From 20-24th December, free kindle download of Comfort & Joy, my collection of Christmas-themed stories.
Click the image for Amazon link or search James Ross, Comfort & Joy.
Spent the last three or four weeks working on project with some pals, but I’m realising it’s a dead end, I shouldn’t have begun it. I’ll have to stop because it’s eating into my time and filling my hard drive.
Lose early, move on.
I haven’t been to many church services in recent years, but the last two times I was playing an instrument. Last night I took Miyagi, my alto sax, along and joined some former colleagues for a lovely service.
The highlight for me was listening to a dozen Iranians singing a hymn in their native language. They were just singing, there was no artifice, no false American accents, no posturing. Just singing. It was real.
As the reverend held the service, little kids in PJs and coats ran about the front, and that too was a wonderful thing.
I saw J’s mother there, which was weird, she’s about as religious as me, but then I realised she might be involved with the Iranians. There was no reunion, no setting aside of past differences; there was no forgiveness. I don’t converse with thieves. I blanked her. She blanked me too. I think that was the proper thing for both of us to do.
That aside, the evening was just wonderful. Returning to a place that I hold dear in my memories was like stepping through a looking-glass.
Suzie asked me if I’d play a Christmas concert at Burn Park church, and I said yes. I haven’t been there since I was fourteen, I wrote about the place here, and it’s dear to my heart. It was a refuge for me when I was a kid and life wasn’t kind.
I set up in the church at about half five, then nipped through a side door and walked along a corridor to the place where we all used to meet up. Sat in a seat, saw myself sitting there aged thirteen with Mark, Mickey, Heather, Carol and the others, everyone older than me, looking after me; a place where I never needed to be tough or defensive or tell lies. It all came back to me; I cried.
I texted my girl Ruthie and told her where I was. She texted back, ‘Gd memories?’
‘Safe memories,’ I texted back.
A short story of mine, Bones, is featured on this site.
Not sure about the artwork, seems like it was created by someone who didn’t read the story. Either way, feel free to read it there, maybe comment.
New story of the month.