Because i am a Girl - Proceeds go to Plan, one of the world's largest child-centred community development organisations.

I've been blown away by reading this book and just know you will be affected also if you haven't already read it. The whole concept is fresh: sending seven authors to different countries to speak to young women and girls about their lives, struggles and hope. Marie Staunton, chief executive of Plan UK had the idea that authors would be invaluabe in making victims visible. The Random House Group found writers willing to travel and see situations with a writer's keen eye, rather than the eye of a development worker.The seven writers are Marie Phillips, Kathy Lette, Joanne Harris, Irvine Welsh, Deborah Moggach, Xiaolu Guo and Tim Butcher. You will agree they are writers of some calibre. 

The Because I am a Girl (BIG) campaign aims to break the cycle of uneducated mothers giving birth much too young to underweight babies who in turn grow up to be unhealthy and uneducated. As part of the campaign, they are following a group of little girls and their families until 2015. 

Join this campaign by clicking on www.becauseiamagirl.org.

Someday I will prove that I am no less than my brothers...Rakhi, 17.

Joanne Harris is my favourite author on the list, and that may explain why I was especially taken with her style when she describes so powerfully and poetically the story of the Great North Road in Togo.

An excerpt:

One of the watchers on this road is Adjo.

In the mornings at five o'clock, when she gets up to do her chores, the road is already waiting for her; humming faintly; sheathed in mist...The road is like a crocodile; one eye open even in sleep, ready to snap at anyone foolish enough to drop their guard. Adjo never drops her guard...Until two years ago, she went to school, and the road saw her walk the other way, dressed in a white blouse and khaki skirt and carrying a parcel of books. In those days, the song of the road was different; it sang of mathematics and English and geography; of dictionaries and football matches and music and hope.

Now,

Traffickers. Such a cruel word. Adjo's mother calls them fishers of men, like Jesus and his disciples. Their river is the Great North Road; and every year, they travel north like fishermen to the spawning grounds. Every year they come away with a plentiful catch of boys and girls, many as young as twelve or thirteen...they smuggle them over the border by night...sometimes they take them over the river on rafts made of wood and plastic drums...they sell them for the price of a bicycle.

Adjo knows the road is a god, a dangerous god that must be appeased...sometimes it takes a stray child, So Adjo sings; Don't let them come, please...

The road sings a song of loneliness; of sadness and betrayal. It sings of sick children left to die along the road to Nigeria; of girls sold into prostitution; of thwarted hopes and violence and sickness and starvation and AIDS. It sings of disappointment..

There are so many gods in the land of Togo. River gods; road gods; all may be false gods. But the real power lies in the human heart; its courage; its resilience. This too is the song of the road, and through the voice of children it endures and grows more powerful every day; sinking its roots deep into the soil, sending out its seeds of change wherever the wind will take them.

Adjo knows change will not happen today. Or this year. But maybe in her lifetime -
Now that would be a thing to see, don't you think?

I hope you learned a little something new and I hope I have been inspiring enough to encourage you to buy the book and/or join the campaign.

Denise..:)

Travelling Solo - Word Painting Blogfest entry

Thanks to Dawn Embers  for hosting the Word Paint Blogfest. Description is called for, so I've tweaked the beginning of a short flash I had in the 'forgotten' file. Read and enjoy, then use the link above to read some more...

She was hurting all over. The mattress was lumpy and scratchy; her sides ached from tossing and turning. She felt something biting, stinging her face. She groaned, clapping her hands, trying to scare whatever it was before she was eaten alive. ‘Ouch!’ she whimpered. ‘Pesky little creatures!’ she snarled through clenched teeth. She slapped at the air a few more times, then groped around, looking for a light switch.

Her water glass fell with a clunk and a splish onto the wooden floor. ‘Darn!’ she whispered as loud as she dared. ‘Ha!’ Finally her fingers found an object and she pressed hard. ‘Whoops!’ she squeaked, clamping her hands over her mouth. The radio blared, filling the night with foreign chatter. She felt a knob and turned...Phew! Silence…

She looked around in the semi darkness, alert to strange sounds seeping in through her tiny window.The call to prayer was echoing across the rooftops. The city was awakening. She knew that somewhere on top of a minaret there was a muezzin calling the faithful to the mosque to pray. But did he have to use a microphone? Her poor head.

