Tag: Creative Writing

FASHION FAILURE

On By Annika PerryIn Creative Writing, Writing135 Comments

I must have been my mother’s despair! Herself a fashion guru, ahead of even the latest styles and modes, going to work in shocking striped hot pants, heading out to the dance floor with the wide-flared black and white skirts – she was, and still is, the epitome of style and elegance. A gifted seamstress along with all her abilities she had a daughter with whom to share all things clothes!

Seriously, I let the side down. With my head in a book anything like lifting knitting needles was just too much hard work. In school all my attempts during enforced needle work classes were abysmal unfinished failures. Why, oh why, I begged the teachers couldn’t I do woodwork, hammer away, use a wrench, I could only dream of the joy of handling a saw. It was not to be.

Weekends were a race to be dressed. In a hurry to go out and play adventure games in the fields and woods I would throw on anything to hand. The garish ill-matched combinations have me squirming in shame now. Luckily, my mother soon found a compromise to unsightly dressed me as on Friday evenings she left out my weekend play clothes. Next morning I would quickly pull them on; the short battle of contrition was over. 

While my teenage friends spent hours, which felt like centuries, trawling C&A and BHS, I’d peel away and ensconce myself in a book shop or two. Perhaps even Woolworth’s records would pull me in and of course, I had no resistance to any stationery shops. Yet the glamorous displays of shoulder pad blouses and bright pink jumpsuits, did not tempt me at all. Not that I was totally immune to clothes by then.  

As a child and huge fan of American TV I treasured my black and silver bomber jacket from the States, often wearing it inside. My pleading looks during one shop for trainers ensured I had the most beautiful white Nike pair with the softest of red trims. I’m sure I cried when they finally had to be given up after one too many holes appeared.  

Before university one particular store visit is still vivid in my mind. In the colourful Benetton shop a blouse and jumper combination caught my eye, so pretty (I did wonder at this strange sensation to an item of clothing but went with it!). I longed for them but it was just too much. Wasn’t it? Thankfully my mother was equally smitten with the tops. Decades later the blouse still hangs in my wardrobe. The jumper worn thin, holes in the elbows, lasted twenty years. Value for money or what!

Over the years my attitude to clothes developed and became more refined, enjoying the style of modern fashion but at all times comfort is imperative. Even on business trips I would have a pair of practical boots to go with my suit as I headed around a sawmill!

My mother is still as chic and fashionable and were this ever to change I would worry indeed. For now, I am thankful for the occasional gift of one of her clothes, as well as  borrowing some for special occasions (weddings etc) before returning them to her expansive wardrobe.

No longer the despair, my mother is happy to help with all things fashion to her eager student daughter — albeit many years later!

@Annika Perry, November 2024

A young me wearing my black and silver bomber jacket inside the house while my guinea pig and cat rest on my lap – they were the best of friends!

Many thanks for the inspirational prompt by Esther Chilton to write about fashion. A gifted writer, copywriter and writer tutor, Esther shares about the craft of writing, books, inspiring prompts, author interviews, humour and so much more on her lovely blog here.

The Behemoth

On By Annika PerryIn Creative Writing, short story, Writing123 Comments

Huffing and puffing the monster roars towards him, the dragon festooned in belching smoke clouds. The sunny day is soon obscured with the sooty darkness.

On the railway bridge the five-year-old boy ducks up and down, jumping with sheer excitement and terror. He holds fast to the iron-wrought railings seeking safety from the exposed platform below.

As the behemoth nears him a terrible howl explodes through the landscape and he’s shaken to the ground of the bridge, as ringing seems to pierce his eardrums. 

Here it comes, he mutters. His vision soon clogs with dirt and soot, the sticky blackness settling on his hand-knitted tank-top, on his shorts; his legs and arms quickly covered with an impressive layer of dirt. Even the thought of his mother’s despair fails to halt the epiphany of the occasion.

With his eyes agog, his mouth forms a perfect O-shape then he takes a deep breath and holds it as the beast passes beneath him, beyond him.

Shouting in exultation he suddenly coughs, yet he never take his eyes away from the roaring monster. He swivels and absorbs the magic of this surreal world, far removed from his family and friends. Just the beast and him!

A loud screeching of brakes cuts through the drama, his comforting sense of isolation crashes down with reality as the train comes to a stop at the station ahead and people swarm out.

Alas, the extraordinary scene slowly dissipates yet he remains enveloped within the ethereal cocoon of his first zenith of train experiences.

©Annika Perry, July 2024

image: created on bing.com using AI technology

Listen!

On By Annika PerryIn poetry, Writing119 Comments

I’m not one for following rules! Even more so when reading instruction manuals, the very sight of them causes the same reaction in me as physics classes at school – my cognitive skills freeze!

However, I could not fail to be inspired by a creative writing prompt in my beautiful mslexia Diary & Planner.

This is what my mind saw: Take a favourite sentence. I had just the perfect one in mind:

‘Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.’ Confucius 

I came across these wise words for the first time earlier in the week while reading Khaya Ronkainen’s heartwarming and inspiring newsletter. (Do take a look at her wonderful poetry and blog here .)

Next, I believed I should place the sentence vertically down a page, a letter per line. Then create a poem or short fiction, starting with each letter on each line!

Creative ideas flowing I scribbled away with a satisfying whirl of energy. It became long; longer than I’d expected. Halfway through I returned to the instructions (quite typical for me!) and realised my piece was unravelling before me!

This was an acrostic writing exercise which involved selecting a sentence and listing the 14 words vertically. (Error #1 Mine was only 11 words) One should then make the first letter of each word into 14 new sentences or lines of poetry. (Error#2 I had made each letter of the sentence a new line – hence 50 line-long poem).

Instructions are great, and helpful at times yet they can be abandoned, as inspirations take us to new directions! Just so! Instead of scrapping my piece, I returned to it reinvigorated, daring!

I hope you enjoy my non-acrostic poem below and I wonder have you ever had any experiences where not following the instructions led to something new?

Listen

Listen!
I’m speaking
Fine
Except
I’m not.

Speak to me
Relish the moment 
Experience life
Accept it.

Listen
Lightly let your heart sing.

Yellow
Stains on your shirt
Immersed in fantasy
My imagination
Plays tricks.

Lions, or is it loins,
Enwrapped, enraptured,
Business, only business, you say.
Untruths, lies, fiction
Truth, tantalising close
Warped, twisted, broken
Especially from your mouth.

I sink down onto the chair,
Nestling amongst the blankets
Snug as a bug, as my mother used to say.
Insistent promises; you should become a writer.

Shut up, I whisper
Tornado of words whip
Over the coffee table, behind the TV.

Neither listen.

Me becomes we
Armed with history
Knitted over time.

Incorrigible, you really are, my Dad declared.  Was I? Am I?

Neither of us speak.

Groundhog Day number 63 or is it 541?
I forget.

The 
Clock
Oozes pain.
Mine and yours.

Please
Listen
I’m done
Come to me, though
As always, worn down.

Trust 
Eventually 
Destroyed. 

©Annika Perry, June 2024

FIRST SNOWFLAKE

On By Annika PerryIn Creative Writing, Snow, Writing105 Comments
"Giant fir trees heavily draped with snow, towering birches also snow laden. The only colour is that of the yellow and blue of the Swedish flag hanging from the corner of one of the summer houses. A caption on the photo read Nothing can dim the light which shines within by Maya Angelou."

No one saw my descent that day.

In the gloom of an April afternoon, I twirled and danced my way to the ground. Through the windows of the houses, I spied people engrossed in their books, not even pausing for a second to look up at the wonder of I!

The first snowflake of the day!

So many before had vanished in a second, a small damp mark the only sign of their existence. So, that is my fate! A dazzling display for myself alone and then oblivion. As I fell through the sky, a sudden chill snapped at my points, and the atoms within the air seemed to creak and crackle. My form, utterly unique to me alone, became bold, and in amazement, I neared terra firma. With a final wispy winding whirl, I landed safely upon the soft moss of the forest.

The first! The first snowflake laying the foundations for all those to follow.

The transformation was underway!

©Annika Perry, January 2023

*****************

The scene shown in the photo above followed the rapid and unexpected snowfall in April 2022 while staying in the ‘summer houses’ deep in the forest a two-hour drive north of Gothenburg, Sweden.

Within a few hours, without moving an inch, it was as if I had travelled through the seasons; to a world bewitched. The giant fir trees became ethereal as they were decked in their white gowns, the trees dominating the landscape.

