As regular “… Anything, Really” blog readers will know, one of the projects I have been wholeheartedly plugging—I mean, supporting—lately is Tales for Canterbury.

Tales for Canterbury is an anthology of short fiction put together by Cassie Hart and Anna Caro, with a range of short fiction donated by both national and international authors, as a fundraiser for the Red Cross Christchurch Earthquake Appeal. (You know, nods significantly, the earthquake—plus 7500 or so!)

I know I keep saying how great Tales for Canterbury is—and it really is! You can read a bit more about the anthology and some of the authors included here––but I’ve also decided to not just tell you, but to start bringing you a peak inside some of the stories over the next wee while. Just the first paragraph or so (if the paras are very short) so it remains “fair use”—but I do hope it will encourage readers to not just take my word for Tales for Canterbury’s quality but also to buy, buy, buy—thereby supporting the cause!

‘Anyways’, I am starting with my own contribution, The Fountain, which appears in the “Hope” section of the anthology. I wrote The Fountain as part of two creative initiatives. In the first, I was trying to write a short fiction series in different genres and styles.  The “genre” of The Fountain is a ‘recent historical story with paranormal elements.’ The second inititative was a mini series of ANZAC short stories based around the experiences of civilians, nurses etc, as opposed to soldiers.  (Another of the completed stories, The Walk Home was broadcast on Radio New Zealand in July 2008 and re-broadcast on ANZAC Day this year. )

So here it is, the opening paragraph of The Fountain (Tales for Canterbury anthology):

—

The Fountain

Helen Lowe

The only way to survive, Sarah found, was to shut out everything except
the immediate moment, the task at hand. She kept her whole being
focused on that one thing, because it was the only way to carry on, to
deal with the wrecks of human beings they kept putting in front of her:
the gaping wounds and burns, the suppurating tissue, exposed bone and
gore. Once, surfacing for a moment out of the intense focus that kept her
sane, she tried to remember who had said that war was hell. Someone
famous, whose name she should remember, except that she never had
paid much attention to history in school. Well, she realised her error
now. War was the maelstrom and there was only one way to survive it,
to focus on whatever came next, and then the next thing after that, and
leave others to debate effect and cause …

…

To read more, of both The Fountain and all the other wonderful stories comprising Tales for Canterbury, hie thee to Random Static and order your copy today, right here! 😉