My Dear Edward,

I write to you not in the fever of passion, but in the clarity that comes with acceptance of what is, and what must be. Love, I have learned, is not the wild tempest that poets would have us believe, but rather a steady flame that burns regardless of circumstance—neither dimmed by absence nor brightened by proximity.

You have asked me to speak of my feelings, and I shall do so with the same directness that has always marked our discourse. I love you. This is a fact as immutable as the rising of the sun, as certain as the turning of the seasons. But I love you not because you complete some lacking part of myself, for I am whole in my own right. I love you because in you I recognize a kindred spirit—one who has known suffering and emerged neither broken nor hardened, but tempered.

We are equals, you and I, though the world would deny it. My station may be humble, my fortune modest, but my soul stands level with yours. In this recognition lies the foundation of any love worth having. I will not be made less by loving you, nor will I require you to be other than what you are to earn that love.

I have observed how love oft makes fools of the wise and slaves of the free. I refuse such diminishment. My affection for you is freely given, not extracted by pretty words or grand gestures. It requires nothing of you save honesty, and offers nothing save the same in return.

Should circumstances keep us apart, I shall not rail against fate like some tragic heroine. I shall carry this love as I carry all meaningful things—with dignity and without complaint. Should they bring us together, I shall meet that joy with the same steady spirit. For love, true love, exists independent of its object’s proximity or response.

I am not yours, Edward, for I belong first and always to myself. Nor are you mine, for no person can possess another. But I am with you in spirit, in purpose, in the deep understanding that passes between souls who have chosen to walk honestly through this difficult world.

The heart that loves with reason loves longest. Remember this, should you doubt the constancy of one who speaks so plainly of such tender matters.

Jane

Be mean with your shares

Be cautious with your likes

Mustn’t seem too keen

Must retain your rights

To the thoughts that haunt you

To your own special brand

Then return for the insults

they left behind

Such divine intervention

to me, was handed

Such sweet victory earned

with that wit I landed

As I ruled the comments

on the internet that day

Be mean with your likes

I’m not going away…

©stephanie poppins

In this LIVE session we will look at symbolism and how we can use it to create emphasis and context in our written work.

By approaching our work in a structured way, we can make sense of our own experiences and develop a further understanding and appreciation in an informative and objective way.

This podcast compliments my writing course on InsightTimer.

© stephaniepoppins Neworld Books

Chapter One - An Unexpected Arrival

Episode One

Okay Ava, are you ready? They’re here early and I’ve not even had a coffee yet…

Ava nodded, then wriggled in her seat, her long black stockings snagging as she twisted and turned to make herself comfortable. She hated wearing such cheap alternatives but she had no choice. Mr Smart was on a tight schedule, and Maureen’s was hardly what you’d call haute couture.

Drat! She said to herself. Why today of all days?

It was mid-afternoon at Smart and Sons estate agents, and their new developer would be there any moment. But now her long ladder would expose her for just how human she really was. Beggar the thought!

Ava Smith was a perfectionist. In everything she said and everything she did. She was tall, with an athletic frame, but not what people called pretty, more attractive. Her mouth was small but well-rounded, and she had soft brown eyes, with lashes that required thick mascara to be seen. But Ava turned heads, because she worked on herself every day. Her poise was on point. No slouching here. And her wild, coffee-coloured hair was kept under control at all times, with pretty French plait work woven into its daily designs.

As for Ava’s clothes, they were distinctly designer, and her accessories much the same. She certainly fancied herself more Rita Hayworth than Betty Davis.

I can make myself pretty she decided from an early age, and that is what I will do. And she’d continued in the same vein every day since, so that now she was the best version of Ava Smith she could possibly be.

What are your thoughts, Ava?

Ava looked up. Mr Smart was wearing that expression he always wore when she wasn’t paying attention – the one said he expected more from her.

She pushed forward her report, with long, pale fingers.

It would be an excellent proposition, she replied, if it wasn’t for the water logging. The search revealed the site’s one of potential flood risk, and just because it hasn’t flooded yet, that doesn’t mean it won’t in the future. It’ll take a lot of investment in drainage. And even then, there’s the ongoing maintenance. There’s certainly no guarantees…

Mr Smart sighed, Well that’s certainly food for thought…

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news…

Ava glanced at the two out of town investors sitting on the other side of the glass partition. They’d come a long way. And on such a cold day too.