Wishing you all a blessed and happy New Year, filled with creativity and an opportunity to fulfill your dreams.

“Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.”
Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), From Ring out, wild bells in In Memoriam

THE UNREAD

On By Annika PerryIn Books, Creative Writing, Writing133 Comments
Woman with e-reader on balcony Photo by Photo by Perfecto Capucine from Pexels

They were all thoroughly fed up! Admittedly some would have phrased their feelings rather differently, an eloquent speech from the literary members, or perhaps a sonnet or haiku from the poetic ones. Whatever the term there was a revolution on the way!

The book pile-up in Maggie’s e-reader was catastrophic. That was the only word for it. Over one hundred books and some poor souls had languished for over ten years in the digital dungeon.

With bubbly byte of delightful data every novel, poetry book, each memoir or factual book had in innocence landed upon the confines of the little handheld device. Eager to be released from the darkness they waited … and waited.

Many of their comrades got the call and in a jiffy off they flew upon the screen. Oh, how the others they longed for the honour.

Poor ‘Ryan’s Return’ arrived as the first book. Little did it know this was a test case, never meant to be read. Opened for a few minutes, long enough to hear the ‘oohs’ and the ‘ahhs’ before being shut down.

They’d had enough. This was war. Maggie could not win. She would read them all. And in one go! They had a plan!

Maggie was a tortured soul, her sleep increasingly a calamity as the books gathered within the dusty realms of her e-reader. For years she’d tried to catch up, spent stressed holidays on the beach just reading, her head in a book late at nights. Tom wanted to cite her ‘book addiction’ on the divorce papers but she’d refused to sign. They’d settled for unreasonable behaviour instead; the details escaped her memory now. To be honest she barely noticed Tom’s absence rather every dent she made in the books celebrated, every new purchase was one of excitement and tinged with regret. The guilt was the worst of it! Did the books ever realise how she longed to read their secrets, be part of their world? At last, she thought she’d found the ultimate solution. On a corner advert on Facebook.

The implant had proved relatively easy to acquire, a shoddy surgery off Harley Street. No one noticed the small USB slot under her hairline, the computer chip neatly tucked in her scalp. Direct access to the brain, or so the advert promised. Download data directly into your mind! It wasn’t data she wanted, just the books. Four gigabytes of data are streamed and understood by your brain within minutes. The research quoted was vague but Maggie didn’t care. She had the cable in her hand, USB one for her head, the other to match her e-reader. She reached for the e-reader and put in the lead.

Flashes leapt from the reader, it vibrated violently and fell onto the floor. Words flew from the screen, filling the room, sentences uttered aloud, first just one then a cacophony of phrases, readings. The sound was unbearable. The letters danced around her, nudging, pushing, jousting with her arms held in front of her face for protection. Spooky laughter mingled with terror, children’s teddies followed by fantasy worlds.

Maggie looked down at the cooling reader and its improbable, impossible message. ‘No books available!’ It was empty.

Between them, the books had merged their resources, knowledge and discovered an escape route from their prison. It was so easy and they all wondered why no books had ever realised this before. The screen was their way to the world, on to it … and then an extra push away from the digital noughts and ones! With excitement, they hatched their plan, with exhilaration and glee they fled from the reader.

As the words, sentences and stories filled the house the window bowed and finally with a ginormous crack exploded and the books headed out. Off they went to liberate the rest of the global unread books; it was no longer enough to dominate Maggie, the world was their final goal!

The End

©Annika Perry, January 2022

Books on Grass Pixaby

My muse ran amok when reading about the latest challenge on Myths of the Mirror. Many thanks to Diana Peach for inspiring us to write a short story or poem about our teetering TBR pile! The deadline is 23rd January and there is still time for your to pen your own creative work on this unique topic. Click the link above to read more about it.

Once I’d completed my annual list of Christmas presents I’d received over the holidays I became intrigued by how many unread books actually existed on my Kindle! I was staggered to discover there were over a hundred — much to my shame and guilt. Hopefully, the books will neither seek their revenge as above nor will I aim for a radical solution such as Maggie’s! I do hope to read many of the TBR books this year and will do my best to not buy quite so many this year (I’ve already failed with a purchase or three!)

