Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 117
April 4, 2011
Photo Prompt 27
Twenty-seventh 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 twenty-seventh prompt is Crypt.
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!
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 twenty-seventh prompt is Crypt.
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!
March 31, 2011
Friday Flash - Losing Battle
Gwinn didn't want her father to die.
She cowered in the corner of the hovel, trying to keep out of the way. Her father lay on the low table near the empty fireplace. An arrow pierced his side, just below his ribs. Blood oozed around the shaft. He kept scrabbling at the arrow, yelling curses when he touched it.
His hound sniffed at the air, and whined, pawing at the rough earth floor of the shack. Gwinn worked her fingers into his fur, trying to quiet the dog's whimpers. Gwinn whispered in his ear, trying to reassure the dog as much as herself. For all of her fourteen years, she felt like a child.
The old woman hunched over the table, slapping her father's hands away from the arrow. She hummed a melancholy tune and examined the wound. Gwinn could smell the bad blood. Dafys, her father's best friend and commander, slammed his fist on the table. The impact made her father cry out.
"What are you waiting for, woman? Take it out!" shouted Dafys.
"All in good time," replied the old woman.
She leaned forward and wrapped her gnarled fingers around the arrow. Gwinn's father shouted another curse, and his hound howled. Dafys whirled around, his blue eyes blazing.
"Can't you shut that dog up?"
"I'm trying, sir-"
"Try harder."
Gwinn wrapped her hand around the dog's muzzle and brought his head close to hers. She slung her other arm around his neck, and held him close. He shivered in her arms, his howl dissolving into whimpers. Her father screamed again, and Gwinn buried her face in the dog's fur.
"One more should do it," said Dafys.
Gwinn looked up, straining to see through the tears. The old woman gave the arrow a final tug, and it tore free. Black blood spurted from the wound, splattering the old woman's faded apron. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air.
"There you go, Merryd, it's out," said Dafys, leaning over her father.
"Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but this arrow..." said the old woman. She peered at the jagged head. Gwinn's stomach rolled at the thought of the metal lump buried inside her father.
"Yes?"
"Did it come from a forest dweller, or a bandit?"
"A forest dweller. Lord Tulloch had us chasing poachers ," replied Dafys.
"I thought so. This 'ere arrow...it's been dipped in brax berries."
Dafys stared at the old woman. Gwinn's heart dropped through her rib cage, hitting her stomach with a thud. Brax berries. Poison. Her father groaned, writhing on the table.
"Can you do anything to help him?" asked Dafys.
"I can try, sir, but it's fair advanced now. I'll do what I can," said the old woman.
Gwinn tried to stand, but her legs buckled beneath her. She slumped to the floor. Her father's hound licked at her face. She pushed him away. He whined, looking from Gwinn's tear-stained face to his moaning master and back.
"Is my father–" she began.
"Not now, girl," said Dafys.
The old woman bustled around the room, throwing dried herbs and foul-smelling oils into a bowl. She pounded the mixture with a stone pestle. The acrid smell of the paste made Gwinn's eyes water. The hound backed away and forced himself between Gwinn and the wall.
"Is this legal?" asked Dafys.
"This 'ere is a 'erbal remedy, sir. T'ain't magic, if that's what yer thinkin'," replied the old woman. "No one can do magic theirselves."
Gwinn's father gasped behind them. He wheezed, fighting to get air into his failing lungs. Gwinn rushed across the room and grabbed a pale, clammy hand. Her father shifted, trying to look at her.
"I'm here, Papa," said Gwinn.
The old woman slapped the stinking paste onto her father's wound. His eyes flew open, bulging in agony. He screamed. The paste sizzled and spat where it touched the oozing black blood.
Her father's body shuddered. Gwinn sobbed and squeezed his hand tighter. She wished that she could somehow will the poison out of his body. The hound sat on his haunches and let out a single banshee howl. Her father shook in one last spasm, and lay still.
