Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 118
March 11, 2011
Friday Flash - The Painted Man
This is written for Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday Challenge #198 - Set your story in the 1880s, in a mid west, tumbleweed town. The doors of the bar open, the piano stops playing and all eyes are drawn to the figure in the doorway…… Now keep going.
I walk along the street, my ornamental spurs jangling at my heels. I do not use them for riding, as I do not believe in the mistreatment of animals. I have suffered more than enough at the hands of human cruelty myself over the years. I shan't put a beast through the same.
Yonder lies the tavern, looming from the darkness like a blessed port in a storm. Yet I must not call it a tavern in these parts. I must remember to refer to it as a saloon. It would not do for the local populace to realise I am not from the area, although I am sure that one look at me will tell them that all the same. I would not imagine that these people will have seen many men covered in so many tattoos that their skin glows a luminescent blue. Indeed, I daresay few people in this entire country have seen such a man. Why else would they flock to see the Painted Man in a travelling show?
Our wrangler approves of my visit to the town. In polite company, he calls himself our manager, but away from the crowds, he treats us as cattle. Mr Virgil Soames is far from genteel. He calls our small fair a medicine show, yet he refers to us as freaks. We are used to his mindless chatter and pay him little mind.
He has sent me into town to drum up business for the show. The conjoined twins loiter elsewhere, papering the walls with handbills. The bearded lady will pay a visit to the barber in the morning. We hope that the townsfolk will be fascinated or appalled – either way, they will pay their pittance to gawp and we shall afford to eat until the next town. It is a wretched way to earn a living, but for folk such as ourselves, we have little else to recommend us, save our difference.
I push open the swing door. The pianist stops hammering out his tune. A bartender stands behind the bar, his mouth hanging open. Each of the patrons stops and turns. Every eye in the room is upon me, and I feel as though I might buckle and fall beneath the weight of their stares. I face this claustrophobia on a nightly basis, yet I suffer all the same for it.
"Hey fella, you ain't welcome here," calls a man. He stands near the bar, swaying from side to side. He peers at me through a drunken haze.
"Relax, friends. I mean no harm," I reply.
"You, er, you sure do look a little, er, different, fella," says the bartender.
"He's bluer'n a pecker in a snowstorm!" cries the pianist. A ripple of laughter circuits the saloon. I shift inside my jacket.
"I mean only to tell you fine folk that the Virgil Soames Medicine Show has arrived in town," I tell them.
I walk across to the wall opposite the door, and paste a handbill to a wooden beam. Virgil's face beams at me in sepia ink.
"You one of them circus freak types then?" asks the bartender. He stares at the handbill.
"I could scarcely be a county marshall with an appearance like this," I reply.
The saloon's patrons laugh again. My discomfort lessens; they are laughing with me, not at me. The pianist scowls at me. He raises one arm and points across the saloon. A young woman sits in the shadows at the back. Alarm spreads across her face and she shuffles in her seat.
"You should take her, she can join your band of freaks," shouts the pianist.
I walk across the saloon to where the young woman quakes. I smile down at her, and she offers me the tiny ghost of a smile in return. I hold out my hand to her. She gingerly places her small hand in mine, her skin so normal in a sea of blue. She looks down at my fingers, and notices the tiny painted fauns that frolic in the forest around my thumb. She gasps with delight.
"On what grounds would you have such a delightful creature admitted to a medicine show?" I ask.
"She's the daughter of a witch. Stands to reason she's evil too," says the drunk.
I turn back to the young woman. She stares at the floor, and I feel her hand trembling in mine. She is terrified of these people. I know that kind of terror, and empathy plucks a melody on my heart strings. I lean in close to her ear.
"My dear, you're clearly no freak, but my employer could use an assistant. Would you care to join our motley crew of artists?" I ask in hushed tones.
Her other hand skates across her belly as her eyes dart between me and the townsfolk. If I'm not much mistaken, I am on the verge of hiring two new people for our travelling show. She nods at me.
"Ladies and gentleman! I am proud to announce an addition to our show!" I roar, turning to face the patrons with a flourish. I hold the young woman's hand aloft. The townsfolk cheer, thinking their young woman is leaving to become a freak. She gives a nervous smile, and allows me to lead her to the door.
