More experimental writing for children, this time from an experience close to home....
It was autumn and the leaves were falling. The occasional aeroplane rumbled overhead on its way to the nearby airport, and two woodpeckers tapped what sounded like Morse-code messages out on a tree. The ant hill where Jonny lived had grown in height and width during the summer so that it now reached half-way up the supporting tree trunk at its centre. The ant hill looked a bit like a bell – narrow at the top and wide at the bottom. During the day the sun warmed the hill and myriads of black ants – Jonny’s relatives and friends – could be seen scuttling around on top, between the brown pine needles, leaves and multi-sized twigs. When the sun went down the ants huddled together inside the ant hill to keep warm.
Day in and day out the ants worked hard to keep their hill safe and their larder full of food. Every day the worker ants set out to collect pine needles, food, leaves and twigs to keep everyone in the heap – the queen ant, grandma, grandpa, mum, dad, aunties, uncles, cousins, brothers and sisters – warm and fed. Sometimes animals or birds tried to dig holes in the ant hills to eat the ants inside or the food they had stored. Storms, strong winds and heavy rain sometimes washed the ant hills away. Enemy red ants also attacked and try to take over the hill. Even boys and girls made a nuisance of themselves by poking sticks into the ant hill heaps. Even though the forest was a quiet and beautiful place in which to live, it also had its dangers.
One day, Jonny, a young worker ant, set out from home as usual to collect pine needles and food. As he wound his way along the ant tracks and through the humps of moss and fallen leaves he suddenly caught sight of two men wearing green jackets and yellow helmets. They were standing beside a young pine tree. Jonny wondered why they were there and what they were doing, so he climbed onto a clump of grass to get a better view. As he watched, the men tied a red ribbon around the tree.
“Hum”, thought Jonny. “I wonder why they are doing that.”
When he returned to the ant hill in the late afternoon he heard other ants talking about the same two men.
“They were tying red ribbons around different trees”, said Jonny’s father. “But I don’t know why they were doing that.”
That evening the news of the two men and the red ribbons spread rapidly through the ant hill. Nobody seemed to know who these men were or why they had tied ribbons around some trees but not others. There must be some reason why those trees had been picked, the ants thought. After all, the men hadn’t tied red ribbons around every tree in the forest. As they hadn’t tied a red ribbon around the tree in the middle of their hill, the ants wondered why that was and what that meant.
The following morning Jonny and companions woke up to a strange rumbling noise.
“What’s that?” they wondered, “and where is it coming from?”
Some of the ants poked their heads out of the little window-like peep-holes to try to see what was happening. Although the noise appeared to come from another part of the forest, it also seemed to be getting louder.
After breakfast Jonny and his friends set off to work as usual. They stopped from time to time as they trundled along the well worn ant paths to listen to the noises of the forest.
“Listen”, said Jonny to the ant next to him. “That noise is getting louder and closer! Look! What’s that, over there? It looks like a big horrible monster. And it’s eating trees!”
Although it was still a little distance from them, the group of ants could see that the “monster” was very big. It had what looked like a cab with windows and long metal crane-like arm towering into the sky at the side. It crawled slowly forwards on big caterpillar-track wheels and as it did so the big arm at the side grasped a tree, sawed it off at its base, shredded off its bark and branches, cut the long trunk into smaller pieces and threw the resulting logs into piles. A figure was sitting inside the cab controlling the monster machine.
The ants watched in amazement as the monster machine cut down one tree after another. It looked as though it was slowly working its way towards them. It was certainly eating a lot of trees – and very quickly indeed!
“Come on”, said Jonny to some of his companions, “let’s hurry back to the hill and tell the others. We need to work out a plan of action. This monster is moving in the direction of our hill and we need to act quickly.”
So Jonny and the others scuttled back to their hill as fast as their little legs could carry them. Other ants were also scurrying around on top of the hill wondering what the strange noise was and what was going on. Breathless after their run, Jonny and his pals told the others what they’d seen.
“OK”, said the chief ant. “Let’s get everybody mobilised. We need to tell the other ant colonies what’s happening so that they too can take action. Some ants can stay here to defend the hill, in case any animals sneak in and try to steal our food while we’re gone.”
The ants quickly organised themselves into teams to alert the other ant colonies living in different parts of the forest. They all knew the forest inside out and knew, too, that they had to act quickly and effectively. There was no time to lose.