She held her head in her hands, gathering her thoughts, waiting for her heartbeat to settle. Then she discovered what felt like an old-fashioned light switch.

‘Whoa!’

Her feet hit the damp floor. She gasped, aghast. Miniscule moving mites covered her bedclothes. She couldn’t make out what they were. What creepy crawlies do they have here? How did they get in? Did I bring them with me in my backpack? Did I brush against something on my way up the stairs?

Never mind how they got in. They were here, now, thousands of the little blighters. She threw back the moist covers and got to work, smacking madly, making little red smears on the greyish-white cotton. ‘Take that! And that! You little monsters!’ she hissed.
Seeing no further signs of life, she ripped the sheets off the bed and shook them, snapping hard, imagining tiny black bodies floating in the air. Smiling grimly, she straightened the bedding, wondering if she’d be brave enough to dive back in. Why not! I’m not some wuss! She snapped off the light.

She tried to sleep. But she couldn’t stop imagining little critters crawling around in her hair like PacMan, Chomp! Chomp! After awhile the thought was comforting. She tossed and turned, scratching her head, her arms, her stomach, thinking, thinking...
Solo travel could be a bitch. Even PacMan was company.

So please leave a comment, then click the link above to read more.


©Denise Covey, 2010

Black Angel - Life of Crime/#fridayflash

Black Angel

Black is my new favourite colour.


Your hair is the first part of you I see as I push you into the world. Amidst the euphoria and pain I am surprised to see a little head covered in black. Sure, it is messed in little curly strands, mixed with blood and fluid, but when the nurse washes you and hands you to me wrapped in a shawl as soft as fairy down, your hair is a halo of black fuzz. As I gaze at you I fall in love. I hold you close and kiss you and blow soft puffs of air across your head, catching my breath in wonder.

Art is blonde and I'm a redhead. Go figure. But I love your black downy fuzz. It goes so well with your bright red wrinkly just-been-born skin.

I'm ready to leave the hospital when I get a huge shock. You’ve gone bald. My God! Your beautiful black hair is no more. No one warned me about this. How can this be? To go from fuzzy black to bald overnight. Obviously I hadn’t read the baby books closely enough. Is there something wrong with you? No, I'm told. This is quite normal. Normal, I huff, no one told me I was going to have a bald baby. I hug you close, mourning the loss of your baby locks. It looks like I’ve given you a zero cut with Art’s clippers. It’s ok, I'm told, she won’t stay bald for long.

#

Within a week your hair grew back, but this time it wasn’t black, it was blonde.

And blonde it remained, except when you were sixteen and you and your friends decided to go goth at a pyjama party. When I picked you up, there you were, one of six gorgeous girls with charcoal-black hair, thrift-shop black overcoats and black Doc Martens, laces trailing like old spaghetti. My mouth was open, ready to tear strips off you, when I realised that you hadn’t gone black, you were…

…red, see Mum. I wanted to be a redhead like you. Whaddayathink?

It’ll grow back, I say, a bit at a loss.


The redheaded phase only lasted a few months, then the blonde was back but with a red tinge. I wondered why you didn't go black like your friends who kept their black hair, their overcoats and Docs, then added piercings, tatts and attitude, but I was pleased you didn't take it all on board.

How I loved your long strawberry-blonde curls. You were a Botticelli angel come to life. My heart did somersaults just looking at you, lying there in your dark room at night, clutching your red teddy bear, your hair wavy on the black satin pillowcase with its single red rose.

Art was beside himself, terrified every time you went out at night. He'd pace the floor, look at the clock, look out the windows.

I prayed.

Art always hated your friends, especially Jack with the black mohawk, stiff as a weapon. You were Art's little angel. He never wanted you to grow up.


He got his wish.

Who would have thought that you'd be caught between Jack and Art's hatred? Who would have thought you'd take the fatal blow? Oh, Art...Art...Angel...Angel...

Here you are, lying so close to me on your four-poster bed with its black drapery. But tonight your beautiful strawberry-blonde hair is hidden from me. Except for one curl, caught in the zipper of the slick black body bag.

Black is no longer my favourite colour.

©Denise Covey, 2010

Blog Breakout - Please take a peep

Just a quick newsflash to say that I now have 4 blogs in case you haven't noticed! For my followers on L'Aussie Writing you've probably seen that I've undergone several changes as I've sorted out my focus and gone from a thinker to a cowgirl, yee haa. I can't promise my look will never change again. Already those trees appear a little dull...and there's just so many cute skins out there. Hmm...