"I hope we shall see you all soon?"
I reach into my pocket and draw out a knife. I flick it with practiced ease, and it sails across the room. The blade hits the beam with a thud, and it holds the handbill in place. The townsfolk gasp, staring at the knife in stunned silence. I leave the saloon with my new friend, confident that we shall do a roaring trade in this town.
* * *
This story acts as a teaser for the next Choose Your Online Adventures tale, set in the Old West! I've been handling the story's "freak show" contingent, and figured I'd introduce you to one of them...
I walk along the street, my ornamental spurs jangling at my heels. I do not use them for riding, as I do not believe in the mistreatment of animals. I have suffered more than enough at the hands of human cruelty myself over the years. I shan't put a beast through the same.
Yonder lies the tavern, looming from the darkness like a blessed port in a storm. Yet I must not call it a tavern in these parts. I must remember to refer to it as a saloon. It would not do for the local populace to realise I am not from the area, although I am sure that one look at me will tell them that all the same. I would not imagine that these people will have seen many men covered in so many tattoos that their skin glows a luminescent blue. Indeed, I daresay few people in this entire country have seen such a man. Why else would they flock to see the Painted Man in a travelling show?
Our wrangler approves of my visit to the town. In polite company, he calls himself our manager, but away from the crowds, he treats us as cattle. Mr Virgil Soames is far from genteel. He calls our small fair a medicine show, yet he refers to us as freaks. We are used to his mindless chatter and pay him little mind.
He has sent me into town to drum up business for the show. The conjoined twins loiter elsewhere, papering the walls with handbills. The bearded lady will pay a visit to the barber in the morning. We hope that the townsfolk will be fascinated or appalled – either way, they will pay their pittance to gawp and we shall afford to eat until the next town. It is a wretched way to earn a living, but for folk such as ourselves, we have little else to recommend us, save our difference.
I push open the swing door. The pianist stops hammering out his tune. A bartender stands behind the bar, his mouth hanging open. Each of the patrons stops and turns. Every eye in the room is upon me, and I feel as though I might buckle and fall beneath the weight of their stares. I face this claustrophobia on a nightly basis, yet I suffer all the same for it.
"Hey fella, you ain't welcome here," calls a man. He stands near the bar, swaying from side to side. He peers at me through a drunken haze.
"Relax, friends. I mean no harm," I reply.
"You, er, you sure do look a little, er, different, fella," says the bartender.
"He's bluer'n a pecker in a snowstorm!" cries the pianist. A ripple of laughter circuits the saloon. I shift inside my jacket.
"I mean only to tell you fine folk that the Virgil Soames Medicine Show has arrived in town," I tell them.
I walk across to the wall opposite the door, and paste a handbill to a wooden beam. Virgil's face beams at me in sepia ink.
"You one of them circus freak types then?" asks the bartender. He stares at the handbill.
"I could scarcely be a county marshall with an appearance like this," I reply.
The saloon's patrons laugh again. My discomfort lessens; they are laughing with me, not at me. The pianist scowls at me. He raises one arm and points across the saloon. A young woman sits in the shadows at the back. Alarm spreads across her face and she shuffles in her seat.
"You should take her, she can join your band of freaks," shouts the pianist.
I walk across the saloon to where the young woman quakes. I smile down at her, and she offers me the tiny ghost of a smile in return. I hold out my hand to her. She gingerly places her small hand in mine, her skin so normal in a sea of blue. She looks down at my fingers, and notices the tiny painted fauns that frolic in the forest around my thumb. She gasps with delight.
"On what grounds would you have such a delightful creature admitted to a medicine show?" I ask.
"She's the daughter of a witch. Stands to reason she's evil too," says the drunk.
I turn back to the young woman. She stares at the floor, and I feel her hand trembling in mine. She is terrified of these people. I know that kind of terror, and empathy plucks a melody on my heart strings. I lean in close to her ear.
"My dear, you're clearly no freak, but my employer could use an assistant. Would you care to join our motley crew of artists?" I ask in hushed tones.
