Katherine Vick's Blog, page 5

A Little Taste of The Narrative

In honour of two weeks to go until the release on Amazon of my third Plot Bandits novel, The Narrative, I thought I would offer up a little taste of what is to come by presenting an extract from the book itself! I hope it whets the appetite a bit. :)

*****

Shoulders had never heard a pair of horses scream before. He hadn’t been aware that they could. He could also have lived with­out finding that out.

Somewhere nearby, he could hear Flirt yelling, his bouncing head catching glimpses of her flattened out and clinging with an alarming amount of desperation to the seat of the cart she had so abruptly set into motion. He could hear the angry and, thankfully, fading roars of the chasing Barbarians. He could hear the pound­ing of hooves, the screeching of cartwheels that were reaching the limits of their endurance, the clatter and rattle and tumble of the sacks and barrels loaded in the cart’s rear that vanished with an occasional dusty crash, presumably as they were flung into the road. He could feel his body, fingernails clinging to the edge of the seat as he was bounced around amongst the groceries, battered and bruised by tumbling supplies, the sack containing his head clasped desperately against the wagon seat in one hand. But most of all, he could feel the giant, beefy hand that had just closed with great intent around his right leg.

Oh bollocks. They had a Barbarian passenger.

Shoulders instinctively kicked out and felt his foot contact something fleshy that gave a painful grunt as the blow struck home. But the hand still grasped and so he kicked and kicked and kicked again, giving a wild yell as his body was hurled madly from side to side and battered with loose vegetables, but the hand clung on and he needed to hit, he needed something to hit him with, he needed…

He needed a third bloody hand or he’d either have to let go of the cart or his head. Unless…

Oh boy, this was going to sting. But what else was he supposed to do?

Teeth gritted and eyes firmly closed, Shoulders swung the sack containing his helmeted head like a mace.

Oof!

The world spun dizzyingly as he struggled to keep his grip on the cart, on the sack, but the hand, the beefy hand was flung away with a yell and the loud thud and groan of someone large hitting a road surface at speed. Yes! He’d done it!

“Good one!” Flirt’s voice, Flirt’s hands grabbing his shoul­ders, trying to haul him forward as his head danced and bounced in dazed hurly-burly at the end of a loosely flailing arm. Shoul­ders tried to focus on the voice, the hands, as the world swam, tried to haul his head-bearing hand forwards, but everything was so hazy, everything was so wild…

There was a smell of smoke. He could hear a rumble of distant voices through the haze, could hear less dramatic hooves; but suddenly another horse was screaming, he saw a rearing shape, a desperate rider, and Flirt was yelling and grabbing him as the whole cart gave a violent lurch sideways to avoid them. The rumble of the dusty road was gone as the cart, already toss­ing madly, went insane over rougher ground and there were cries of alarm, a jerk as white canvas ripped and slapped across his body, wooden pegs battering him as the remains of some tent was sent flying and there were glimpses through the rip in the sack of figures in silver mail diving out of the way and this was not good, he knew it wasn’t good and…

“Oh Gods, tree!”

Yep. Definitely not a good sentence.

“Jump!”

And not a good word. Shoulders felt Flirt grab his body, thrusting it violently sideways. His hand, already loose around the sack, flung in an arc and suddenly his head was spinning, flying, hurtling away into the air over the sounds of splintering wood, crashing, bursting barrels, and bolting horses. He felt his body hit the ground with a bruising thud, felt Flirt’s hands grasp­ing him, hauling him up, scurrying him away; but he was more concerned with the dizzying flight his head was taking, arching, arching up and, with a rush of air, tumbling, tumbling down…

And then…

Bang.

*****

There you go. :)

The Narrative - Coming 15th November 2022!

