Katherine Vick's Blog, page 4

Short Story - The Drawing Pin

An attack of metaphysics for you all this month - a stream of consciousness piece of writing created for the Creative Prose module of my Masters in Literary Studies and Creative Writing. However, given it was shortly after writing this that I wrote the story that evolved into my novels, see if you can spot at least one theme from there that was on my mind!

The Drawing Pin

By Katherine Vick

   A glint; light catches. In a seconds pause, my eye is drawnto flash of hurried bronze, a whisper of brightness that touched, just for aninstant, on the shining dome of a drawing pin pushed deep into the brown jigsawof cork that sheathes the nearby wall. My gaze lifts – I stare for a moment atsmooth convex surface, mostly dull but for a golden twinkle along one rim, asunny wink in my direction, reflecting the dim glow of a cloud sheathed sunbeyond the windowpane.

   It’s misty today,a dull pall that lingers like an off-white shroud over a forest of chimney topsand TV aerials stretching to a featureless, blank horizon not all that faraway. On a good day, I can see the hills from here, dark lumps that undulate inoh so familiar patterns, distinctive and engraved upon the mind; I’ve walkedthose hills. Stood on their heights and stared out in new directions, towardsnew hills unclimbed, horizons untouched but yearning.

   What if I were toclimb on those distant hills beyond hills, feel the crumble of soil beneath myboots, sit upon damp grasses or cool stones and stare, breeze singing throughmy hair as I gazed across silhouettes of places far away, trees against the skyline, a tumble of green fields and dancing birds that swoop and flap and singfor joy at the first sweet hints of spring, chasing, dancing in the sky frombranch to branch, from cloud to cloud to pass across a hilltop where a singlefigure gazes back at the distant horizon she knows and realises that were sheto stand upon those familiar hills, she could stare across a low expanse ofhedges, insects, tiny creatures, past houses and the unseen lives of peoplenever met to the ridge on which she lives and sits and writes and stares at thelittle glimmer of light against a drawing pin.

   I cannot see thosehills today. The haze is bright, a circle of cloud that encloses me within adome of golden-white, its upper reaches stained with hints of blue that shimmerthrough the shifting white like spilled water. There is a glow in the sky – itis getting lighter, brighter, the sun is fighting back and setting the mistaglow.

  It glints again, thedrawing pin. Bronze against gold but more, a hint of colour, of reflectedspace, a little microcosm of the world beyond, distorted against its gentlecurving surface, falling away. It is an indistinct image, no more than a blur,a tiny flashing hint of what lies without. Hardly a true mirror. But that waswhat they used once, wasn’t it? Polished bronze in distant past was the bestkind of mirror a lady could have, a prized possession, the truest sight of onesown self that they could find. It is strange to think of a world without goodmirrors, where the clearest idea of your image, of yourself, was a hazy imagein gleaming bronze or a shifting, swirling reflection cast in undulating water.What must it be like, not to see yourself? Not to know yourself as the rest ofthe world sees you, to have no image of your appearance to fall back on. Somuch in our lives these days is down to appearance, a blessing and a curse – aperson is judged in an instant by how they appear. But is that fair? People seethemselves but rarely – they live in their thoughts, in their mind, the waythey look is a covering they do not see, cannot see with their own true eyes.Surely it should be what lies within that counts, the person not the covering.But still, we look and we judge by looking. It should not be but it is so. Onlyone person can ever know the secrets that lie within the world of their ownmind; however much you know someone, you can never, will never know it all. Wecannot read thoughts but we can read faces and so then image becomes the world.

  Image is a strangething. Does it matter to a blind man what he looks like? And someone blind alltheir lives – they could have no concept of sight. It would be alien to them,incomprehensible; the world in their heads would be constructed of touch,smell, hearing, taste alone. Not to see – not to perceive the world throughsight is almost unfathomable but that must be the way it is, for how can youknow sight if you have never seen? How can you describe colour without usingcolour, seeing colour, light without dark? To them, my drawing pin would be noshining mirror of bronze that catches and distributes light – it would be asmooth, slippery surface, a taper, a sharp point to prick the finger.