Her other hand skates across her belly as her eyes dart between me and the townsfolk. If I'm not much mistaken, I am on the verge of hiring two new people for our travelling show. She nods at me.
"Ladies and gentleman! I am proud to announce an addition to our show!" I roar, turning to face the patrons with a flourish. I hold the young woman's hand aloft. The townsfolk cheer, thinking their young woman is leaving to become a freak. She gives a nervous smile, and allows me to lead her to the door.
"I hope we shall see you all soon?"
I reach into my pocket and draw out a knife. I flick it with practiced ease, and it sails across the room. The blade hits the beam with a thud, and it holds the handbill in place. The townsfolk gasp, staring at the knife in stunned silence. I leave the saloon with my new friend, confident that we shall do a roaring trade in this town.
* * *
This story acts as a teaser for the next Choose Your Online Adventures tale, set in the Old West! I've been handling the story's "freak show" contingent, and figured I'd introduce you to one of them...
March 9, 2011
Book Review - Blood Meridian
Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West was first published in 1985. As Cormac McCarthy's fifth book, it comes well before his more famous works, No Country for Old Men and The Road (both adapted for the screen in recent years). The book is a fictional account based upon both true events and a memoir - Samuel Chamberlain's book, My Confession: The Recollections of a Rogue, detailing his time with the notorious Glanton gang.
Blood Meridian follows the exploits of a teenaged runaway from Tennessee who finds himself caught up in the Indian massacres along the Texas-Mexico border in 1849. We know him only as "the kid", and through him we are introduced to the rest of the Glanton gang. Real life figure John Joel Glanton, born in 1819, led his band of scalp hunters through senseless violence in the borderlands at a time when the price for Indian scalps was high. Unfortunately, Glanton seemed disinclined to restrict his butchery to Indians, with seemingly anyone he encountered falling prey to his murderous intent. McCarthy details with almost fiendish delight their depraved excesses as they traverse the unforgiving landscape in which they find themselves.
Blood Meridian has been hailed as "epic", and one of the finest novels of the 20th century, but I have to say...I can't exactly see why. The seemingly endless passages of description descend into repetition, and McCarthy's refusal to use quotation marks means trying to follow dialogue becomes a real chore - a task made even more difficult since few of the characters exist as anything more that caricatures or brief sketches, so their words can't be identified through their "voice". Indeed, it's nigh-on impossible to warm to any of the characters, particularly the blank kid. McCarthy sets up the insane Judge Holden as the primary antagonist, and while his lengthy diatribes provide an intellectual counterpoint to the mindless violence of the gang, eventually they become a parody of themselves and the comparison collapses inward.
I have no doubt that McCarthy included these repetitive exploits to highlight the senseless nature of the gang's behaviour, and to underscore the life of depravity thrust upon the kid after his own fruitless wanderings. I am sure there will be many who may say "Yes, it does go on a bit in places, and he does sometimes seem too fond of his own 'voice' when he's describing something, but that is the point!" Sorry, I'm unconvinced.
That said, for some reason it becomes a real page turner. The overly florid language, which I fully believe would not suffer from the occasional insertion of punctuation, leads into a flow of sorts, and his descriptions of the landscape often verge on sheer brilliance. Many of his metaphors fall flat, but when he nails them, he perfectly evokes mood and setting. It does subvert the expectations of a Western, and the extent of his research oozes from every page - this is not a writer who feels compelled to give his work a Hollywood sheen, and he revels in the harsh reality of it all. I'd even go so far as to say that I was really enjoying it, despite its flaws, right up until the end. Or should I say, the "non-end". For a book that smouldered and burned with the inflamed sense of indignation at such unnecessary atrocities, it simply fizzled out in the last few pages.
3.5 blunt pencils out of 5
Blood Meridian follows the exploits of a teenaged runaway from Tennessee who finds himself caught up in the Indian massacres along the Texas-Mexico border in 1849. We know him only as "the kid", and through him we are introduced to the rest of the Glanton gang. Real life figure John Joel Glanton, born in 1819, led his band of scalp hunters through senseless violence in the borderlands at a time when the price for Indian scalps was high. Unfortunately, Glanton seemed disinclined to restrict his butchery to Indians, with seemingly anyone he encountered falling prey to his murderous intent. McCarthy details with almost fiendish delight their depraved excesses as they traverse the unforgiving landscape in which they find themselves.
