Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 118

Friday Flash - Dead Man's Hand I

Edmund Rothers sat in the shadows at the back of the saloon. His eyes flicked down to his cards. A pair of aces, a pair of eights, and a queen. The Dead Man's Hand. Edmund looked up at his opponent.



"You sure don't say much," said Blackjack Bud Hudson across the table.



"I apologise for my reticence, it is simply the way such games are played in the gentlemen's clubs of London. Is conversation the accepted convention in these parts?" asked Edmund.



"I, er, what?"



"Do you desire conversation?"



"Er, I dunno...you sure talk awful fancy, English fella."



"No, I simply speak English. There is nought fancy about it when used in the correct fashion, as an educated man is wont to do."



"You sayin' I'm not edumacated?"



Blackjack Bud narrowed his bloodshot eyes. He twisted his thin lips into a sneer.



"Of course not. It would be most unbecoming of me to insult my host in such a genial and hospitable place as this," said Edmund. He gestured around the half-empty saloon. His eyes lingered on the buckshot embedded in the walls, testament to an old grudge turned violent.



"You're usin' big words there, English fella. I think you're tryin' to make me feel stupid."



"I assure you it is not my intention. As it happens, I consider you a natural raconteur and easy wit. Come now, this talk distracts us from our game," replied Edmund.



Blackjack Bud grunted and looked back at his cards. Edmund suspected a bad hand from the way Bud squinted and frowned at the cards.



"I think I'm gonna call you out."



"Very well," replied Edmund. He spread his cards on the table. Blackjack Bud's face contorted in rage, his eyes bulging as a vein in his temple throbbed. He threw down his own cards – a pair of threes, a six, a nine and a King.



"Oh that is bad luck, Mr Hudson," said Edmund. He reached across the table for his winnings.



"You dirty cheat."



Edmund paused.



"What did you call me?"



"I said you're a dirty cheat. Ain't no way you can keep winnin'. No way at all. I'm a born gambler – why do you think they call me Blackjack Bud?"



"But Mr Hudson...this is poker."



Blackjack Bud slammed his fist down, trapping Edmund's hand on top of the crumbled bank notes. He leaned across the table. The stale alcohol on his breath made Edmund's eyes water.



"Come now. I have won every hand fair and square. I am no cheat."



Blackjack Bud's free hand trembled beside his holster. Edmund jerked his own free hand to his shin. His hand grasped the smooth ivory handle of the knife hidden beneath his trouser leg. He unsheathed the blade and slashed across Blackjack Bud's face in one fluid motion.



Hudson howled, yanking back his fist and pressing both hands to his cheek. Blood welled up between his fingers and dripped onto the table. A drop splashed the King of Hearts.



Edmund grabbed a fistful of money and bolted. The other patrons of the saloon watched him vault over a table and burst out of the swing doors into the street. Edmund tucked the knife into his belt as he strode down the boardwalk. He forced himself to calm down, torn between indignation over the accusation and fear of the drunken gambler with the itchy trigger finger.



"ENGLISH TRASH!"



Edmund stopped.



"Turn round, you bastard! I don't wanna shoot a man in the back!"



He turned around. Blackjack Bud stood on the verandah of the saloon, blood dripping from his slashed cheek. Passersby dove for cover when he drew his Colt. Edmund cursed himself for not burying the knife in Blackjack Bud's gun hand.



Silence fell, as if the whole town took the same breath of anticipation. The seconds crashed by in Edmund's head. He noticed an alley to his left, between the saloon and the hotel. Edmund stretched his hands up in surrender, glancing between Blackjack Bud and the alley.



"Mr Hudson? Would you really shoot an unarmed –"



The crack of the pistol smashed the silence of the street. Edmund felt the impact as pain ripped into his gut. The force of the blow threw him backwards and a soundless scream tore itself from his throat. A fresh wave of pain rippled throughout his body when he hit the hard-packed earth of the street. The world turned dark.



