Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 100

Photo Prompt 71

New prompt available!



If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.



The 71st prompt is Woodland Path.





All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

Friday Flash - The Puppet

Marsha sat at the computer, the black type dancing in strange shapes before her tired eyes. She shook her head and forced herself to concentrate.

"Mummy, I don't like the toy Daddy got me."

Marsha looked up from her work. A small figure stood in the doorway, a teddy bear dangling at her side.

"Nancy, Mummy's working." Marsha pointed to the computer. She glanced at the clock – forty minutes of peace, and she was sure to meet the deadline.

"But Mummy –"

"It was very nice of Daddy to get you that puppet."

Marsha thought of the puppet her husband brought back from Germany. The black-clad figure looked more like a praying mantis than the jester it was supposed to be, all spindly legs and tiny head. Its black pointed cap was surprisingly sharp. Marsha shivered the first time she saw its painted grin, an expression that brought Jack Nicholson to mind. She'd been unsure about giving it to their five year old, but Hal insisted.

Maybe I'll speak to him about it when he gets home, she thought.

"I don't like it. Can I sit in here with you?"

"No, Nancy. I have work to do. Why can't you play in the sitting room?"

"It's in there."

Marsha peered over the top of her spectacles at her daughter. Nancy stared back, her blue eyes wide, her pudgy hand clutching the paw of Mr Patches.

"Nancy –"

"Look what it did to Mr Patches."

Nancy held up her teddy for inspection. Stuffing poked through the burst seam down his left side, and one of his blue patches flapped free from his belly, held on by just two stitches.

"What happened?" Marsha remembered her niece, Kayla. She'd started destroying her things to get attention. Am I working too much? Am I neglecting my own daughter?

"I was playing with Mr Patches and the bad toy said he'd hurt me if I didn't play with him instead. I hid behind Mr Patches and the bad toy hurt him." Tears welled up in Nancy's eyes. Marsha stared down at the teddy – she'd have to ask her sister to do a repair job.

The phone rang, its electronic chirp breaking the silence. Marsha jumped. She snatched up the receiver.

"Yes?"

"Marsha, it's Peter. The meeting's been brought forward by twenty minutes. Can you get me the report in the next ten?" Her boss' harassed tone mirrored her own frustration.

"I, er, yes, of course I can."

"Mummy –"

Marsha waved Nancy out of the room before scribbling down Peter's last minute changes to the report. With one eye on the clock, she fell to her task.

Ten minutes later, she pressed 'Send' on the email and sat back in her chair. She let her gaze dance around the room, ignoring the clock now that the deadline was met.

A squeal from the next room disturbed her relaxation. Remembering Nancy's earlier behaviour, she jumped up from the chair and hurried into the sitting room. Mr Patches lay discarded on his back, more stuffing poking out from the burst seam. A single shoe, spattered with child-friendly paint, lay on the floor beside him.

"Nancy? Are you alright?"

Silence. Marsha picked up the teddy and stroked his threadbare fur. She looked around the room, even pulling out the sofa to check Nancy's old hiding place. She snatched up a pile of blankets in the corner, but Nancy wasn't hiding under them. Other than the bear, the room was empty.

Empty, except for a spindly black shadow dancing along the wall.

New Facebook page

As of this morning, my pulp Western, The Guns of Retribution has its own Facebook page! You can 'like' it here, and I'll be using the page to try and promote the book a bit more while I'm working on the sequel. The sequel is coming along nicely, but I'll be writing a post tomorrow about the process, and my experiences with using an actual outline.



I'm also starting to work on the outlines for some short stories starring Grey O'Donnell, my bounty hunter protagonist, so I'll be able to let everyone know when and where they'll be appearing. If you'd like to host one on your blog, let me know and I'm sure we can work something out!

Photo Prompt 70

New prompt available!



If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.



The 70th prompt is Cellar.





All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

Friday Flash - Waking Up

Dry lips moved without words inside dusty bandages. Empty eye sockets stared into the suffocating darkness of millennia. Voices echoed in the world beyond, voices strange and unfamiliar. Rotting ears strained to hear, and a lost mind struggled to understand. Ragged nails tore through ancient wrappings. Fingers more like talons scraped against thick painted wood. A panicked corpse thrashed against imprisonment.



The tourists moved away to another part of the museum, taking their cameras and guidebooks towards ancient Rome. A figure stepped forward from the shadow of Anubis. White hands pressed against the cold glass. Hungry eyes looked down at the sarcophagus, reading the story spelled out in hieroglyphs. Blackened lips curved in a smile to see the turmoil inside the case.



"Soon, my pretty, soon."



The necromancer turned away.

Creepy Houses

Abandoned Mansion, Ostrowo, Poland

Photo by Michał Żebrowski

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you might have seen me talking about a dream which actually unsettled me. I rarely remember my dreams, and when I do, they've often just been weird as opposed to actually creepy or even scary - in fact, I don't even remember ever having had a nightmare. However in this case, not only did I remember my dream, I also dreamed about the same thing twice. In this case, that 'thing' was a house.



Naturally the details of dreams fade, but I remember it was a large house set in some kind of parkland, with a cemetery nearby. In the first dream, I simply visited it, and can only remember the large square entrance hall with the marble floor and balustrade running around the upper gallery. In the second dream, it transpired that my parents had bought it - for some reason their room was downstairs at the back of the house, and constantly in shadow due to the trees outside. My brother and I had rooms on the upper floor, but at opposite ends of the house. Mine was reached via an absolute maze of corridors that all looked alike, and I hated the fact that we were so spread out throughout the house. I got the distinct impression that the house enjoyed the isolation.



There was nothing really wrong with the house, apart from its peculiar decor, a mixture of wood-panelling and 1970s kitsch, but the whole time I was there, I felt continually as though I was being watched, and a general air of discomfort hung over the place. For the nights following, I found myself unwilling to go to sleep for fear of returning to a house that, as far as I know, was created by my imagination.





Borley Rectory, said to be one of the most

haunted houses in England - now demolished

So what is it about houses? It's hardly surprising I'd be dreaming about them, considering the focus of my PhD upon haunted spaces in cinema, and my fascination with the Gothic as a literary device. Houses are supposed to provide warmth and shelter, not harbour threats or danger. Yet houses reflect the living - they're transformed into homes by the activity of their inhabitants, inanimate shells gaining animation by proxy. How often do we return from periods away from the home to find they have become cold and almost unfamiliar? We don't feel comfortable in our own home until our presence has returned the semblance of warmth and life.



It is the privileged position of the house as primary provider of shelter, the place in which we are at our most vulnerable during sleep, which grants the abandoned house, or simply a house which has stood empty for some time, that special air of creepiness. An abandoned house no longer fulfils its function of providing shelter - with no inhabitants, it ceases to exist according to its purpose, and becomes instead an arrangement of bricks and mortar.



Consider, too, the vast array of literary and cinematic examples of the haunted house. Yes, we have examples of ghosts haunting spaces other than that of the house (I'm thinking here of Ghost and its subway spectre, or the cab driving phantom of Ghostbusters) but the ghost's primary location is that of a domestic space. Naturally we are therefore conditioned to view old or rundown houses as being potentially haunted, and it is entirely possible that we project our own beliefs into the space, generating the signs and signifiers of a haunting ourselves. In many cases, abandoned houses are met with the words "Oh it's so sad", as though we feel a sense of sympathy for the house itself. Imbued with life by its inhabitants, a residue remains following their departure.



I can only assume that a combination of these factors, along with my own interest in the paranormal, the history of the Gothic and my experience with 'haunted' houses, has conspired to create an imaginary space in which to explore these feelings of dread and discomfort. I'm choosing that reading of the dream - I don't even want to consider it as some kind of metaphor...

