you all over. Especially…here.” He slid a hand between her thighs, cupping her.
Vanessa’s mouth fell open, and she stared up at him. She was too shocked even to struggle.

When they reached number twenty-three, a small wooden bungalow with faded green-and-white paint work, Averil unlatched the white picket gate. Rose, feeling a peculiar sense of intruding, followed her into Edith Hereford’s garden. She’d only ever seen the garden from beyond the fence when she’d stopped to exchange pleasantries with Edith. Now, she looked about with pleasure and admiration.
Even though it was late winter, bright oranges dazzled from the midst of glossy green leaves. The first snowdrops and jonquils peeped up through the ground, and the sweet scent of Daphne clung to the air. Red, white and pink camellias had scattered sumptuous petals beneath their bushes, and the breath of heaven was about to break into delicate pink blossom. Rose was delighted to see several monarch butterflies flitting between the flowers.
There was an extraordinary sense of peace and tranquility emanating from that garden. It glowed. She could almost imagine Edith standing amongst it all, reaching out to cup a camellia bloom. 
Shivering a little, she followed Averil along the concrete path to the house.  
“I’m sorry the house is a bit stuffy,” Averil apologized as she opened the front door. “Come on in.” 
Rose entered. She admitted to a certain curiosity as to what the inside of Edith Hereford’s house would be like. Edith had been a small, neat woman and had dressed in tailored skirts or trousers, with pale blouses in summer and hand-knitted cardigans and jerseys in winter.
The crowded room with antique furniture pressing into every corner, the scatter of embroidered cushions, the standard lamps, the knick-knacks about everywhere and the many watercolor paintings surprised her. She couldn’t help an exclamation of surprise. 
“It is rather nice, isn’t it?” Averil said shyly.“Aunt was quite artistic.”  
“You mean your aunt painted the watercolors?” 
“And she made the cushions and tapestries.” 
“Well! I had no idea.” Rose couldn’t hide her astonishment as she looked about the room. It was easy now to see how Edith had spent her time.
The watercolors were delightful--soft, subtle studies of garden flowers, including pansies, daisies, delphiniums, violets, petunias and camellias, all, no doubt, from Edith’s own garden. Again, she pictured Edith as she’d often seen her, wandering through the garden, perhaps deciding which flower to paint next. Or which pattern of flowers to embroider onto one of her cushions. “These are exquisite.” She bent to examine one. “I can see your aunt was very talented.”
She wondered if Edith had kept a dairy. Had she sat in one of the antique chairs, writing prose or poetry to accompany those delightful paintings? Rose let her gaze wander over the room again, forgetting for a moment her companion and the reason she was there. She wished now she’d known Edith better. That she’d made more of an effort to be friends, especially these last years when she herself had known the loneliness of solitude.
But perhaps Edith had been quite content with solitude. It was easy to immerse oneself in a garden or hobby. That she also knew. Edith had obviously been content -the evidence of it was all around. 
Rose crossed the room to get a closer look at a delightful set of miniatures--pansies in soft gold and lilac. On another wall was an attractive embroidery work of daisies forming a heart.
She suddenly became aware Averil was standing just inside the door of the room, twisting her hands together in an abstracted way. “I am sorry.” She smiled, feeling guilty for momentarily forgetting why she was here. “I was drawn to the miniatures and the embroidery work.” Averil appeared to only half-register her explanation.
“The…the letter’s over here.” She gestured at a small cluttered table beside a lovely dark-mahogany chair with a high curved back. That it had been Edith’s chair was obvious. The satin cushions tucked against the armrests were old, almost
threadbare. The tapestry coverings were well-worn, too--little more than strands of rose-colored embroidery thread in places. The little footstool nestled at the curved feet of the chair was in the same faded "old rose" condition. Despite this, both articles of furniture possessed an air of having been loved.
Rose was somewhat startled by her thoughts. The picture of Edith sitting in her chair, as she so often must have done, her feet resting on the embroidered footstool, was so vivid, so real, it was almost as if she were still seated there. She had heard Edith had been "found" in a chair by one of the neighbors. Perhaps it had been this very chair.
“Would you like to sit down?” Averil asked.  
Rose shook away the pictures in her mind.  Uncomfortable with the idea of sitting in Edith’s chair, she chose another off to one side and sat down. 
Averil took a seat close by. She looked over at Rose and ran her fingers through her red-brown curls.  “Perhaps I’d better explain before I show you the letter?” At Rose’s encouraging smile, she folded her hands in her lap. Her gaze fluttered about the room a moment then settled on one of her aunt’s paintings. She took a deep breath.
“Aunt never married. As far as I knew. I’d always thought…I mean, Aunt always called herself Miss Hereford, so naturally I assumed she’d never been married.” She gave a small shrug then continued. “Aunt was well into her fifties when I was born--my father was much younger. There were just the two of them. Dad’s still alive,” she added hastily. “He’s sixty-five, now. He married late, and I’m…an only child.” Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Mum died three years ago,” she murmured. 
“I’m sorry.” 
Averil nodded without looking at her. She took another deep breath, and her unseeing gaze drifted about the room for several moments before settling once more on her aunt’s painting. 
“We didn’t visit Aunt that often,” she confessed sounding a little guilty. “I know we should have, but…well, Aunt
always seemed so content with her life. She just didn’t seem to need anyone.” She turned her blue gaze on Rose again, as if willing her to understand.
Rose nodded, at once grasping her meaning. That was exactly how Edith had always seemed to her, too. Content with her life. 
“I did come up more often these last years,” Averil continued. “I worried about her being on her own. She was eighty, you know.”  
“I hadn’t realized Edith was that  age.”