Gwinn stared at the body. She told herself that the white, haggard face did not belong to her father. A stranger lay on the table, not Merryd Twildir. The old woman rolled her eyes skywards and muttered something under her breath. Dafys stifled a sob. The hound collapsed in a fit of whimpers in the corner.
Gwinn pressed her lips to her father's hand, and laid it on his chest. She turned and sat on the bare floor. The strength of the table against her back reassured her. An eerie silence descended on the hovel, broken only by the stamp of horse's hooves in the cold mud outside. Gwinn looked out of the window. A crow sat on a post just beyond the glass. It gave a single caw, and flew away towards the trees.
Gwinn didn't hear Dafys' promise that she would be taken care of. The old woman's apologies and platitudes fell on deaf ears. All she could think of was how she would break the news to her brother.
She cowered in the corner of the hovel, trying to keep out of the way. Her father lay on the low table near the empty fireplace. An arrow pierced his side, just below his ribs. Blood oozed around the shaft. He kept scrabbling at the arrow, yelling curses when he touched it.
His hound sniffed at the air, and whined, pawing at the rough earth floor of the shack. Gwinn worked her fingers into his fur, trying to quiet the dog's whimpers. Gwinn whispered in his ear, trying to reassure the dog as much as herself. For all of her fourteen years, she felt like a child.
The old woman hunched over the table, slapping her father's hands away from the arrow. She hummed a melancholy tune and examined the wound. Gwinn could smell the bad blood. Dafys, her father's best friend and commander, slammed his fist on the table. The impact made her father cry out.
"What are you waiting for, woman? Take it out!" shouted Dafys.
"All in good time," replied the old woman.
She leaned forward and wrapped her gnarled fingers around the arrow. Gwinn's father shouted another curse, and his hound howled. Dafys whirled around, his blue eyes blazing.
"Can't you shut that dog up?"
"I'm trying, sir-"
"Try harder."
Gwinn wrapped her hand around the dog's muzzle and brought his head close to hers. She slung her other arm around his neck, and held him close. He shivered in her arms, his howl dissolving into whimpers. Her father screamed again, and Gwinn buried her face in the dog's fur.
"One more should do it," said Dafys.
Gwinn looked up, straining to see through the tears. The old woman gave the arrow a final tug, and it tore free. Black blood spurted from the wound, splattering the old woman's faded apron. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air.
"There you go, Merryd, it's out," said Dafys, leaning over her father.
"Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but this arrow..." said the old woman. She peered at the jagged head. Gwinn's stomach rolled at the thought of the metal lump buried inside her father.
"Yes?"
"Did it come from a forest dweller, or a bandit?"
"A forest dweller. Lord Tulloch had us chasing poachers ," replied Dafys.
"I thought so. This 'ere arrow...it's been dipped in brax berries."
Dafys stared at the old woman. Gwinn's heart dropped through her rib cage, hitting her stomach with a thud. Brax berries. Poison. Her father groaned, writhing on the table.
"Can you do anything to help him?" asked Dafys.
"I can try, sir, but it's fair advanced now. I'll do what I can," said the old woman.
Gwinn tried to stand, but her legs buckled beneath her. She slumped to the floor. Her father's hound licked at her face. She pushed him away. He whined, looking from Gwinn's tear-stained face to his moaning master and back.
"Is my father–" she began.
"Not now, girl," said Dafys.
The old woman bustled around the room, throwing dried herbs and foul-smelling oils into a bowl. She pounded the mixture with a stone pestle. The acrid smell of the paste made Gwinn's eyes water. The hound backed away and forced himself between Gwinn and the wall.
"Is this legal?" asked Dafys.
"This 'ere is a 'erbal remedy, sir. T'ain't magic, if that's what yer thinkin'," replied the old woman. "No one can do magic theirselves."
Gwinn's father gasped behind them. He wheezed, fighting to get air into his failing lungs. Gwinn rushed across the room and grabbed a pale, clammy hand. Her father shifted, trying to look at her.
"I'm here, Papa," said Gwinn.
