Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 123
November 11, 2010
Friday Flash - Lest We Forget
Walter Graves huddles at the back of the dug-out. He nibbles a square of chocolate as he reads his book. Walter has learned to appreciate these snatched moments of quiet before the next onslaught begins."Captain! Captain! Oh, you 'ave to come 'n see this!" says Freddy Hamilton. He bounces up and down at the entrance to the dug-out.
"What is it?" asks Walter.
"No, no, you 'ave to see it!"
Walter sighs, and slips a photo into his book to mark his place. He hopes the war will be over soon; he did not bring another and he is almost finished.
Walter's boots sink into the thick mud of the trench as he steps outside. His grimace turns to shock when Freddy heads up the ladder to the parapet.
"Are you insane, man? Do you have a death wish?" cries Walter. He tries to grab Freddy's foot, to pull him to the safety of the cold, filthy trench.
"No, it's alright, sir! Come 'ave a look!"
Freddy clambers over the parapet and stands up. Walter's shock subsides when he realises he cannot hear gunfire. No shells burst overhead. The machine guns keep their staccato laughter to themselves. Christmas carols and jovial banter drift on the freezing air.
"Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!
Alles schläft; einsam wacht..."
"What the deuce is going on?" asks Walter.
"You need to come 'n see, sir!" says Freddy. He mimes a man climbing upwards, determined that his captain should join him.
Walter hauls himself up the ladder, fingers already numb with cold. He gazes across No Man's Land in disbelief. A line of Christmas trees marks the parapet of the German trench. Four of his men stand nearby, swapping rations with the enemy. To his left, a handful of Germans are smoking with two of his corporals.
"By Jove, they were right," says Walter.
"What do you mean, sir?" asks Freddy.
"Well, they did say it would be over by Christmas!"
Walter watches a group of privates from both sides follow the stretcher-bearers across the desolate plain. They carry away the wounded or dead. The barbed wire entanglements are mercifully free of twitching bodies. Walter sighs. Yesterday saw heavy losses on both sides.
A short distance away, a football match is in full swing. Owen Peterson stands between two cloth caps that form the goal. Young Jack Benson tries to kick the ball towards Dougie Birstall but his foot catches on a frozen clump of Ypres soil. The ball skitters away, and is intercepted by a German player. He passes it to another private.
"Howay, Jackie man, divvn't pass to Fritz!" shouts Dougie. The German offers Dougie a sheepish grin and runs off after his teammate.
"Merry Christmas, sir," says Freddy. He holds out his hand toward his captain.
"Merry Christmas to you too, Freddy. I wish you many of them," says Walter. He shakes Freddy's hand.
They stand and watch the football match. Later, after a heated debate over the final score, they will all have a drink in a last act of defiance towards the generals.
Tonight will be the last silent night they ever enjoy. Tomorrow, the machine guns will begin again.
* * *
I've broken my usual tradition of posting my Friday Flash on a Friday for today, in order to mark Armistice Day. Everyone has their cause close to their heart, and this is mine. I wrote an entry about it last year, which you can read here - I'd appreciate it if you did. I also urge everyone to go and donate to the Royal British Legion's Poppy Appeal. I don't agree with war, but I respect and admire those men, women and animals who risk their lives for others. For once I agree with John Lennon.
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace
November 8, 2010
Photo Prompt 06
Wow, we're up to the sixth photo prompt already!
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! I promise to comment on any story that comes from this photo.
The sixth prompt is Tapestry.
Have fun!
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! I promise to comment on any story that comes from this photo.
The sixth prompt is Tapestry.
Have fun!
November 5, 2010
Friday Flash - The Promise
15th April 2010
Fiona and Mitchell stand beside the bar in the luxurious Keats Room. The wedding guests form a queue, each wanting to pass on their congratulations and good wishes for the future. Mitchell dishes out firm handshakes and booming laughs for the men. Fiona receives the attentions of the women with graceful smiles.
Rosie taps her foot and checks her watch as she stands in line. She wanted to be first but the coach-load of colleagues from Fiona's college pushed her aside outside the wedding venue. When she got to the Keats Room, Mitchell's friends from the golf club beat her to the queue.
Eventually Rosie reaches the happy couple. She hugs Fiona, and tells her favourite cousin how beautiful she looks. Fiona manages a blush for the fiftieth time that afternoon, and thanks Rosie for coming. Rosie steps to one side to allow Mrs Patterson to pass on her congratulations.
"Thanks for coming, Rosie," says Mitchell. He shakes Rosie's hand. Rosie forces a smile. She doesn't like Mitchell. He stinks of money and influence.
"No problem, mate. Wouldn't have missed it for the world. One word of warning though - you hurt Fiona, and I'll kill you," says Rosie.
Shock flickers across Mitchell's face before they burst out laughing. Mitchell claps Rosie on the back. Rosie ruffles Mitchell's hair.
"Good one! I'll look after her, I promise," he says.
"You'd better," mutters Rosie as she leaves the couple and heads toward the other cousins by the window. She drops a handful of Mitchell's hair into her purse.
29th October 2015
Mitchell sits on the sofa in Deirdre's living room. He looks around at her modernist decor, and smiles. He remembers Fiona's chintz and pastel shades, and shudders. He rubs his wedding finger, glad to be rid of the ring.
His phone buzzes on the sofa beside him. Another text from Fiona. Mitchell shakes his head. She's been hysterical since he left three days ago. He tells her that it's not her fault, that these things happen. He tells her she can keep the house, he really doesn't care. He tells her that he wishes it could have turned out differently. He tells her that she's not to blame, and nor is Deirdre. He tells her that he cannot help who he falls in love with.
Mitchell sees movement outside the living room window. He sighs, and hauls himself up from the couch. He expects to see Fiona outside. She has been by twice already, pleading with him to change his mind. He told her to leave, to stop embarrassing herself. He told her the divorce will be fair. Mitchell kicks himself. He needs to call his solicitor and find out how to begin proceedings.
The front garden is empty. Mitchell wonders if Deirdre is back from work. He peers up the road, trying to spot Deirdre's Nissan Micra.
Pain shoots up his left arm. Mitchell lurches backwards, clutching at his shoulder. A throbbing beat begins in his abdomen. He falls to his knees, doubled over. A fresh wave of agony shudders through his body. He looks up and sees a shadow beside the window.
He calls out for help. A fist of pain reaches into his chest and grips his heart. Panic seizes Mitchell. A wave of agony knocks him onto his back. He feels as though a giant is thrusting a hundred needles into his chest. A burning sensation crawls up his arm from his right hand. Tears spill down Mitchell's face now, his blurred vision focussed on the shadow at the door. He tries to call out but the pain is too great.
He wheezes as an iron grip clamps around his heart. Mitchell twitches twice, before lying still. His glassy eyes stare at the wall, seeing nothing.
* * *
"I told you I'd kill you if you hurt Fiona, but you didn't listen, did you?" asks Rosie.
She stands outside the whore's house, watching Mitchell's body twitch through the front window. Rosie puts away her lighter, and drops the doll filled with Mitchell's hair into her bag.
Rosie smiles and leaves the garden and walks away down the street. The coroner will conclude a heart attack killed Mitchell, and Fiona will claim both his life insurance and his fortune. The slut will get nothing.
Rosie gets into her car. She looks in the rear view mirror. The Angel of Vengeance looks back.
Fiona and Mitchell stand beside the bar in the luxurious Keats Room. The wedding guests form a queue, each wanting to pass on their congratulations and good wishes for the future. Mitchell dishes out firm handshakes and booming laughs for the men. