Flash! Friday – ‘Unforeseen’

Buster Crabbe as Flash Gordon, promotional still from 1936.
Public domain photo, sourced at flashfriday.wordpress.com

Unforeseen

It’s there, in my mind, like a weed. This was too easy.

She’s never left the cage unlocked before. Not even for her cigarette breaks, or to eat – though she doesn’t eat much, now. But this morning she rose from her desk, mid-sentence, a ribbon of smoke rising from her ashtray, and left the room.

My cage stood open.

I ran, of course. Who wouldn’t? It’s not that she mistreats me, but captivity is a torment. I’m a free spirit. I’m –

Oh, Zeus. She’s coming! It’s been so long since I was loose that I can’t remember where I am, or where to go. I must hide! But she keeps me in rags, barefoot, and anyway I may not leave this dwelling. Separated from her, I will die. Is that irony? I should know.

Every writer needs a Muse, and I am hers, soul-bound. She doesn’t need to cage me, but she can’t trust me to stay.

I reach a dead end. I turn, desperate, but she is behind me.

‘There you are,’ she croons. ‘Enjoy your run? Had to get your blood up, somehow. You’ve really been underperforming lately.’ Her smile is a sudden blade.

Ah, me. My fatal flaw? Plot twists have long been my undoing.

***

So – yay! This piece of flash fiction has taken me *hours* to complete, but hey. I finished it. It’s mine! I did it! It’s been so long since I entered any sort of flash fiction competition that I half-expected never to complete a piece again, so I’m glad I proved myself wrong. My old brain cells aren’t firing on full power, as is clear from the Titanic struggle this story caused within me, but heck. A challenge ain’t a challenge if it ain’t hard, right?

So. You’re going to head on over to Flash! Friday and throw your name in the ring, right? You’re not going to leave me hanging? Good friends don’t do that sort of thing. Go on. Go on. Go on, go on, go on, you will, you will, go on…

Titchy Tales

Photo Credit: johnb/Derbys/UK. via Compfight cc

Consecrated Ground

The freezing mist settled on the humps and hollows of the land. She’d known cold days here before, but somehow it had seemed bearable, then. This new coldness had a blade in it.

The old house still stood, but another family lived there now. Another mother who’d looked her in the eye with kindness, a father who’d clutched her hand in his.

Her grand-daughter lent an arm as they set foot into the field, and she knew, immediately, what the Bible meant when it said ‘his blood cries to you from the soil.’ She fought the urge to sink to her knees and lose herself in the rich black loam. The cold dark earth.

Her grand-daughter was speaking; praying, probably. She didn’t hear. Her mind was with the memory of her husband, carrying three of his children out here into his own field, burying them with his own hands. He’d filled their graves with his tears.

Lost before they’d lived, the priest said they’d never see Heaven. Unbaptised, unwanted by God, there could be no burial, no Mass, no requiem. No rest, and no eternity.

Their tiny faces lost to her memory, and their bones to the land.

Photo Credit: subarcticmike via Compfight cc

The Long Step

Pablo knew his time had come, at last. In truth it had come years before, but nobody had wanted to take his hand and lead him to the mountain.

Nobody wanted to say goodbye.

But is wife had been gone so long that only the oldest children remembered her. The sickness had eaten her, and she’d chosen to take the Long Step early.

Pablo had no dependents now.

And so, one morning, he took his silent leave. He dressed simply, bringing only his stick. He slowly climbed the mountain road, savouring the air and the sky and the birdsong, the tang of sore muscles, the thump-thumping of his old heart.

Finally, he reached the end. The Long Step beckoned, out into eternity.

One final breath, and then…

Peace enfolded him, like a closing eye.

Surprised, the women at the mountain’s foot ran to catch the floating baby, newly reborn.

‘Who was due to Step today?’ they asked, but nobody knew.

Photo Credit: voyageAnatolia.blogspot.com via Compfight cc

The Great Escape

‘Faster, dammit!’ Her voice was raspy with sand and dry air. ‘I’ll leave you behind, nephew or no nephew!’

Cleve flung himself flat on his horse’s neck, hoping he wasn’t whipping it hard enough to hurt. He opened his dusty eyes and peered back at his aunt, tearing along behind him astride her huge black charger. She looked as raddled and sweaty as he felt. The sandy dunes, peppered with their horses’ hoofprints, soared above them.

‘Aw, c’mon, Elsie!’ he yelled back. ‘Herbert’s going as fast as he can! Plus, we’re carrying the loot, don’t forget!’ His aunt bared her teeth, giving her horse a savage kick. She was almost level with him now.

‘They’re catching up, Cleveland!’ she screamed. ‘And you know what that means!’

‘They’re in a balloon, Elsinore!’ he shouted. ‘How fast can they even go in that thing?’

As if in reply, a searing red light filled their vision. Elsie swore loudly as a huge rock above their heads, heated instantly to explosion point, shattered into shards all around them. The horses screamed, and Cleve watched as the huge silver balloon peeked over the horizon.

Elsie leaned in and smacked him across the head.

‘It’s not the balloon I’m worried about, boy!’ she yelled. ‘Ride!’