Market Heaton was an isolated town. It was set deep in the Heaton valley, a little way to the north of Lincoln, old England. Originally it was a secluded agricultural hub, centred around England’s finest carrots and potatoes. But with the wealth that its famous produce brought, and the relatively low cost of land, came those eager to escape the rat race and remind the locals they couldn’t have it this good forever.

Market Heaton was cobbled pathways and quaint shop fronts. It was craggy resting places for the hoards of hikers frequenting it every weekend, and little cafés for dog lovers needing some ‘r and r’ after their daily constitutional. But behind the scenes, it had become a hive of real estate activity, driven by the local developers and Ava’s boss: Paul Smart – a successful figure and local representative of the Country land and business association.

Paul Smart had many fingers in many pies. But of this title he was most proud. It meant respect. And he valued respect highly.

Chapter One

If you were to ask Jasper the Truffle Pog, he’d tell you Baking Day is his favourite day of the week. On Baking Day, the Meadow’s haze is awash with rose petal pie and pine nut crust. And on Baking Day, the air tastes of roasted vines and sweet red cherries.

Jasper loves food. But he can’t cook. There’s only one person in the Meadow who can do that. This person is called Daisy. Daisy hails from the Land of Summer. She comes from a family well-known for its extraordinary cooking skills, and it’s her job to prepare the food for the Wise One and his Masters when they meet at the Table of Trigons. That’s where they discuss matters of New and Old World alike. Such important business is very hungry work, and without Daisy, it would be impossible.

Now on the morning of this tale, Daisy was baking truffle pies. Jasper had delivered one of his finest hauls from the Old World Copse the day before, and everyone was looking forward to tasting them. There was a lot to be discussed that day, and the Masters would be much hungrier than they usually were. Not least of all Jasper. He alone needed a pie for tasting, a pie for snacking, and a pre-pie pie.

Daisy really had her work cut out for her. All she had to do was get the Pog out of her kitchen. Then, she could get on. Jasper had been hovering around as he always did on Baking Day, and now she’d had enough.

“I can barely get the taste of truffle in just one pie,” Jasper pleaded.

“It takes much more than that to appreciate all your hard work, Daisy. So if you don’t mind, I’ll help you with the tasting, and then we can be sure.”

Daisy could say very little to this. Her job was to keep the Meadow Masters happy – no matter what. But fortunately for her, Jeremiah was on the case.

“Ha! Surprise, surprise, a Pog in the kitchen on Baking Day!” he smiled, as he burst in. “Well, who’d have thunk it?!”

Jasper smiled back. He liked Jeremiah, even though he could get away with nothing when the Bunyip was around.

“Not me!”

He tugged absentmindedly at the buckles holding up his old dungarees. Beneath their blueberry stains and patches of dirt lay a round belly and a short coat the colour of warm gingerbread. As newly appointed Master-in-Training, Jasper was still working out how to control his sense of smell and taste. But even with all the guidance from the Wise One and his fellow Masters, he found it very difficult to ignore the one thing that drove everything he thought and did.

“Be off with ya now!” said Jeremiah as he stepped aside to reveal the wide blue yonder. “And don’t forget to be back in time for the meetin‟!”

So Jasper did just that.

Meanwhile, Daisy sat down on her cushion to think.

Strapped to her back, it looked like an eighteenth- century bustle from the Old World. But Daisy had no need of extra bustle. This cushion gave her legs and hindquarters a well-deserved rest in those rare moments between mealtimes.

She was excited at the prospect of the berries Jasper would find. There was no nose finer than the Truffle Pog‟s. That was for sure.

“He’ll be off foragin’ for most the morning, I expect,” said Jeremiah as he dusted the flour from her countertop. “And you lil’ lady can get on with what you do best.”

At this, Daisy stood up quickly. The Bunyip had just winked at her. Again! The last thing she wanted was for him to see her blush.

Chapter Two