Liz Young's Blog, page 26

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY SIXTEEN

'Write a story totally in negatives', we were told, so here is mine, written in a rush after a day with family. Can someone please tell me why I accepted this challenge with Christmas looming? :(


NEVER AGAIN
Never did I imagine our drive into the French countryside would end in disaster. We planned nothing more than to eat moules in a tree-shaded cafė, stock up with goodies and head home.
There was no daylight left as we zigzagged through burning tyres, dodging masked men brandishing weapons.“They don’t stop cars - only lorries,” Dave said, just before a torch blinded him and the door was wrenched open.Not a gendarme was in sight as our wine hit the road and two men squeezed into the boot.“We are not afraid to use these guns,” they said, “Drive.”
If we don’t end up in prison I’m burning our passports.***

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY FIFTEEN

"Write a story in which you steal specialist vocabulary from a subject you know little about." That was the challenge, but I have written more of a dissertation than a story. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy (if that is the right word) reading it.
The Race for Power and Triumph of Waste
This is the final chapter heading in a book of Modern Inventions given as a school prize in 1916.At first glance the book is laughable to my modern eyes – the drawings of aeroplanes made of balsa-wood, paper and rope, with their talk of impinging air and cyclic up current – chapters about wireless telephony referring to wave trains – it even mentions television and its selenium cells.But reading further, the author writes of the human race steadily destroying the world’s reserves of coal, petroleum and wood. I quote – ‘The death of the earth and the sun must both come... but the human race of today is taking care that it shall cease millions of years before...having long ere this exhausted all that it has to live on.’A hundred years after my father was given this book we still haven’t learned.

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY FOURTEEN

TODAY'S CHALLENGE - Write a piece in which the setting is one of the main characters. Construct a story that couldn't be told in any other place.After 24 hours on Nanny duty, I have adapted a story I wrote while living in Tenerife, where witnessing distressing scenes very similar to this one made a lasting impression on me. Rickety wooden boats would set out from Africa to cross the treacherous 100 miles of sea - one was discovered weeks later in America, having missed the Canary Islands altogether. All the occupants were dead.The text with this photo says 'Cayuco containing 105 immigrants arrives in Tenerife 14/1/2007.' One hundred and five! Seeing the empty boat the next day prompted me to write this story. CAYUCO A fishing boat spotted the ninth cayuco of the year wallowing in the trough between massive full-moon waves, its occupants’ faces grey with sickness and terror.Tourists took photographs as exhausted people clambered up stone steps to be met by policia and medicos on the harbour wall. There were gasps when another layer was revealed – second-class passengers under the feet of the first, their clothing soaked in brine and vomit.Just one woman remained in the cayuco, searching desperately through the filth until she found, wedged beneath the lowest seat, a bundle that had stopped crying hours before..........................................................................................................AND - in case you missed my previous post - my book WOLF PACK is now available on Amazon, just in time for Christmas! Wolf Pack is the second in my Living Rock series, the fist of which is A VOLCANIC RACE. When you've read them, please do consider writing a review - an author's lifeblood and incentive to continue. Here's the link for WOLF PACK -   https://www.amazon.com/dp/1790375088

Advent Calendar Day Thirteen

Today's challenge for me is two-fold: firstly to give a character a weird name and write a story to match: secondly to post my story using my tablet because i am on Nanny duty and didn't bring my laptop with its keyboard. 
I have a valid excuse for my absent-mindedness. Today my third novel goes live on Amazon

IMAGINARY WORLDS - 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers

IMAGINARY WORLDS
Terry was so intent on writing that he didn’t notice the supervisor until the man tapped him on the shoulder. “What’s a giant turtle got to do with electricity, young man?”“It’s all in the flipper movement, sir.” Terry regretted his flippancy the moment he’d spoken – he needed the job – but writing blurbs for the Central Electricity Generating Board was stultifying when a million ideas buzzed in his head like a shorting power cable.“The office isn’t the place for your imaginary worlds, Pratchett.”Perhaps, Terry thought, it was time he tried earning a living doing what he really enjoyed..............................................................................................Terry Pratchett was 23 when he wrote his first novel but worked in several jobs, including that of Press Officer to CEGB, before deciding to write full time. Sadly, he died in 2015 from early onset Alzheimers, but he left a wealth of inspired writing behind.He is best known for his stories set in Discworld, which leads me nicely into mentioning my own imaginary world - a prehistoric version of Earth - the setting for my Living Rock series. Some of you will have read A VOLCANIC RACE, the first in the series, and now you can buy the next one, WOLF PACK, which is out on Amazon in print and ebook TODAY!!! Just in time for Christmas!!! This link should take you there:    https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1790375088
    if not, just type the title and my name into Amazon Books..........................................This is my first attempt at writing about a real person, but the prompt photo looked so like a handmade world that the story just appeared. Thanks to Rochelle https://rochellewisoff.com/ for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Douglas M MacIlroy for the photo prompt.