* * *

Edmund opened his eyes. He gazed up at a purple sky shot through with streaks of gold. Sunset.



Why, only moments have passed! But why has no one come to my aid? he thought.



The sound of hooves on dry ground passed him. He wriggled up onto his elbows to see a black horse pulling a stagecoach down the street. Edmund looked around, but the town seemed deserted. He looked back at the coach, but didn't recognise the silver crest on the door. This visitor was far too grand for a dusty hole like Blackwood.



The door swung open. A young woman poked her head out. Hair blacker than midnight tumbled around her white shoulders. Her black lips broke into a smile of grey teeth and purple gums.



"Evening, friend. You look like you could use a ride somewhere?" she asked. Her cold voice buzzed like a thousand flies around a carcass.



"Oh, indeed I could! I thought I had been shot but it appears I have had a miraculous escape," said Edmund.



He clambered to his feet and walked to the coach. His boots made no sound on the dirt. The young woman's face fell.



"I say, this is most decent of you. I shall be more than happy to reimburse you for your kindess," said Edmund. He climbed into the coach. Up close, he realised that the young woman's black eyes were filled with tiny stars.



"Sweetie, you won't ever need to pay for anything ever again," she said.



She closed the coach door.



* * *

This is the first of a loose trilogy based around the Dead Man's Hand, the hand of cards allegedly held by infamous gunfighter Wild Bill Hickok when he was shot in the back while playing poker in a Deadwood saloon on August 2, 1876.

One Million is a Good Motivator

Just before New Year, I had one of "those" conversations on Twitter which led to the formation of an idea, and the proposal of a challenge. Brian Knight, otherwise known as @TheNewAuthor, challenged me to write one million words by the end of 2011. For the mathematical fetishists among you, that works out at 83,334 words per month, 19,230 words per week, or 2740 words per day. Ouch.



It's now 16th February, and I've written a grand total of 81,274 words. That's more than I would have imagined I would have written by this point in the year, although I'm still off the target by some margin (over 48,000 words - some margin, I think you'll agree). Even more annoyingly, that would be a decent-sized novel if I'd stuck to writing just plain fiction to eat up the word count, but I didn't. Rather, that figure is made up of;

blog posts (here, for Fuel Your Writing, Write Anything and Icy's Cultural Carnival)
Friday flashes
my writing journal
work on forthcoming Tales from Vertigo City serials
short stories
my current WIP, a Western novella named The Guns of Retribution, and
stream of consciousness brainstorming sessions in which I work out plot points by writing around them
Who would have thought I'd write so much? I certainly didn't. OK, so it's not as much as I would have liked to have written at this point, but having a goal like "write one million words in 365 days" is one hell of a motivator.



Speaking of which...



Someone asked me the other day what motivates me. I was somewhat flummoxed as I've never really considered myself to be a motivated person (I don't even list it as one of those generic, catch-all buzzwords you find on CVs). I just do what I do because I want to do it - I've never stopped to analyse the reasoning behind it. I guess "It seemed like a good idea at the time" or "I'm getting paid to do it" is my usual rationale. However, in the case of writing, this line of reasoning falls flat.



In putting pen to paper, I guess my biggest motivation is the act itself. I enjoy writing, and I enjoy telling stories - I always have done. It doesn't occur to me NOT to write. So why wouldn't I want to do something that I enjoy? Of course, one might ask, if one were so inclined, why I then feel compelled to share them with the world, and I, being cheeky, would no doubt reply "Because I can". In all seriousness, I put my stories up here, or submit them to anthologies, or make them available as ebooks because I want to other people to enjoy them. I know how mundane and dull existence can be, and if I can lift someone out of that for a while, even a few minutes, then I consider that a job well done. Besides, humans rationalise their world through stories, be it our personal narratives in the form of our memories, or how we connect facts in order to communicate events to one another. Sharing fictional stories is a nice way to connnect with fellow humans.