The old woman slapped the stinking paste onto her father's wound. His eyes flew open, bulging in agony. He screamed. The paste sizzled and spat where it touched the oozing black blood.
Her father's body shuddered. Gwinn sobbed and squeezed his hand tighter. She wished that she could somehow will the poison out of his body. The hound sat on his haunches and let out a single banshee howl. Her father shook in one last spasm, and lay still.
Gwinn stared at the body. She told herself that the white, haggard face did not belong to her father. A stranger lay on the table, not Merryd Twildir. The old woman rolled her eyes skywards and muttered something under her breath. Dafys stifled a sob. The hound collapsed in a fit of whimpers in the corner.
Gwinn pressed her lips to her father's hand, and laid it on his chest. She turned and sat on the bare floor. The strength of the table against her back reassured her. An eerie silence descended on the hovel, broken only by the stamp of horse's hooves in the cold mud outside. Gwinn looked out of the window. A crow sat on a post just beyond the glass. It gave a single caw, and flew away towards the trees.
Gwinn didn't hear Dafys' promise that she would be taken care of. The old woman's apologies and platitudes fell on deaf ears. All she could think of was how she would break the news to her brother.
March 30, 2011
[Book Review] Flashman and the Redskins
Fellow writer Danny Hogan recommended that I read Flashman & The Redskins, and being on a real Old West kick at the moment, I decided that I would. Written in 1982 by George MacDonald Fraser, the novel comes as part of the Flashman papers, a fictional set of accounts that purport to be the memoris of the Flashman character that appears in the 1857 book, Tom Brown's Schooldays. In this particular volume, we see him in the American West - part one is set in 1849-50, which seems him trek from Louisiana to Santa Fe masquerading as the husband of a madam, while part two is set in 1875-76, which sees Flashman embroiled in the Battle of the Little Bighorn.
It's an absolute humdinger of a novel. In part one alone, Flashman ends up leading a wagon train, falling in with scalp-hunters, marrying an Apache princess, befriending Geronimo, before crossing the States with the legendary frontiersman, Kit Carson. In part two, he acts as a translator and envoy at various meetings with the Sioux over the Black Hills, before ending up at the notorious battle. By the end of the book, he's in Deadwood, chatting merrily with Wild Bill Hickok. That's quite a lot to pack into one book!
While much of it veers close to implausibility, the amount of historical detail is incredible. The book also contains two appendices to explain particular instances in the book, as well as a wealth of foot notes to further expand some of Flashman's assertions, as well as to add background and context to his narrative. Flashman might be a lying, lecherous, philandering cad, but he's a damn fun one, and his conversational style makes it easy to zip through his adventures. The most amusing thing about him is that he frequently displays acts of bravery, yet hurries to explain that he's actually a coward, but simply appears brave - he's a real antihero who just doesn't want to admit he's not entirely bad!
It's a fun read, stuffed with historical detail, and it's a real disappointment when you reach the end and realise that's the end of his adventures in the Old West. Highly recommended.
Five blunt pencils out of five!
It's an absolute humdinger of a novel. In part one alone, Flashman ends up leading a wagon train, falling in with scalp-hunters, marrying an Apache princess, befriending Geronimo, before crossing the States with the legendary frontiersman, Kit Carson. In part two, he acts as a translator and envoy at various meetings with the Sioux over the Black Hills, before ending up at the notorious battle. By the end of the book, he's in Deadwood, chatting merrily with Wild Bill Hickok. That's quite a lot to pack into one book!
While much of it veers close to implausibility, the amount of historical detail is incredible. The book also contains two appendices to explain particular instances in the book, as well as a wealth of foot notes to further expand some of Flashman's assertions, as well as to add background and context to his narrative. Flashman might be a lying, lecherous, philandering cad, but he's a damn fun one, and his conversational style makes it easy to zip through his adventures. The most amusing thing about him is that he frequently displays acts of bravery, yet hurries to explain that he's actually a coward, but simply appears brave - he's a real antihero who just doesn't want to admit he's not entirely bad!