   A world withoutsight. What would that be for me, right now? The hum of my computer ringing inmy ears, the twitter of starlings fighting in the garden. The smell of burningdust – I need to wipe my monitor. The feel of my canvas chair against my back,the hard wood of its arms against my elbows, soft material of clothes againstmy skin. The residual taste of chocolate biscuit. The drawing pin, too far totouch or taste, silent and odourless, would mean nothing from here if it couldnot catch my eye. What if there was no sight – for one, art as we know it wouldbe meaningless. Would we have paintings of smell, sculpture of touch and tasteif sight were not so dominant? Would music become a rich tapestry to paint theworld, the reflection of sounds from all around you becoming a picture of aplace or person, a portrait by voice? Could the drawing pin that holds the workof art in place become the work of art itself?

  Strange thoughts tohave. Different worlds that we can never know in our world made for seeing. Arethere other ways that we could see the world, other senses beyond ourcomprehension? In some sixth or seventh sense would the world be a place ofeven greater beauty? How would a sixth or seventh sense allow me to perceive adrawing pin, stuck in a corkboard, pinning a piece of paper in new andunexpected ways?

  What is that,anyway, that piece of paper my pin holds? Oh yes, a list of things to do fromweeks and weeks ago, a reminder of tasks long forgotten and never taken down, amemory pinned in place. Is that the role of the drawing pin in life – to pinmemories up where you can see them? Lists of things to do, some done, somewaiting in the future, telephone numbers half forgotten, calendars that scrolltomorrow into yesterday and paintings of places that may or may not have evercrossed the eyes and pictures and photographs of friends and family grinning atyou from the backdrop of holidays, weddings, birthday parties, the passing ofyears, of time, of memory itself, all pinned in place and staring down at you.Is that the lot of the drawing pin – to hold up the past whilst gleaming indistorted bronze a curving splash of colour from the present, a fleeting glintof light there and then gone, never to be seen again? A moment in time, a past,a present, a future, all can be found if you look hard enough.

  It glints; lightcatches. The haze has thickened, the gleam of hidden sunshine dulled, hints ofblue chased away before the wave crests of gathering cloud, the dome set firmwith weakened, chastened glow. So much for the sun.

   Light catches andthen fades away across my drawing pin. But it will glint again.

The Taskmaster - Now Available for Kindle Pre-Order!

In honour of this, the third anniversary of the publication of The Disposable, I'm delighted to announce that (for those of you not willing to wait politely for the paperback, at least!), the Kindle version of the final book in my *ahem* four book trilogy, The Taskmaster, is now available to pre-order on Amazon. Links are below. :)

USA: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BZBW5DKF

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BZBW5DKF

PS - and this is NOT an April Fools! It really is! ;)

The Taskmaster - Coming 20th June 2023! :)

Ladies and gentlemen - we have a release date and a cover! The final book of the Plot Bandits "Trilogy", The Taskmaster, will be coming out on 20th June 2023. :)

                                           

Very Short Story - Face to Face

I've been saying for many years that the future of the human race is depicted with uncanny foresight in the Disney film WALL-E. I wrote this story for a challenge piece a good decade ago now and my convictions on this matter are firmer than ever!

Face to Face

“What is it?”

Abraham glanced over at his student as he stared at the cracked, dusty device they had just carefully trowelled out of the withered earth and heaps of lifeless brick that formed the Desolation of Manchester. It looked so innocent, so innocuous, so bright and helpful, with not a shadow or a hint of what would spring up from it visible in its sleek design.

“This was the beginning of the end,” he told her solemnly. “This was the first device that made it all too easy.”

Rebekah blinked at him. “It doesn’t look like much,” she remarked.

Abraham smiled ruefully. “It doesn’t need to. That was the problem. But it did everything – it stored their music and their information, it gave them access to entertainment, to guidance, to everything they needed at their fingertips, wherever they might be. It’s said it started use as a voice communication device though after a time, that was mostly forgotten. People came to depend upon it, to need it and to expect all that they needed, all that they wanted, wherever they were, all of the time. Face to face and even voice to voice communication was abandoned in favour of social networking. Then came the implants. And soon, no one even bothered to leave their houses as technology grew more and more convenient. Images of outdoors, collections of friends, the virtual experience, was better than the real thing.”

“There weren’t enough people left to watch over growing food.” Rebekah knew this part of the story. “And nobody noticed.”