Prologue

The little princess was out for her afternoon walk, her footsteps soft on the pine-needle path. He followed her – as he had done before - staying well back, using the tree trunks as a shield, careful where he put his feet. He didn’t want to snap a twig or make any noise at all. 
She came to a small bank and sat. The rust–coloured pine needles made a soft cushion for her; he was pleased she was comfortable. In the late autumn sunshine the perfume of the bush was sweet; it was a good time for her walk.
Then he heard her crying. Tears welled to his eyes. ‘Don’t cry,” he wanted to say, half-lifting a hand toward her, before drawing it quickly back out of sight. No...no… she must never know of his existence. His hand curled tightly against his chest, as if he would take back the gesture, make his hand smaller.
Why was his little princess crying? She was so pretty…she must not be unhappy… He crept closer, her tears drawing him in from the protection of the bush. He forgot to look where he was putting his feet…and stepped on a twig. 
The snap of it was loud and awful, and his nerve endings jolted. In terror he pressed against the tree trunk, eyes screwed shut, his heart racing…

                                     

 CHAPTER ONE

To hell with the lot of them! From her hunched position beneath the pine trees Penelope Palmer gathered up a fist full of pine needles and threw them out into the forest of grey trunks. They didn’t fall very far, and as she watched them unfurl and plop down limply in front of her, she thought sullenly, ‘that’s exactly how my life is!' 
Like she'd really needed Matt to show. And the olds! Why couldn’t they leave her alone? And now Granny E was having a bloody heart attack! Penelope scooped up another handful of pine needles, crumbling them. Dry powdery bits filtered through her fingers and a strong smell of pine wafted upwards, but she barely noticed.
It was bad enough being pregnant. Like she'd really needed that! She was only twenty. Her whole life was ahead of her. She didn’t want crying babies and wet nappies. The thought was, even after all these months, still foreign. She simply couldn’t accept it. Tears welled to her eyes. If only Matt had been more careful.  Bloody condoms! Like they really worked! Angrily she plucked up another fistful of pine needles and hurled them out into the trees. 
Although it wasn’t entirely Matt’s fault Penelope had to admit somewhat gracelessly. He’d been just as shocked as she was. At first. Then, when she’d cried and screamed and blamed him and said she was going to have an abortion and that it was over, he’d cried. Even now the memory brought more tears to Penelope’s eyes. She’d never seen Matt cry before and the sight had been a shock. 
‘Please don't, Pen,' he'd pleaded. Like she’d really needed that! Penelope wiped at her eyes with pine gum-smeared fingers, not caring that the gesture made her eyes water like mad. Why couldn’t life be fun like it was supposed to be? Babies weren’t fun. Babies were hard work. Oh, Yes! Penelope knew all about babies. A friend of hers had one. Babies tied you down. Babies were the end of life! 
Penelope sniffed loudly and wiped her nose on the cuff of her sweater. Well, she wasn’t giving in. She wasn’t going back and that was that. No matter what they said. She’d made up her mind and she wasn’t going to be bullied, not by Matt, the Old’s or Granny E. Mum had been unbelievable! Going on and on at her and…?
 What was that? Penelope twisted round as a twig cracked somewhere behind her. She peered hard into the forest of grey trunks, rows and rows of them all the way up the hill behind her. The eerie sound of the wind through the trees gave her the creeps. She shivered, suddenly aware of her isolation. She’d charged out of the house some time ago and marched through the bush, following a short track, taking little if any notice of her surroundings, escape being the uppermost thought in her mind. She couldn’t, for example, at that moment have said exactly where Granny E’s house was. 
Penelope groped about in front of her for a fallen branch and struggled to her feet. She held the branch tightly and searched the trees once again, feeling the back of her neck prickle. Perverts were everywhere these days. Even on islands. Brandishing the stick, she backed over to the nearest tree trunk and leant against it, her gaze still fixed on the spot where she’d heard the noise. Perhaps it was just a wallaby or a bird or some other creature? 
After another lengthy search of the trees- she heard nothing - Penelope let the branch drop from her hands. It made a satisfactory crunch as it hit the ground, and broke into pieces. It was probably just a wallaby. She tried not to think of Jack’s ghost stories, which she didn’t believe for a minute anyway. Jack was just trying to get rid of her. Like that was going to work! She pushed away from the tree and started quickly back along the track, resisting, with an effort, the impulse to look behind her.  She wouldn’t come here again. In future she’d stick to the house. Despite the rows.

