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Ascriber / Writers Eyes Workshop - 2.

'The Hand'

Imagine a hand, is it smooth or rough? Male or female? Are the veins prominent? Has it long fingers or short? Fat or thin? Any scars? What about the finger nails, are they long? Short? Well trimmed? Have they been bitten? Any varnish (what colour)? Are there any natural discolourations?

Now imagine the person the hand belongs to. What sort of work? How old? Has that person recently done anything special with that hand.? (committed murder, baked a cake, handled a new baby)? How does that person dress? What hobbies, friends etc? Give the person a name.

Story writers, write a story in any genre about that person and mention the hand. We are feeling generous this time and so you can use up to 2000 words

Poets, a poem in any style - about the hand. Line limit 80 lines

Playwrights, a play for radio, TV, stage or screen in any genre, The person that you have imagined must have a key role. Time limit 25 minutes.

Please send your completed work to us for display, if you've any hang-ups about your work being displayed for criticism, whilst obviously we need to check your name against our register, we will gladly use a pen name of your choice or simply say anonymous. Should you still wish for your work not to be criticised in public, please tell us and we will feed the comments directly to you.

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We are always grateful for your comments and will be pleased to display them, or should the writer prefer, e-mail them on.

        Dressed in an old cassock and smelling of camphor he was praying. Nothing unusual in that, a prayer or two is expected of a Curate, even in the Church of Wales: praying in the rain kneeling on a prie-dieu of wet soft grass amongst the grave stones is not. His wrinkled face, his thinning hair hanging in wet strands across his face cruelly portrayed his age. He was old, very old; the wardens father remembered him as being old when he himself was young. Holding on to a grave stone he slowly struggled to rise and failed, his hands arthritic, misshapen with age grained with the labour of a lifetime were not enough. His warden saw him rushed to take his hand and helped him to his feet, as he brushed the wet grass and mud from his cassock the warden saw the white crow foot like scar on the back of both hands; he had seen them many times before, the scars glistened whenever the old chap was worried.. Together they walked to the shelter of the vestry.

        Bro. Thomas had been the incumbent so long none of his one hundred and eighty parishioners cared enough to try and unravel the obfuscation surrounding his tenure of office; they liked him and respected him. 'Bad news I'm afraid,' he said handing a letter to his warden to read. The news was bad, the Church warden read the letter twice before handing it back.The old Bishops' successor, as it turned out a new Business with a degree in Bishop Management armed with lap top and spread sheets was coming that morning to introduce himself. The letter went on to say he would be accompanied by the Bishops Messenger, a Reverend, who turned out to be a an ecclesiastical high flyer; a callow pimply youth revelling in an air of canonicity hidden by an aura of borrowed sanctity.'It's worse,' he said, 'it seems he has received a letter of complaint concerning my conduct. I have no idea what he means: as warden I hope you will stay.'

        The Bishops Daimler groaned to a halt as the pimply messenger jumped out and held the door for the Bishop. He knew how to impress and was good at it, striding forward smiling, he initiated the introductions while holding a multicoloured golfing umbrella to shield the Bishop from the heavy downpour and hastily led for the shelter of the vestry. Barely able to disguise their surprise at the lack of preparation for their visit they sat down on benches which Pimples inspected with a practised eye and dusted them before the Bishop sat down.