Abraham sighed. “And if our ancestors hadn’t been technophobes, we would have starved right there with them. We must be grateful for that. Because of them, of the wifi black-spot hideaway they established in the Lake District, we have a chance to start again.” He pulled himself awkwardly to his feet. “Come on. Let’s take this to show the others. They need to learn how dangerous it is.”

Rebekah smiled. “And we do it face to face, right?”

Abraham nodded. “Face to face. Remember that if nothing else. Always face to face.”

The Joy of Spectre

 The Joy of Spectre

Just to offer up fair warning, this blog discusses a scene that appears in my third novel, The Narrative, so if you haven’t read it (and if not, why not? Hmmmm?), spoilers lie ahead.

Have you ever had more fun making something than you feel should strictly speaking be allowed?

For me, that was the creation of Bob the Mysterious Spectre.

There are very few things in my life that I have enjoyed writing so much. In many ways, Bob’s moment of glory was the very essence of what I was trying to do with Fodder’s adventures – an affectionate pastiche of a genre I love without pardoning it for its cliches and absurdities. The all-knowing ghost imparting deep and profound wisdom from beyond the grave is such a longstanding fantasy trope that I couldn’t not play with it – but how to make it work in the way I wanted it to? The answer was easy once the magic ring came into play – by having Fodder be the ghost and poke the requisite fun at the Merry Band for me.

Because why should a ghost lurk around on the edge of reality waiting for the living folks to show up and plumb the depths of his knowledge? The dullness would be extraordinary – who can blame Avikhelion for having a midlife crisis? And why, oh why, do only the great and the good return from the beyond – why not the common, earthy folk? And why, oh why, oh why do virgins always have to be pretty, youthful maidens? Anyone who abstains from certain activities would qualify, regardless of age or gender, so one is forced to suspect the lecherous old goat aspect may part a significant part in the selection process – on both sides of the page

And of course, his name is Bob. Any fan of the UK sitcom Blackadderknows that in the right mouth, this is the funniest name in the universe and that there is only one way it can possibly be pronounced after watching it. A whole generation of British folk will never again be able to simply say the name Bob without indulging in a little Rowen Atkinson impression. Therefore, when looking for a straightforward seeming name for my ghost from beyond, it really was the only choice. Perhaps it’s just me, but the name Bob will always be comedy gold.

So yes – I love Bob. And in an odd sort of way, a part of me remains extremely sad that he and the afterworld he conjured were Fodder’s creation and therefore not real (as it were). But since I suspect Fodder had more fun creating him than I feel should strictly speaking be allowed, I think I’ll let him off…

Very Short Story - Inevitable

Happy New Year everyone! Your reward for making it this far is a story I wrote years ago for the writing challenge prompt "change" - a demonstration of the First Rule in action. ;) 

Inevitable

Beyond the narrow gate, the Rachsis horde were screaming.

They seemed to stretch out forever, a writhing, shivering mass of gnashing teeth and air-tearing claws, gibbering, leaping and falling over each other as they surged forward like an unstoppable, bestial tide towards the tiny hilltop bastion where the last dozen brave survivors of the Kingdom of Cryna were huddled. Pale faces peered down over the battlements, hair lank, faces dirtied and battered but yet strangely unbowed, knowing as they did that they were the last hope and that all the kingdom, all humanity depended upon their actions.

And the King was ready. The great hero, heir to the lost throne, who had emerged from a tiny farm in the middle nowhere to face the Rachsis threat with muscles gleaming and eyes shining with courage. His magical medallion gleamed on his chest as the final words of his powerful, inspiring, world-saving speech to his heavily outnumbered troops echoed away on the breeze.

And then, one lone voice piped up in the wake of the re-energised cheer from the previously demoralised troops.

“But… you don’t think we might, you know, lose, do you?”

A dozen eyes turned as one. Even the King froze.

The soldier was young. New to the game. And as he stared out at the ravening masses of howling creatures that outnumbered them several thousand to one, it didn’t seem like so unreasonable a question. The eyes of his comrades suggested otherwise.

“Lose? Us?”

“That’s not how this works!”

“Do you think I’d be here if we were going to lose?”

The soldier glanced around at the cluster of indignant faces surrounding him with just the slightest hint of resignation. “Well, you’ve got to admit the odds are stacked against us. In any other fight, you’d assume we’d be slaughtered in about ten minutes…”

“But this is not any other fight!” The King strode forwards, his handsome visage bold, his powerful gaze flashing. “This is my fight! The great last stand of the outnumbered heroes! The battle against the evil, slavering, unstoppable hordes of destruction that we have absolutely no hope of ever winning! Everyone knows what that means! No matter how many of them there are, no matter how hopeless it seems, or how badly outnumbered we are, we will always win. What in the name of anything made you think any differently?

