Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 109

London

I usually try, as much as I can, to keep real life off this blog, but not today. I'm sure I wasn't the only one transfixed by the live news feed covering the London riots. Please, let's get one thing straight. This is NOT civil unrest. This is wanton violence. Gangs of thugs are waging a war on terror on local communities. This is not a protest as a protest as a cause for which it is campaigning. This does not. If it were, I wager we'd be less likely to see shops being broken into and looted. Making it a point to clear out an electronics shop should not be your priority if you have something important you want society to hear. Someone last night was having a go at me, saying that it was all down to the global economy. What nonsense.



Luckily the boroughs in which I live and work have been thus far unaffected, but I do know people who have been near the trouble. I hesitate to call it trouble since it is far, far worse than that, but I'm not sure what else I should call it. Sufficeth to say, they're all okay, but there are so many who aren't. As a result, all the stuff I've been stockpiling to go to charity when I move will now be going to those made homeless by these riots. If you want to do the same, you can take things to Apex House at 820 Seven Sisters Road.



If you know vulnerable people in London, please, go and check on them. They might be perfectly safe but they might be scared. It goes without saying but if you hear of trouble brewing, don't go to see what's going on. I was shocked by the number of onlookers at Mare Street in Hackney, as if they were wanting to see something kick off between the rioters and the police.



Also, if you live in London, follow @RiotCleanUp on Twitter to find out how you can help. I've been utterly struck by how quickly Londoners have swung into action, be it the groups standing up to the rioters and keeping their communities safe (let's hear it for the boys who held Dalston!) or those who've pledged to help clean up the mess. Personally, I'd make those who've been arrested for looting get their hands dirty, but that's just me.



I've never considered myself a Londoner, always a Geordie just living here, but I don't like what they're doing to the city. As the media keep pointing out, we shouldn't see scenes like these in London - but nor should we see them ANYWHERE.

Photo Prompt 45

Latest prompt, ready and waiting.



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 45th prompt is Piccadilly.





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 - A Hero Comes Along

St Joseph's Cemetery isn't the nicest place to put someone to sleep. Still, the dead don't get much of a choice in the matter. We're expected to lie back and not make a fuss. For the most part we do, but every now and then, one of us has unfinished business, and can't rest.



I crawl out of my grave at sundown. The local kids congregate on the far side of the cemetery but I still smell the sour scent of cheap alcohol and the acrid tang of cigarettes. They think they're being so rebellious - they don't know that they're just repeating their parents' mistakes. For all I know, they're the kids who made fun of me when I was alive. Maybe one of them even knows who shot me during the convenience store hold up I tried to stop.



I shuffle through St Joseph's, the early evening mist clinging to my tattered cape. Its bright red fabric is closer to dark brown now, the cheerful yellow 'S' all but obscured. It was my brother's idea to bury me in my cape. My mother agreed, thinking it would be a fitting tribute, but Santo was trying to be ironic. No, the irony was that Santo's a cop with the 22nd precinct, and I was a gas station attendant. He only pretended to fight the crime that I actually went out to confront.



A scream cuts through the dusk. I shamble as fast as I can, heading towards the Palisade on the west side of the cemetery. The planners in the 1940s gave it a fancy name in the hope of making it seem a peaceful place to lay loved ones to rest. Now it's just an overgrown tangle of thorns and broken headstones.



Two men kneel beside a woman. She lashes out with arms and legs as they struggle to pin her down. She wears gym clothes and sneakers – my guess is she took a detour through the cemetery for a more scenic jogging route, and got jumped by the men. Angry scratches cover the face of the taller man, and I smell his blood under her fingernails. 1979 – a good vintage. The shorter man stands up and fumbles with his belt.



I lumber towards them. The woman catches sight of me and screams again. The sight of rotting flesh does that to people. The men turn around and see me. I haul my arms into my attack position and groan. It's not as impressive as the one-liners I cracked when I was alive but it'll do.



The taller man scrambles to his feet. He gibbers something incomprehensible and takes flight, thrashing his way through the bushes towards the path. The shorter man stands his ground, fumbling in his pocket for a flick knife. I knock it out of his hand and he stares at me, mouth falling open in surprise.



"You don't scare me, man! Just another junkie, yeah, that's all you are!"



I throw a punch, the dead weight of my fist connecting with his jaw. He drops to his knees, his fingers exploring the inside of his mouth for loose teeth. I look at the woman and motion for her to run. I'd tell her but my vocal chords rotted a week ago. She nods, mouths the words 'thank you', and springs to her feet. She plunges into the undergrowth and crashes away to freedom.



I notice a rock near the short man. My guess is he planned to use it on the runner when he'd finished satisfying himself. I pick it up and slam it into the back of his skull while he inspects the damage my punch caused. He tips forward, landing in the dried leaves with a thud. It's easy enough to force my fingers into the crack and wrench his skull apart.