Beginnings

Where Do I start?

When I first wanted to write that was the question I found myself asking tutors and other writers. Years later, when I began teaching creative writing, it was the question my students asked me. Where do I start?
I recall my first writing attempts in embarrassment; all that overwriting, repetition, and melodramatic plots, which I thought of as wildly exciting. I even began several novels and remember how delighted I was when I had ‘filled up the pages’ with long rambling descriptions, that, privately, I was quite proud of. I remember thinking that I would finish the novel quickly, and then running out of steam on page five, and becoming despondent and disappointed with my efforts.
You might have begun stories, too, and found, as I did, that the words simply dry up or you’re not happy with what you’ve written. 
It’s all a lot harder than it looks. 
Along with ‘where do I start?’ you will have many more questions: Where should I set my story? How many words does it need to be? How many characters should there be? What should I call them? How do you write dialogue? What kind of story should I write? Do I have to include back-story? Help! What’s back-story? I’ve never heard of it before. 
Whatever your questions, all writing begins with an idea; but unless we know how to translate those ideas into stories our ideas are simply in danger of evaporating.

Saving Our Ideas
From the moment our ideas occur to us we need to save them so we have something concrete to work with when we begin our writing.
When I first began teaching creative writing I devised an ‘idea’s map’.
For example, say your idea is to write a story about a gardener.

1) Ideas Map
On the left hand side of the page, draw a circle with your 'idea' in the centre - 'gardener'.
To the right hand side of the circle make six boxes: Who? What? Where? When? Why?
Draw an arrow from the centre circle to each box.
In the Who? box write: Young man just finished apprenticeship.
In the What? box write: Gardening/planting
In the Where? box write: Christchurch/Garden City
In the When? box write: Autumn/spring
In the Why? box write: To learn about gardening/life from old retainer.
You can keep adding to the boxes, building on your ideas.
Some of you may be put off by the ideas map and think, ‘What’s she talking about? If I have to do that, I’ll never write one word!’
Don’t worry! There are many more ways to get you started.

2) Sentences
Perhaps you’re more of a sentence person? I’m a sentence person.
You might write something like this: 
‘Young man goes to Christchurch to learn about gardening – and life – from old retainer’. (A retainer is an old servant who has worked for a family for many years).
At this stage you can write one short sentence – if that’s what saves your idea – or one long sentence that goes on and on, without punctuation or form. It doesn’t matter at this stage if runs into half a page or more. You’re writing. And that’s the plan. 
So see if writing sentences to capture your ideas works for you.

3) Key Words
Jotting down key words quickly is another great way to save your idea – and it’s something we can all do. 
Key words might be some of these:
Christchurch, young gardener, old retainer, hat, beard, Avon River, willows, green, gold, autumn, grass, trees, water, shinning, wheelbarrow, sunshine, etc. 
Writing down these words, one after the other builds pictures of your characters and setting. You need to be able to see the setting in your mind, and your characters moving and working and living in that setting. 
By following one or more of these ideas, or a combination of all three, you’ll be surprised by how far along in the story you actually are. 
That’s all very well, I hear you say, but where do you get your ideas from?

Ideas
Ideas can be found in every area of our lives: home/work life, countryside/city, magazines, newspapers, TV, Radio, the internet, social media, conversations – your own and those overheard. People we know, people we meet, people we knew. 
Start keeping an ideas folder of photographs, interesting articles clipped from magazines/newspapers, things you heard on your favourite sit-com, thriller or documentary. ‘People watch’ wherever you are. Sit in a café and eavesdrop. 
These things might not spark a story right away but it’s surprising what the subconscious mind will do over time. Looking through the folder at a later date the idea for a story might jump out at you. 
Keep a notebook with you to jot down ideas as soon as they occur, even if it’s just one word to prompt your memory. It’s no good thinking you’ll remember them later because you never do. 

Songs
If you’re stuck for ideas think of all the songs you know and love. Songs tell a whole story in a few words, in a few minutes. Songs like, ‘Unforgettable’, ‘In The Ghetto’, ‘What a Wonderful World’, ‘Yesterday’, ‘The Streets of London’, ‘Walk the Line,’ ‘Island in the Sun’, ‘My Favourite Things’. There are far too many to mention. But they all have that one thing in common; they tell a story. These songs are enduring and reach out to new audiences, decade after decade.

The Five Senses: Sight, Sound, Smell, Touch, Taste. Don’t forget the Sixth Sense. 
Try to include smell in your stories. I’ve read whole books where the author hasn’t made any mention of smell. This can be stated directly; ‘The room smelt of old gumboots and cigarette smoke’, or revealed more subtly; ‘The swollen tide had left a tangle of rotting seaweed, sea shells and one lone starfish’. 
Can you smell the swollen tide, the rotting seaweed, the sea shells and the starfish? 
Always include smell.

Proverbs
If you’re still stuck for ideas why not look at proverbs?
Most of us quote proverbs and everyday sayings in our day-to-day life. There are hundreds of proverbs and new ones created everyday. Why not invent your own?