Photo Prompt 69

New prompt available!



If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.



The 69th prompt is Dead Leaves.





All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

iBook Author app - good or bad?

I read this article in the Metro newspaper last week, and found it online. For those of you who hadn't heard, a new iPhone app has been released that allegedly makes it even easier to publish books yourself. The iBook Author app lets you drag a word file into the app, and it does all the hard work by fixing the format and layout. Apparently users (note users, not writers) can fiddle with the layout and add photos and videos to their books. Oh dear me. While on one hand I applaud the recognition given to the e-publishing phenomenon, on the other hand I cannot help but groan that the writing process has been devalued to the extent that it's now simply the input portion of an app, in much the same way that anyone with the Instagram app now thinks they're a photographer.



Writing is not simply a case of chucking something together in Word, dropping it into an app and then making it available for sale through iTunes. Putting together a book should be a process that involves writing a draft, getting feedback from beta readers, and preferably having an experienced editor look it over. Hell, teach yourself the basics of HTML so you can code the thing yourself! I'm all for self-publishing, and I'm not saying that self published writers can't put out books - I've read some very, very professional self-published books that give the traditional publishers a run for their money - but I am saying that they need to look at the wider picture. Don't make the mistake of thinking that typing The End means your book is finished, and ready for public consumption.



The thing that bothers is me is that some people choose the self-publishing route for the better royalties and the greater degree of control over their work, and they're the writers who put in the effort, learn how to market and generally do quite well. They've weighed up the pros and cons of self-publishing, read up on it, and are determined to produce something that's just as good as, if not better than, something a traditional publisher might put out. Other people choose the route because their work as been consistently knocked back by agents and publishers alike, and instead of stepping back to look at what's wrong with the work itself, they just decide to put it out themselves. If that's you, then for God's sake get some feedback on why no one will take a punt on your project, and really work on it until it shines before you put it out there (unless you're one of those unfortunate writers whose work simply isn't classifiable, in which case you have your work cut out for you when it comes to marketing).



If you're hell bent on using this new technology, then how about this?



1 - Write the very best book that you can.

This should be a no-brainer, but don't just throw any old thing together and trust it will sell.



2 - Have trusted readers look it over.

I don't just mean your spouse or your mother. Have a set of beta readers whose opinion you trust, and who won't be afraid to tell you if something's not working. Other writers will provide invaluable feedback in terms of craft, while voracious readers will be able to give you their opinion in the context of what they read anyway.



3 - Get an editor to look at it.

You really do need an editor of some description, both in terms of typos, grammatical errors and other technical factors, but also in terms of flow, pacing and general storytelling. It's shocking how many e-books I've tried to read, only to find sentences peppered with bad grammar, repetitive words and typos.



4 - Spend some time playing around with covers.

If you're no good, ask the design department of your local college, enlist the help of a design-savvy friend, or invest in the services of a book cover designer if your budget stretches that far. People DO judge a book by its cover and just throwing something together in Photoshop will look terrible.



5 - Now use the app!

You will have a polished book that will be a credit to you, and will help boost the reputation of self-published books.

Friday Flash - Fold

Becky and Karl sit opposite one another. A naked bulb hangs above the table, casting a harsh circle of light across the game. Becky reaches forward and tosses another handful of poker chips onto the pile. Karl displays his cards - three of a kind. Becky groans and drops her cards facedown onto the table.



March 23 1997. Becky and Karl walk down the street, discussing ways to celebrate their six month anniversary. They pause at the cinema, scanning the posted list of film times. Becky wants to see Liar Liar, having seen all of Jim Carrey's films so far. Karl insists they see the special edition of Return of the Jedi - he doesn't much care for Jim Carrey. Becky points out she hasn't seen Star Wars or The Empire Strikes Back. Karl replies that he is paying for the tickets, so it should be his choice. Becky spends the duration of the film counting the number of times Karl uses money to get his way.