When it comes to a solitary pursuit such as writing, you need some kind of emotional motivation. Sure, the fear of missing a deadline can spur you on as you slap down sentence after sentence, and I'm sure writing because you're paid to do so also ensures you churn out thousands of words a day. However, I still think there's nothing quite like writing for the simple joy of doing so, when the imagination becomes so vocal in speaking its mind that you can't do anything but write.



Enjoy what I do and provide some escapism? Yeah, that's why I'm a writer.

Photo Prompt 20

Twentieth 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 twentieth prompt is Spring Overflow.





All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.

A present for Valentine's Day

That over-hyped and tacky day dedicated to commercialism and guilt is almost upon us, but don't fret if you're one of the single people forced to watch others spend lavish amounts of money on horrendous presents for their witless other halves - you can have a present too, and it's actually one you might want!



Jodi Cleghorn, MD of Emergent Publishing, has put together the second literary mixtape, Nothing But Flowers. Twenty four tales of love in a post apocalyptic setting, each story will be posted every hour of Valentine's Day, starting at 9am Australian Eastern Standard Time. You'll be able to read them all for free for two days, after which time they will be available to buy. Not much of a present? Well the proceeds are going to the Grantham Flood support fund so you can read some fantastic stories and help a good cause. Nothing like a spot of altruism to start the day!



In addition, if you "like" the Facebook page, the story links will appear in your newsfeed, while a 'yes' RSVP to the virtual launch party enters you into a competition to win one of four eBooks and a signed paperback. You can also swing by and leave a comment for the wonderful cover illustration, done by my creative partner, Jimmy Misanthrope.



My own story, This Was Paradise, goes live at 3pm Australian Eastern Standard Time (which should be 5am GMT, if my maths is correct). It's based on a true story, set during the 1665 outbreak of plague in England. I spent a lot of time on it, and a lot of time getting the historical details as accurate as I can, so I hope you enjoy it.

Friday Flash - Uncharted Territory

Sir Charles Fotheringay-Smythe stood in the study at Whittingdale House. His team fussed over the piles of crampons, sleeping rolls and surveying equipment that lay around the room. Portraits of Sir Charles' ancestors watched the mild panic from the walls.



"You there! Jones! How are the preparations coming along? We don't have much time!" he barked, pointing at a young man in safari wear.



"They're doing well, Sir. Don't worry, we won't be long now," replied Jones.



"Splendid, splendid!"



Sir Charles marched around the room, hands clasped behind his back. He peered over shoulders and prodded knapsacks on his tour of the study. Satisfied with the progress of his team, he paused in front of the large portrait of his father. The painting hung opposite the door, dominating the room. Severe eyes hid beneath bushy eyebrows, and a handlebar moustache disguised a cruel sneer. The famous explorer posed on a beach, surrounded by the natives of the island he once discovered.



"I will do the family proud, Papa. You may have my word," muttered Sir Charles.



"Sir? Sir? I think we're ready."



Sir Charles turned around to face his team. None of his father's band of explorers wanted anything to do with Sir Charles, a man they claimed could not discover his own lavatory. Instead, he'd hired enthusiastic youths from the nearest village. The farmhands and shop boys would do nicely. He consulted his pocket watch. It wouldn't be long.



"Team, I've assembled you all here to make ready our expedition into the final frontier!"



"Yorkshire?" asked a buck-toothed lad at the front.



"No, you simpleton. We shall venture into a land that no living man has as yet seen!"



"So Yorkshire then."



Some of the lads snickered, but fell silent beneath Sir Charles' withering gaze. At least, Sir Charles liked to think it was his withering gaze, but he knew it was more likely the prospect of the loss of a few shillings that would hush the boys.



"Girl I used to know, she said one day man would go to the moon. All the way up into the sky! Is that right, Sir Charles? Are we going to the moon?" asked a blond youth at the back.



"Don't be silly, man was never intended to leave solid ground. No, we shall be crossing the Styx to explore the land beyond!"