Brains are an acquired taste but I've learned to tolerate them. I prefer other organs but in my job, the brain is a better option. I chew on the amygdala and visions dance before my eyes. I see what the short man saw throughout his day. I watch him steal a car, kick a stray dog, and visit a prostitute. I also watch him visit his friend, the tall man who now bears scratches on his cheek. Apartment 4b, Winnicker Street.



I scoop the last of the brains out of the skull, and roll the corpse into a pile of dead leaves. The local wildlife will finish the job and I will finish mine. I have somewhere else to visit tonight.



I clamber to my feet and I stumble along the Palisade. Evil walks the streets tonight, but I no longer fear it.



I am the Zombie Avenger.

Are digital magazine subscriptions the future?

I came across this post on the io9 blog, and actually went "SQUEE!" when I read the announcement. It seems that the seminal fiction magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, is going digital. It'll be available for the Kindle, with both a stripped down free option, or a subscription to all of the content for just $12 a year. Yes, that's six issues for $12. By comparison, the print version of the same subscription is $35.97. In the UK, it'll cost 99p a month for the digital subscription.



To be honest, I think digital subscriptions are the way forward. As most people know, I'm in the process of packing things up ahead of a big move, and the storage of magazines is a real headache for me. Yes, it's nice to be able to flick through things but once I've read it, what do I do with it? I don't always want to recycle the issue in case I want to refer to it in future but there comes a point where you're just storing an awful lot of paper. To me, digital solves the problem. I can access an archive whenever I want, but I don't have to worry about finding the space to store physical copies.



Besides, you can't argue with a price like that - effectively £1.98 an issue! I used to subscribe to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction a while back but I didn't renew precisely because I was paying a lot of money for something I couldn't find the room to store. Now I can have it delivered to my Kindle app on either my Netbook or smartphone, I might just subscribe again. It stands to reason that if I can be swayed, so can others, and getting people to read short story magazines can only benefit writers.



What do you think? Do you think digital subscriptions will help bring people back to short fiction?

Western Whodunnit Dust and Death available now

Do you remember those Choose Your Own Adventures books from when you were a kid? You were dropped into a narrative scenario, and the choices you made at the end of each page determined the course of the story. Well, they're back. Sort of. Here we have the online version! Read the story, and click the link of the option you want to follow. So very simple - with hundreds of possible stories available.



Our CYOA overlady Annie Evett has blogged about the process of collaborative writing here but if you want to get stuck into Dust and Death, you can read the premise here. The blurb reads thus;



When new deputy arrives into Cyotta Falls, only one person suspects his true purpose. They will do everything in their power to ensure Daniel is kept permanently quiet.

After a landowner dies in front of him and the Sheriff quickly announces it as natural causes, Daniel begins to suspect Cyotta Falls holds its own secrets. With most town folk under suspicion, Daniel must unravel the tight community to uncover its stories. Toss in saloon fights, a travelling freak show, a whiff of black magic and questionable railway land buyers sniffing around, there is a recipe for Western Intrigue which can only be solved by you.



It's a Western, which is naturally a genre close to my heart (especially with the impending release of The Guns of Retribution), and I've contributed several story threads, as well as a teaser, The Painted Man.



Just £3 ($4.99 US or $4.50 AUS) buys you access to ALL of the story threads. Bargain!

Review Policy

You may have noticed that I've reviewed a fair few works of fiction lately. Most of them are by writers that I talk to online, and whose work I want to champion. Sometimes I'll review books by writers I don't know, and sometimes I review books about writing - I'm tricksy like that. Now, I know there are arguments against writing reviews, since a) a bad review could earn a black mark against your name with future publishing companies and other writers and b) you don't want to look like you're just sucking up to the people you know.



That's why I wanted to make it clear that I'll only post a review on my blog if I feel I can award the book four or five blunt pencils - for fiction, I want to help spread the word about enjoyable writing, and for non-fiction, I want to help people find books that may be useful to them.



I also post the reviews on Goodreads and Amazon, which is obviously important for the millions of book buyers who don't read my blog. However I restrict myself to only reviewing the books I like because I want to help promote the writers I know. Besides, why waste my time reviewing a book I didn't enjoy when I could be start to read a new book that I'll love? Obviously, that's not to say that if you're a writer I know and I haven't reviewed your book yet that I don't like it - chances are, I just haven't gotten to it.



Here's a recap of some reviews I've already done, listed in alphabetical order. Treat yourself, and check them out.



Blood Picnic and Other Stories by Tony Noland

From Dark Places by Emma Newman

Jailbait Justice by Danny Hogan

Just My Blood Type by Carrie Clevenger and Nerine Dorman

Must Love Dragons by Monica Marier

The Soulkeepers by G.P.Ching

20th Century Ghosts by Joe Hill

Photo Prompt 44

Latest prompt, ready and waiting.



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 44th prompt is Chairs in the Greenwood.