**

These are tales you may have seen before, if you’ve assiduously followed my ‘career’ on Flash! Friday. The first tale, ‘Consecrated Ground’, was my first entry for Flash! Friday, almost two years ago. It was one of the first pieces of flash fiction I ever wrote, back when the genre was brand-new to me; I still think it works, but perhaps that’s just my fond remembrance. ‘The Long Step’ was written at the start of this year, and ‘The Great Escape’ (which probably owes a little to the movie ‘Cowboys and Aliens’) was first posted in April of 2013.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this little stroll down Memory Lane, and that these stories might inspire you to seek out your own prompt images, set your own word limits and create some new and fascinating titchy tales – it could be the best thing you’ll ever do for your writing.

Scary Stories

This is going to be a hard blog post to write, not because I don’t feel strongly about the subject matter or care about what I’m going to say, but because I don’t want to identify anyone as I go. Let me just state at the outset, then, that the observations I want to make here relate to a general impression I have received lately, and I don’t want (and don’t intend) to make reference to any one person or piece of writing in what follows. (Also, this post is possibly triggering for violence, domestic violence and violence against women, though I’ve tried not to be too graphic, of course).

Photo Credit: olemartin via Compfight cc

So.

Over the last while, I’ve read several stories which take as their central focus the relationship between women and men. In general, they do not end well. The stories deal with rejection, and pain, and humiliation, and often they deal with death, sometimes self-inflicted. Some of them describe adult relationships, by which I simply mean ‘relationships between an adult woman and an adult man’; some of them describe relationships between teenage characters. In all cases, the stories were written by men.

I have read stories about young men being tormented by young women, made to feel ashamed and guilty for their romantic feelings, humiliated for expressing their softer emotions. I have read stories about college-age men being rejected by a woman in whom they were interested who then go on to take their own lives. I have read stories about men who feel used as playthings by unfeeling women who then take out their anger on one another.

And I have read a story about a man who murders a woman, simply because he can, and even as she lies dead on the floor he appraises the woman’s figure and attractiveness, and describes it for the reader.

I confess to feeling upset and slightly angered by these stories. Of course, I am the first to say that if writing something down makes a writer feel better, or if it expresses something deep within them, or if they feel they have something to say with the story they’re writing, then by all means they must write it. I don’t want to censor anyone’s creativity and I feel writing is a vital part of expressing what makes us human.

But, nevertheless.

These stories worry me.

They worry me because I’m afraid that the men who write them are basing them on their own experiences, and that they feel there’s nowhere else to express how they feel. They worry me because they echo so much else about our culture that worries me: misogyny in music videos; violence against women in computer games; women being seen as objects in magazines and newspapers and everywhere else you care to look; the rise of things like the men’s rights movement, which has sprung – in my opinion – from a profound misunderstanding of what feminism is about. They worry me because men, even some of those whom I love and hold dear, sometimes express ways of thinking about women which seem to me to be dangerous, reductive and upsetting, and the ways in which men and women interact in our world seems to me to be deeply out of balance. They worry me because, as stories, they are not questioning or interrogating or investigating the gender balance; they are not saying anything by making use of tropes of violence or abuse. They are simply describing what it feels like to be hurt, to be humiliated, to feel powerless – and how it feels to express your rage, whether it’s by causing injury to yourself, or a ‘lesser’ man, or a woman. One story in particular seemed to luxuriate in the destruction caused to the person of a female character, and I freely admit it disturbed me.

And here’s the thing: I’m a person who has read (and loved) Bret Easton Ellis’s masterpiece American Psycho, among others. I am not a prude, or someone whose finer sensibilities are thrown out of whack by a little blood. I am a person who has read, and relished, stories about men, women and violence – if they are saying something, at least something more nuanced than ‘this is how it feels to beat someone to death.’ American Psycho is a detailed and brilliant deconstruction of Western consumer culture, and it is skilfully created to allow the reader to both be and despise the serial killer Patrick Bateman, while at the same time constantly questioning whether he is even a reliable narrator – are his murders actually happening, or is he merely fantasising about them? In my opinion, it’s a work of genius, and while I understand you can’t compare a short story to a full-length novel, it should still be possible to express deeper thinking in a short story. A story about a man murdering a woman (or, indeed, a person of any gender murdering another person of any gender) should be about something else as well as merely a murder: it should be an artistic statement, an allegory, an image, a means of satire, a vehicle for expressing a deeper truth about human nature and/or society, and this is no easy thing to do. It takes a writer of unusual skill to pull off something so sophisticated.

If a story is simply about a man killing a woman, luxuriating in the detail, then to me it’s frightening, and it lingers on the border of voyeurism. If (as I’ve also come across recently, far too often) a story is about a man to whom everything comes easy, and who can have any woman he wants at the snap of a finger, and in which women are seen as mere dolls who exist purely for the pleasure of the narrator, then I’m afraid they hold no interest for me. Unless the author is skilled enough to use these tropes to make a statement about something larger, then stories like this blur the line into pornography, and there’s enough of that in the world already.

Thoughts? Am I over-thinking? Am I – even without meaning to – imposing my own values upon others? Am I guilty of censorship? I’d love to know what you make of this.

 

 

Telling Stories

Even though this week has seen me struggle to lift my quaking limbs out of the morass of infirmity (i.e. I’ve been really really sick), I am proud of one thing I managed to accomplish. Small and humble it might be, but I’m glad of it all the same.