"What land is beyond some sticks? Is that the county on the other side of the woods?" asked the buck-toothed lad.



Sir Charles rolled his eyes, regretting his choice of that particular youth. Time was running out and he wanted to explain his plan first. He flicked open the pocket watch again.



"No. We shan't be travelling to Yorkshire, or the next county. Instead, we shall venture across the river Styx, to chart the land of the dead!" boomed Sir Charles. He rocked back on his heels, a satisfied smirk on his ruddy face.



"How will we do that, Sir?" asked Jones.



"Well, we will have to die first, but once that necessity is out of the way, we shall journey into the land of the dead and make our discoveries! We may encounter any manner of things, but I propose that we shall be the first to do so with a firm agenda!"



"I don't want no part of that. I've got to milk the cows tomorrow, my dad'll kill me if I'm dead," said the blond youth.



"Unfortunately, you have little choice in the matter any longer. I dispensed a slow-acting poison into your refreshments earlier, so that we may all go together. We don't want to get to the other side and be separated," replied Sir Charles.



"Sir, I do have one question," said Jones.



"Very well." Sir Charles consulted the pocket watch again. Only a few moments more.



"How are we going to come back to tell everyone what we've found?" asked Jones.



Sir Charles' face fell.



"Oh. I hadn't thought of-"

Photo Prompt 19

Nineteenth 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 nineteenth prompt is Standing Statue.





All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.

Friday Flash - Maneater

The train pulls into the station and the doors slide open with a hiss. Just like they do every day, the bankers and businessmen crowd around the door, so the boarding passengers have to jostle for space between them. I don't understand why people block the doors, but I've lived in this city for forty seven years now and I still don't understand their ways.



The tall woman gets on last. She's got legs up to her armpits, and the kind of bouncy hair that models swish about in TV adverts. An Amazon clad in businesswear. She's not interested in the women on the train so she doesn't notice me looking at her. Hmph, as I figured. Her skirt suit wants to be Chanel but is probably either eBay or a bad rip-off, while those skyscraper heels are pure bargain bin dressed up as Laboutin. I try to catch her scent but I'm overpowered by Gaultier.



Some of the bankers check this woman out. She feigns nonchalance but I watch her give them the once over when they look away. I don't think she's too impressed with what she sees. She's boxed in by short balding men wearing business suits a size too small, their puffy fingers suffocated by cheap wedding bands. They're like oversized sacks of blood carrying briefcases. I get a mental image of a leech holding an iPhone and resist the urge to giggle.



The woman looks up at the overhead advertisements. It looks like she's scanning the row, but her eyes aren't reading the ads. No, she's checking out the left hands of the businessmen holding the rail. She homes in on the one guy not wearing a wedding ring. I'm not surprised - he's cute. Spiky brown hair flecked with grey, strong jaw, cheekbones you could ski down - I'm sure that's an Alexander McQueen suit. I can't see what he's reading but I'd swear it's a comic book. I'm convinced he's reading Transmetropolitan.



She smiles. The men see a face worthy of L'Oreal, but I see a cat that's spotted a mouse. A predator. I watch her attempts to squeeze through the crowd of married men to the singleton, but the bankers won't let her past. They want her where they can see her. The woman adjusts the fake Chanel, flashing the rings on her finger. Cubic zirconia. Classy. Cheap bait for expensive fish.



The train pulls into the next station. The doors open and Mr Cute looks up from his comic book. I was right, he does have puppy dog eyes. He slides the comic into his laptop bag and joins the crowd clamouring to get off. I can't help thinking their task would be made easier if the people on the platform let them off the train before they try and get on, but as I said, I still don't understand the mindset of these humans.



Ms Fake Laboutin looks alarmed, and shoves through the sweaty bankers toward the nearest doors. She steps down onto the platform just in time. As the train lurches out of the station, I catch sight of her through the window. She's stalking her prey toward the exit.