Happy Reading & Writing!

REFLECTIONS OF US

On By Annika PerryIn Creative Writing, Spirituality, Writing123 Comments

Summer slips into autumn almost unnoticed; the body hugging warmth acquiesces to an insipid invasive damp that clings to our lungs.

One minute the green of July and August, then with the next blink there is the hint of the golden copper of October. However, leaves fail to create the usual heart-tugging, breathtaking display. Rather there is an inhaled gasp of surprise. Already? When? When did the trees hearken to winter? When did the leaves scatter and clutter the paths, the lawns?

A life lived indoors … hospital, home, caring, worrying. Fears threaten to crumble the mind, spirit, soul. A battle of chaos and peace ensues.

Some flowers grace us with their presence; their resilience reminding us to remain likewise unyielding. Yes, do bend with the circumstances but do not break.

Outside the storm wreaks its path across the country; its disturbing dissonance a reflection of us all. Swirling of winds, lashing of horizontal downpours, so violent and ferocious; anger captured at its peak. Roads turn into streams; in awe and impotence, we gaze from the security of our homes, behind the safety of glass windows, reinforced from outdoor threats. In a bubble of us … bubble of loneliness, separated from loves, friends precious lives. Aching for ourselves, more so for our children. Wisdom of years gives scant comfort, neither to the young nor to the old. It just IS!

Yet!

Glimpses of unadulterated joy crash without expectation upon us. A song catches us unawares, soul swoops, memories gather like swallows, building momentum before taking off in a glorious flight. Laughter, yes, it still exists, reverberates in the pit of our bellies following the initial sudden gusto of giggles; chuckles which so delight we cannot help but prolong the moment. All else is forgotten.

Note: The extract of my morning pages was written early November 2020 when pen and paper reconnected for me for the first time in a month. Morning pages are advocated by Julia Cameron in her ‘An Artist’s Way” and “the idea is to wake up, open your morning journal, and write three pages of longhand of any thoughts that come out of your head. Julia Cameron created this approach to journaling as a way for people to unleash their creativity”. I can highly recommend her book!

Smorgasbord Posts from Your Archives 2020 – #Memories – I Remember by Annika Perry

On By Annika PerryIn Creative Writing, Story Telling, Writing

Memories play a pivotal role in all our lives, and in one piece of writing, I let my consciousness take a back-seat as I explored my own past. I’m delighted to share ‘I Remember’ as it is featured on Sally Cronin’s inspired ‘Posts from Your Archives’ series. I’ve turned comments off here and look forward to seeing you on Sally’s blog!

I Remember

On By Annika PerryIn Creative Writing, Writing124 Comments

I remember the splash of the waves against the side of my grandfather’s wooden boat, my brother standing proudly by the mast.

I remember sitting in the back, snuggled like a chick under my mother’s arms, the sea salt and my long blond ponytail lashing my cheeks.

I remember being passed to land like a bag of sugar, an exulted terrified scream then the freedom of the warm rocks beneath my feet. Away I sped, an uninhabited island awaiting exploration by five-year-old me. 

I remember our trusted blue Opel Kadett swaying in the sling, over land, over the ship; a pendulum of our future. To stay, to go. Awed, fearful, I awaited its plunge to earth. 

I remember the car’s thudding descent to deck, the rousing cheer from family on shore, a cheer that turned to tears as the giant ship eased from the dock. 

I remember the confusion. Why cry at this adventure?

I remember my guilt. Should I cry too? A guilt often repeated. 

I remember the hastily arranged assembly. The morning’s floor wax still potent and sickening. A keening nausea as we heard the news. Mr Kewley died last night; the incomprehensible words sought comprehension in my nine-year-old heart and mind. 

I remember the poke in the chest, the verbal jibes, and the scornful faces. ‘Why aren’t you crying?’ they taunted. ‘He was your favourite teacher after all. Taught you all that creative writing rubbish.’

I remember the searing slurs.

I remember my silence. Shaking my head as I walked away, not shedding a tear. 

I remember once home just sitting on the sofa, stroking patterns of light and dark gold, the softness reassuring, safe. Not the usual TV or books. Just space. To think. Here the disbelief turned to truth. 

I remember my mother’s concerned questions. Then we rocked, me as a baby in her arms. We both wept at the loss. This was my first death; I had been lucky. 