I had another story accepted for publication.

Yay!
Image: cutestpaw.com

So, this means I have two stories – one for adults, and the other for children – being published within the next couple of months. Over the last fortnight I’ve actually sent off several stories, to a variety of places, and I’m hopeful that some of the rest of them will hit the mark too. Even if they don’t, though, I’m still glad I sent them out into the world. For what’s the point of crafting a story and then leaving it unread? It’s like making a delicious meal and then tipping it all into the bin. Silly.

I don’t think there’s anything I’d recommend more highly to people who want to write than submitting stories to magazines and journals. Sure, you’ll send away a much higher proportion of work than that which you’ll see in print; not everything you write is going to make it. But it’s still worth it, for loads of reasons. It gets you used to deadlines, demands, waiting on editorial responses (which never becomes fun), dealing with feedback (when the editor/s are in a position to offer it to you), and – hopefully – it gives you a chance to taste a small bit of what being a published writer is like.

Image: powderkegofawesome.com

There are a few things to bear in mind when you’re starting this process and – even though I am by no means an exhaustive authority on the matter – here are some of the things I’ve learned about submitting stories for publication, and how you can give yourself the best chance at success.

Write all the time. All right, not all the time. You’re allowed to sleep, and eat, and use the lavatory, and things like that. What I mean is, write for your own pleasure. Take notes of any story ideas that come to you, and keep them in a safe place. Look at everything that happens to you – people having an argument on the bus as you commute to work, a dog chasing a butterfly in the park, something funny that your child says – and see them as story elements. There is inspiration everywhere, and never let yourself feel downhearted or hopeless that you can’t find anything to write about. Taking the pressure off yourself can sometimes work wonders. Then, write the story, as well as you can, and leave it to one side. Come back to it, rework it, get someone else to read it and give you feedback, think about that feedback and then put the story aside again. Then, come back to it and finish it.

Repeat as necessary.

Build up an arsenal of words, a storehouse of stories. That way, if you come across a competition or a submission opportunity that has particular parameters – stories about cats, or pterodactyls, or written in Newcastle dialect, or whatever – you might have something in your hoard to suit. Also, with any luck, every story you write will be better than the last.

Write as much, and as often, as you can, but don’t beat yourself up if life gets in the way. As long as you’re doing it for you, and it brings you joy, have at it.

Do your research. There’s no point in sending off a ten thousand word potboiler to a flash fiction publication, and there’s equally no point in sending off a piece of romantic comedy to a journal whose interest lies in the macabre. All that will happen if you send your work to the wrong place is that you’ll upset yourself (because they’ll likely reject you, and you might not be sure why at first.) It happens, though – I know a few magazine editors, and they’ll all say the same thing: they get one or two stories every time they call for submissions which are so far off their target readership that they wonder whether the writers have ever read the magazine at all.

Which brings me to my next point.

We’re living in a world where – luckily, I guess – a lot of these literary magazines are freely available online. However, if you’re submitting to a magazine which has a paid subscription, then it’s always a good idea to buy an issue or two, if you can.  Not only does this give you a clear idea of what that journal is looking for – which increases your chances of being published in it next time – but it also supports the people who give up their time and energy to create it in the first place. Nobody goes into publishing a literary ‘zine in order to make money, but it’s a good thing to keep the circle going, if you have a few euro/pounds/dollars/shekels/whatever to spare.

Also, no matter how good your story is (and it may be the best story on the topic of plastic spoon production of its age, or any other), if it doesn’t suit a magazine’s theme or remit, chances are it won’t be accepted. This can be depressing, if you’ve worked hard at your tale, and if the magazine can’t offer any feedback. Don’t let this happen to you.

Make sure you use a reputable site or reference point to source the magazines or competitions you want to submit to. Unfortunately, there are a load of make-believe places out there who want to take your money. I have been caught out by one. I’m not going to name names, but I’ll say this: if I’d taken a second to Google this particular competition, I would have found out enough to keep me from ever submitting to it. If a competition has a submission fee, or a journal has a reading fee, then it’s always good to dig a little to make sure they’re on the level. Ninety-nine percent will be – and I have no problem paying entry fees or reading fees for anything which is genuine – but it does no harm to check. It’s a good habit to get into in general, even if they don’t levy any fees.

Image: rawstory.com

Then – once you’ve written, rewritten, polished, done your research on the journal, and you’re sure your story is as good as it can get – submit, and forget about it. This is probably the hardest bit. Submit, and don’t spend the next few days or weeks or months refreshing your inbox. Chances are, for the first while, you won’t get very far. But, I firmly believe, if you keep at it, you’ll eventually get that wonderful email that tells you how great your story was, and how pleased the journal would be to include it in a future issue, and that – well. That feeling is just fantastic.

And it’s worth all the work that came before it.

So, my pretties. Write. Submit. Go forth and grab that success out of the sky. If there are stories bubbling inside you, there’s no point in trying to keep them there.

And may all the good luck in the world go with you.

Edit: How could I forget this bit? If, at first, a story doesn’t succeed, don’t throw it away. No work is ever wasted. What didn’t work for one competition or magazine may well be just the ticket for another. The marvellous E.R. Murray wrote a blog post about this very thing only a matter of mere weeks ago, so I refer you there for further details.