“Look!” cried Jonny as he stood on top of a rock to catch his breath and get a better view of the monster tree eating machine. “The monster hasn’t eaten all the trees. It hasn’t eaten those trees with a red ribbon around them!”
“You’re right” exclaimed one of his team mates. “You know what that means don’t you?”
“No, what?” replied Jonny.
“Well, if the monster isn’t eating trees with a red ribbon around them, it must mean that the ribbon is some kind of protection.
“Oh my goodness”, gulped another of the ants. “Our tree hasn’t got a red ribbon around it! That must mean that it isn’t protected and that it will be cut down too. If that happens we’ll lose our home. And worse, we’ll probably all be killed!”
“Well in that case we’ll just have to make sure that our tree has a red ribbon tied around it as well” exclaimed Jonny triumphantly. “Come on boys, there’s no time to lose! We’ve got to find a red ribbon and tie it around our tree!”
“Yes!” agreed another of his team mates. “Let’s go!”
“We’ll have to steal a ribbon from a tree with one already on?” said Jonny decidedly, his mind busily ticking away, working out how the ants would manage to climb up a tree, untie its ribbon and scuttle back to their own tree with it in tow. “Come on, there’s one over there!”
Jonny and his friends sped towards the tree with the ribbon. Two woodpeckers, perched half-way up the tree, stared at them in amazement.
“What’s up with you lot?” inquired the woodpeckers. “What’s the hurry?”
“We’ve got to save our tree from the monster tree eating machine by tying a red ribbon around it,” gasped Jonny. “Can you help us to take this one off and carry it to our tree?”
“What?!” exclaimed the woodpeckers, “and lose our precious tree as well? No sir!”
“But, but....”, began Jonny, “we need a red ribbon – and fast!”
“Take it easy”, said the woodpeckers calmly. “We know where there’s a big bundle of red ribbons! The men in the forest yesterday dumped them when it got too dark to see what they were doing. We collected them and lined our nest with them so they’d keep us warm. How many ribbons do you need? Right then! Leave everything to us!!”
The woodpeckers plucked the ribbons from their nest and flew into the forest at top speed. They knew the forest inside out and knew where every ant hill was – they had even robbed them of food in the winter! The woodpeckers worked so quickly and so well that they managed to tie a red ribbon around every ant hill tree in the forest in next to no time.
“Bravo!” shouted Jonny and all his friends in unison. “Long live the woodpeckers! We’ll never curse them again for stealing our food!”
That very same afternoon the monster machine trundled through part of the forest where Jonny and his family lives. It cut down most of the trees in its path. But it didn’t cut their tree down. It was wearing a very special red ribbon.
The story doesn’t end there, though. That evening, as the sun disappeared over the horizon and the forest became silent, Jonny peeped out from his ant hill before going to bed. As he stood there, alone, he thought he heard someone or something whisper “thaaaank yoooo”.
© Sue Glover Frykman
Monday, 4 January 2010
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Bello the Clown
The 'play' that resulted from the insight mentioned below has been to participate in a "Writing stories for children" distance course offered by a Swedish university. One of the first exercises in this course was to write a poem or nursery rhyme about the circus for small children. This is what flowed from my pen ... for children aged 3-6.
Dippetty doppetty down
The circus has come to town
You’d better watch out for Bello the clown!
Dippetty doppetty down.
Splishetty splashetty splush
Bello the clown has a brush
He’ll give you a shave if you don’t watch out!
Splishetty splashetty splush.
Flippetty, flapppety, flop
Bello the clown has a mop
He’ll wash you away if you don’t watch out!
Flipppety flappety flop
Ticketty tacketty tock
Bello the clown has a clock
He’ll wind you up if you don’t watch out!
Ticketty tacketty tock.
Hippetty happetty hix
Bellow the clown’s full of tricks
He’ll do them again if you don’t watch out!
Hippetty happetty hix.
© Sue Glover Frykman
Dippetty doppetty down
The circus has come to town
You’d better watch out for Bello the clown!
Dippetty doppetty down.
Splishetty splashetty splush
Bello the clown has a brush
He’ll give you a shave if you don’t watch out!
Splishetty splashetty splush.
Flippetty, flapppety, flop
Bello the clown has a mop
He’ll wash you away if you don’t watch out!
