Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 120

Friday Flash - New Year's Dance

A full moon hung low in a clear night sky. The Dead Calm drifted through calm waters, the sea lapping at the hull of the ship. The crew gathered on the deck, their raucous songs of celebration filling the air. Captain Scarlight tottered between them, refilling their mugs with rum.

"Happy New Year, lads! Let's toast our health, and hope next year is a good 'un!" he cried.

The crew cheered, raising their mugs to the skies. Dark droplets of rum spattered the deck. Methuselah fluttered across the ship to perch on the wheel. The telepathic parrot nodded his agreement with the Captain's sentiment.

"Gaaarrrr, ye shouldn't toast on New Year! Not during a full moon," said Flintlock Francis. The grizzled bosun lounged on the rigging, a mug of rum in his hand.

"Why not?" asked Captain Scarlight.

"Gaarrr, yer but a young pup, ye won't know....The Legend," said Flintlock Francis.

"What legend?" asked the Captain.

"THE legend," replied Flintlock Francis.

I do believe he is employing stalling tactics to increase the tension associated with what is no doubt a popular slice of local folklore. In the name of peace, I believe it would be best to allow him to tell the tale.

Captain Scarlight looked at Methuselah and nodded in agreement. Flintlock Francis flicked his bloodshot eyes between the Captain and the parrot.

"Do ye want to hear the legend or not?"

"Aye, we do, we do!" cried the crew.

"It's a legend few know, but ye should! It's said that if ye toast to health under a full moon on the eve of New Year, then ye can expect a visit from the Reaper 'imself," said Flintlock Francis. He looked at each of the crew in turn, fixing them with an ominous look.

"Is that it?" asked the Captain.

Flintlock Francis nodded, taking a swig of rum.

"That's rubbish! I never had ye pegged as being the sort to believe in fairytales!" cried the Captain.

He spun round to face the crew. His boot slid across the spilt rum, depositing the Captain on his back. His head connected with the deck with a dull thud.

* * *

Pain throbbed in the back of the Captain's skull. He opened his eyes, and stars exploded across his vision. He expected to see the crew huddled around him, but he gazed up at the sky. Silence drifted across the deck.

"Bloody hell, what happened?" he moaned.

"I believe that would be called 'taking a fall'. You slipped on a patch of rum."

Captain Scarlight wriggled up onto his elbows. He expected to see Methuselah perched somewhere, the familiar disapproving look on his avian face. Instead, he saw a young woman standing near the ship's wheel. Raven hair tumbled around her shoulders, and her eyes formed dark pools in the stark white of her face. She smiled, her purple lips parting to reveal black gums and grey teeth.

"Who are you?" exclaimed the Captain.

"I am someone who has not had a dance these forty years together. Would you do me the honours?" asked the woman. Her cold voice rasped with decay.

"I don't think I'm up to dancing," replied the Captain.

"Of course you are. You need only try," said the woman.

Captain Scarlight rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself onto his knees. His jaw dropped open at the sudden lack of pain in his head. Somewhere in front of him, fabric caught on wood and ripped. He looked up to find the woman standing over him. A slender white arm snaked out of her midnight cloak. The woman held out her hand. The Captain shuddered at her icy touch.

"Music, Maestro!" cried the woman.

A violin creaked into life, singing its eerie melody to the full moon. The woman pulled the Captain to his feet and they set off around the deck. Captain Scarlight knew he didn't know how to dance, yet his feet possessed a mind of their own as he led the woman in the dance.

They spun around the deck, carried along on the haunting violin music. Captain Scarlight tried to avoid eye contact with the woman. Confusion and fear competed for his attention.

"Why do you fear my gaze, mortal captain?" asked the woman. The laughter of flies buzzed at the edges of her voice.

"I'm a bit bewildered, if I'm honest," said the Captain.

Before he could stop himself, the Captain looked the woman square in the face. Vertigo seized him as he gazed into the velvet depths of her black eyes. Stars glittered beyond his gaze, clouding his vision. The music grew faint as the world closed in around him.

* * *

"Cap'n? Cap'n, are yer awake?"

Captain Scarlight opened his eyes. A spike of pain drove itself into the back of his skull. He groaned, suppressing a wave of nausea.

That was quite a fall you took, Captain. Are you alright?

Methuselah sat on the Captain's chest, peering into his face.

"I've got the headache from hell," replied the Captain.

You were humming.

"I was?"

Yes. A doleful yet infectious melody.

"I could have sworn I was dancing," said the Captain. He sat up, raising tentative fingers to his head. He winced when he found a bump.

Dancing? With a woman?

"Well it wasn't with you, Thusie," replied the Captain.