First, Find a Hat…

Submitting a novel takes a certain amount of focus and effort. It takes time, and brain-space, and most, if not all, of your guts. It doesn’t, in short, leave you a lot of time to do other things, like enter competitions or submit stories to literary magazines, which is a shame; those things are important.

It’s hard to even write a short story, though, when you feel like this:

The lemon, that is. Not the hand.
Image: catalysttrainingsystems.ca

Sometimes, however, you’ve just got to tell that Muse who’s boss, and get her to start pulling her weight. If you were to wait until you felt in the fullness of your mental and physical health and/or everything in your life was shiny before you put pen to paper, you’d never write anything.

So, in that undaunted spirit, this week I’m beginning the process of submitting work to magazines and competitions afresh. I’ve just stuck my head above the parapet to check out the landscape, and realised I’ve missed a load of deadlines, which is a shame.

But, as is always the case, where one deadline passes another five sprout up to take its place, so there’s never a need for sorrow.

I have compiled a short list of competitions and/or submission opportunities (not exhaustive, just so you know: other opportunities are available!), mainly to help myself to stay focused but also to aid anyone else who might find themselves in the mood to throw their hat into the ring.

Artist: Bill Watterson
Comic: Calvin and Hobbes
Image sourced: helenlevel3writing.wordpress.com

Competitions

Mslexia Women’s Short Story Competition

The Skinny: Stories can be up to 2,200 words, and so long as they’ve never been published before (and they’re written in English), they can be on any subject. Entry costs £10 (sterling) and should be accompanied by a cover sheet, downloadable from the Mslexia website. First prize is £2,000 plus publication in a forthcoming issue of Mslexia.

The Complicated Bits: You have to be a woman to enter, and the closing date is next Monday, March 17th. So, get your skates on!

The Molly Keane Creative Writing Award

The Skinny: Entry is free, and there’s no restriction on the style or length of the short story submitted. You need to download an entry form from the Waterford County Council website and submit it with your story to the Waterford County Arts Office. Peachy.

The Complicated Bits: Entry closes this Friday, March 15th. Sorry about the late notice.

The Moth International Short Story Prize 2014

The Skinny: Stories can be up to 6,000 words, and must be original and not published elsewhere. A €9 entry fee allows you to enter one story, and you may enter as many stories as you like. The closing date isn’t until June 30th, which is good. You can find the rules here, and a link to online entry here. Go on, go on, go on.

The Complicated Bits: There aren’t any, really. Get on it.

The Bridport Prize

The Skinny: Bridport offers a smorgasbord of options. There’s a flash fiction competition (stories up to 250 words); a short story competition (stories up to 5000 words) and a poetry competition (poems up to 42 lines.) A variety of entry fees apply, and you should probably check out the rules, over here. Bridport offers great prizes, and wonderful exposure should you win, or be shortlisted.

The Complicated Bits: Winning is difficult, as the world and his mother tends to enter this competition. It’s reputable, popular and well worth entering, but there’ll be stiff competition. Just so you know.

MMU Novella Award

The Skinny: Have you written, or are you writing, a novella of between 20,000 and 40,000 words? Then, this is the competition for you. The prize is £1,000 plus publication, and the closing date is May 23rd, and the entry fee is £15. So long as you’re over 16 and writing in English, you’re good to go.

The Complicated Bits: Ain’t none. Well, assuming you have a novella in the works, that is. I don’t, so for me it would be nigh-on impossible. For you, though, it may be just the ticket.

Criminal Lines

The Skinny: If you’re a writer of crime, suspense or thriller novels, then listen up. A.M. Heath, an excellent agency, is looking for an unagented, unpublished crime author for their Criminal Lines prize. Amazingly, the novel you enter doesn’t even have to be finished – but you need to have a clear plan in place for the story. The prize is £1,000, but – better than that – you get to chat to some of A.M. Heath’s super-agents about your work. So, it’s well worth giving this a go if you’re the next Henning Mankell. Details are available over here.

The Complicated Bits: There aren’t any, so long as you have a twisty, nefarious brain which cooks up deliciously dark stories. I don’t. So, um. Good luck, though!

Image: avajae.blogspot.com

Submissions

There are literally millions of places to submit your work. Millions. I’m throwing out a few that are on the top of my head, for various reasons, but the following list is by no means complete.

ESCzine

A fabulous wee e-zine which is well worth checking out. They’re looking for submissions for their fifth issue, closing date April 30th.

Number Eleven Magazine

Possibly the most beautiful literary magazine in the ‘verse. Send them in your stuff, and maybe you’ll see it lovingly and gorgeously reproduced.

Story Shack Magazine

The best thing about this magazine is the fact that not only will you see your story in print if it’s accepted, but you’ll also be paired with an illustrator who’ll bring your vision to life.

The View From Here

Edgy and interesting, ‘The View From Here’ is a great place to stop off if you’ve some free time and fancy a read, and also if you have a slightly strange short story looking for publication. Give them a go.

Metazen

Pretty. Great stories. Wonderful ethos. Check them out!

wordlegs

wordlegs’ remit is wide – they accept poetry, short stories and flash fiction. And they’re lovely people.