It's a fun read, stuffed with historical detail, and it's a real disappointment when you reach the end and realise that's the end of his adventures in the Old West. Highly recommended.
Five blunt pencils out of five!
March 29, 2011
Links a plenty - writing advice on the web
There's an awful lot of advice online for the aspiring, intermediate or even expert writer, and it's sometimes difficult to keep up. As it's been a while since I've done a "links" post, I've decided to compile a list of some of the latest blog posts I've come across to do with writing (and yes, I did write the Fuel Your Writing post, before you say anything). As a further note, I highly recommend all of these blogs for their insightful and often just plain interesting articles.How To Stop Your Creative Muse Walking Out And Cheating On You
A Big Creative Yes
45 More Tips For Writers, From Writers
Marelisa's Abundance Blog
10 Steps to Making Your Author's Blog A Success
A. Victoria Mixon
8 Fiddly Things You Can Do To Your Manuscript To Make Your Editor's Day
Hey, there's a dead guy in the living room
Writing Historical Fiction? How to Write a Book Set in the Past
Quips and Tips for Successful Writers
What the Fiction Editor looks for
Rachelle Gardner
10 Things To Do Before You Self Publish
Self-Publishing Resources
To Betta or not to Beta
The Kill Zone
Six Core Analogies for the Six Core Competencies
Storyfix
Your Online Press Kit
Publetariat
Self-publishing vs Traditional Publishing
Nathan Bransford
Seven Tips for Submission Success
Fuel Your Writing
And for a little bit of general silliness...
Marvel Comics Family Trees
How to be a Retronaut
March 28, 2011
Photo Prompt 26
Twenty-sixth 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 twenty-sixth prompt is T Rex.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.
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 twenty-sixth prompt is T Rex.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.
March 25, 2011
Friday Flash - The Duel
A veil of fog hid Browning Hall from view. Disappointed tourists in brightly-coloured raincoats milled around on the lawn. They'd come early to avoid the crowds, but the English weather thwarted their plans to see the house in all its splendor with no people in the way.
Brenda Whitstaff weaved in and out of the throng, trying to usher her coach party into the house. They shooed her away, insisting that they wanted to see Browning's famous Palladian facade. The tourists looked this way and that, as if they expected the house to loom out of the fog.
It'll be like something out of a Hammer flick if it does, thought Brenda.
"Excuse me? Excuse me? We want to see the house," said a rotund woman in green wellies. She pointed in the vague direction of the Hall.
"And indeed you can, Mrs Lazenby. But why not have a look inside the house while you wait for the fog to clear? They've got a fine collection of early Impressionist paintings, and they do lovely cake in the cafe," replied Brenda.
"We want to see the house," said the woman. Her mouth set in a firm line.
"Mummy! Look!" cried the little girl beside the woman. She tugged at her mother's sleeve.
All eyes followed the girl's finger. The swirling fog thinned over the lawn. Brenda made out a figure in the remaining mist. He was tall, wearing shiny knee high boots, and an enormous hat that was almost engulfed by the feather sweeping around its brim. A white collar spilled out of the fitted jacket that fell to mid-thigh. He leaned on a sword. Brenda could see the walled garden beyond the lawn if she looked through him.
"It's Charles I! It has to be!" exclaimed a woman to Brenda's right.
"No no no, Charles was a short man, very weak. This fellow is too tall," replied a red-haired man in plaid. He peered at the Cavalier over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses.
A second figure emerged from the mist, looming behind the Cavalier. Clad in full samurai armour, the newcomer raised a katana in a fighting stance that Brenda recognised from the movies. The samurai sprang forward. The Cavalier feigned surprise at the attack but swung his sword to meet the katana. The metal sang in the cool morning air. The samurai dipped and wove, his katana seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once. The Cavalier parried and thrust, the fresh sunlight glinting through his blade.
Silence fell among the tourists as they watched the battle. They stared with open mouths, unsure what to do. Some of them looked at Brenda, wondering if this was a new visitor experience put on by the owners of the Hall to boost numbers. She shook her head – this was new to her too.