COMING one month today - The Plot Bandits Book Three (of Four) - THE NARRATIVE! Due for release on Amazon on 15th November 2022! Or those unwilling to wait politely for the paperback to become available - THE NARRATIVE Kindle eBook version is now available for Pre-Order. :)

USA: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0BGSGN9ZFUK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0BGSGN9ZF

Three Books That Changed My Life

 Three Books That Changed My Life

I’ve seen a great deal of posts and memes asking about what books have changed people’s lives and the way a person reads. Every individual will, of course, answer that question differently and choosing just a few is so incredibly hard as, like it or hate it, everything we read affects us somehow. But I was challenged by a friend a while ago to come up with some and so, here they are: ;p

Dragons, Giants and Witches (Usborne Story Books)

If there was an author, I don’t know it, I’m afraid it doesn’t say, but I know it was an Usborne book because so many of my childhood books were. My mother ran Usborne book parties and bought for me from her stock and I’m so glad she did as they were wonderful things. Books of stories, of mythology, of history, of science, of knowledge – I picked up so many of my basic interests in life from those quirkily illustrated pages. But the story book Dragons, Giants and Witches (alongside, Princes, Wizards and Gnomes) were the books that first got me interested in magical stories and creatures and stories that were out of this world. There were many, I know, but these ones hold a special place as I still have them, sitting on a shelf a few yards away. :)

Alanna: The First Adventure (Tamora Pierce)

There were only two fantasy novels in the entire of my middle school library. It wasn’t a big library, admittedly, just a converted classroom really, that we were allowed to periodically raid for “Quiet Reading Time” books. Most of the contents were fairly standard fare, I remember there were battered old 1930s novels about things like the children’s crusade and loads of Choose Your Own Adventure – but just two that could be called proper fantasy. I forget the name of the second, sadly, only that the heroine was called Aerin Sol (I wonder if the creators of Farscape ever read it? ;p). But the other was Alanna. I really loved that book, I must have borrowed it dozens of times. It was my first exposure to a properly constructed fantasy world. It was years before I found out there were more books in the series - remember, these were the Ancient Times, before the internet, and my town only occasionally had a book shop (they rarely lasted long) – a random discovery in the bigger town library (now sadly much smaller), if I recall correctly, led me to books two and four (no library ever has a whole fantasy series, I think the world would come to an end if it did!). I knew I wanted more of this kind of thing. And then…

The Elfstones of Shannara (Terry Brooks)

I found this. As I recall, it was on one of the library turning racks, just staring at me as I walked in. It was my first proper, epic fantasy novel and that was it – I was hooked. I got my mitts on the rest of the existing Shannara novels – just seven back then rather than the dozens he’s written since - during the brief existence of a decent local bookshop that took orders (I believe it may have been called Volume One – I still have one of their bookmarks and many books I obtained in their brief but valued appearance in the town centre!) and devoured them. It was this that roused me into creating my first fantasy story – called, imaginatively “Quest” – which was, I openly admit, a youthfully innocent but blatant rip off of the Shannara style – I think I even stole some of my favourite names from it to use. But I soon found my own imagination and created my own epic fantasy world in which I set a large number of high fantasy adventures, some written and never to see the light of day, some written and acceptable but unfinished and many, many others that never made it out of my notebooks. But I was off and running.

These books, of course, aren’t and can’t be alone but I suppose in terms of individual volumes, they are the key. My introduction to the magnificent Discworld novels of Sir Terry Pratchett will always hold a special place and JK Rowling’s Harry Potter series has to get an honourable mention for leading me to venture more seriously into the realms of fanfiction. Some may scoff but I learned a hell of a lot about my own writing and storytelling techniques (plus developed a fondness for cliff hangers!) in creating those fanfics. They lead to me joining a number of online writing communities where I played and experimented with my style in the challenge pieces I sometimes share on this blog and realised how much I didn’t want to write things that took themselves seriously. And it was those communities that led me to my publishers. So – can’t complain. ;p

Ask The Author – September 2022

 It’s Ask the Author time again! This month’s questions both come from Sarah Awa, that you for asking! I shall now attempt some answering, though can’t guarantee they’ll be much help!

If you were a character in your books, what type of character do you think you would be, or want to be?