The Bohemyth

You can’t go wrong with The Bohemyth. Always worth a read, and wonderfully produced. As far as I know, their submissions window is always open.

***

Wherever you choose to send your work, good luck. I hope to see you on a winners’ podium, or in print, in the near future. With any luck, I’ll be there with you. Always remember you have nothing to lose by submitting work to competitions (well, besides a small sum of money, sometimes!); every competition will make you a better writer. And – needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway – never give up.

 

 

Is It Friday Yet?

Man.

This has been a long, hard week – in so many ways. Reality (boo hiss!) has prevented me from doing as much writing as I’d like, and the writing I have done has been execrable nonsense. No – really.

As proof, let me proffer the following.

I laboured for hours yesterday on a piece of flash fiction which I had intended to submit to a prestigious competition. Its closing date? Today. Yeah. Not so clever.

Image: kotaku.com

Normally, my internal ‘deadline widget’ would keep me from making such a colossal mess-up, but for whatever reason it was on the fritz this week, and so things started to get on top of me. Anyway, after all the hard work of producing this piece of flash – and, for a while, I genuinely thought it was okay – I read it over this morning and realised that it literally makes no sense. None whatever. As well as that, the stuff that happens in it is physically impossible – which I know doesn’t really matter, because it’s a story. However, when the crux of what you’re writing hangs on something that couldn’t actually happen in reality, and the story relies on the events taking place just as they would in reality, then you’ve got a problem.

So, as you can imagine, there’s been plenty of wailing and tooth-gnashing this morning, and the day hasn’t even begun properly.

It hasn’t been helped by the fact that today’s Flash! Friday prompt was cruelly complicated.

image: batoto.net

All in all, I wonder if today’s one of those days which should just be rebooted. Shame I can’t just Ctrl+Alt+Del and get on with things in a better and more sensible universe.

Anyway.

So, today’s Flash! Friday required element was ‘Vendetta’ – not the word, but the concept. The prompt image was as follows:

Image: en.wikipedia.org (entry: Rosie the Riveter)

And the following wee bitty tale is what I made out of all that prompty goodness.

Top Secret

I watched them, all three, huddled over Marcia’s workbench. My little buddies. Joe and his fan-club. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

‘C’mon!’ he urged. The glow of Marcia’s torch threw them into sharp relief. Carla was – I guessed – supposed to be on watch, but as always when she got close to the action, she forgot herself.

‘It looks swell,’ she said, with a low laugh. ‘Real swell, Joe!’

I took a step closer, thankful for my rubber-soled shoes. I could see the little hairs curling on the back of Carla’s neck now, smell the tang of her sweat. The torch’s hiss covered my approach.

My project – my pipework – lay on Marcia’s bench. She was welding something to the front of it. Something obscene. Something which would’ve gotten me fired.

I sighed.

I should’ve just let Joe do what he wanted, that time. Touch me. Take me.

My throat tightened.

I raised the wrench, planted my stance, and took aim.

**

I guess the fact that I managed to get a story (one I’m happy with, too) out of a pair of fiendishly complicated prompts should make me feel a bit happier about my labours. It doesn’t make up for  yesterday’s silliness, but I suppose it’s all about the horizon, isn’t it. No point looking back. Keep going. Stiff upper lip (whatever that means.)

And, thank custard, it’s Friday. Next week I’m going to be machine-like in my efficiency and productivity. I can feel it.

Happy weekend, all y’all. And thanks.

 

Beep Bip, Bip Bip Beep…

Image: qualityinformationpublishers.com

Good morning, listeners! In today’s show, we’ll have old favourites like the Flash! Friday flash fiction contest, and a slight frisson of the loopiness that usually marks our Friday, but there’s also a teeny bit of news.

Are you ready?

(Audience gasping with anticipation)

Are you sure?

(Audience laughter)

Well, all right then! Here we go. Hold onto your neighbour, everybody, because…

*drumroll*

Yesterday, I managed to finish draft 1 of ‘Emmeline and the Ice-God’!

(Applause)

Yes, yes, thank you. Thank you so much!

(Sustained applause, cheering, stamping of feet, &c.)

Image: intermezzo.typepad.com

Yeah, yeah, all right. So I’ll quit it with the playacting now. But – in all genuine seriousness – I am very, very glad to be the proud owner of a completed manuscript of the story of Emmeline this fine morning. It’s slightly awkward that I managed to finish it on the same day as I blogged about how it seemed to be going on… and on… and on, but I just got overtaken by a spirit of urgency yesterday, and I worked right through, all day long. I wrote over 6,000 words, and I brought that story to heel.

This means my brain’s slightly fried today, of course. I’m quite sure nobody will even notice, though.

I’m almost afraid to share the final wordcount, lest I cause some of you to have nervous and/or bilious attacks, but I guess I’ll take that chance. It came in, all told, at 93,500-something words – which, before you start pointing it out – I know is far too long. My brain’s been abuzz with ideas for pruning the beast ever since I placed the final full stop, and I’m pretty sure there’s an entire chapter near the beginning that can be entirely cut out. I’m pretty sure I can bring it down to around 80,000, or as close as possible to that figure. Like every first draft, there’s plenty of excess to trim.