I turn my attention back to the bankers. The one beside me catches my eye and smiles in that leering fashion older men think is attractive. His jowls wobble and his watery eyes glisten among folds of red flesh. I can only imagine what he's thinking as he stares at what he thinks is a 23-year-old girl. I smile back all the same. I'm sure he'll taste delicious.

Writing Habits

I was casting around for ideas of things people would like to see on this blog, and there seems to be interest in writing processes. When I came across this post by Ali Luke of Aliventures on the 7 Habits of Serious Writers, I couldn't help but write a post about my own habits.



Regularity



I've been writing since I can remember, and I've been writing regularly since I did a creative writing course when I was sixteen. However, it's only really been over the past couple of years that I've written with any serious intent. As a result, I actually write on a daily basis. I'm either working on flashes, stories I intend to submit, or something longer - at the moment, it's a novella. Some days, I might not actually add to the word count of the project, but I'll be brainstorming ideas around it, or working on plot problems. I'm also inherently competitive, so I find the vaguely obsessive-compulsive need to have a full scorecard on 750words.com impels me to write daily, too.



Working with personal flaws



I have the attention span of a toddler so it's all too easy for me to get distracted. Maybe I'll log into Twitter "just to see what's going on" and I'll end up getting involved in a lengthy and enjoyable conversation. Some of the games on Facebook are dangerously addictive. Having said that, if I get an idea for a story and I decide to just "jot bits down", I often find I get so wrapped up in jotting things down as they come to me that I end up writing something anyway. In a peculiar kind of way, I distract myself from the idea of writing with the need to preserve the story as it comes to me.



Books galore



I make a point of reading both fiction and non-fiction. There's always a book in my bag - at the moment, it's a book about the American West, but I'm also reading a book about quantum mechanics, as well as Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows . I tend to read a lot of historical NF (which informs my historical fiction) but I like to read the works of other writers too. Sometimes I'm trying to get a feel for a genre, sometimes I'm curious how other writers structure their novels, and sometimes I just want to be entertained. Every now and then, I also read books on the craft of writing - I personally enjoy James Scott Bell's books - although I tend to prefer blogs about writing as it feels like less of a slog to get through them.



Work can always be better



I never post the first draft of anything. Whatever you see on here will have always been redrafted at least twice before I paste it into Blogspot, and sometimes it'll be tweaked even before I hit 'Publish Post'. My first drafts are often terrible - my novella is an absolute mess, but since I know what I need to do with it, I'm still quite proud of it. However, I know that redrafting is almost as important to the process as the initial writing, so I might leave a piece for a few days, or a couple of weeks, before I go back and cast fresh eyes over it.



Getting my work out there



I write for three reasons. First and foremost - it never occurred to me not to do so. I've written from the time I was able to form letters with crayons - I asked my mother, and she can't remember a time when I wasn't scribbling down a story, or bashing one out on her old typewriter. Writing is a lot like eating or walking - it's just something I do. Secondly, I enjoy telling stories. It's fun. Thirdly, I want to entertain. Not a particularly lofty goal, but I'm a big believer in escapism, so if I can provide someone with the means to escape the drudgery of their everyday life, then I consider my job done. As a result, I provide my weekly Friday flashes, and I have two e-books available. I submit my work to anthologies, and I'm working on novels. It's all about getting the work out there.



Thinking about it



Even when I'm not writing, I'm thinking about my work in progress, or the next flash. I've started outlining my flashes so I can take a handful of sentences scrawled in my notebook and flesh them out into the stories I post every week. I'm constantly going over the plot points or characters in my novella, asking myself what a character's motivation might be, or what might cause them to behave in a particular way. If it doesn't sit right with me, I change it - because chances are, if something doesn't ring true with me, it won't ring true with a reader. It is the writer's job to communicate the story properly, and it's a job I intend to do well.



These are my habits. What are yours?

Photo Prompt 18

Eighteenth 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 eighteenth prompt is Crypt.