I’m 99.9% sure I would be nothing more exciting that Background Villager Number 3! ;) In terms of looks, I am so fundamentally Ordinary looking I would certainly never make it to any of the more glamourous levels! In terms of want to be – I feel like swashbuckling adventure ought to appeal and probably would have done more in my younger days but in reality, knowing myself as I do, I’d probably find the performance anxiety of that kind of forefront role much too stressful! I suspect I’d be best suited to some minor position, rather like Dullard, so I could be left mostly to my own devices! I am good at organising things but less good at pushing people around so I’d probably make a decent Priest – low level organisation without the stress of being in charge. I think it’s fair to say I’m not one of life’s front and centre people! Gosh, that was terribly honest, wasn’t it, not what I was supposed to say at all! Just pretend I waxed lyrical about being a Princess or a Hero warrior and going on glorious adventures or some such…;p

 

If your main characters were animals, what animals would they be?

You know, I have the weirdest feeling someone has asked me this before but I can’t remember when or what I said – I suspect I may have dodged it because I’m honestly not sure! Ummm…

Fodder… maybe a dog? His pack matters a great deal to him and he’s very loyal and friendly and looks harmless right up until… he isn’t…;)

Shoulders – my inner comedian says I should say ostrich or headless chicken. ;p Oddly enough, for all Pleasance calls him a weasel, I actually think he’s more squirrely, or at least like the squirrels that live in the woods behind my home – bit scrappy when pushed, cross with all other squirrels and screeching at the universe for no discernible reason on a regular basis!

Flirt… dunno. Best I can think is a lioness – after all, she does all the work, keeps the men in line and the pride ticking over and you don’t want to mess with her.

Pleasance – now the trouble here is, most of the preening animals that spring to mind are male. Loud and pushy and pretty while knowing one is pretty and with a cry that strips the nerves from your skin brings to mind a peacock, which is of course, as the name implies, a male and peahens aren’t the same! Hmmm… possibly a cat? Preens a lot and has no respect for anyone not doing what she wants, can be nice but only on her own terms! And hates squirrels! That could work. Actually, a poodle would work for that too!

Dullard. Goodness, I can’t think of any animal nice enough! Shoulders calls him a rabbit but that doesn’t really fit either. I honestly don’t know, I can’t think of a decent fit for him – so if any readers have any suggestions?

The Cultural Convention: Part Two – Smile and Wave, Boys, Smile and Wave…

In last month’s blog, I discussed the dilemma of the fantasy writer in creating a different world – how different exactly does one make it? I concentrated specifically on matters of time but that is far from the only consideration when one is crafting a whole new world out one’s imagination. For beyond the temporal, as indicated by the original title of this blog (can you tell it got a bit away from me in the writing? Typical! I’ve split my novels and now my blogs!), there is also the cultural.

All fantasy realms have their own cultures, sometimes based on the historical or geographical cultures of our world, sometimes a thing in and of themselves. That is a fantasy world standard – indeed a necessity – and isn’t what I am referring to. I’m talking about the imbedded social things that most people wouldn’t even think about. From my cultural perspective, a nod is yes, a shake of the head is no. Thumbs up is positive, thumbs down is negative. Waving is a greeting or a farewell. Eating certain plants, birds, fish and other mammals is fairly widespread but eating lichen, reptiles and insects is repellent. A smile is friendly, a frown is not.

And then there is the way we speak. Certain phrases are scattered into our cultural lexicon. Most have origins so deeply ingrained that we haven’t a clue how they came into being. People write whole books about them. The origins of many are so obscure they can’t be clearly recalled. Others are the result of recent media. All nations have their own - indeed, even some of what I in my Britishness considered perfectly normal phrases have bewildered my American editors, who had never come across them. But both phrases and gestures come from our cultural conventions, our societies, our way of being. Hence these are things a different culture in a different world would not share.

So should a fantasy writer be changing these things? To an extent, altering them could create an interesting alien nature to a fantasy culture. But they would need to be explained. And other than inserting some poor soul from our world into a fantastic scenario, how does one get one’s characters to explain something to someone that is perfectly normal for them without it taking the reader out of the story? Plus, it places a layer of obscurity between the reader and the character. The reader has to remember or be reminded what this gesture means in this world, whereas simply saying “he shook his head” conveys the meaning to them immediately. It uses our own cultural shorthand in its favour.

