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    Overcoming Adversity: An Anthology for Andrew
    Overcoming Adversity: An Anthology for Andrew
    Overcoming Adversity: An Anthology for Andrew
    Ebook196 pages2 hours

    Overcoming Adversity: An Anthology for Andrew

    By Nick Wilford

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    About this ebook

    A collection of seventy moving and uplifting original pieces - real life, flash fiction, and poetry - about battling against the odds and the ultimate triumph of the human spirit. The contributors include bestselling authors Alex J. Cavanaugh and Kyra Lennon, and the cream of upcoming talent.

    The anthology is part of a fundraising effort to send the editor's stepson, Andrew McNaughton, to a specialist college in England. Andrew has cerebral palsy, and is a remarkable young man with a promising future. However, the free further education options offered in his own country of Scotland will not challenge him and allow him to progress. In order to access the education he deserves, Andrew will have to pay exorbitant fees, thus creating a situation of discrimination.

    Help us get Andrew to college by buying a book that runs the full gamut of human emotions, ultimately leaving you inspired and glad to be alive. Whatever struggles you are going through, our sincere hope is that this book will help.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherNick Wilford
    Release dateFeb 28, 2013
    ISBN9781301207657
    Overcoming Adversity: An Anthology for Andrew
    Author

    Nick Wilford

    Nick Wilford is a writer and stay-at-home dad. Once a journalist, he now makes use of those early morning times when the house is quiet to explore the realms of fiction. When not writing he can usually be found spending time with his family or cleaning something. He has four short stories published in Writer’s Muse magazine. Nick is also co-running a campaign to get a dedicated specialist college built in Scotland. Visit him at http://nickwilford.blogspot.co.uk/.

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      Overcoming Adversity - Nick Wilford

      Surrounded by the Enemy

      By Denise Covey

      Sunny’s heart pounded in time with the steady drumbeat on the roof. She had never heard rain like it. She was not given to fear but tonight the sounds unnerved her... just a little. The whispers of wet leaves blowing on the wind had become a roaring as the galvanized roof took a pummeling. If she allowed herself to turn fanciful, she could imagine a jack-booted army marching overhead.

      Enough of that! Think about Matt. She wished she’d not been so abrupt when he’d rung earlier in the night and shouted down the phone at her.

      Sunny, get out of that house – now!

      I’m not leaving my home for some itty-bitty water. I’ve been through worse, Matt. No matter how bad the rain is, we’ve never been flooded.

      Don’t be infantile. I might be thousands of kilometers away but it’s looking pretty grim according to the BBC. I can do the math. Our house will be under by metres before the night is over!

      Darling, you’re such a worry wart. I know it goes with the territory. Nice of you to be so concerned, but last time I looked, the river was way down. The weather reports never get it right. Always sensationalism. They get off on scaring people.

      You’re so stubborn. Does that go with the territory? Sunny thought it best not to answer that. Matt continued: I’m sending Josh over.

      Don’t waste your time, darling. Josh’s already been. I told him I’m staying. I’m a big girl.

      I love you Sunny. I can’t live without you. Leave for me and the baby if you won’t do it for yourself.

      *

      She hadn’t listened. Now it was too late. Her house was surrounded; the enemy was at the door.

      Sunny pottered around the kitchen fixing a snack, singing on top of her voice – anything to keep her mind off the now raging water. She was afraid to go too near the windows in case they shattered. She could just make out palm trees straining in the gathering gloom, fronds swiping the sodden grass in long wet trails.

      She sat down at the kitchen table, rubbed her stomach, whispered to the little soul inside. The water could always go down, couldn’t it?

      She shivered in the icy coolness. She pulled her parka over her jeans, leaving it unzipped. Baby, you’re so big...

      Uneaten snack pushed aside, she huddled in her chair, alert to the river sounds. Matt, my darling, I love you, she whispered, I’m sorry.

      Crack! A eucalyptus tree speared her kitchen window – shattering shards of skittering glass pinged on the tiles. Rain poured in.