So here is a brief description of my blogs:

• L'Aussie Writing - right here - my everyday writing blog, flash fiction, story excerpts, writerly bits and pieces
• Pichets in Paris - my French indulgence - Paris/France/European photos, travel stories, history, French-style decorating and information blogs
• L'Aussies Travel Blog - photos, stories, links about Australian/Asia Pacific travel
• Muscular Dystrophy Blog - information, stories, links regarding disability and MD in particular. Trying to raise awareness of this degenerative disease.

So I hope you'll pop over and take a look at my other blogs and consider following. All my blogs can be accessed by the 'My Other Blogs' link at the top of L'Aussie Writing.

There's more...if any of you just happen to be interested in antique stationary engines (or know someone who is,) my husband Geo has got in on the act and has started a blog called New Way Station, where he is hoping to meet fellow enthusiasts of these ancient engines. Hey, he's even got demos off youtube!

Thanks, lovely people.

Weather Blogfest - The Whale Hunt Hots Up

Thanks to Amy and Mia at a Little Slice of Nothing for hosting this blogfest which I see has not been plain sailing (excuse the pun.) I forgot until I saw an entry flash past my blog feed - eek, but I did sort of have something in mind.

This scene takes place about halfway through my WIP novel. The MC’s love, Michael, has left his beloved Ruby behind and is following his dream of intervening in the whale slaughter in the Southern Ocean. Naturally, there is lots of weather involved, adding to the drama.

Read on:

He was growing tired of playing poker every night, watching the interplay of national characteristics—schooled British accents, flat Kiwi vowels, Australian slang, American drawl, Irish jokes. But Michael thought it’d beat steering through icebergs at night.


Restless, Michael wandered out onto the stern. There was a merciless wind, so he zipped up his parka as far as it would go. The big black ship seemed to be diving ahead—plunging, pitching, rolling. Michael stood steady, his feet firm on the deck. He’d managed to adjust to the rolling motion.


‘The weather’s being kind to us so far,’ Irish Mick said as he strolled by, ‘but you just wait...’


Michael watched the sky. To tell the truth, he wondered if this old tank could survive a storm. As he stood watching out to sea, a dense fog rolled over the water and he suddenly felt the wind and the temperature drop. He looked for the big white birds—they glided out of the fog, white on white, then were absorbed by it. Michael was comforted by their presence.


‘Hey, Mike, did you know that the albatross know when a storm is coming?’ yelled a couple of deckhands who were smoking nearby. ‘You can tell everything by the birds, y’ know.’


‘No, I didn’t know. Thanks.’ Michael watched the mist settling on the waves. He felt uneasy. He went below-decks to take a nap.


When he came back up, the fog was rolling over the decks like heavy smoke. It put a veil between him and the water. He could no longer see the wake. We are a black ghost ship, Michael thought, sailing into oblivion. We are all alone—strike an iceberg, tear the hull, down in two minutes. What good would an emergency radio beacon do in this empty vastness? He had a pang of longing for the safety of the Eco Pacific, his state-of-the-art whale watching vessel safely anchored in a marina at home.


*** Cut here in the interests of brevity for blogfest…


Michael went below decks. He fired up his laptop and began his blog post:


In pursuit of unnamed whale ship. Two miles away. The superstructure looks white and the rest looks like fog. Perfect conditions for the whalers. We are moving slowly through a dream of fog and ice. We have passed two icebergs of over 100 feet high and the size of Manhattan. We have been passing it for the past hour and have at least the same to go. I tremble to think what a splash it made as it broke off the glacier.


All around our ship are rafts of broken icebergs—some the size of ships, others as small as a dinghy, some sculpted like animals. The water is as blue as a deep lake. We are in a floating world, a monochrome world—whites, blues, greys and blacks. Little white snow petrels and little Antarctic petrels glide around the ship. The air smells pure—not a trace of smoke, earth, tree, rock, grass. In the water, a few penguins waddle along the edge of ice, flying through the dark water as did their forebears. They stand, gawking up at the black hulk passing by. They stand in a ragged line and wave stubby wings.


This place does not seem to belong to earth, yet the birds, the circling birds, remind you that you are still on the planet.


© Denise Covey 2010