        'Coffee would be nice,' Pimples said, disdainful of the old curate, he felt he should not have to point out the absence of the social niceties other Parishes were glad to offer their visiting Bishop.
        'We have no water nor the means to boil it here. No electricity I'm afraid; never thought it necessary, the church is very old circa 620 A.D. too old for these things don't you think? The curate smiled apologetically. 'No coffee either.' .
        The Bishop very inch the managing director of the diocese, looked around the vestry, displayed what he thought was an all embracing look of compassion towards his workforce before setting to dispassionately scrutinise the dioceses' life line, his spread sheets; his business acuity clearly reflected in his rimless half moon lenses. .
        'Strange,' he uttered . 'Very strange, I have a letter of complaint from one of your parishioners yet this parish is not on my list of assets. Are you sure you have not missed any data regarding church properties?' he asked his messenger. Pimples was about to assure him when he further said, ' there is a curious lack of information on this stipend printout concerning the present incumbent. For heavens sake,' he said raising his voice, ' we have balanced the books based on this information.' Turning very abruptly to the curate the Bishop inquired, 'How much is your stipend, I hope you don't mind me asking?'.
        'Never received a penny ever.'.
        'What! Surely…..never?'.
        'Not since 1920 Bishop.'.
        '1920….are you sure?' and then pensively, 'this church is not on our property portfolio either. Very strange I must say, on the other hand very cost effective. But how?' It suddenly crossed his mind whether he could extend this type of financial arrangements to other parishes the dioceses would show a handsome surplus. The situation was promising indeed. .
        'The Disestablishment Act of 1914, Bishop, because of the Great War its implementation was delayed, after the war the issue became more protracted and highly political, eventually in 1920 the severance was hurried and very badly organised I'm afraid. This poor church and I, wholly unimportant, were forgotten when records were referred to the new Church Authority, presumably in St. Davids.'.
        'Did you draw this to the attention of my predecessor, about your stipend I mean?'.
        'We have managed reasonably well during the intervening period.'.
        'My dear chap, how. How could you have managed and since …eh…1920…did you say, without financial support?'.
        ' Charity of my parishioners mainly, and their Gods and mine, together with what I manage to grow in my garden. I managed somehow.'.
        The Bishop sat bolt upright, adjusted his glasses, turned around on his uncomfortable bench, an inquisitive frown on his face.  'Gods! Did I understand you correctly to say Gods?'.
        'Indeed not all my parishioners are Christian some serve and revere other deities. Sometimes I wish the Christians were as devout.'.
        Pimples coughed, was wary, he could gauge the temperature of meetings to perfection; he had also worked out that the curate had to be a hundred if not over. He smiled nervously, this could not be right surely he thought, or could it? Forgotten he had said, his mind raced. The scandal, then there was the question of back pay. 'O my God,' he whispered, 'from 1920 to the present day, that's…that's eighty two years….times….times, my God …times how much. It can't be right. It's a disaster, we've balanced the books, my spread sheets, my career….' .
        Outside the raucous call of a thousand rooks welcomed the faint rays of the sun as it pushed the storm aside and warmed their roost. Inside the atmosphere was tense, frosty cold. .
        'There is only one God' the Bishop said, his eyes half closed as he scrutinised the ancient heretic and who was clearly outside the narrowly defined spectrum of hope and forgiveness the Bishop was willing to concede. .
        'For Christians yes. Some of our locals, bless them, are Old Religionists as they refer to themselves have several. Pre Celtic I imagine, Celtic as well, a mixture I'd say.'.
        To give himself time to recover his composure the Bishop rummaged in his brief case and produced a letter of complaint he had received. His face contorted with disbelief, pained with the merciless hue of pulpit gravitas, angrily pointed to the letter. .
        'It says you officiated at an interment of an animal, namely, a pig.' His voice raised he asked, 'is it true?' The Bishop was besides himself and continued, 'with the views you hold about Gods, I would not be surprised, it would explain quite a lot.'.
        'Officiated, no. I was present at the internment and commiserated with the poor people in their sad loss. Their pig, Ambrosius as they named him, had died. We prayed together in our own ways.'.
        'I find it difficult to believe what you are telling me, I'm horrified. And this grave stone with heathen writing mentioned in this letter, what do you have to say about that?'.
        The curate smiled, 'nothing sinister in that Bishop. They wanted a headstone and a most erudite friend of mine suggested the wording. They liked it, we all liked it.'.
        'Which is?'.
        'Hic Jacet Ambosius Porcus. A most heathen of languages wouldn't you agree?'.
        Pimples raised his eyes towards the Heavens, his hand folded in supplication. .
        'Let the Bishop see me praying Lord, and please, please deliver me from this confused parish. P.S. There is only one God.'.
        The Bishop whose face had turned a strange shade of purple, shouted,   'Sacrilegious, there is no other way to describe the situation.'.
        Pimples nodded, his eyes closed in reverence said, 'indeed Bishop, yes in deed.'.
        The curate nodded in agreement, 'they for their part would agree with you entirely. For me a Christian to be present was a defilement of their ancient ways and customs. I felt privileged to attend. Their belief go back to the dawn of time and have continued uninterrupted ever since. They are impressive in that respect.' Seeing the Bishop bereft of words and looking deeply shaken he said, ' let me explain. Where death is concerned, they believe when they die their spirits go to reside with their Gods, there is nothing untoward about that is there? If the transition from this world to the next is interrupted, for whatever reason, the spirit becomes earth bound until the next propitious time, usually the first Thursday after the full moon when another attempt will be made. During the period of forced entrapment on Earth the spirit usually resides in an animal, more often or not a pig. Poor Ambrosius they told me had served in this capacity and they were honouring him in death. They also believe in the transmigration of spirits between living persons. I believe....no, I know they practice this unto this day, the undead so to speak.'.
        'I have never heard such nonsense,' the Bishop interrupted, 'never.'         'Pythagorean perhaps. Wouldn't you say?'.
        'He may have a point Bishop,' Pimples said carried away with the explanation until he realised his future in the Church was careering down the wrong path. He blushed and said 'perhaps I'm mistaken Bishop.'.
        'You most certainly are.'.
        ' Indeed Bishop, you are quite right.'.
        'They are heathens, and you Sir,' turning to the curate 'dare to defend them.'.
        'Only their inalienable rights to their beliefs. Yes.'.
        'Let me tell you I'll move heaven and earth to have this blasphemous den of iniquity closed. Is that understood?'.
        The church warden to their surprise broke the deathly silence that followed the Bishops outburst, ventured to say. 'Excuse me sir, I don't think you can do that. Close this church that is.'.
        'You dare tell me what I can do or not do in my own diocese.? .
        'This church does not belong to your dioceses. Twenty years ago we formed a Trust, which is legally binding and with your predecessors agreement, we sought and succeeded in a Statutory Declaration as to ownership. This Church is the property of that Trust.'.
        'What does that mean?'.
        'It means Bishop, with utmost respect you understand, you have no authority here. The diocese as you have shown today has not paid a penny to the curate, virtually sacked he was in 1920, and what's more you have no records legal or otherwise concerning this church.'.
        'Is this right?' the Bishop asked the curate. .
        'Indeed it is, it is valid as long as I'm curate here. When I retire this church returns to the appropriate authority. When this rather embarrassing omission was discovered it was agreed by all concerned at the time, as one way to overcome the very awkward legal employment situation of having to pay me a stipend going back to the Disestablishment. A stipend I never asked for, sought nor wanted: it would have probably bankrupted the diocese, not to mention the adverse publicity. This parish has never been visited by a Bishop before. Now we have Bishop who can speak our language and who cares for the parish, small though it is, I think it is time I retired. I can see this parish will be safe in your hands.'.
        'O Bishop I could not have put it better.' Pimples said smiling. .