Even though writing ‘Emmeline’ was no picnic, particularly in the last few weeks, I am so glad I did it. I’m glad I got a burst of inspiration that day in late October, and that a little girl with a know-it-all nose and a shock of curly hair decided to stroll into my head and demand that her story be told. I’m glad I got to accompany her on the adventure of a lifetime, and that I got to meet her friend Thing, who – if I’m being honest – I want to adopt as my very own. I’m sure if I’d gone with the idea I was supposed to use for my NaNoWriMo project, that it would have worked, too – but it probably wouldn’t have been as much of an exhilarating joyride.

I’m also very glad that I can say the following sentence: ‘In the last year – since January 2013, when I put aside ‘Tider’ Mark I forever – I have written three books.’ Three.

There’s a lifetime’s dream fulfilled, right there. Even if no other eye roams across a word I put on paper, I know that I have written, and that’s good enough for me. That’s not to say I won’t fight tooth and nail to have ‘Emmeline’ published, by hook or by crook, but that’s a fight for another day. My first job is to make the story as good as it can possibly be, and I’ll worry about the rest of it later.

And now – on to our other Friday feature. I’ve been getting into the habit of posting my entry for the Flash! Friday contest here on my own blog, for a few reasons: one, because I’d like to get some feedback on my flash fiction, and two, because it forces me to get my act together and produce a piece of writing. So, today’s no exception.

This week’s prompt image was as follows:

Tiger and Turtle Magic Mountain, Duisburg, Germany.
Image: worldlandscapearchitect.com

We had to include a tiger, or a turtle – not just the word, this week, but the actual thing itself.

So. I made this.

The Tiger’s Mark

‘You’ll know ‘im by the tiger on ‘is jacket,’ Jez had said. ‘Idiot’s never without it.’ So I’d followed the flash of gold all the way up to the Whirligig, the tiger’s jewelled eyes starin’ me down with every step.

‘We’ll see who’s smilin’ in a minute, mate,’ I winked at it.

He jogged up to the viewing platform, me a shadow in his wake. The tiger seemed to nod, almost knowingly, as he went; I checked my blade, sweatin’ hard.

‘Get the job done, fool,’ I muttered.

I glanced at the CCTV camera; nearin’ the blackspot now. I picked up the pace.

Suddenly, he turned, flingin’ the jacket off. He was covered in long, thin scars, shinin’ silver. His mouth gaped wide, and I smelled it – hot, meaty breath. I heard the low rumble. I saw the yellow eyes like trapped suns, and the gold-black fur.

I never had a chance.

Screw you, Jez, I thought, as he pounced.

 

Wednesday Write-In #74

The words for this week’s CAKE.shortandsweet’s Wednesday Write-In were:

package :: jointed :: ribs :: monochrome :: wet ink

And, after much cogitation and deliberation, this story here is what I made out of ’em.

Image: damoselsprintersblocks.com

It Is Written

It was a dark and stormy night…

Yeah, all right. So I did that on purpose. What, you think because I live on the streets, I can’t be in on the joke? Get real.

Anyway, it was a dark and stormy night, that night. The sort of night that makes you think the dawn’s never goin’ to come, no matter how hard you hunker down and suffer through it. The sort of night that’s full of knives. It was late, too, when I first saw this weird old guy come huffing and puffing down the street, well past midnight. He was a bit like an insect in a suit, this bloke, oddly jointed and full of corners – his knees stuck out to the side as he walked, like he was on springs. He had a black umbrella, shining and wet beneath the streetlights, clutched in one knobbly hand. The ribs of it looked broken at the front, because they kept bashing into his face as he went – the wind was one of them capricious types, you know the ones. Can’t make up its mind what way its blowin’. In his other hand, he had a package tied up in brown paper and string, like somethin’ out of another century. It was biggish and squarish – looked about the size of a small paintin’, not that I’d ever seen one in the flesh. Whatever it was, it seemed heavy. By the time he got close to me, he was pantin’ like a man halfway up a mountain.

Anyway, on he came. I sat quiet.

He came level with my place – my ‘place’ bein’ a nice, me-sized nook in the brickwork in front of an old buildin’, used to be a bank I think before everythin’ turned to muck – and I watched as he stopped beside an old rubbish bin, out on the pavement. He looked up and down the street like a man afraid the cops are on his tail – that was what made me perk up and take notice, if I’m bein’ honest. Somethin’s not right here, I told myself. I want to be in on it, just so’s I can deny everythin’.When he was finished scopin’, he turned back to the bin. Mutterin’ under his breath the whole time, he jiggled the squarish thing he’d been carryin’ out from under his arm, and lined it up for shovin’ into the bin. He had a bit of trouble with it – the package wasn’t quite the right shape, and between the wind and the rain and the tricksy umbrella, he didn’t seem like he had enough hands to do the job right. I was on the spot of slinkin’ out and offerin’ assistance when he gave a yelp like a dog in pain and, with one final push, left the thing half-in and half-out of the bin.

Then he took off down the street like a rat out of a trap, and didn’t once look back.

So, I sat gazin’ at the bin. The package started to come open in the rain. I saw there was paper in it, paper with writin’ on it. Wet ink slid down off the paper, like the words were so new they hadn’t had a chance to settle in properly, and I knew that if I didn’t do somethin’, the message on that paper was goin’ to end up washed down the gutter. Bein’ a man of letters, I couldn’t have that.