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 Charterhouse Bullies

Edward stood in the shadows inside the door. His new classmates ran around the yard. They played in small groups, chasing hoops and tossing balls. He watched, too nervous to approach. Morning classes provided few opportunities to make friends, but the full yard was too daunting.



"Well, well, well! What do we have 'ere?"



Edward turned around to face a much larger boy. His blazer strained across his bulk, and acne peppered his pale skin. A mop of orange hair tumbled around his lumpy ears. The boy planted a squat hand on Edward's shoulder and steered him into the yard.



The games in the yard stopped. All eyes fell on Edward. He gulped at the sudden attention. A small blond boy to his right caught his eye. An ugly bruise coloured his cheekbone purple and blue. A pleading look haunted his eyes as he mouthed the word, "Run".



Other large boys peeled away from groups scattered across the yard. They formed a loose cordon around Edward and his guard. Edward sensed the other boys forming a wider ring. They struggled to see. Edward's hands shook, and a bead of ice cold sweat trickled down his forehead. It made his eye sting.



"You're the new boy, aren't you?"



The tallest boy looked down at him. Greasy black hair fell over his forehead into his dull grey eyes. The ghost of a scar twisted his face into a snarl.



"Yes, sir," replied Edward.



"He calls me sir!" said the older boy. He brayed, and the other boys added their own uneasy laughter to the chorus. The black-haired boy clapped his approval.



"You know your place. I like that. I can see that we're going to get along famously. But you can call me Simmers."



The laughter died away. Silence descended on the yard, Edward felt time slow to a crawl. He thought of his father, fighting the armies of Napoleon in the killing fields of northern Spain. If Papa could be brave, so could he.



"Do you know where you are?" asked Simmers.



"Ch-Ch-Charterhouse School," replied Edward.



"That's right. But do you know what was here before the school?"



Edward shook his head. The district of Clerkenwell confused him. London was too big to take in at once.



"Didn't reckon you would know, you being new, but that's alright. I'm here to tell you. This place was built on a plague pit. You know what they are?"



Edward nodded.



"Of course you do. Everyone knows about plague pits. Only this one was especially despicable. They didn't always wait for you to die before they threw you in."



Edward stared at the older boy. He didn't want to believe him, but truth lay in the lines of his ugly face. Sadness gripped his heart. His father's tales of human cruelty echoed in his ears.



Two of the boys grabbed Edward's arms and forced him to the ground. Simmers pressed his head down, his right ear against the cold cobbles of the yard. He heard nothing except the silence of the watching boys. He wondered if the teachers could see. Would they care, even if they did see?



"Can you hear them? The cries of the ones they buried alive?"



Edward tried not to listen, his ears filled with pounding of blood. A cloud parted in the darkness, and a muffled sob reached through the veil of years. A sob, a wail, a plaintive plea. Edward gasped, but his lungs refused to breathe in. More cries, howls, and weeping added to the lament of the dead. They called his name, asking for help. They begged to be free.



Edward yelped and struggled, forcing himself up. Simmers fell back, his eyes wide. The two captors released his arms. Air rushed into Edward's lungs and a scream bubbled up in his throat. Terror forced the cry loose. The boys backed away in the face of naked despair.



Edward still howled when his geography master dragged him inside, away from the alarmed stares of the boys. He only fell silent an hour later through exhaustion. He passed out in the headmaster's office and his mother came for him twenty minutes later. She cradled her unconscious son on the way home.



The headmaster hauled the small blond boy into his office. The boy answered his questions about the Newcomer's Ordeal. The headmaster asked to see Simmers. The black-haired boy expressed admiration that Edward survived his ordeal, but sorrow that he would never forget those eternal cries.



Edward never returned to the Charterhouse School.

Seven Random Facts About Icy

I've been tagged for another Versatile Blogger award. This is the third time I've had it, after both Danielle LaPaglia and Grace Motley handed it out, but now the awesome Tony Noland has bestowed it too. So here you go.



Seven More Things About Icy

1. My favourite Disney character is Sleeping Beauty's Maleficent.



2. I actually have the beginnings of a grey streak, but I will continue to dye my hair until it gets wider and I can pretend to be Rogue.



3. I began my DJ career by playing music for hen nights, corporate functions and birthday parties at a restaurant in Newcastle.



4. I have a deep-seated loathing for PowerPoint.



5. I love gunslingers, highwaymen and cavaliers but I find pirates to be uncouth.



6. I find few sounds more full of despair than the sole caw of a lonely crow on a wet afternoon.



7. If I won a considerable amount on the lottery, I really would consider the construction of an underground supervillain lair. And all my henchmen would be dressed as Abba's Benny and Bjorn.



You can read my original seven points here. Now I'm tagging Ian Collings, Rebecca Clare Smith and Lady Antimony...

Photo Prompt 43

Latest prompt, ready and waiting.



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 43rd prompt is Footprint.





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!