'Body of Knowledge'

Another writing competition placing (and to explain my temporary inbox absence).

Sunset over Utah Lake, Sept 2024 (© J. Reid)

Hi there.

Some news…

You may have noticed a recent pause in my weekly newsletter. If you didn’t then it might be a good thing – you’re getting on with life! I decided to take a break from writing whilst on vacation and think about where and how I wanted to position myself as a writer. Without boring you with publishing industry this and marketing strategy that, on returning to England I created a new – and entirely separate – Substack publication called the ‘The Consilience Series’ to serialise my debut novel, INGRESSION. The prologue and first chapter are already published, with the second chapter coming out later today.

Note that, even as a regular subscriber to my ‘ReidItWrite’ newsletter, you’ll need to separately subscribe to this new publication - I haven't assumed this automatically!

Subscribers will have the opportunity over the next fifty or so weeks to receive my novel in twice weekly instalments - that's 100 chapters containing 120,000 words.

Find out more details here or just dive in and subscribe below to receive an introductory email:

Rest & Relaxation

My vacation was spent visiting family in America, specifically the contrasting states of Virginia and Utah. My relatives are scattered across five continents and, since video calls are no substitute for hugs, travel is a necessity to witness at first-hand how the next generations are growing and thriving. As a writer, it’s also an excellent opportunity to watch, learn and play. (Eating play dough and indoor roller-skating, anyone?).

Here are my highlights, including things I’ve never seen or done before:

• Hiked through Shenandoah National Park for five hours without meeting another person (or bear).

• Cycled down a 7,000 ft mountain and only came off twice (double ouch!).

• Canoed down a fast-flowing river whilst trying not to annoy fly-fishers.

• Watched a fierce lightning storm envelop a city from a nearby hilltop.

• Fished in a lake, caught a catfish, put it back.

As often quoted, ‘variety is the spice of life’, and I’m very fortunate to have such marvellous opportunities.

In other news…

During the summer (remember that?) I again entered a piece of flash fiction into my local writing society’s monthly competition (which is open to all). The prompt for September was:

“Imagine people gathering around a table. It might be to eat, play a game, hold a meeting…. anything. Write a self-contained scene or a short story of no more than 400 words set around a table. Make sure your characters interact. How they interact is up to you! Any genre.”

I applied my usual wide interpretation and drew on an indelible memory: my first day at university, wearing a white lab coat, stood next to a different kind of table. (Does that mean I can’t call it ‘fiction’?). The judge, lecturer and writer Judith Heneghan, enjoyed the piece sufficiently to award it third place from a crowded field. It’s the third time I’ve been placed in the Society’s competitions in less than a year, which hopefully reflects a degree of consistency and quality with my short form prose. Proof also, perhaps, that ‘practice makes (still not!) perfect’.

You can read my 400 word entry both below and, together with the first and second placed entries, on the Hampshire Writers’ website.

Until next time…

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Photo by Europeana on Unsplash

Body of Knowledge

Only an arm was visible as we surrounded our assigned table in formalin-laden silence. Its skin was thin and crinkled, like waxed paper without the crackle, and liver spots peppered it from stiff hand to chicken-skinned elbow. We’d drawn straws on who would uncover more. With a deep breath, Alex tugged once on the white plastic sheet, a young conjurer eyeing a potential upset. Her hesitancy revealed only a dimpled thigh, its weight beached on the table’s stainless surface from months of leaden gravity.

More tugs exposed a side of ribs, the chest mercifully still. From it a tumescence of flesh sagged sideways, its sunken nipple puckered and purple. Amar regarded this with a fixed gaze, abstaining from meeting the eyes of the living. We’d met only last week, with few taboos preventing the jostle to find new friendships for our long endeavours. Now, with empty notebooks and stomachs filled with steak and kidney pie – the canteen staff’s annual jest – we hesitated at this ancient human threshold, barely two decades of life within each of us.

From curiosity or trepidation, Charlie yanked the remaining cover away like a bull-baiting matador. Alex gasped as there she lay, the heart of our curriculum exposed, immodest yet deserving our immense respect. The sky-blue flannel which covered her face echoed its contours and her grey hair was brushed with care. Any instruction filling our heads evaporated in the unquestioned sanctity that enveloped the scene.

The woman laid out on our table had postponed her final departure to seed knowledge inside our curious minds. But uncovering the heart of a curriculum meant teasing her deceased body apart in utter ignorance of her long life. We would never know where her bunion’d feet had trod, what music had entertained her ears or sights had saddened her eyes. We would never know whose breath had filled her lungs, if love had swelled her heart, or if children had suckled her breasts. But, from this moment, we knew our table was hers.

I untied the green bow of my dissection kit and unrolled it at her pale feet, its pockets full of sharp, virgin steel. As Alex stroked her hair, Charlie pulled an empty plastic bucket from the shelf below. It was labelled with her table’s number, but no name. We could never know her name, even though my memory of her cut deeper than any student scalpel.

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