Blood Meridian has been hailed as "epic", and one of the finest novels of the 20th century, but I have to say...I can't exactly see why. The seemingly endless passages of description descend into repetition, and McCarthy's refusal to use quotation marks means trying to follow dialogue becomes a real chore - a task made even more difficult since few of the characters exist as anything more that caricatures or brief sketches, so their words can't be identified through their "voice". Indeed, it's nigh-on impossible to warm to any of the characters, particularly the blank kid. McCarthy sets up the insane Judge Holden as the primary antagonist, and while his lengthy diatribes provide an intellectual counterpoint to the mindless violence of the gang, eventually they become a parody of themselves and the comparison collapses inward.
I have no doubt that McCarthy included these repetitive exploits to highlight the senseless nature of the gang's behaviour, and to underscore the life of depravity thrust upon the kid after his own fruitless wanderings. I am sure there will be many who may say "Yes, it does go on a bit in places, and he does sometimes seem too fond of his own 'voice' when he's describing something, but that is the point!" Sorry, I'm unconvinced.
That said, for some reason it becomes a real page turner. The overly florid language, which I fully believe would not suffer from the occasional insertion of punctuation, leads into a flow of sorts, and his descriptions of the landscape often verge on sheer brilliance. Many of his metaphors fall flat, but when he nails them, he perfectly evokes mood and setting. It does subvert the expectations of a Western, and the extent of his research oozes from every page - this is not a writer who feels compelled to give his work a Hollywood sheen, and he revels in the harsh reality of it all. I'd even go so far as to say that I was really enjoying it, despite its flaws, right up until the end. Or should I say, the "non-end". For a book that smouldered and burned with the inflamed sense of indignation at such unnecessary atrocities, it simply fizzled out in the last few pages.
3.5 blunt pencils out of 5
March 8, 2011
International Women's Day
According to the official website, "International Women's Day has been observed since in the early 1900's, a time of great expansion and turbulence in the industrialized world that saw booming population growth and the rise of radical ideologies." It seems almost fitting to be celebrating it this year, what with the tide of radical change that is currently sweeping parts of the world, and with the massive expansion of new technologies that circumvent traditional industrial processes. Indeed, it's an exciting time for writers in general as the boom in independent publishing allows us to get our work in front of a wider audience than ever before. As a woman writer, I'm downright excited about what the future holds.So I'd like to take a little time, and pay tribute to a few of my favourite women.
My mother
Yep. She has to come first. She's my biggest fan and my most ardent supporter. Yes, she may be biased, but I would venture to say that if my mother didn't enjoy my work, she'd be the first to say so. She doesn't pull her punches, and she's reason why I say what I think.
Sarah Connor, Princess Leia and Ellen Ripley
All fictional, but they proved girls didn't have to be the simpering victims portrayed in slasher films or Disney movies. Leia in particular needs a mention as she gets to look glamourous AND take the honour as the only character in the Star Wars universe capable of dispensing with Jabba the Hutt. Ripley gets a mention as being the first female character to carry an action series in an era dominated by Stallone, and Schwarzenegger etc.
Enid Blyton, Margaret Atwood and JK Rowling
Enid Blyton's books were some of the first novels I ever read, and I still adore her Adventure series even now. Yes, it's all ginger beer and picnics, but it's a snapshot of a bygone age, when innocence was prized and kids could play outside without fear of abduction (or worse). Margaret Atwood has made great in-roads in getting women accepted as writers of fiction other than chick-lit or romance, with her forays into dystopian futures or epic storytelling. JK Rowling may have gone off the boil in the later Harry Potter series but you have to credit the woman for getting kids reading again.