All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.

Friday Flash - The Artist

The pencil skated across the paper. Jessie liked to think she didn't draw on the page, rather that every sheet of paper had a drawing inside it. She just needed to tease it out. That lunchtime, she worked on pulling free a knight. She gave him curly hair and a broad smile.



"You will be Sir Gryffon, defender of the Stone City and son of the late Lord Fearnley," said Jessie. She sketched a griffin on his shield. She'd always liked griffins.



The sounds of a school playing field drifted across to her. She gazed across the expanse of grass from beneath her oak tree. The other girls congregated by the football pitch and pretended to be singers. Their caterwauling set her teeth on edge, and she watched them primp and preen when the boys ran past. Some of them dabbed at their eyes with makeup. Jessie would rather draw fairies and dragons than draw on her face with those black pencils and greasy red sticks.



"I bid you good day, fair maiden."



Jessie looked up in surprise. A tall knight stood beside her. He wore a suit of bronze armour, and held a polished helmet under one arm. His blond curls ruffled in the breeze beneath the tree.



"Er, hello."



"You are the Lady Jessica, are you not?"



"Um, yes, I am."



"Why do you sit here, by yourself? Why do you not play with the other girls?" asked the knight.



"They don't like me. All they want to do is talk about makeup and boys, and they make fun of my drawings. They made me sit over here because I don't watch Glee and I don't know who Lady Gaga is," said Jessie.



"Lady Gaga? I must say, I do not recall anyone of that name at Court."



Jessie giggled. The knight smiled, his blue eyes twinkling in the lunchtime sun.



"That's a pretty sketchbook you have there," said the knight.



"My dad gave it to me," said Jessie.



"Your father has fine taste, Lady Jessica."



"Had. He died."



"Oh I am sorry to hear that. My father is dead, too."



"I know. He fought the Orc King at the Battle of Pond'Haar," said Jessie.



"Yes, that's right. But of course, you know all about my lands, don't you?"



He looked down at Jessie, glancing at the now-empty page.



"You are not happy, are you?" he asked.



"Not really...nobody likes me. I haven't got any friends, and my stepmother says I should be grateful that she kept me after my dad died, but I don't think she wants me around," replied Jessie. "She's not a bad person, but she never talks to me."



"Lady Jessica...would you like to come with me?" asked the knight. He held out his hand and bowed.



"My dad always told me never to go anywhere with a stranger," said Jessie. She clutched the sketchbook to her chest.



"A very wise man, although I am not a stranger. You, Lady Jessica, know me better than anyone. I shall prove it!" said the knight.



"How?"



"What do I keep under my pillow?" asked the knight.



"The first tooth you lost. You got upset because the Tooth Fairy didn't take it and leave you any coins, like all the other kids bragged about. You leave it there, hoping she'll come for it eventually."



"Exactly. And what do I keep in this pouch at my belt?"



"A stone with a hole in it. You keep it because your dad told you that if you looked through the hole, you could see fairies."



The knight nodded. Jessie felt her hand move to her jeans pocket. She patted the stone. Her dad found it on the beach in Dorset when they went looking for fossils.



"Lady Jessica, I am no stranger. You would be most welcome in my land."



Jessie looked across the field at the gaggle of preening girls. Two of them noticed her. Jessie felt the force of the twin glares from sixty yards away. She thought of her stepmother as she looked up at Sir Gryffon. Harriet wouldn't realise she'd gone.



"OK, I'll come with you. But only if you take me to see the dragons in Madrigal Deep. And the griffins in the Sorn Mountains," said Jessie.



"We have ourselves an accord."



Sir Gryffon smiled. Jessie took his hand.



The bell rang to signal the end of the lunch break. None of the girls noticed Jessie was gone until Mrs Peabody took the afternoon register. Carly remembered seeing Jessie out on the field, under the oak tree. All they found was a sketchbook, open at a drawing of a knight and a girl with pigtails.