So, as with time, most authors don’t mess. They avoid more obviously modern cultural references but don’t bother to try and unpick the older ones. And that makes sense as it keeps that familiar connection with the reader. It allows them to lose themselves in the bits of the world that need to be different while giving them that lower layer they can still relate to. Oddly enough, it forms a connection.

With my Realm, again, certain concessions were necessary. Life is very different there and certain phrases and ways were needed to make it make sense. But for that reason, I didn’t mess with the basics. A nod was still yes, a shake of the head still no – for those with heads attached at least. I moderated the phrases within reason but didn’t interrogate too hard. Frankly, I had enough to explain without adding any more.

Because, let’s be honest – to create a true fantasy realm, one would need to have an extraordinary cross set of skills. A fantasy author would need to be a scientist in order to make sure the physics of their world functioned correctly. They would need to be a geographer to create an accurate physical landscape and atmospheric system. They would need to be an anthropologist to create an accurate series of societies and culture with their own norms and behaviours and ways of interacting with each other. They would need to be a linguist (step forward JRR Tolkien, probably the closest anyone has ever come to actually managing all this) to create each culture’s language and linguistic lexicon. And they would need the time and the nous to pull the whole darned thing together and then think of a way, short of writing an encyclopaedia (which does happen!), to tell their audience all about it without losing them completely.

But most of us are just writers. So – outside of the privacy of our own notebooks at least - we don’t bother. Oddly enough, as I believe I’ve said before, I love creating fantasy worlds, the bugger is coming up for a story to put in them. But what is a fun exercise for the writer would probably turn off a big chunk of audience when it came to the explanatory crunch. We all crave a bit of familiar amidst the alien. So I say to all you fantasy writers out there, in my own little cultural throwdown – keep the smile wave, boys, keep the smile and wave…;p

The Cultural Convention: Part One – A Matter of Time

 The thing about creating a fantasy realm is – it’s a different world.

Yes, I know that sounds self-evident. But when starting work on any kind of fantasy story, it needs to be borne in mind because it places the author immediately into a dilemma. How different exactly? A different world means different rules, that fundamentals of life that all its readers have in common don’t necessarily apply. Take units of time for example. Is the length of our day the same as a fantasy world’s day? Do they measure time as we do in hours and minutes and seconds? Do they follow the same turn of seasons, the same months, the same year?

It's a tricky one. On the one hand, upending these basics makes one truly feel that the place in which the story is taking place is alien and different. But on the other, it upsets the audience’s equilibrium. They are used to the old ways. Having to remember this world they are reading about has different rules can actually be jarring, it can push a reader’s brain out of the comfort of the story and jolt them out of your carefully constructed story while they try and get their heads around it.

And of course, all of this has to be explained. Exposition is the bane of many fantasy writers. It has to be laid out, early on, what the fundamentals of this world are, in order for the story to make sense. But in doing so, the author needs to insert a massive blob of world building into their narrative before the story has really had a chance to get going. There are various ways this can be done, which I have discussed in a previous blog, as it happens, but the outcome can often be the same. Readers with a short attention span may be turned off by this and abandon ship early on.

And this is why, I suspect, a lot of authors don’t actually bother to change a thing temporally. They leave the fundamentals of time as they are and choose not to mess. The major exception that springs to mind is the wonderful Sir Terry Pratchett with his eight day week and double seasoned year but given he created a realm carried by four elephants riding on the back of a turtle, he probably had to do a bit more fundamental world mechanics than most. In a situation such as that, having weeks, months and years that were conveniently the same would have been more jarring than the alterations so it’s better to roll with the oddness and hope the reader rolls too.

And it’s similar for me - in the Realm I created, normal rules cannot apply so I had to consider carefully what I was going to do in that respect. I left days, hours, minutes and seconds as they were but beyond that – how would a people whose lives are ruled by the arrival of The Narrative measure time? In Quests, of course. Weeks and months and years would mean nothing to them out of Narrative - what matters is how many Quests they’ve lived through. That is how they measure their lifespan.