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY TWELVE

Today's Flash Fiction is two separate stories from my archives, linked with another. Apart from changing the names of couple one and three to match the new middle chapter, the stories remain as they were - only the middle one is new. If you've followed all that, read on...


D.I.Y.  CHAPTER ONE“It feels like we’ll never be finished.” Julie straightened up from chasing in an electric cable and gestured at the tasks still remaining. Mark murmured sympathy, but they both knew DIY was the only way they could afford their own home.Spending every weekend working on the house left no time or energy for romance, but Julie was still hurt that Mark had forgotten their anniversary. Until she opened their new front door to the sight of a candlelit picnic table, and Mark ushered her to a packing-case seat.  CHAPTER TWO“Get your idle bum off that sofa and cut the grass!” Julie yelled.Mark sighed theatrically, but he plugged the lawn-mower into the kitchen socket and started up the machine.Julie was making tea when the fuse blew. Mark stormed through to the fuse box and flipped the trip-switch back on. “Where’s the toolbox? I ran over the cable.”“Unplug the mower before you touch it.”“No need - I know what I’m doing, woman.”Julie stood motionless, counting to ten. When Mark screamed she waited several seconds before she pulled out the plug.CHAPTER THREEMark was building a fence - to stop old Mrs Williams sticking her nose in their business - when Julie brought him a mug of tea.He gulped a mouthful, spluttered, “Stupid bitch - no sugar!” and swung his fist, forgetting the hammer until it was too late. Acting quickly, he drove into the forest to bury her body deep, then went home and finished the fence. When Mrs Williams asked after Julie, he said she had run away, but the old lady suspected otherwise. So did the police. Two months later the mushroom spores he’d carried home on his boots put Mark in jail.

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY ELEVEN

National Flash Fiction asked us today to write in a genre we haven't tried, but everything on their list I have had a shot at, if only in flash fiction. But - this story is written in the first person throughout, and in the immediate present tense, which is not a method I use often as it's bloody very tricky!
THE SPEECH
“It gives me great pleasure to be here today …”God! Whoever first uttered those words should be shot. If I had a pound for every time I’ve said them ...  But what am I thinking? I usually charge £250 - and that’s cheap by some standards. If they want a Duchess to open their stupid building or fȇte they have to pay.“Sir Robert …”Sir Robert indeed! I know for a fact that he bought his knighthood. He was plain Mister when his firm came to fix the roof all those years ago. There’s a whole acre of it, and we had to sell the paintings to pay for the work. I didn’t meet him then, naturally – Gerald always dealt with tradesmen – but I’ve never forgotten his name. The Long Gallery is horribly bare and the rain still comes in, but that’s not the reason I’m here.Gerald should never have trusted him, of course, but would he listen? “It’s a sound investment, old girl,” he said, and as he’d always looked after the finances I couldn’t stop him sinking our savings into the man’s Spanish building scheme. When the investment went sour, Gerald fell totally to pieces, but fortunately I was born with a practical streak. We moved into the old nursery wing – much easier to maintain after we had to let most of the staff go - and we opened the main house to the public. Oliver came down from Cambridge to manage the business side of things, Davinia runs the restaurant and I help out in the tea-rooms – visitors love being served tea and scones by a Duchess. The rest of us have adjusted quite well, but the shame of having to leave his Club tipped Gerald over the edge, poor darling. He spends his days pottering round the garden wearing old tweeds and the gardener lets him think he’s in charge. That is what I cannot forgive, and it’s all the fault of this ghastly little man.When the agency called to ask if I would open Sir Robert’s latest project I couldn’t believe my luck – I was being handed a golden opportunity for revenge. The man obviously has no idea what Hell his shenanigans put us through – these criminal types never do – but that’s all to the good. If my plan succeeds no-one will even suspect we have any connection. “Sir Robert has shown me around this excellent facility this afternoon.”I had to admire every corner of the damn place, and pretend to be interested while technicians explained the machinery. The little creep kept pawing my arm as we walked round and he patted by bottom more than once. He quoted the prices of equipment as if he had paid for it himself, instead of lining his pockets. Careful, Marjorie – don’t give the game away now you’re this close - just get on and finish the speech.“You must all be very proud of being involved with such a splendid establishment”That should do it - look at them all, trying to appear proud and modest at the same time.“And finally, it only remains for me to declare the Sir Robert Catnip Centre open.”You’d have thought with his money he’d have changed his name before he got his knighthood, but it’s lucky he didn’t - I wouldn’t have known it was him otherwise. Now – all I’ve got to do is cut the ribbon and I’m on the home straight. There, done it – now for the difficult part.  Take a deep breath, turn, smile, and offer him the scissors. He’s too far away - perfect. Now, step towards him, stumble on the edge of the red carpet. Fall forward with a lady-like shriek of dismay, and the job is done. Those scissors are sharper than they look - they’ve gone right through his waistcoat. Oh no! I can feel a fit of hysterics coming on, but just one giggle would be fatal – I’ll have to scream instead. A lady is expected to scream at the sight of blood, and there is an awful lot of it. Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? Steady on, old girl, this is definitely not the time to be quoting Lady Macbeth. Just keep your head and everything will be all right – after all, a true blue-blooded Duchess should be able to get away with murder.  ....................................................... Oh - and I don't write murder stories either

