Hello. Welcome to my ‘About Me’ page. My pen name is Anne Saddler otherwise known as the Grey Hen With A Pen.
I live with my husband and dog in the suburbs of a small port, in the county of Cornwall, in the far South West of England. I settled here many years ago after living a somewhat nomadic life. My father was in the Royal Navy and we moved every time he was posted…so every 18 months or so. This meant that I barely had enough time to settle somewhere, and make friends before we moved again.
As I write this, I have no particular ambition to become a children’s author. My fiction writing is largely a hobby — albeit a very enjoyable one. I make my modest living from a very different kind of writing.
When I write for pleasure, I enjoy trying out different styles and genres, and writing in a variety of forms, from poetry and prose to essays and memoir. I like to enter my work in competitions — so far with little success apart from the odd ‘Highly Commended’. …
Floriography is the language of flowers. Blooms, plants and floral arrangements can be used to send coded messages, or as symbols.
Caterpillars, however hard they try,
Can only ever eat and creep,
And only when a butterfly,
Are they ever free to seek,
Places far beyond their dreams,
And leave behind the pale green leaves,
Of lilacs, apples, elegant rowans,
The lilacs, lilies and the roses.
My passion, the multi-florous wreath, In a kingdom full of blossoms, Heady perfumes… Drift asleep… Deep into velvet darkness… Unbuttoning what is veiled and lost, Once upon a midnight happy, Blossoms, Tormentors of my…
The Poor Clare strode down the narrow cobbled street with the relentless purpose of a marauding Viking, her pudgy face hard, and expressionless. An oversized wooden rosary swung from a rope belt that pulled in the folds of her voluminous brown habit. Unlike her cloistered sisters, Bridget Riley had grown fat as the extern nun now known as Sister Mary-Joseph.
Sister Mary-Jospeh and the other extern sisters, were allowed to leave the convent grounds to mix with the faithful and carry out missionary work in the outside world. …
Richard Saddler listened, with increasing irritation, to his wife’s breathless, and faultless, recounting of the alarming events which had led to little Annie Flannigan’s demise. Elizabeth, an unwilling, but enthusiastic witness of the whole sorry affair, had arrived home late, and flustered, and was eager to share the experience as her excuse. Richard pulled his unlit pipe from between his thin lips.
“Stop yer blethering, woman,” he said. “What do I care? One less Irish is no loss, in my mind.”
He surprised her with a back-hander that knocked her off her feet and split her lip.
“Now shut yer…
Hers is a disturbed experience of conversation.
The bitter sentences repeated, heard and evaluated,
Each word to another.
A momentary pause.
The hemlock words again repeated repeatedly, until the end
To start again.
The intention to confuse, and in the confusion to slip away, with pride intact.
She repeats the words, the rolling syllables, the sentences that wound,
until — finally tested,
He turns in one direction, and she, another.
They rolled once, then twice.
However they landed,
She moved to where they were.
Something had blasted them,
She could not know it.
I have been interested in, and studied, philosophy and religion over many years. Although I don’t follow any particular religious pathway, I understand why many people do.
I am both fascinated, and bemused, by the fact there is one Christian bible, but a myriad of interpretations of its message, which results in thousands of differing faiths.
This poem sums up the viewpoints of the many, and varied, believers and non-believers, who I have spoken with over a number of years.
While she waited patiently for Frank Mercer to marry her, Maria Flannigan lodged in a boarding house in Church Lane. The small cottage sat at the back-end of St Denys’s Church. Maria shared a windowless rear room with her dear friend Rosie O’Connor.
Maria and Rosie’s families were neighbours in Long Close Lane, at least they were, until Rosie was thrown out of home by her ma. Much to the chagrin of her devout parents, and bemusement of Sister Mary-Joseph from the convent, Rosie was being courted by the Devil in the guise of a protestant boy. Maria’s beau came…
Yellow-brown catkins like lambs’ tails
tremble amongst its light green leaves,
in its shade we make memories
to reminisce as our light fails.
Its drooping branches silver pale.
White bark, symbol of purity,
Black rugged base, maturity.
Beneath it, we are intertwined
as autumn seeds on swirling wind
bless us with their fertility.
Amentos de color marrón amarillento como colas de cordero
tiembla entre sus hojas verde claro,
a su sombra hacemos recuerdos
para recordar como falla nuestra luz.
Sus ramas colgantes plateadas pálidas.
Corteza blanca, símbolo de pureza,
Base rugosa negra, madurez. …
Richard Saddler was a nasty buggar. You’d go a long way to find a Walmgate man (or woman for that matter) who thought differently. It was bad news to mess with the Saddler family…always had been. One incorrigible Saddler generation after the other had proven it so. If you got on the bad side of one of them, you were on the bad side of all of them…probably for ever. Richard Saddler was the biggest toad in the puddle and all Walmgate knew it. Those who didn’t, suffered by their ignorance.
Richard’s mother, Old Mary, had dragged up the children…
Anne Saddler lives in Cornwall. She is a writer, blogger, and poet. Anne is a qualified lecturer and former Adult Education Tutor.