The samurai lifted his arms to swing the katana in a killing stroke. The Cavalier darted forward, exploiting a tiny gap in the warrior's armour. The Cavalier buried his sword up to the hilt. The samurai dropped his katana, wheeling around in a dizzy circle. Brenda saw the rest of the sword protruding from his back. The samurai dropped to his knees, and keeled over. The Cavalier looked down at his fallen opponent and tossed aside his sword. The pair vanished from sight.
The tourists erupted in a clamour of questions and exclamations. Half of them crowded around Brenda for answers. The other half tottered around on the lawn, taking photographs and pointing at empty patches of grass.
* * *
"I say, old chap. Are you alright?" asked Fowlis Westerby. He stretched out a gloved hand to the samurai. The warrior accepted it, and clambered to his feet.
"Fine," replied the samurai.
"That was a most impressive show. Can't thank you enough."
"Is nothing. I won last time."
Fowlis chuckled, remembering their melodramatic duel in the ballroom at Chatsworth House. Then he remembered the sword through his gut and winced. The samurai might be the finest stunt actor in the afterlife, but he did get rather carried away.
"Until next time."
The samurai shook Fowlis' hand and winked out of sight, recalled to HQ for reassignment. Fowlis gazed across the lawn at the tourists, still gawping and snapping photos of thin air. He chuckled again. The story of a seventeenth century Cavalier and a seventh century Samurai having a fight to the death on the lawn of a nineteenth century manor would be all over the Internet by tea time.
That's sure to win me the title again, thought Fowlis.
He straightened his hat before he disappeared, bound for HQ.
* * *
This marks the third flash fiction outing of my Cavalier ghost, Fowlis Westerby. He's the star of his own supernatural YA novel, currently in the redraft stage. You can enjoy his other adventures here - First Impressions and The Priest Hole.
Brenda Whitstaff weaved in and out of the throng, trying to usher her coach party into the house. They shooed her away, insisting that they wanted to see Browning's famous Palladian facade. The tourists looked this way and that, as if they expected the house to loom out of the fog.
It'll be like something out of a Hammer flick if it does, thought Brenda.
"Excuse me? Excuse me? We want to see the house," said a rotund woman in green wellies. She pointed in the vague direction of the Hall.
"And indeed you can, Mrs Lazenby. But why not have a look inside the house while you wait for the fog to clear? They've got a fine collection of early Impressionist paintings, and they do lovely cake in the cafe," replied Brenda.
"We want to see the house," said the woman. Her mouth set in a firm line.
"Mummy! Look!" cried the little girl beside the woman. She tugged at her mother's sleeve.
All eyes followed the girl's finger. The swirling fog thinned over the lawn. Brenda made out a figure in the remaining mist. He was tall, wearing shiny knee high boots, and an enormous hat that was almost engulfed by the feather sweeping around its brim. A white collar spilled out of the fitted jacket that fell to mid-thigh. He leaned on a sword. Brenda could see the walled garden beyond the lawn if she looked through him.
"It's Charles I! It has to be!" exclaimed a woman to Brenda's right.
"No no no, Charles was a short man, very weak. This fellow is too tall," replied a red-haired man in plaid. He peered at the Cavalier over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses.
A second figure emerged from the mist, looming behind the Cavalier. Clad in full samurai armour, the newcomer raised a katana in a fighting stance that Brenda recognised from the movies. The samurai sprang forward. The Cavalier feigned surprise at the attack but swung his sword to meet the katana. The metal sang in the cool morning air. The samurai dipped and wove, his katana seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once. The Cavalier parried and thrust, the fresh sunlight glinting through his blade.
Silence fell among the tourists as they watched the battle. They stared with open mouths, unsure what to do. Some of them looked at Brenda, wondering if this was a new visitor experience put on by the owners of the Hall to boost numbers. She shook her head – this was new to her too.