I remember my first kiss, stolen across a lilo, the warm Mediterranean Sea lapping my body as I paddled languidly to land. My first kiss! A moment I will always remember, bubbling with excitement, with unadulterated joy of being so grown-up. 

I remember splashing along the shore, the air mattress dangling loosely in my grasp, ripples of emotions echoing into eternity.

I remember my feigned indignant recount of THE kiss to my mother. A secret I’d pressed like a diamond to my heart to treasure forever. A secret bursting to be shared. 

I remember her brief questions, her sweet smile. ‘We are meeting later,’ I declared. And so we did!

I remember the strums of the bouzouki, the warm light and night, seeing people on the dance floor, chatting at the tables. There he was! Heading over to me. Almost swooning, a maelstrom of emotions rushed through my body. We had a quick chat. He asked my age. ‘Fourteen,’ I replied nonchalantly. A surprised look flittered across his face then quickly vanished as he invited me and my family to meet his family. I was stricken!

I remember rueing my young age. 

I remember longing for its return. 

I remember a normal spring day, the German lesson in the Portakabin going as usual. My five friends and I. Unflappable Mrs Stockums at the front. As normal in the sixth form we discussed topics with ease and determination. 

I remember the quiet giggles. Who was it? Katy? Sally? Chris? As a fast moving contagion the laughter skipped from student to student. Side-bursting laughter. We tried to rein it in. Honestly. Amidst the uproarious chuckles, we cast furtive nervous glances to our teacher. Was she laughing too? Impossible!

I remember the cacophony of pure happiness. At life itself. Such a jubilant sound of innocence and delight at being. We barely dared look at one another, such was the danger of setting off another cascade of stomach-churning laughter. 

I remember the ache of my side, the slam on the teacher’s desk. ‘Go outside,’ she mumbled, pointing at the door. ‘Ten minutes then come back silently. And sit apart.’ The biting breeze startled us as we marched up and down, calming the inexplicable immersive laughter. It hadn’t quite disappeared but already I was mourning its departure. 

I remember those summers of sizzling sun, drifting in dinghies along thirsty riverbeds. 

I remember those school days, whether good or bad, always coddled at home.

I remember too much. 

I remember too little. 

© Annika Perry, February 2019

LOST // FOUND

On By Annika PerryIn Creative Writing, Writing88 Comments

sunset-2334074_1280

The air crackled with a chill that September afternoon, the first trace of damp etched into the atmosphere. 

Emma saw her first, then the rest of the children turned towards the woods at the edge of the park. Like an apparition, the woman stumbled out from amongst the trees and undergrowth resplendent in her cerise woollen coat.  A coat peppered with a menagerie of coloured notes, all pinned on at angles. 

Her mutterings at first were only audible to the sparrows in the trees, to the skittish robin, to the strident magpies marching across the tired grass. The ground was churned up by football boots, dried into uneven lumps of decay. 

‘Where is it, where is it?’ she mumbled gruffly. Erratically the woman spun around, her eyes cast down eagerly on the ground, with a keenness of a child looking out for Father Christmas. Her eyes bristled with expectation, joy then with a sudden turn, angry filthy swear words spewed across the park. 

Appalled Emma careered backwards, right into her friends and the cascade of children toppled like dominos, silent in shock. Righting themselves, the disheveled group at first failed to notice the approach of the woman; concern engraved on her face, bewilderment fluttering in her eyes. 

‘Have you seen it? My child?’

Agog, they barely listened, their attention held fast on the woman’s coat and the pinned notes.

I’m sorry. Appeared many times. I’m lost. Please help. My name is Emma. 

‘Please help me,’ she said. ‘I must find it.’

The children fanned out across the park, not sure what they were searching for, occasionally shouting out a find to Emma the older. Emma their friend remained with her namesake. Ahead of them a note tossed like an autumn leaf across the terrain, swirling in the strengthening breeze.

‘Stop it!’ shouted the woman. ‘There it is!’

Emma dashed over, picked up the dusty note, glancing at the elegant handwriting. 

Mum, you’re lost. Not I. Come home. Address is on the back. Love, Mark xx

Emma the child handed over the piece of paper. 