Flipppety flappety flop
Ticketty tacketty tock
Bello the clown has a clock
He’ll wind you up if you don’t watch out!
Ticketty tacketty tock.
Hippetty happetty hix
Bellow the clown’s full of tricks
He’ll do them again if you don’t watch out!
Hippetty happetty hix.
© Sue Glover Frykman
After taking part in a "Write with the Heart" workshop in connection with a "C. J. Jung Seminar" in Sweden in the summer of 2009, and writing the following in a 3-minute writing exercise, I realised that my writing was too serious and needed lightening up a bit to include more 'play'.
The same opening line for the 3-minute exercise was: "There’s a man with a moustache....."
"There’s a man with a moustache on the side on my neighbour’s van, on his knees with an insulating machine in his hand. Action man. Goal-related. A job to do and one he has to do well. Otherwise he won’t have any more work! Selling a service. Market-oriented. Where we are today. Humanity has to shop its way out of the economic crisis. What about reflection? Alternatives. Perhaps the system is rotten and if we shop till we drop we’ll fall through the hole never to be seen again. The man with the moustache is kneeling. Praying?"
The same opening line for the 3-minute exercise was: "There’s a man with a moustache....."
"There’s a man with a moustache on the side on my neighbour’s van, on his knees with an insulating machine in his hand. Action man. Goal-related. A job to do and one he has to do well. Otherwise he won’t have any more work! Selling a service. Market-oriented. Where we are today. Humanity has to shop its way out of the economic crisis. What about reflection? Alternatives. Perhaps the system is rotten and if we shop till we drop we’ll fall through the hole never to be seen again. The man with the moustache is kneeling. Praying?"
Thursday, 14 May 2009
God is dog spelled backwards
Written on 7th May, in a spontaneous writing workshop at Charney Manor, Oxfordshire
I miss the fluffy feeling of fur. Every morning and every afternoon we walk through the woods close to home, chatting and marvelling at the clear blue sky, spring’s colourful palette, the golden dandelions, the birds’ shrieks and twitters and the woody perfume of vegetation after rain we encounter along the way. Sauntering through the garden here at Charney, listening to the waves of wind in the trees, enjoying the cawing cacophony of crows and savouring the sun warm on my skin is like nectar to the soul. Yes indeed. But something is missing, and that is the feel of fur.
On leaving the Solar and going outside I made for the car park, stopping only to stroke a crimson peony, sniff the Judas trees and admire its fallen purple-pink blossoms on the spiky green grass. I skirted around the car park hedge and paused at the wooden fence to look back at the parking area. I knew that R. had his dog with him and it was his dog I wanted to catch a glimpse of to assuage my hunger of seeing, if not feeling, fur.
Last night, after the writing retreat’s introductory session, I leafed through some of the books displayed on the table. A sentence struck me – the title of a book written by that particular author in a list of other books she’d written. God Is Dog Spelled Backwards. That phrase was somehow important. So important that it flew round and round in my mind like a bothersome fly. In the silent beginning to our morning session these words – God is dog spelled backwards – again broke into my thoughts and were forced into expression during the ensuing six minutes of spontaneous writing.
I remembered the fear I had experienced as a three-year-old when waiting, as was my habit, for Dad to get off the bus on his dinner hour. We lived in a quiet cul-de-sac and Mum allowed me to walk, all by myself, to the corner to wait for and greet Dad. I did that every working day. On that particular dinner time, however, a huge Alsatian dog decided to sniff at and inspect the little waiting girl at close quarters. Not content with that, it reared up on its hind legs and put its front paws on the wall behind me. I was pinned to the wall. I was terrified. Mercifully, Dad arrived in time to rescue his quivering daughter from harm. But damage had been done. Inside and unseen.
From then on dogs of all shapes and sizes paralysed me with fear, no matter where, no matter when, no matter which.
On moving to my present home in September 2000, in the glorious midst of the Swedish countryside where my soul and self are free, I discovered that our closest neighbours had dogs. Standard poodles. When going to collect the post from the little row of boxes the dogs would rush, barking, across the path and jump up at me. The first time it happened I froze, hoping they would vanish. Or something. My neighbour raced outside, frantically calling the dogs back to her and shoved them back in the house. I confessed me fear, in broken Swedish, and after that my Ulla was very careful to keep her dogs under control when I passed.