Captain Scarlight struggled to sit up. Methuselah fluttered across the deck. He watched the Captain stumble away to his cabin.

"The Cap'n was dancin', alright," said Flintlock Francis.

He leaned in close to Methuselah. He gestured to the deck with his mug, slopping rum across the wood. Methuselah followed Flintlock's gaze.

A patch of midnight glistened below the ship's wheel.

* * *

If you enjoyed this tale, you can find more of Captain Scarlight and Methuselah's adventures on the Parrots & Piracy section of my website. The Macabre Mademoiselle first made her debut in my Christmas story for Jodi Cleghorn's Deck the Halls project, Fast Away The Old Year Passes .

Photo Prompt 13

Thirteenth 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 thirteenth prompt is Overgrown.







If you want more prompts, check out Walt White, Eric J Krause and Jen Brubacher!

Friday Flash - Winter's Bride

Marianne huddles in the corner. Only her hands and nose are visible beneath the heap of moth-eaten blankets in which she swathes herself. The December chill seeps through the old fabric, sinking into her bones. A stub remains of her last candle, and she holds her hands either side of the flickering flame, anxious for warmth.



Marianne thinks of the empty basket beside the cold fireplace. The money from her last commission ran out several days ago. No one will hire a seamstress whose fingers are too stiff and frozen to do the work. She ate the last of her food earlier, a hard heel of bread with cheese so mouldy even the mice will not eat it.



Marianne sings under her breath. She keeps forgetting the words to songs she has known since childhood. She tries to keep the worry from nibbling at her clouded mind. Marianne knows she must fight to keep herself awake. If she falls asleep, she does not think she will wake again.



A tap at the window shakes her from her thoughts. Marianne peers across the room, but the film of frost on the glass obscures her view outside. She hauls herself to her feet and hobbles across the room. The cold has numbed her feet too much for her to hurry. She opens the window, and a blast of icy air slashes at her face.



"I say, you don't think you could let me in, do you?"



A young man stands on the ledge outside her window. She gazes at him in disbelief. How could he have reached her small turret so high above the town? Mute, she stumbles backwards. The man pushes open the window and climbs inside. He wears a fine frock coat and waistcoat. Silver thread traces snowflakes across the white silk. Snow clings to his white top hat.



"Who are you?" asks Marianne.



"Who I am is far less important than the reason I am here, Marianne. You have borne the weight of this winter so well, my dearest. It is for this reason that I have chosen you for my bride," says the young man.



"I'm too cold for such nonsense. I am too poor for you to rob me, so I suggest you try your luck elsewhere," says Marianne.



"I do not wish to rob you! I wish to marry you!" exclaims the young man.



"Don't be silly, I'm in no mood. You must be all of five-and-twenty - I am twice your age, and I won't survive this winter. Go now, you tire me so," says Marianne.



Marianne looks up into his handsome face. If only she were twenty years younger. If only she weren't so poor. If only he weren't a stranger. If only...



The stranger peels off his white gloves and brushes his hand against Marianne's cheek. Icy fingers crawl across her skin, and the cold sinks into her. She tries to scream but there is no breath left in her frozen lungs. The blood in her veins turns to ice. Marianne stands in her small room, a statue paralysed by winter.



The young man leans forward, and plants his lips on hers. The thaw spreads, the ice and the years falling away from Marianne. She coughs as air melts her lungs, and she stumbles forward into the young man's arms. Her heart flutters, pumping ice water through her veins. Marianne looks into his eyes, and sees the reflection of her youthful self. She looks down to find her tattered tags replaced by a gown of white silk. A fur mantle drapes around her shoulders.



"What did you do to me?" she asks, her voice husky from coughing.



"I made you my bride, as I said I would. I have returned to you what time has stolen," replied the young man.



"Am I dead?" she asks.



"You are dead in the sense that you are not a human, but you are alive with the power of winter," replies the young man. "Come, Lady Frost. Let us explore the town together."



"Lady Frost? Oh my...you're Jack Frost, aren't you?" asks Marianne.



The young man smiles in reply. He leads her to the window. They climb out onto the ledge, and she yelps as he leaps into the night air. He grasps her hand, and together they ride the air currents above the town. Marianne gazes down over the town square. People cluster around the tree, singing carols to ward off the cold.



Jack leads her to a row of small cottages at the edge of town. He touches a finger to the window of the first house. Beautiful patterns reform the crust of frost on the glass. He invites her to do the same. She holds out a trembling hand, amazed that she no longer feels the cold. She touches the glass, and the frost beneath her finger forms a delicate filigree of icy lace.