So I got up, and I soft-shoed my way over to the bin. The place was deserted. The street was a howling hollowness.

I grabbed the package, and straight away sort of wished I’d left well enough alone. The old guy hadn’t been pretendin’ – it was heavy. Metal. It clacked, like it was full of movin’ parts. I realised then that there were loads of pages in here, all of ‘em printed with fancy letterin’, monochrome and crisp – and I’m talking printed, like Gutenberg. Old-style hand-carved letters, spiky and sore to the eye. Sathanas Dixit, I read, before my brain sort of went into a seizure. I blinked a bit, wonderin’ why I couldn’t see right, and tried to focus on somethin’ else.

Then, my eye fell on a handwritten page. I pulled it out and tried to angle myself so that I could read it in the glow of the streetlight without letting the rain rip it out of my hand.

Daniel, it said, the handwritin’ lookin’ breathless, if you know what I mean. The printing blocks and documents I mentioned are enclosed. I cannot have them in my home any longer. As I tried to explain on the ‘phone, they have started arranging themselves – you must believe me! I cannot tell you how often I have checked over the work and realise it says something I never intended; the mistake is not mine! I put the blocks in, and they print something different, something – horrifying. It is Him, Daniel. Him! His power is too strong, and I cannot bear it. Please, take these infernal objects and bury them deep, somewhere I cannot know about and somewhere I will never find them. Please, I beg you. And please, we must disband our group. We are meddling with power that no man has a right to. Believe me. Nathan.

Well.

I heaved the package, blocks and ink and paper and the lot, over to my cubby. My eyes recovered fine, and once they were workin’ again I read all night long, and never felt another drop of rain.

What a stroke of luck I had that dark and stormy night, eh? Or maybe it wasn’t luck so much as another part of His plan, slotting right into place.

I’ll leave it up to you to decide that one.

 

 

 

Book Review Saturday – ‘Under My Hat: Tales from the Cauldron’

I’ve written a lot of book reviews at this stage. I’ve read SF, fantasy, children’s and YA books, general literature, classical literature, high-concept literary fiction, lots of stuff. I’ve reviewed loads of different types of book, some good and some bad, but all interesting.

One thing I’ve never done is written a review of a collection of short stories – to my knowledge, at least. So, today’s book review will be just that. Today, I’m looking at ‘Under My Hat: Tales from the Cauldron,’ which was published in 2012 by Hot Key Books, and edited by Jonathan Strahan.

Image: andysmithillustrator.blogspot.com

This fantastic collection of witchy tales was a Christmas gift from my husband (who is, clearly, a very clever man). It includes offerings from luminaries such as Holly Black, Frances Hardinge, Neil Gaiman (who, sadly, wrote the shortest entry), Garth Nix, Jim Butcher, Margo Lanagan and many others. There were a few names I’d never heard of among the contributors, and a fair few more whose names I’d heard, but whose work I’d never read. So, needless to say, I dived in with gusto.

All the tales have a common thread, which is witches – of course.

All this, and more!
Image: enchantmentschool.blogspot.com

We meet people who are just beginning their magical journey, and those who are so steeped in the Craft that is as natural to them as breathing. We meet male and female witches, old and young witches, good and bad witches. We meet familiars of all sorts, and people with the power to swap their bodies with animals, and shapeshifters. We meet love and passion and sensuality as well as cruel savagery and selfishness. There are different cultures, languages and traditions here. In short, it’s far more than it appears.

Some of the most gripping and memorable tales, for me, came from Delia Sherman (‘The Witch in the Wood’), Frances Hardinge (‘Payment Due’), Jim Butcher (‘B is for Bigfoot’), Peter S. Beagle (‘Great-Grandmother in the Cellar’) and Holly Black (‘Little Gods’). Only one story – Tanith Lee’s ‘Felidis’ – was left unfinished; I just couldn’t get into it at all. In every other story, I found something to like and admire, even if I wouldn’t have finished things quite like that, or I would have changed this detail… but then, that’s the beauty of a collection of short stories. One has barely faded before you’re on to the next, and – as a cohesive collection – this book is wonderful (with the exception of the Tanith Lee story, but who knows. I may come back to it in the future and wonder why on earth I couldn’t finish it the first time).

I’ll take a closer look at some of my favourite tales, which will hopefully give a flavour of the book overall. Firstly, then, let’s talk about Delia Sherman’s ‘The Witch in the Wood’, which is a wonderfully written story. It has lyrical, poetic language and a marvellous protagonist, Mildryth – a woman who lives alone in the forest and doesn’t even realise she is a witch until she is told so by a shapeshifting man she mistakenly shoots with an arrow on a hunting trip. She falls in love with this wounded deer-man, and nurses him back to health, only to discover there is a deep and powerful reason why he is a shapeshifter, and that there are dangerous forces on his tail. One of the reasons I loved this story so much is that, unlike a lot of the others in this collection, it has a fantastic ending. It concludes perfectly, with punch and style and suspense, leaving the reader knowing that the characters’ story doesn’t end where the text does, but giving us enough confidence in Mildryth to know that whatever happens, she will handle it.