Kate Winslet, Dame Helen Mirren and Angelina Jolie
I just love Kate. She always seems so nice in interviews - such a far cry from the attention-grabbing shenanigans you see over the pond. She can act, as well as proving girls with curves really do look better than her stick insect counterparts. Dame Helen Mirren gets a nod for proving older women can far outshine their younger rivals, while Jolie gets a mention not for her (laughable) acting skills or questionable methods for finding partners, but rather the fact she uses her star power to help affect change in areas that really need it. She donates a portion of her salary to charity, and is actively involved in various projects around the world.
Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, Emmeline Pankhurst and Vivienne Westwood
To the first woman to qualify as a doctor in the United Kingdom, a woman instrumental in securing the vote for British women, and the absolute genius who invented a look and style that resounds throughout pop culture to this day...I am so sorry that the best the UK can do these days is Katie f***ing Price.
Happy International Women's Day!
March 7, 2011
Freebies
I'm taking part in Read an Ebook Week over on Smashwords so until March 12th, you can get my steampunk novella, The First Tale, for free! That's right - instead of the usual 99c, it now costs nothing. Just add the coupon 'RE100' at the checkout. Smashwords offer all kinds of formats, from EPUB to mobi and PDF.I'm quite pleased about the timing of this as I have plans for forthcoming Tales from Vertigo City mini serials - so get to know everyone before the new adventures start!
My short story collection, Checkmate & Other Stories , is still free on Smashwords, though if you want to show your support, you can get both The First Tale and Checkmate for 99c for the Kindle from Amazon.
Photo Prompt 23
Twenty-third 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-third prompt is Boats on a Lake.
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-third prompt is Boats on a Lake.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.
March 4, 2011
Friday Flash - Dead Man's Hand III
The gunslinger woke with a start. He whipped out his pistols, pointing in all directions. His vision cleared and he realised he was alone. He gazed around the saloon. A shaft of moonlight fell across the floor beneath the swing doors. Empty glasses sat like islands in the sea of dust covering the tables. The gunslinger hauled himself out of his chair and crossed the room. His boots knocked hollow against the wooden floorboards. He pushed open the doors, and the creak screeched in the eerie silence of the street.
The gunslinger walked out onto the verandah. He expected to see the soiled doves displaying their wares for drunken cowboys, or gamblers stumbling from one saloon to the next. At least one brawl should have spilled out into the street. The gunslinger saw and heard no one. Not even the howl of a plains coyote drifted on the night air.
The gunslinger walked down the street. He looked at the empty buildings, peering through windows and poking his head around doors. He wanted to call out but he realised he didn't know where he was. He didn't know any names to call. A breeze gusted down the street, and cards skittered around his feet. He bent to pick them up. Two aces, two eights and a Queen. The memory of a gun shot crashed in his ears as he looked at the bloodstained cards.
I must be dreamin', he thought.
He reached the railroad. A black horse stood alone in the middle of the square in front of the shack that served as a station. It whinnied when it saw him, and nodded its head. The gunslinger walked over to the horse, marvelling at the sheen on its midnight coat. He ran his fingers through its dark mane, the silver streaks sparkling like starlight in his hands.
"Who do you belong to, big fella?" asked the gunslinger.
The horse turned his head and nodded at the fine leather saddle on its back. The gunslinger shrugged, put his foot in the stirrup, and boosted himself up. He swung his leg over the horse's back and settled into the saddle. The stallion whinnied again, and set off at a trot. They set off over the railroad tracks. The gunslinger spotted a wooden sign beside the rails. Hand painted letters spelled out the name 'Sticks'.
At least I know where I'm leavin', he thought.
He tried to guide the horse but the stallion stayed true. The gunslinger gave up hauling at the reins and sat back in the saddle, watching the moonlit plain go by. The horse broke into a gallop, and ran towards the hills that rose from the plain like sleeping levianthans.
The gunslinger held tight to the reins as the horse careered down a path into a narrow valley. Skeletal trees clung to the sheer rock walls on either side, and the stallion's hooves kicked up a fine spray of pebbles and sand.
The horse came to an abrupt halt as the valley widened into a small quarry. A young woman sat bareback on a pearl grey horse. Her black lips broke into a grin, and she waved as the black stallion brought the gunslinger nearer.
"You've made it!" she exclaimed. Her voice buzzed with a millennia of rot.
"Who are you? Where am I?" asked the gunslinger.