They spend the rest of the evening turning the cruelty of winter into a paradise of art. Marianne learns to turn the compacted ice back into fluffy snow to prevent the townsfolk slipping on their way home from the service in the square. Jack takes her hand and they walk back to the square. They stand in the shadows, listening to the carols. Marianne has never heard anything so heartfelt in her life.



The clock chimes midnight. Jack pulls Marianne into an embrace. He feels warm in her arms, and she buries her face in his collar. She thinks she ought to feel sad about her death, but how can she? Life took her livelihood and her pride, but death has given her youth, and romance.



"Merry Christmas, my dear," whispers Jack.



"Merry Christmas to you," she replies.



Jack leads her away from the square. There are more houses to visit, and more children to be delighted by the frosty drawings on the windows in the morning.

Work appearing in a Christmas ebook

Christmas is a time for giving, so go and donate some of your funds to Metazen, and grab yourself a copy of their Christmas e-book.



The lovely Annie Evett and fabulous Dan Powell have work in there, alongside my good self - so if you haven't read my most recent Friday flash, The Music Man, by now, then you'll just have to go get the e-book...come on, it's for charity!

Pseudonyms - Using Pen Names

A couple of weeks ago, I came across this post on SellingBooks.com about using a pseudonym. Since then, I've read similar posts on other blogs about the pros and cons of pen names, and seeing as how I use one, I figured I should probably offer my two penn'orth on the subject.



Now, I'll be honest - mine isn't much of a pseudonym as Sedgwick is actually my surname. I probably should have adopted something easier to spell but I'm proud of my roots (according to SedgwickUK.org, the surname is believed to come from old Norse, and the geologist Adam Sedgwick asserted that 'seggeswick' meant 'village of victory'). It also amuses me that James Coburn's character in The Great Escape is called Sedgwick, and he's one of the few characters to actually escape.



However, you probably won't be too surprised to learn Icy isn't my real name. It's actually a nickname that stemmed from an Internet handle I started using in around 2002 that just stuck. When I submitted my first story to a magazine in late 2004, it didn't occur to me NOT to use the pen name 'Icy Sedgwick'. The story wasn't accepted, but when my first story was published online in 2008 (Bending Spoons published The Midas Box in July of that year - it's now available in my free short story collection, Checkmate & Other Stories) it seemed like a good idea to keep using the same name.



You might find that there is already an author with your name. Maybe the domain name you want is unavailable. Perhaps you just fancy a change. But what are the pros and cons to using a pen name?



PositiveKeep your writing and your work life separate

If you're not lucky enough to be a fulltime writer, then there's a good chance you'll want to keep your writing and your job separate. I use my social networking spaces for my writing life, and I certainly don't want my blog to be the first thing that pops up if a potential employer decides to Google me (instead, they get my LinkedIn, which is for my professional life).



Privacy

It's easier to keep your private life private if you're not using your real name. Obviously there's still something to be said for keeping certain things offline. Don't want strangers seeing photos of your kids? Don't post them in public. People sometimes forget that the Internet is public (unless you know how to work those privacy settings) and once you've posted something, it's very difficult to remove it without many people you don't know already having seen it.



Reinvention

Creating a pseudonym or pen name allows you a certain amount of self re-invention. If you were bullied mercilessly at school but have emerged as a strong and independent person, adopting a pseudonym allows you to distance yourself from the person you were then, under that name, and sell yourself as the person you are now, under your new name. Plus, you can even go so far as to create an entire persona to go with the pseudonym, turning your pen name into a character in its own right. Look at Stephen King - he even collaborated with himself when he did the Stephen King/Richard Bachman books.



Different genre, different name

Anne Rice writes under three different names, depending on the genre. You might decide to do the same - after all, if you write both hardcore science fiction and chick lit, you might want to differentiate between the two so as not to confuse readers, unless you think the readers of the fluffy Bridget Jones-esque books with the pastel covers will love your stories of quantum mechanics gone wrong. In addition, you may not want to embarrass/horrify your family if you write in certain genres, and adopting a pen name for those works allows you to put a certain amount of distance between you and your writing.



NegativePlagiarism

It's harder to prove a case of plagiarism if you're not using your real name. Indeed, if your real name is Jane Smith but you write as Madagascar Fairbanks, then how can you prove what's stolen is actually yours, and that you're really Madagascar? Now, I'm at least using my surname and there are photos of me on my blog so proving my identity, and thus my authorship of my work, is easier than if I were to adopt a pseudonym.



Legality

Publishing contracts require you to sign under your real name anyway so you might decide that it's just easier to use your real name instead of signing under one name and promoting under another. I've heard stories of authors being horrified to see a magazine print one of their stories under their real name, despite them stressing the pen name should be used.