And then there is another spanner in the works. Time in the Realm doesn’t function in a way that by our standards would be considered normal.

Let me explain. It’s not a story, we have time. ;p

Time and age in the Realm work according to Narrative need. A long ride between two places won’t necessarily take as long in The Narrative as it would in the outside world – hence how quickly the Merry Band keep catching up with our heroes. And people age according to Narrative requirements. A Boy of Destiny may grow up within the folds of Narrative time at a different rate to how he might age out of it. People stay at the age at which they are useful to The Narrative longer – they grow up quickly (unless they are needed as a child), stay at the prime age they are needed at for Quest purposes longer and only start to age properly when their Narrative time reduces. Ironically enough, a Disposable doing his duty dips in and out of Narrative regularly, which keeps him at the age he needs to be until he retires and he will age rapidly at that point. However, a Hero or Heroine, after their lengthy, intense Quest for glory, are done in all but noble cameos and might actually age faster after it’s over because their Narrative time is now more sparse.

This is what happened to the Gods in The Merry Band, most notably The Child – without their glory of the light requiring them, they grew much older than they would have if they were still needed. And grim as this sounds, I’ve always postulated that death from old age, the only way for a resident of the Realm to pass away, is as a result of no longer being required for Narrative use. When the Taskmaster doesn’t need you any more – you get old quickly and then you’re gone.

This is the point at which my authorial ideals come into conflict with my storytelling. I don’t believe I have at any point gone into what I have just explained in my actual novels, published or unpublished. It is something I am aware of as the world builder, but other than a few passing references, it isn’t actually necessary to the story so I’ve never bothered to explain it in great detail in the books. And that’s the line any author has to walk. It’s important to create a full and convincing world that makes sense for the sake of the reader – but it’s also important to bear in mind what the reader does and doesn’t need to know. I could have whacked in a heap of exposition to explain this but as it turned out, it wasn’t relevant to my storytelling. So I didn’t.

That’s what blogs are for. ;)

Very Short Story - The Spectre Cometh

 This was written for the story prompts Horror and Spectre for a long ago internet writing challenge. Being my usual contrary self, I did something a little different with it. ;)

The Spectre Cometh 

She couldn’t remember the last time that she had been so deeply, utterly afraid.

They were coming. They were coming for her.

There was nowhere to run. And what good would running do? There was no escape, not ever, not for her, not for anyone who had trodden the path she had chosen, who’d taken the responsibility she had willingly accepted for she had always known that with the children would come Them. It was the price that must be paid for those happy little faces she watched over day after day, for the privilege, not the right, of watching them learn and grow and change, of keeping them warm and safe and happy until the day came when she was forced to bite her lip and wave them through the gates into the dark austere arms of the grim and tatty monstrosity that towered over the simple stone building in which she worked like a harbinger of terror. All knew the next level that awaited them. All knew what it would bring. But what else could she do but send them on? She could not keep them small and safe and innocent forever. But still… it was hard.

That place… The creatures that inhabited it…

The creatures her children became…

She saw them sometimes, after they’d been sent, lurking by corners around that awful building, stretched and greasy, her little angels changed beyond all recognition, dressed like savages, speaking in grunts and obscenities and licking fire, screaming, fighting, scratching, laughing not with joy but cold, malicious cruelty as they rounded upon each other like animals of the pack. But sometimes, they would see her and just for a moment, deep inside, she would catch a glimpse of a precious little face she had once loved. And the once-child would smile.

She liked that she had given them that.

There were days when she wondered if what she did was worthwhile, worth facing Them and the struggles of everyday life in her little sanctuary. But if she could instil into her young charges the memory of a few bright, happy years to carry through with them all their lives, perhaps, someday, they would remember enough to fight the horror that would face them when they matured.

And to keep that hope alive, she had to face Them.

The Spectres.