Frances Hardinge – who, let’s face it, I love anyway – has written a most amazing story for this collection. ‘Payment Due’ is a tale of a fifteen-year-old girl whose grandmother’s house is targeted by bailiffs, who turn up one day to demand payment of a debt. They settle it by reclaiming most of the old lady’s belongings, much to her distress and that of her granddaughter. As I read the beginning of the story, I thought perhaps the older woman would turn out to be the witch – she is portrayed as being gentle, inoffensive, completely innocent of the world, and so I thought she would exhibit a turnaround in character and reveal herself to be a powerful figure instead of a powerless one – but Hardinge took those expectations and turned them inside-out. This story also features a magnificent central character, one completely at home with her magical power and utterly in control of it, and her use of her abilities is masterful – much like Hardinge herself.

Image: franceshardinge.com

‘B is for Bigfoot’ is classic Jim Butcher. Wonderfully, the story is told in the voice of Butcher’s famous character Harry Dresden, the protagonist of his ‘Dresden Files’ series, which I love. Harry Dresden is Chicago’s only practising wizard, which means he gets called upon to take care of all manner of weird and wonderful things, risking his life in the process a lot of the time. This story sees him summoned by a creature named Strength of a River in His Shoulders, who is – you’ve guessed it – a Bigfoot. River Shoulders, as Dresden instantly renames him, has a half-human son in a local high school who needs help; the boy is being victimised by bullies, and for obvious reasons his father can’t come to his aid. So, Dresden is seconded in his place. As we’re dealing with Dresden, though, things are never as straightforward as they seem. This story is full of typical Harry Dresden humour, and Jim Butcher’s witty and naturalistic style, with great snappy dialogue and wonderful characterisation.

Though the collection does have its ups and downs – namely, several stories seemed unfinished, or badly concluded, and Neil Gaiman’s contribution is a poem instead of a story, which irritated me a little – this is a book I will treasure and come back to time and time again. It holds many gems, not necessarily limited to the stories I’ve mentioned above, and – like all good collections – every reader will take something unique away from it. I enjoyed the different viewpoints, writing styles, cultural ideas about ‘the witch’ – not all the witches are the typical ‘warts on the nose, pointy hat’ type that a European reader might be most familiar with – and, most particularly, the flights of imagination contained within this book. It’s a definite recommendation.

Here’s to loads more reading in 2014! Did you get any books for Christmas? Do tell…

Falling into Step

I have big plans for January.

Image: benmarshall-wordpirate.com

Whether or not my energy levels will allow me to bring all these plans to fruition, now – that’s a different thing. For a variety of reasons, I’m starting this New Year already feeling a little tired and under the weather, but I can’t let that hold me back. I’ve got to find the rhythm of the year, and fall into step with it.

Just like everyone else.

One of the things I’m determined to do is get back into my habit of writing fresh short stories every week; I’m fairly good with keeping up my Wednesday Write-Ins (Christmas Day and New Year’s Day excepted), but I’ve totally let my Flash! Friday stories slide in the last few months. One of my resolutions for 2014 was to get back into the habit of challenging myself every week with their fiendishly difficult picture prompts, made even more fiendish this year by the addition of a mandatory word prompt, too. Luckily, I’ve just managed to complete my first Flash! Friday challenge of the year, so things are off to a good start. I’ve just got to remember not to drop the ball again.

I haven’t so much as thought about ‘Emmeline’ since before Christmas. Other stuff – life stuff – took over my brain and squeezed out any chance I had of worrying about my story. So, right now, I’m going through my usual terror at the thought of opening up my Word file again and rummaging through my WiP, looking for the severed threads of the story in order to pick them up and start the tapestry afresh. I’m pretty sure I’ll manage to get started again, but I have to navigate this no-man’s land before I can reach that blessed point, and I hate that part.

I have books to submit to agents. I have agents to follow up with. I have a book to finish. I have competitions to enter. I have opportunities to explore.

I can do this.

 

If Katniss can fight off more baddies than I can even imagine, I can so fight this piffling little battle. Right? Right!
Image: thenovelettesblog.wordpress.com

Oh, and just in case you were curious, I’ve shared my Flash! Friday entry below. This was the image prompt:

Image: en.wikipedia.org

Anatomy lesson being given in 1829 by Antoine Clot (Clot Bey) in Egypt

The prompt word we were to use, along with this prompt image, was ‘Discovery,’ and all we had was 140-160 words, exclusive of title, to do it in.

And here, without further ado, is my entry:

One Red Finger

The anatomy room was hot, expectant. All had come to see the wonder of Clot Bey, to learn from the master. I had secured a front row seat, and I fought to hold it amid the jostling.

The subject – barely dead – lay mere feet away. Silently, I thanked him for his sacrifice.

Then, dreamlike, our teacher appeared. My body strained, keen, eager. His very stride was an instruction. His fingers touched the scalpel and raised it, bright as heaven’s dart.

But the blade trembled as it fell, kissing the corpse’s skin uncertainly, tentatively.

Confused, I searched our teacher’s face. Too late, I saw the unnatural flash in his eyes and the cracking, lolloping grin.

Shouting, I rose to my feet, pointing at the impostor in the body of Clot Bey. In a single blink, the human shell fell away to reveal the fiery carapace beneath.

Amid the screaming tumult, the demon smiled at me, beckoning with one red finger.