The samurai lifted his arms to swing the katana in a killing stroke. The Cavalier darted forward, exploiting a tiny gap in the warrior's armour. The Cavalier buried his sword up to the hilt. The samurai dropped his katana, wheeling around in a dizzy circle. Brenda saw the rest of the sword protruding from his back. The samurai dropped to his knees, and keeled over. The Cavalier looked down at his fallen opponent and tossed aside his sword. The pair vanished from sight.
The tourists erupted in a clamour of questions and exclamations. Half of them crowded around Brenda for answers. The other half tottered around on the lawn, taking photographs and pointing at empty patches of grass.
* * *
"I say, old chap. Are you alright?" asked Fowlis Westerby. He stretched out a gloved hand to the samurai. The warrior accepted it, and clambered to his feet.
"Fine," replied the samurai.
"That was a most impressive show. Can't thank you enough."
"Is nothing. I won last time."
Fowlis chuckled, remembering their melodramatic duel in the ballroom at Chatsworth House. Then he remembered the sword through his gut and winced. The samurai might be the finest stunt actor in the afterlife, but he did get rather carried away.
"Until next time."
The samurai shook Fowlis' hand and winked out of sight, recalled to HQ for reassignment. Fowlis gazed across the lawn at the tourists, still gawping and snapping photos of thin air. He chuckled again. The story of a seventeenth century Cavalier and a seventh century Samurai having a fight to the death on the lawn of a nineteenth century manor would be all over the Internet by tea time.
That's sure to win me the title again, thought Fowlis.
He straightened his hat before he disappeared, bound for HQ.
* * *
This marks the third flash fiction outing of my Cavalier ghost, Fowlis Westerby. He's the star of his own supernatural YA novel, currently in the redraft stage. You can enjoy his other adventures here - First Impressions and The Priest Hole.
March 22, 2011
20 Things I Miss
Yesterday, over on her Kommein blog, Deb Ng posted a list of thirty things that she misses. It really got me thinking, so I couldn't help but make a list of twenty things that I miss. I would have done thirty but it would have essentially boiled down to things I miss about my home town.
1) 80s kids' cartoons like Count Duckula or Dangermouse.
2) School holidays.
3) Staying up until 4am just to talk random nonsense with someone online.
4) Receiving actual letters in the post, not just marketing circulars or bills.
5) Wispa Cappuccinos.
6) Having a garden, and not having to visit a park just to enjoy green space.
7) Proper phone calls to catch up, instead of relying on Facebook statuses to see what someone's up to.
8) My rabbit.
9) The clacking of old keys on a typewriter.
10) The deathly silence of a week day morning in the suburbs.
11) Being only half an hour away from the coast.
12) Pretty much the North East in general.
13) Cinema prices being less than a fiver.
14) Dressing up to go out to dinner.
15) Going to the theatre.
16) People talking to one another on public transport.
17) Mobile phones that simply let you call someone.
18) Being able to see the stars.
19) Manners.
20) When people were famous for having a talent for something besides getting themselves in the paper/on TV.
What about you? What do you miss?
1) 80s kids' cartoons like Count Duckula or Dangermouse.2) School holidays.
3) Staying up until 4am just to talk random nonsense with someone online.
4) Receiving actual letters in the post, not just marketing circulars or bills.
5) Wispa Cappuccinos.
6) Having a garden, and not having to visit a park just to enjoy green space.
7) Proper phone calls to catch up, instead of relying on Facebook statuses to see what someone's up to.
8) My rabbit.
9) The clacking of old keys on a typewriter.
10) The deathly silence of a week day morning in the suburbs.
11) Being only half an hour away from the coast.
12) Pretty much the North East in general.13) Cinema prices being less than a fiver.
14) Dressing up to go out to dinner.
15) Going to the theatre.
16) People talking to one another on public transport.
17) Mobile phones that simply let you call someone.
18) Being able to see the stars.
19) Manners.
20) When people were famous for having a talent for something besides getting themselves in the paper/on TV.
What about you? What do you miss?
March 21, 2011
Photo Prompt 25
Twenty-fifth 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 twenty-fifth prompt is Soldier.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.