One of the children had given them the name, popping from the lips of a bright-eyed, curly blonde little girl after an overheard exchange and quickly taken up excitedly by the others. The Spectres are coming, they whispered, the Spectres are coming! But how were they to know how hollow the mere mention of the name made her feel, the fluttering of her heart, the pounding of her blood, the pains that rippled through her head and body when one of Them entered her precious sanctuary and filled it with fear. They were so out of place in this world of colour and laughter, with their grey, severe clothing, those piercing eyes, sharp little implements twitching in harsh fingers as they prowled the room soullessly, watching the children, assessing, observing, learning all the could of their capabilities, their progress, searching for flaws, hunting for weakness. And if they found them, she knew with a certainty that froze her blood in her veins that they would turn on her.

And with one twitch of their fingers, one cross marked in vivid, glowing scarlet, they could destroy everything that mattered to her in the world.

They expected perfection. It was impossible, of course, every sensible person knew it, but yet they expected it all the same and punished its absence as though it was the easiest thing in the world. They wanted little automatons trained to work until they dropped but she wanted them to have fun and laughter, a bright spark in an ever darkening world before the pull of the next level dragged them down in a sea of conflicting emotions that turned them from angels to creatures that smashed and indiscriminately destroyed for no other reason than that they could. She hated the Spectres for everything they represented, the theft of imagination, the transformation of little lives into facts and figures, dictates to be followed and targets to be met.

But she could never say so. For she knew that if she did, it would be the end. She would be cast out from her warm sanctuary into a vicious, cold world of rejection and humiliation and her children, her precious little ones would fall into the charge of one the Spectres found to be more to their liking.

She could only imagine the horror. For that at least she was grateful.

So far.

It was the laughter that drew her back from her horrified musings into the room with its warm, painted walls decorated with splashes of light and colour woven by the children themselves, a mucky sheet of glass holding out the splatter of unpleasant rain as it dashed against the window, fortunately concealing the grey, cold monster of the next level that lay just beyond the gates without. She stared down at her children gathered below in a patient circle as they laughed and played and giggled, awaiting only her word or command to bring them back to some kind of order. But how could she give it? Nothing was natural when the Spectres came. Nothing could be. But how could she steal the joy from their faces and the laughter from their lips to create the dull little creatures the Spectres would expect to see? She knew she would have to, would need to line them up neatly like well behaved sacrifices to be mulled over and inspected like lambs to the slaughter.

And she had to do so now. For They were coming.

She could hear the footsteps slow and steady in the corridor outside as they approached, almost drowned by the sudden frantic thudding of her heartbeat. Her blood seared through her veins, burning like acid as she hushed the children, hurried them into place and fought to swallow her rising horror as the door knob rattled, creaked and slowly, painfully swung open.

It was a female. And alone. Dressed in tight grey, her head smooth and shiny as her locks were gathered harshly into a tight restraint, eyes shining, grim and searching, her fingers long and crowned by red talons, one locked over a black box lined with animal skin, the other extended as though to reach out and claw her down. She could only stare in horror as the vivid red lips parted…

“Miss Bartlett?” The voice was crisp and clean. “Ruth Collins, school inspector. I’m here to look over St Mary’s Primary School for the next few days and your class is the first on my list. I believe you were expecting me?”

And then, from beneath the rain-splashed window that looked out over the grim industrial town towards the failing high school just over the road, the little but piecing voice of blonde, bubbly Alice Curtis echoed clearly and concisely out over the junior classroom.

“That’s funny,” she proclaimed. “She don’t look much like a ‘spectre to me…”

 

The Whodunnit Convention

I have discovered in myself in the last few years a rather odd talent – I am very good at figuring out whodunnit in certain modern TV Detective shows. For example, until I stopped watching it a while ago (because the challenge had rather gone out of it), I had 100% hit rate on the long running murder of the week BBC series Death in Paradise. I figured out the murderer in the recent ITV series Holding in the first episode of four and was proved correct in the final show.

So how do I do this? Have I missed my calling as a valued member of the police force? Well, no. Not in the slightest – at least not unless today’s detectives are solving their crimes via the art of narrative convention. I don’t choose my likely candidate by watching them intently, considering the evidence and weighing the probabilities. I make my selection generally early on in the programme, usually very shortly after the line up of suspects have been introduced. And I use very simple criteria.