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY TEN

Today's theme is Human Rights. I hope my story speaks for itself on that subject.

PROMISED  LAND

Many in our village listened to the seductive whispers about the journey that promised peace, and after the mosque was bombed Father handed his savings to a stranger in exchange for hope. Our poorer neighbours wished us luck with their mouths while their eyes swept covetously over our home, marking what they would grab when we left.
Crammed into the truck with us were common tradesmen, and farmers still smelling of the soil. At first Mother sat among them rigid with distaste, but it’s hard to stay remote when a child vomits on your skirts. Besides, when we were too far from home to return, they robbed us of everything and we were all suddenly equal.
Time blurred. First my sister – the pretty one – disappeared. Then came the boat – Mahmoud fell overboard and Father drowned rescuing him. After we reached land again we walked, and when Grandmother fell they shot her – Mother hasn’t spoken a word since.
Now we are here, huddled in a freezing tent, queuing long hours in ankle-deep mud for food, and the promised land is still beyond our reach. Mahmoud says he is going to hide in a lorry tonight. He wants me to go too, but I can’t leave Mother and my remaining sister unprotected, so I will stay.

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY NINE

Today's challenge from National Flash Fiction is to choose a phrase, and then to write a story starting each line with the first word of that phrase.
As Sunday is a busy day I  haven't had time to write till now, so I worked this out in my head while driving Mum back home. No doubt you can work out which phrase I used :)


THE ICING ON THE CHRISTMAS CAKE
Once I’d decided to make my own cake it was quite easy. I just bunged everything in together, gave it a good stir, and baked it in a slow oven until the house smelled of Christmas.In the meantime I got stuck into the brandy in which I’d soaked the fruit. After all, it’s only cooking brandy – not the stuff to serve to guests.Royal icing was next on the list. It looked a bit wobbly but I stuck a snowman and a reindeer on the worst bits. I don’t expect my husband will notice..David's a bit of a wine buff, or so he likes to think, and he bought the wine on his way home from the match. Fortunately he was in a good mood, and didn’t comment on the empty brandy bottle.City aren’t the best team in the world, so the icing on that day’s cake, if you’ll pardon the pun, was that they won.

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY EIGHT

I am cheating slightly today by revamping an old story - I am heavily involved in our village Christmas Fair and haven't time to think, let alone write!
The challenge for Day 8 is to take a discarded bit of work and write it into a new story. My discarded phrase is in italics and comes from ROCK CHILD, my first attempt at a novel, written about 15 years ago. I have since rewritten it entirely to create my LIVING ROCK series.
Some of you will have read A VOLCANIC RACE, the first in the series, and I hope will buy WOLF PACK, its sequel, due out any day now. So now I've got the sales talk out of the way, here's my story.


BAD OMEN
“Matt – I saw a raven this morning – a bad omen.”“I was fortunate to get a place on the King’s ship, and God knows we need the money. Now hand me my knife, Jenny – ‘tis honed enough.”
Matt stepped into the tender and was rowed to the ship, scrambled up the net and hurried to his post beside the gun. He was still a strong man despite his age and could lift the heavy cannonballs with ease. At the sound of a band striking up he looked through the gun-port to gawp at the King arriving, but as the sails unfurled with a snap he returned to his work.
Outside the harbour a violent gust shook them. Matt balanced with practised ease for the return lurch but the ship heeled further, cannon-balls rolled, guns careered across the deck, and in seconds the sea had flooded in. Unbelievably, within sight of land, they were sinking!
Matt snatched a breath and swam for the gun-port, but his legs caught in a tangle of ropes. He fumbled for his knife and slashed frantically, blessing Jenny’s honing skills, and burst free to swim to the surface. Far too few followed him.
Through the clear water beneath his legs he watched the ship sink, the crew trapped by the anti-boarding nets. A watery sunbeam flashed on gold paint – MARY ROSE.