"Well you're Wild Bill Hickok, and you've just come through the valley," replied the young woman. Stars glittered in the depths of her midnight eyes.
"Care to explain that to me, little miss?"
"Why don't you ride with me?"
The young woman rode down the trail away from Wild Bill. The black horse trotted after, flicking his tail. Wild Bill stared at the young woman when the horses drew level. The horses whinnied a greeting to one another.
"See, you have to understand that you're dead," she said.
Wild Bill stared at her in disbelief, unsure he had heard her correctly.
"I know, I know, it's a lot to take in at once. But you're dead. You've been dead for quite some time but that hasn't stopped you wandering about through time, has it?"
"The cards..."
"Yes. Those blasted cards. You've been disrupting the timeline, shooting anyone that got the Dead Man's Hand - or at least ensuring they got shot themselves. I've been trying to catch up with you for a while now."
"So you're...." Wild Bill's blue eyes widened.
"Death. Yes. And you've been rather upsetting my system."
The trail led into a lush meadow. Moths flickered above the emerald grass, their wings reflecting the light of the stars overhead. The sound of running water and laughter filled the air. Shades of people long gone drifted to and fro, pausing to converse with each other, the echoes of their voices reaching through the ages. Wild Bill recognised some of them as people he'd shot.
"I like you, really, I do. You're one of the Universe's true characters, Mr Hickok. But it's time for you to find some peace now," said Death.
"I guess I am kinda tired," said Wild Bill. He stroked his moustache as he gazed across the meadow. His body convulsed in a deep yawn.
"You rest now. Leave the death side of things to me."
"Alright, miss. I guess you know best and all."
Death leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek. Wild Bill's eyes closed for the final time.
* * *This is the final installment 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.
Part I : Part II
March 2, 2011
Why I Write
I keep meaning to write some kind of blog post on why I write. I normally trot out the same old schlock about how I've always written, and it's never really occurred to me not to. Stories pop into my head and I write them down. As the meerkat would say, "Simples." However, while that is still true, I think it does go deeper than that. After all, I've always been able to run but it doesn't mean I do (I don't, as it happens. I prefer swimming and Pilates as forms of exercise. Running looks so...ungainly) Yesterday I posted the link to my story, The Sought After Smile, which had been published in the new issue of Luna Station Quarterly. The link was shared on Facebook (seriously, what did we do before social networking?) and someone posted a comment to say it had really cheered them up after a crap day. You know what I did? I smiled (and I am not an inherently cheerful person).
Do you know how ace that feels, to know that something you wrote actually helped to improve someone else's day? That a simple work of fiction could cheer someone up in just a few moments? Ah, escapism. You can't beat it. I suppose I whiled away many a lonely hour as a child, caught up in an Enid Blyton adventure or whizzing through another Roald Dahl, and if I'm completely honest, I still seek solace in books now. To my mind, if I can provide someone with a few moments away from the troubles and stresses of their existence, then that is a job well done.
Yes, it's true. I have no lofty pretensions to creating high art, to leaving a literary legacy that will see schoolchildren pore over my work 200 years from now, to winning awards or changing the world - no, I just want to entertain people. I like to think I'm more Guillermo del Toro than Michael Bay, but the intention is much the same.
Of course, that's not the ONLY reason I write. At the moment, I'm working on a Western novella, tentatively titled Guns of Retribution, about a bounty hunter named Gray O'Donnell. I've written the first draft, and I'm now polishing the rough edges before I send it to my completely awesome beta readers. I'm a natural pedant so if a plot point sticks out like a sore thumb to me, I assume it'll be a red flag to others, so I won't put anything out in front of people until all the narrative logic has been resolved. Now, for one reason and another, I've had to take a couple of breaks from redrafting, and I finally got back into it on Monday night. Re-reading the opening scene, I almost cried - it was like being back among old friends again. Sure, they're imaginary friends, but they're friends all the same.
Writing is an inherently solitary path, but in a perverse kind of way, we're never really alone. We're constantly living out adventures in our heads, chatting to people we've invented, and endlessly creating new places and things. Of course, if most people say they hear voices, they're considered insane, but writers are exempt from this particular social convention.