        'I simply do not understand you at all. Are you absolutely sure you want the curacy of this parish instead of being Bishops messenger and eventual promotion. I believe you to have a brilliant future in the church, but this is not the path I would advise.'.
        'Indeed Bishop, I'm grateful to you, I have set my heart on this parish, that is of course if you see you way to appoint me.'.
        In utter disbelief the Bishop rose, taking his messenger by the hand said, 'congratulations curate in charge. Strangely enough you remind me of him; stranger still that he should have disappeared as he did. I don't suppose you have any idea where he could be, more than I do.   Look after the parish if only for his sake.'.

        'You are the last person I expected to see as curate here, The church warden was in his Sunday best to welcome the new curate. .
        The new incumbent asked, 'Would you remain as my warden. They are going to give a small stipend, do you think we could get a gas ring and cylinder and coffee of course? By the way as my name is Thomas I'd like to be known as Bro. Thomas same as my predecessor really.'.
        As they shook hands the warden realised how much alike he and the old curate were , he even smelled of camphor. Glancing at the curate hands as he helped him with is luggage he saw the crow foot shaped scars glistening white in the excitement of the moment. Confused no longer he smiled, 'welcome back old friend,' he murmured to himself, 'I wondered where you got to.'

Comments

Opening - Excellent, gives an immediate interest. Only query in the first paragraph is, does the word 'chap' fit with the style of tale?

2nd para. Slightly confusing, believe wrong word 'a new Business with a degree in Bishop Management'. Should it be a new Bishop?
Why should the Curate be bothered, later you say he isn't under the Bishop's control anyway, could he treat the letter as a 'bit of a joke'. Even if the Bishop was in charge of him, I wouldn't have thought at that age he'd be particularly bothered.
You will need sympathy with the Bishop's messenger, and so to describe him as a callow pimply youth sets a wrong impression, a short story doesn't give room for such changes in a person. I think to give him a name and say an ecclesiastical high flyer should suffice.
As the tale unfolds so does the humour and some very good writing. Can you make more of the messenger being the new curate (this also goes back to needing sympathy with him).
The crow foot scars are an excellent touch.

On the whole, I believe the work to be extremely well written but needs a harsh edit and reshaping.

Mick Hudson

A good read with a nice twist at the end. It held my interest all through. Being pedantic, I think some of the sentences could have been shortened to make easier reading. I'm afraid I didn't see the ending coming!

John Ryley

This is beautifully and intelligently written with the kind of detail that retains a reader's interest. The pace is measured and precise and the short story works effectively. (I agree with other commentators that "Pimples" needs characterising more effectively - but this is really a small point). While I was reading this piece I couldn't help feeling that I was looking at the work of a novelist rather than a short story writer - and a very good novelist, at that.

Stig Geiger.  

I suppose that, as hands go, they were not particularly beautiful ones. The fingers were short and stubby, twisted by arthritis, nails broken and worn from years of work. Too many dishes had passed through those hands, transformed from dirty to pristine and gleaming, so many buttons had been sewn on by those same fingers and countless tears wiped from a grubby cheek.

Burn scars marred the back of the right hand, gleaming white even against the paleness of the almost transparent skin. The palm of the left displayed the jagged reminders of a shard of mirror glass long since snatched from an infant's grasp.

Age spots stood livid against the ivory flesh, blue veins tracing their paths like rivers (or even road maps) going nowhere - or somewhere - all too fast.

The nails were deeply ridged along their length, and white flecks glinted as, even then, the hands tried to compose themselves into the familiar shape of prayer, then fell back, quivering, onto the coverlet.

I held them between my own, fluttering like butterflies in a jar, yet as cold as if night had already fallen.

And, as I held those hands that one last time, I knew that my mother's hands were the most beautiful hands in the world.

Comments

Filial devotion and in-depth observation combined to present a touching and beautiful piece of writing. The word excellent as a description seems to short change the work.

J.Williams.

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