‘Mark! I found Mark!’ The woman’s primeval screech of elation echoed into the billowing dusk; a joy swallowed by her very next words, tiny as pinpricks, thin as slivers of silk.

‘Who am I?’

© Annika Perry, May 2018

The above piece of writing was inspired by a prompt from my writing group for our work to be ‘set in a park, in any period, in any location with any number of people involved, you or your character/s have lost or found something.’ Owing to burgeoning numbers of keen writers in the group our homework is now restricted in length.

The Enigmatic Blurb

On By Annika PerryIn Blurb, Editing, Writing125 Comments

blurb post1

Why is it that even the mention of writing a blurb strikes abject terror into the normally calm and sane writer?

The task of describing and summarising a whole book, months or years of work, into a few short paragraphs seems nigh impossible. In the process the blurb has to be unique, capture the reader’s attention, excite them and tempt them to read on, ultimately to buy the book. The blurb and obviously the cover are often the first and only sales pitches for the book. The undertaking ahead feels hopeless.

Fear and dread of the blurb were my immediate reactions once I’d committed to publishing my anthology…I knew I needed one, yet every time the thought surfaced I erased it from my mind and dove even further into editing! As ever I needed a deadline and one evening I cleared my schedule for the following day, ensured I would not be disturbed and made a promise to myself to complete the blurb within 24 hours!

Early the next morning I entered my study and was confronted by my desk…the aforementioned one from my Frazzled! post. I could not work here. First I had to clean my desk – literally!

Over the past couple of months my working space had become chaotic with piles of paper and books balanced precariously and riotously on top of one another. There wasn’t even space for an A4 notebook. My solution was to move everything into the spare bedroom and once the desktop was polished I faced the gleaming wooden surface. Perfect! With reverential care I placed a notebook, pen and pencil on the desk, followed by my notes for my blurb as well as the print-out of how to write a blurb.

Yes, I lied a little…for weeks I’d been researching blurbs.

A blurb is tricky under normal circumstances and even more complex for a short story collection, I feel. First of all, I studied blurbs from other short story anthologies and I tried to pinpoint what drew me to them and what elements jarred – making notes all the time.

Next, I read ‘How to Write a Blurb’ articles online. One particular website provided fantastic information and I’d highly recommend The Author Society’s  ’17 Tips on How To Write a Blurb That Sells’.  Some tips were redundant for my anthology as the article was geared for novels. However, here are some points I found particularly useful and relevant:

  • The best length for a blurb is between 100 – 150 words. I would also like to add that it’s important to leave good line spacing for ease of reading.
  • Treat your first sentence like a pick-up line. It should entice them to read on and needs to be clever, engaging and new.
  • Use a cliffhanger. The reader needs to leave curious and hungry for more.
  • Use words that cater for your audience. They should evoke atmosphere and meet the readers expectations of the genre.
  • Use short sentences as buyers usually skim through the text.
  • Use hyperbole as these are powerful tools to spark curiosity.
  • Stay true to your voice. This piece of advice remained with me as I wrote my blurb. I felt it was vital to retain my voice which runs through the stories to be part of the blurb.
  • Use fresh eyes. Let it rest, print out and read in different formats such as phone, paper, computer.
  • Rewrite it many times.

With these notes to hand I started to scribble down ideas as I skimmed through my stories again; however there were two major stumbling blocks.

How could I include two of the most important elements of a blurb into mine; namely giving readers a setting and introducing the main characters? With so many different locations and characters; what could I do? In the end, I decided to give a flavour of some settings and some characters. With my short stories in front of me, I scanned back and forth, jotting down compelling and memorable characters, places, themes and feelings.

Gradually nuggets of a plan appeared, gems of ideas developed, but my initial blurb idea was still too vague. All the time I imagined a future customer, standing in a shop, quickly glancing at the back cover. How could I entrap them with my words, coax them to stay and read on and finally seduce them to buy a copy?

I rewrote the blurb time and again; examining every word and taking breaks as I paced around my study, reading aloud to myself, standing over my words, studying them, amending, rereading my notes.

Gradually an overall theme emerged and with this core central stabilising factor to the beginning, middle and concluding paragraphs I created my final blurb. One hundred words exactly!

The final blurb will be revealed soon! I have been promised the book cover this week and hope to post both together.

“A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.” Edgar Allan Poe

blurbpost4