      Help me God, she whispered, clutching her stomach.

      The phone... again...

      Run! Josh shouted down the line. Get the ladder and climb into the roof! I’m coming!

      The phone dropped from her freezing fingers. Water crashed through the kitchen door and sucked and swirled around her sopping feet.

      Sunny was tough. She’d overcome adversity many times before – bushfires, cyclones, drought... and now... floods. She’d survive this. She had to – for Matt and their baby.

      She began to climb as the first pain struck.

      Australian writer Denise Covey won her first short story competition at age eleven for a story about a snake and her dog. She survived the snake, but was bitten by the writing bug instead. After studying Arts and Education at University, she taught High School English and History, a rich mine for story ideas. She now runs her own English tutoring business, while writing every chance she gets. She has four novels on her flash drive undergoing edits, but has published short stories in magazines, travel features and newspaper profiles.

      Denise founded RomanticFridayWriters in 2010, a flash fiction online writing community, where both upcoming and published authors write to monthly prompts. 

      When parted from her laptop she’ll be reading or running. She loves blogging and welcomes you to visit her @: http://laussieswritingblog.blogspot.com.

      Curiosity Killed the Cat – Did It?

      By Hilary Melton-Butcher

      Curiosity killed the cat – did it?  I don’t think so – it stimulates, keeps us interested at all levels of life... a brief tale of hope, during a time of challenge:

      You’re in London to celebrate your brother’s birthdays, your mother has travelled up from Penzance... she is obviously not well – and the next thing we know she is in hospital with a stroke.

      It’s not severe, there is hope... she can talk.  Life takes on train journeys from Sussex – you’re exhausted... what now?  Relocation to Cornwall to look after your mother... life is on hold.

      After four weeks and a dose of noro-virus she is ready for recuperation... a short trip to the new hospital... more strokes and our next visit is to the Acute Brain Injury Unit (ABIU): we’re lucky it has exceptional care, diagnosis and treatment.

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      How to adapt?  When she was able to my mother was happy to interact... so during her time in the ABIU we go with the flow and there were days that were good and days that were bad – and all days were exhausting.

      For six months the world went around until we were able to get my mother down to a Nursing Centre in Eastbourne, where I live and could be around more to support and care for her.

      At the time of the first stroke she enjoyed shortish articles, or snippets of information, that would stimulate her brain with ideas or things we could laugh about together – when the incapacity strokes happened... the progress was extremely slow and not hopeful.

      By the time we reached Eastbourne she was able to communicate, I’m extremely grateful to say, though essentially was bedridden for the rest of her life (another four and a half years).

      We had to overcome the fact that she could not eat or drink... challenging at times: but my mother, having owned a care home, realised and was able to work out what was what.

      I wrote to friends and relatives which generated cards back – and more interaction... the blog had started but now evolved as time went on – my mother could comprehend and always remembered... Washington’s teeth was one of her favourites.

      We had fun and I learnt to put her needs first – my life could go on hold for a while – because I could see a future... I was blogging, teaching myself history, learning how others coped through their adversity.

      Curiosity didn’t kill the cat – it gave me hope and an education... while I had the happy memories of those curious snippets.

      Hilary’s blog:

      www.positiveletters.com

      President George Washington’s teeth and other tales: 

      http://positiveletters.blogspot.co.uk/2010/12/teeth-washington-hippopotamus-vered.html

      A lover of life – who after London, spent time in South Africa; an administrator, sports lover, who enjoys cooking and entertaining... who through her mother’s illness found a new passion – writing, in particular blogging; which provides an opportunity for future exploration, by the daughter, who has (in her third age years) found a love of historical education. Curiosity didn’t kill this cat – interaction is the key!

      An End

      By Trisha Farnan

      Meri stares at the ceiling a lot. It helps distract her from the pain. The healer tends to her, but there are others much more badly wounded and the healer has set his priorities straight. It helps that she’s given up fighting him. He trusts her to stay put. 

      She’s counting on it. 