Who doesn’t the writer want me to pay much attention to?

There’s always one. They’ll be a line up of flashy front and centre suspects, with prickly personal problems and some messy grudge against the suspect that is teased out in the process of the investigation. But then there’s a quieter one. They are generally helpful and co-operative, sometimes offering up some titbit to the police or detective about one of the other suspects in question. Often some minor issue is raised about them and discarded as a motive early in the process and they are left to be forgotten about until the denouement. And they are generally slightly off to one side of proceedings – a friend/spouse/relative to one of the suspects (usually one much maligned by the victim) or an assistant or carer of the victim, in a position to be helpful without seeming to be much involved. They have little purpose in events other than to lurk in the background. Narratively, they have no real reason to exist.

And that, ladies and gents, will be your murderer. Some unheralded grudge/familial link/protective instinct for another suspect will be revealed and they will turn out to be the guilty party. And it’s horrendously predictable.

Because in trying not to be obvious, the writers of these dramas make it very obvious indeed by doing the same darned thing every time. They try to hide their murderer in obscurity. They try to make the character as unobtrusive as possible and in doing so, make them stand out a mile. The trouble is there are so many TV dramas and it’s been done so many times that the pattern is there for all to see. By always picking the person you don’t look at, it makes us look. It’s “The Butler Did It” for the modern world.

I will admit though, it doesn’t always work. There have been a few occasions in certain dramas in which I have been fooled by the murderer not being the most obscure person available and when I am, I rise up and applaud the writer in question for playing against the rules. What would seem like clumsy writing in the normal world – picking the most obvious candidate for the murder as the murderer – actually becomes a trope buster in the world of detective writing simply because it never happens.

Because in the extremely unlikely event I was ever to write any kind of detective whodunnit, I would have it that the person found splattered in blood with a nasty personal grudge against the victim would actually turn out to have done it but skipped the country while the detectives were busy questioning the quiet, helpful assistants and loving spouses of the victim’s angry, bitter kids. Because that really would be a surprise…;)

Disposable UK Sale!

 

From Thinklings Books:
This one's not a joke, promise! We've put The Disposable on sale, in honour of both April Fools' Day *and* The Disposable's 2nd publication anniversary!https://amzn.to/3tbakrk

Very Short Story - The System

This is a short story written for a challenge prompt of "Messy Room" some time ago. It is, to some extent, inspired by my childhood, when my bedroom floor required stepping stone clear patches to allow me to get to my bed. But the thing was, I knew where everything was and couldn't understand why everyone else felt I needed to tidy it up! ;p I am much tidier now but I will admit, there is still an element of system in play in certain aspects...;)

The System

That was the thing that no one seemed to be able to understand. She knew where everything was.

  Oh it looked a mess to the outside eye. It looked like carnage. But to her it was a code. The clothes were not strewn at random but carefully arranged – over the chair if they had been worn once but could be worn again in public, on the stool if they had been worn several times but were still good for lounging around the house and in the heap at the end of the bed if they were due for the washing machine, preferably with assistance from tongs. Current craft projects were heaped on the cupboard, completed efforts beside it. Her CDs were arranged by the stereo in stacks indicating their current status in her music enjoyment. The piles of books and papers were not piled without purpose either – the ones on the table were letters and bills to be dealt with and the books she was currently using for projects or reading, whilst the further they moved from said table across the floor, the older they were. It was a month on month progression, like a glacier advancing and she could find a year old gas bill in ten seconds if required to. It was just her way.

  So why could he not understand that?

  She’d thought he’d got it. She really had. Of all the men who’d been introduced to the system, his grimace had been the smallest, his smile the least strained. He’d been careful not to kick the piles or disturb their placement. He’d barely said a word about it.

  Until she’d come home from work that day and found him beaming in her spotless, pileless, abominably tidy flat. He’d tidied up, he told her, as a special surprise.

  And she’d kept her grimace small and her smile not too tight and tried to look pleased because she knew he’d meant well. But deep down inside, she knew with sinking horror that it would be months before she’d be able to find a damn thing she needed again.