Karl looks at the hand he has been dealt and scowls. He swaps out two of his cards with the third player, a silent figure who sits in the shadows. Karl's expression morphs from annoyance to hope. Becky ups the ante and calls it. Her Royal Flush beats his two pair.



August 13 2004. Becky and Karl discuss their wedding plans. Karl wants a small civil ceremony at the local registry office; Becky wants a big church wedding, followed by a lavish reception. Karl argues about the guest list - he doesn't want to make a fuss. Becky sulks, asking if she isn't worth that much to him. Karl relents, not wanting to start married life under a cloud. They are married at St Martin's, with the reception for two hundred people at the local country club.



Karl pushes his stack of chips around the table as stares at the cards in his hand. He glances at the silent figure. Becky adds more chips to the pile in the centre of the table. A bead of sweat bursts forth on Karl's forehead, and trickles down the clammy skin to be lost in the foliage of his eyebrows. Becky calls it. Karl knows his lowly pair will be beaten; Becky rakes the chips across to her side of the table.



November 30 2008. Becky asks Karl why he spends so much time at the office. He claims he needs to put in the overtime - if he doesn't do the work, they'll find someone else who will. He thinks of Sara, the receptionist with the short skirts and see-through blouses. Becky threatens to leave if he doesn't change jobs. Karl thinks of the expensive dinners and lavish holidays, paid for by Becky's trust fund. He calls a recruitment consultant.



Karl takes two new cards from the silent dealer, slotting them into the fan in his hand. He struggles to suppress a grin - the new King and Queen fit in well with his existing cards. Becky notices the flicker at the corners of his mouth and bites her lip. She calls it, choking back a sob to see Karl's Full House.



May 18 2009. Becky goes to see her sister's new baby, and realises she is broody. After spending the afternoon with her niece, she goes home and tells Karl she wants to start a family. Karl doesn't want children - he feels that they're too much of a commitment. Becky insists that they try anyway. After six months, she visits the doctor, and discovers she can't have children. Karl commiserates with her, and celebrates with his friends.



The third player drops a handful of cards onto the table. A Full House. Becky looks at her mismatched hand, and Karl frowns at his lowly pair. An equal pile of chips sits on either side of the table. Becky and Karl fold, stand up from the table, and walk away.



September 12 2011. Becky and Karl sign their divorce papers.

Mid-January Update

Yesterday I


Maybe I should use 2012 as the time to change that? Well we're halfway through month one, so how has the year been treating me so far?



As well as my introductory post I've already mentioned, I've also had a post on Write Anything about why writing needn't be a chore, and posts on Fuel Your Writing suggesting ways to get back into your writing routine after Christmas, and also why writing what you know shouldn't be taken so literally.



I've posted two Friday Flashes in 2012 - Spot the Mistake , a slice of silliness, and The Bell , a Gothic tale set on a lonely moor. If that weren't enough, Metro Fiction were also kind enough to publish my short story, The Hen Night . It's not my usual genre but then again, considering I've posted fantasy, horror, steampunk, historical and even science fiction, who's to say what "my genre" actually is? The Guns of Retribution is a pulp Western, after all!! I'm just not a writer who wants to get hung up on what genre I should, or shouldn't, write. I understand the marketing implications but sorry, I'm not going to quit writing what I enjoy just to satisfy a few hardcore genre fiends.



Speaking of Westerns, I can now say that paperback copies of Guns are available from A Reader's Heaven in


But so far, all I've been talking about is writing. What else have I been doing? More of my spare time than I'd care to admit has gone into playing World of Warcraft (I know, I know, I got sucked in) but work is well underway on the infamous PhD, as I work my way through reading existing texts on the topic in order to compile a literature review. Best of all, I've booked a holiday in Venice! I last visited the Italian city in December 2006 and I've been itching to go back so I am very, very excited at the prospect of visiting again. My camera and I will be inseparable!