Another person in the village had a big black dog, which I also used to avoid. She asked me one day whether I was afraid of dogs. I confessed. Come here and I’ll help you to make a new friend, she said, quietly and caringly. She showed me what to do and guided my hand in the patting of her dogs head. Dog looked up at me with eyes as deep as pools, and I felt something soften within.
Now, due to events not really relevant to this tale, I help my neighbour, Ulla, to take her four standard and one miniature poodles for a walk twice a day. These walks have become a highlight. I always turn up on time. The dogs zoom in as soon as they hear my feet crackle the shingle on the drive and thrust their heads between my legs in a welcoming doggy hug. I run my fingers through their fur. It feels warm and thick and fluffy and soft – especially so when they’ve just had a bath.
Zottie gave birth to seven pups in February and I watched as the membraned packets plopped onto the towelled floor of the birthing bed and were frantically licked clean and clear by mum. She gazed lovingly at me as I ran my hands down her sides to ease the tension. These are moments I will find hard to forget.
God is Dog spelled backwards. Dog is God spelt backwards. What that amounts to for me is unconditional love.
©Sue Glover Frykman
I miss the fluffy feeling of fur. Every morning and every afternoon we walk through the woods close to home, chatting and marvelling at the clear blue sky, spring’s colourful palette, the golden dandelions, the birds’ shrieks and twitters and the woody perfume of vegetation after rain we encounter along the way. Sauntering through the garden here at Charney, listening to the waves of wind in the trees, enjoying the cawing cacophony of crows and savouring the sun warm on my skin is like nectar to the soul. Yes indeed. But something is missing, and that is the feel of fur.
On leaving the Solar and going outside I made for the car park, stopping only to stroke a crimson peony, sniff the Judas trees and admire its fallen purple-pink blossoms on the spiky green grass. I skirted around the car park hedge and paused at the wooden fence to look back at the parking area. I knew that R. had his dog with him and it was his dog I wanted to catch a glimpse of to assuage my hunger of seeing, if not feeling, fur.
Last night, after the writing retreat’s introductory session, I leafed through some of the books displayed on the table. A sentence struck me – the title of a book written by that particular author in a list of other books she’d written. God Is Dog Spelled Backwards. That phrase was somehow important. So important that it flew round and round in my mind like a bothersome fly. In the silent beginning to our morning session these words – God is dog spelled backwards – again broke into my thoughts and were forced into expression during the ensuing six minutes of spontaneous writing.
I remembered the fear I had experienced as a three-year-old when waiting, as was my habit, for Dad to get off the bus on his dinner hour. We lived in a quiet cul-de-sac and Mum allowed me to walk, all by myself, to the corner to wait for and greet Dad. I did that every working day. On that particular dinner time, however, a huge Alsatian dog decided to sniff at and inspect the little waiting girl at close quarters. Not content with that, it reared up on its hind legs and put its front paws on the wall behind me. I was pinned to the wall. I was terrified. Mercifully, Dad arrived in time to rescue his quivering daughter from harm. But damage had been done. Inside and unseen.
From then on dogs of all shapes and sizes paralysed me with fear, no matter where, no matter when, no matter which.
On moving to my present home in September 2000, in the glorious midst of the Swedish countryside where my soul and self are free, I discovered that our closest neighbours had dogs. Standard poodles. When going to collect the post from the little row of boxes the dogs would rush, barking, across the path and jump up at me. The first time it happened I froze, hoping they would vanish. Or something. My neighbour raced outside, frantically calling the dogs back to her and shoved them back in the house. I confessed me fear, in broken Swedish, and after that my Ulla was very careful to keep her dogs under control when I passed.
Another person in the village had a big black dog, which I also used to avoid. She asked me one day whether I was afraid of dogs. I confessed. Come here and I’ll help you to make a new friend, she said, quietly and caringly. She showed me what to do and guided my hand in the patting of her dogs head. Dog looked up at me with eyes as deep as pools, and I felt something soften within.
Now, due to events not really relevant to this tale, I help my neighbour, Ulla, to take her four standard and one miniature poodles for a walk twice a day. These walks have become a highlight. I always turn up on time. The dogs zoom in as soon as they hear my feet crackle the shingle on the drive and thrust their heads between my legs in a welcoming doggy hug. I run my fingers through their fur. It feels warm and thick and fluffy and soft – especially so when they’ve just had a bath.