      Time passes and the fussing lessens. Soon enough it’ll cease completely, and Meri will be left to her much-needed rest. 

      Seconds tick away and she grits her teeth. 

      ~*~*~

      Cries echo down the hall – they’re admitting a new group of wounded. Meri draws a deep breath, folds the sheet back and slides gingerly off the bed. She pads to the door and peeks out. All clear. Back in the room she closes her eyes, expands her focus and summons the magic. 

      It floods her, swelling each strand of pain to a glowing hot red. It fills her with a new strength. 

      It hums and blossoms outward, covering everything. 

      Meri’s eyes snap open. She creates a portal and steps through it. 

      She enters chaos.

      ~*~*~

      Meri swipes a broom rider from the sky. The figure floats to earth, spinning end over end. Across the field of warring Queen’s soldiers she spots a dark-cloaked witch stalking toward her. The witch’s blue eyes are cold and intent. Meri splays her hands and attacks. The witch counters, forcing Meri to duck out of the line of fire and throw a spell side-on. The witch crumples, now a steaming pile of black on the sodden earth. My battle is over? Meri muses. I think not.

      Her wounds are barely healed and fatigue claws at her, but she drinks in the magic and spews it back out in a lightning arc of destruction. 

      ~*~*~

      She crawls. 

      There is a lot of mud, and most of it sticks to her hands and shins, bogs her down. 

      A gaping wound glistens in her side, darkening her grey garb, but she feels only a distant ache. They are underestimating her, thinking her done. 

      She is not done. 

      ~*~*~

      Meri senses her prey. 

      It huddles behind one of the mid-sized boulders protruding from the mist. It attacks with careful precision, striking specific targets. Meri slides from boulder to boulder, leaning against them. She stumbles between shadows, seeking confrontation. 

      Seeking an end. 

      A flare of awareness alerts her just in time – she throws herself aside as a glistening death trap whistles past her ear. She bares her teeth, breathes heavily through her nose, and blunders on. 

      ~*~*~

      The prey reacts instantly, slamming Meri backward against a rock, pinning her. Meri slips a hand in a pocket, seeking the dagger. 

      The prey advances, haughty in its moment of triumph. Ah, little mouse, you have found me. Meri grips the dagger’s hilt. I have been waiting... 

      It strikes her, draining her instantly of her power. It draws its face close to gloat. 

      Meri draws the dagger and plunges it home.

      Trisha Farnan is a UK-born Western Australian writer, singer-songwriter, fine artist and traveller. She completed a Bachelor of Arts with Honours at the University of Western Australia in 2002, majoring in English and History. In 2006 she completed a Postgraduate Diploma in Information and Library Studies, and now works as a systems librarian in Fremantle. She has travelled a lot and intends to travel a lot more in future.

      Trisha is a rabid music fan and a massive feline fan.

      Visit Trisha's blog, WORD+STUFF, at http://twfwordstuff.blogspot.com.au/

      We Write Our Own Epitaph

      By Roland Yeomans

      Seven years ago, Hurricane Rita was a category 5 hurricane.

      I spent the morning running rare blood to scrambling hospitals.

      I drove back home to wolf down lunch. A mandatory evacuation was issued. I went downstairs.

      Someone had siphoned the gas from my car. All the gas stations were shut down. I was stranded in the path of a killer hurricane.

      Alone.

      Freddie, my supervisor, called checking in on me. He offered me a ride in his car as he drove beside his wife’s car containing his two children.

      So with the clothes on my back, my laptop on my lap, and Gypsy, my cat, in a carrier, I rode into the darkness.

      The highways were log-jammed.

      We drove the back roads, the cypress trees bending down over us in the blackness as if listening to our whispered voices. Freddie’s eyes were hollow.

      As we passed his wife’s car, I saw she was frantic.

      I winked at the pale faces of Freddie’s two children, pulled Gypsy out of the carrier, and picked up her front paw as if she were waving at them.

      They giggled. And the grip of panic on their mother seemed

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