No stone unturned...

The Internet is a big place and maintaining anonymity can be difficult. So if you're choosing a pen name to remain anonymous, you might find it harder than you thought. It's not impossible, especially if you pay for webspace and ensure you enable the privacy settings, but people will always track down information if they're dedicated enough. A fledgling writer won't have this problem, but it's something to think about if your career takes off.



It's up to you if the pros outweigh the cons, or vice versa, but whatever you do, have fun with it! Writing should be enjoyable. Now excuse me, I'm off to invent another me...

Photo Prompt 12

Twelfth 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 twelfth prompt is Tomb.







If you want more prompts, check out Walt White, Eric J Krause and Jen Brubacher!

Friday Flash - The Music Man

The chill of an autumn morning holds the city in its thrall. Dead leaves drift from the sleeping trees to carpet the pavements in crisp fragments of bronze and gold. The sun burns cold in a piercing blue sky. Offices and shops bulge with scarf-clad workers, warming their shivering hands on steaming mugs of tea. They fight for space around small stoves and fireplaces.



Hope Lane curves through the overcrowded alleys near the workhouse. Footsteps ring out on the cobbles as a stream of notes curls down the narrow street. The blacksmith's apprentice presses his face against a grimy window. He forgets the dull ache in his arm, and runs outside. The old and infirm shuffle to the doorsteps of their tiny homes. Gaunt women carry skinny babies. The accordion's picture of the impending season muffles their sadness.



The old man limps down the street, swathed in a cheerful red coat and hat. His deft fingers manipulate the keys, oblivious to the frosty air. The scent of cinnamon and roast chestnuts wafts in his wake; the apprentice dreams of candy canes and sugar plums. He pauses outside the forge. The new song begins and he plays with gusto, conjuring the spirit of King Wenceslas. The babies gurgle and the apprentice sways to the music. Fingers fumble in moth-eaten pockets for their last few coins. They flash in the air, and a black monkey in a scarlet waistcoat collects them with nimble paws.



Money buys happiness when the music man comes by.



* * *

The image for this piece is Ludwig Knaus' painting, The Hurdy Gurdy Man (1869). You can buy a print here.

Photo Prompt 11

Eleventh 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 eleventh prompt is Abandoned.





If you want more prompts, check out Walt White, Eric J Krause and Jen Brubacher!

Friday Flash - The Visitor

Soft white flakes float from the clear sky. They settle across cracked roofs, in blocked gutters, and between the cobblestones in the narrow lane. The door to the parish church stands ajar, and carols drift out into the cold night air. Only devoted worshippers venture abroad as most souls seek the refuge of the family hearth.

A solitary figure trudges down the lane, pulling the cloak of close-woven sadness tighter around her neck. Her feet drag along the slick cobbles. The gaslights flicker as she passes, and even the shadows weep, feeling a sudden wave of despair. She peers left and right at the lop-sided buildings that line the forgotten street. Frost glitters on naked beams and icicles hang from rotten eaves.

The figure stops at a cramped dwelling opposite the remains of a milliner's shop. Light spills out of the window, painting the snow with a golden glow. The figure wipes the bottom pane of glass with her sleeve and peers inside. A family gather around a roaring fire, basking in the warmth of the crackling flames. The father sits in a rocking chair, a toddler on his knee. He leads the family in a raucous song that ends with the clinking of glasses and the exchange of well wishes. The figure sidles along the front of the house to the door, but the handle does not budge. She swears at the lock.

The figure turns away from the happy household. She flicks her cloak, sending ripples of melancholy down the lane. A scavenging alley cat howls in the shadows. The figure stops at the next house. As before, she wipes a sooty layer of frost from the window and peers inside. No fire blazes in the grate of this house. No carols are sung, and no bonhomie warms her face through the glass.

Instead, she spies a lonely figure, hunched over a writing desk. A single candle burns, casting flickering shadows across the cramped writing. The nib of the pen scratches across the paper. The writer looks up, gazing at the wall between herself and the happy family. Envy and misery chase each other across her pale face. The cloaked figure clasps her hands together, as something blossoms in the cavern where her heart should be. She feels surge of kinship towards this writer.

The figure reaches for the handle, and finds the door unlocked. It opens easily at her touch. She casts off her cloak of sorrow and steps inside. The writer looks up, and smiles. She will welcome anyone on this lonely Christmas Day, even Melancholy herself.

Photo Prompt 10

Tenth 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 tenth prompt is Burnt Newspaper.





If you want more prompts, check out Walt White, Eric J Krause and Jen Brubacher!