“Well, you know,” said the young soldier with a sigh. “It’d make a change…”

Deleted Babble from The Disposable

I'm doing something slightly different with this month's blog - offering up a smidgeon of deleted material from The Disposable. Don't get too excited, it's nothing epic or revelatory as I'm not one of life's deleters - generally if I remove something, it's to rewrite or replace it rather than to extract it altogether so the majority of my deleted material folder is simply alternative versions of existing scenes, not totally unseen bits of writing. There are one or two exceptions however, and one is part of Dullard's first appearance in The Disposable. Writing this scene was a joy and a delight as Dullard sprang into life for me and material spewed forth but as a result, the scene was just a bit overlong and I pulled out a couple of unnecessary paragraphs to tighten it up. The below is one of those sections, often a touch more background on Dullard's place in his family, and honestly, I don't think I've looked at it since the day I pulled it as I have absolutely no memory of ever mentioning Dullard having a sister! I'm pretty sure he doesn't have one now... ;p

Deleted Scene - Dullard Muses (The Disposable)

A simple glance around told him that no one else seemed to have noticed the odd atmosphere that had pervaded the palace on this particular day. King Paragon, the former Hero of The Seed of Darkness was adjusting his newly acquired beard in a mirror, which was preferable to earlier when he’d spent around forty minutes fiddling disconcertingly with his codpiece. His wife and Queen, Eminence, was sat on her throne, honing a range of gracious facial expressions with her daughter, formerly Princess and now Countess Sweetness. Her husband, Count Bold, who happened to be a distant cousin of his on his father’s side and for whom a slightly indulgent chin had worked out a great deal more beneficially, was wandering up and down wearing his too familiar surly expression – he hadn’t been happy since his Hero days had wrapped up after The Vile Rose, and had never settled well into the cast of supporting nobles. Most of the other members of the Royal and Noble Families were simply wandering around the throne room, adjusting their bodices, strapping on their swords and gossiping. There was the familiar little fawning clique gathered around the red-headed former-Princess Vanity and her husband Duke Valiant, including, to Dullard’s continuing embarrassment, his own sister Chastity. There was no sign of his mother, Allure, however – a former Fickle Enchantress from the Mage Family, she’d never had much stock with being a background noble and after his father had died properly of old age a few Quests back, she’d mostly abandoned the Palace and gone back to the University. The last time he’d spoken to her, she was rather caught up with learning the bassoon. Dullard had never been in any doubt of the source of his enquiring mind.

He missed her presence though. At least when she was around, he had somebody to talk to. The only way to get an intelligent conversation in the Royal Palacethese days was to talk to himself.

----------

See? Not that exciting...;)

Narrative November Has Landed! :)

 It's here!!! It's release day, Ladies and Gentleman - the quirks of Amazon permitting (obviously), The Narrative should now be available to buy in the US and the UK!

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Narrative-Plot.../dp/B0BGSGN9ZFUS: https://www.amazon.com/Narrative-Plot.../dp/B0BGSGN9ZF

In Honour of Narrative November - The Disposable eBook on Sale in US!

 For you lucky American bods - in honour of the imminent release of The Narrative, the eBook of The Disposable is now on sale on Amazon!

https://www.amazon.com/Disposable-Plot-Bandits-Book-ebook/dp/B0854QDX5D

In Honour of Narrative November....

I present some pre-release tasters for you!

For anyone who would like to hear Flirt and Shoulders's thoughts on their present situation, their character interview can be found here:

Character Interview - Flirt and Shoulders

For anyone interesting in reading about me wittering on about my upcoming release, The Narrative, my author interview on this matter can be found here:

Author Interview for The Narrative

And a small piece of daftness produced by an actual fan of my book! Yes, they exist! :)

Disposable Mambo

And of course for those unwilling to wait politely until November 15th for the paperback, links are available to allow you modern bods to Pre-Order the ebook now on Amazon!

Links to Facebook Pre-Order Post

Amazon UK eBook Pre Order

Amazon USA eBook Pre Order