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 twenty-fifth prompt is Soldier.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.
March 18, 2011
Friday Flash - No Flash
Bridget Ledersmark made her way through the group from the coach trip. The tourists clustered in the entrance to the exhibition. They clutched pamphlets detailing the history of the ancient Egyptian treasures on display. The attendant nodded to her - she'd already run through the rules with the group. No eating or drinking, no running, no re-entry, no touching the exhibits, and no flash photography. Bridget grimaced. I'd be amazed if any of this lot knew how to take photos without the flash on those fancy cameras of theirs, she thought. They spend all that money and leave them on automatic.
The tourists jostled one another into the exhibition. Bridget followed, smiling at their enthusiasm for fragments of dirty wood or tattered scraps of yellowed papyrus. An elderly woman engaged her in conversation about the faded sarcophagus in room 3. Bridget was amazed to discover Mrs Brown was a former academic, specialising in the Book of the Dead. They stood discussing the nobleman quietly decomposing in the display case.
The other tourists reached room 6. Various trinkets and broken pieces of pottery sat in the cases around the room, accompanied by photographs of the archaeologist that discovered them. A single display case occupied the end of the room. In it, the blackened remains of a priest leaned against an iron bar holding him upright. Fragments of cloth clung to the dark skin, and empty sockets stared out at the gawping tourists. A single crack ran the length of the case from the floor to the top.
"Mummy! Daddy! Look, a mummy!" exclaimed a blond child.
He tugged on his father's sleeve, pointing at the mummy. His mother knelt on the floor beside him, reading out the description from the information board. According to the museum's curators, the priest's remains were discovered in 1937, and he had toured museums ever since. The blond boy stared up at the dead priest in amazement.
A brand new Canon 550D hung around his father's neck. He flicked the camera on, ignoring the settings for aperture, white balance and ISO. Leslie Kinnock didn't even know what ISO meant, but he knew the 550D was an 18 mega-pixel beauty with several automatic shooting modes. A blue-haired girl stood near the case, snapping the mummy with an old manual camera. Leslie found its click and the whirr irritating. He smirked to think her film would be ruined.
Why, she's not even using a flash! he thought.
The blue-haired girl noticed him waiting and stepped aside to allow him to take his shot. He popped up the on-board flash. The girl opened her mouth to speak as he pressed the shutter button. The flash lit up the glass, the reflected white light filling his viewfinder.
"No!" shouted Bridget, entering room 6 with Mrs Brown.
Leslie turned to look at her. Bridget wore an expression halfway between fury and fear. The sound of breaking glass caught his attention before he could review his image. Twenty pairs of eyes swivelled towards him. A dried hand snaked out of a jagged hole in the case behind him. The blond boy screamed as blackened fingers fastened around the 550D. The mummy jerked its arm and Leslie lurched forwards, crashing into the case. The glass exploded. Leslie fell to the floor, his camera still gripped by the dead priest.
The tourists stared, frozen to the spot. The mummy heaved on the camera. The strap snapped, flapping across Leslie's chest. The mummy closed its fist, crushing in the camera into shards of plastic and glass. It opened its fist, dumping the remains of the 550D onto the floor. It bent towards Leslie and, after drawing fresh air across 4000 year old vocal chords, rasped in his ear.
"No flash photography!"
Bridget and Mrs Brown picked their way through the room. Mrs Brown helped the mummy back into his shattered case, while Bridget helped Leslie to his feet. She glared at the dead priest. He would end up costing them a fortune in insurance claims.
* * *
This flash was inspired by all of those people who insist on taking expensive cameras to museums, and then using the flash to photograph things in glass cases. I consider these people to be complete tools. So yes, that IS my photo accompanying the story and no, I didn't use the flash. A longer shutter speed and a wider aperture will do the hard work for you.
March 14, 2011
Photo Prompt 24
Twenty-fourth 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 twenty-fourth prompt is Jester.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.
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 twenty-fourth prompt is Jester.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.