Good thing, too. I wouldn't dare tell Liss Hunt to shut up.
March 1, 2011
Submission success
Greetings, citizens.I'm rather chuffed to announce the publication of a couple of my pieces - Unforgettable was picked up by Escape into Life, while The Sought After Smile is now live on Luna Station Quarterly!
Now, down to brass tacks. My post on how to cope with rejection over on Fuel Your Writing seems to have struck a chord, but now I'm planning one on how to approach the submission process in the first place. Where to look for titles, how to decide what to submit - that sort of thing. I know it can be daunting and confusing, and I want to try and help you to make it as hassle-free as possible.
So here's where you come in. If you're never submitted before and you have any questions, leave me a comment and I'll try to make sure I answer any questions in the article itself!
February 28, 2011
Photo Prompt 22
Twenty-second 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-second prompt is Parrots.
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-second prompt is Parrots.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.
February 25, 2011
Friday Flash - Dead Man's Hand II
Parker sat at the computer, watching the cards flick up on the screen. A pair of nines, a pair of threes, and a seven. Not bad. Good job he ditched the five and the Jack. Still, RickyBoy364 had four eights and a two, so he won the hand. "LOLZ P-Diddy47. Do u want me 2 take all yr $$?" The writing appeared in the chat box at the bottom of the game screen. Parker grimaced. RickyBoy364 always taunted him when Parker lost a hand.
Parker checked his account. He still had $80 left of his original stake. He pressed the button to chip in for the next hand. His cards flipped up. An ace, a four, an eight, a ten, and a Queen. Not brilliant. More writing appeared in the chat box. Jasmine277 asked if anyone had time to give her relationship advice between hands. Newbie23 complained about his bad luck with poker. Parker scowled at the poor bluff.
"Parker? Are you home?"
His mother's voice drifted through his open bedroom door.
"Yeah, Mom," called Parker.
He clicked on the ace, eight and Queen to hold them. Parker didn't really have much hope, and clicking at random seemed to work as well as having a clear strategy.
"Could you help me unload the car?" called Parker's mother.
Parker sighed. He typed 'afk' in the chat box and pressed 'deal' before getting up to leave his room. The new cards flicked into place as he headed down the stairs.
His mother stood outside on the front path. Bulging bags of groceries leaned against her legs. Parker hefted two of them onto his hips and headed inside.
"I didn't interrupt anything important, did I?" asked his mother as she followed him to the kitchen.
"No, Mom. Just chatting to some dudes online," replied Parker.
"You weren't playing that game again, were you?"
"No, Mom." Parker hoped his ears didn't colour and give him away.
"Good. You know those blasted cards were the death of your great-great uncle."
Parker made several return trips to clear the path of bags. He left his mother unpacking the goods in the kitchen. He dreaded to think what abuse RickyBoy364 might have left in his absence from the game.
Parker walked into his bedroom. He yelped when he saw the figure sitting in his chair. A Stetson sat on his head, and blond hair curled down his back. The figure swung the chair around to face Parker. The man's piercing blue eyes fixed on Parker, his lip twitching beneath a bushy blond moustache. The man pointed an antique Colt at Parker's gut.
"Who the hell are you?" shouted Parker.
"You got the Dead Man's Hand, son," replied the man. He faded and flickered as he spoke, as if Parker was watching him on an old TV set.
Parker looked over the man's shoulder. Two aces, two eights and a Queen flashed on the screen. A tirade of abuse from Rickyboy364 scrolled along the chat box beneath the cards. A dialog box asked Parker if he wanted to add the $70 to his account and leave the game, or play again.
"Oh hey, I won!" said Parker.
"You got the Dead Man's Hand, son," repeated the gun man.
"What does that even mean? And who are you? What are you doing in my room? I'm calling the police," said Parker.
"You got the Dead Man's Hand, son," said the man with the Colt.
Parker reached for the phone. The man fired, flickering out of existence as the bullet slammed in Parker's gut. Parker hit the floor with a thud.
The Dead Man's Hand was the last thing he saw as his room faded to black.
* * *
This is the second 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.
Part I appeared last week, here.