Zottie gave birth to seven pups in February and I watched as the membraned packets plopped onto the towelled floor of the birthing bed and were frantically licked clean and clear by mum. She gazed lovingly at me as I ran my hands down her sides to ease the tension. These are moments I will find hard to forget.
God is Dog spelled backwards. Dog is God spelt backwards. What that amounts to for me is unconditional love.
©Sue Glover Frykman
Friday, 10 April 2009
Green leaves, the city, and surprises
The first snowdrops are nodding their pretty white heads. Knotted winter aconite buds long to give their petals a good stretch. I peer into clear-as-a-bell snow-melt puddles and marvel at mossy cushions and tiny blades of grass. We can now go for a walk without having to put little crampons on our boots to pierce the slithery ice. The garden is waking after its beauty sleep and I rummage in the shed for summery seeds.
For the most part, my life is spent in the countryside. My body mirrors its quiet rhythms and absorbs its sounds. From time to time I have to go to the city for meetings and gatherings. I went there last week. What struck me most was that I lead a very cushioned life lead out here, in the midst of nature.
After the meeting, I sat on underground train minding my own business. A man, standing at my shoulder, began to repetitively drone out words in a string. “My name is so and so and I’ve no money and I’ve no possessions and I’m hungry and if anyone can help me in any way I’ll be very grateful. My name is so and so.......” I didn’t turn round to look at him. I didn’t see anybody else doing that either. After the fourth or fifth machine delivery he moved on to the next section of the carriage and started all over again. Preconceived ideas welled to the surface. Giving him money didn’t seem like an option. If he had a problem with drink, or drugs, it might only make matters worse. But I wished I’d put the banana I intended to bring with me in my bag. It might have eased his hunger pangs.
While the man stood in the corridor at the carriage intersection in front of me, and repeated his mantra, I gradually became aware of his beautifully blue jeans, his nice warm anorak and the big holdall slung behind his back. The no money-no possessions spiel seemed a bit unreal. All of a sudden the air was filled with the merry sound of an accordion. The music got louder and louder and two people popped into view; the first ploughing her way through the throng of people rising from their seats to alight at the next station. A young bright-eyed woman holding a paper cup out in front of her was followed by a young man squeezing his box. The woman thrust the empty paper carton under my nose and smiled, expectantly. I stared blankly at her. Her smile faded.
Yesterday I found the feathery traces of what must have been a Blue Tit near the bird-table in our garden. It must have succumbed to a marauding cat.
© Sue Glover Frykman
For the most part, my life is spent in the countryside. My body mirrors its quiet rhythms and absorbs its sounds. From time to time I have to go to the city for meetings and gatherings. I went there last week. What struck me most was that I lead a very cushioned life lead out here, in the midst of nature.
After the meeting, I sat on underground train minding my own business. A man, standing at my shoulder, began to repetitively drone out words in a string. “My name is so and so and I’ve no money and I’ve no possessions and I’m hungry and if anyone can help me in any way I’ll be very grateful. My name is so and so.......” I didn’t turn round to look at him. I didn’t see anybody else doing that either. After the fourth or fifth machine delivery he moved on to the next section of the carriage and started all over again. Preconceived ideas welled to the surface. Giving him money didn’t seem like an option. If he had a problem with drink, or drugs, it might only make matters worse. But I wished I’d put the banana I intended to bring with me in my bag. It might have eased his hunger pangs.
While the man stood in the corridor at the carriage intersection in front of me, and repeated his mantra, I gradually became aware of his beautifully blue jeans, his nice warm anorak and the big holdall slung behind his back. The no money-no possessions spiel seemed a bit unreal. All of a sudden the air was filled with the merry sound of an accordion. The music got louder and louder and two people popped into view; the first ploughing her way through the throng of people rising from their seats to alight at the next station. A young bright-eyed woman holding a paper cup out in front of her was followed by a young man squeezing his box. The woman thrust the empty paper carton under my nose and smiled, expectantly. I stared blankly at her. Her smile faded.
Yesterday I found the feathery traces of what must have been a Blue Tit near the bird-table in our garden. It must have succumbed to a marauding cat.
© Sue Glover Frykman
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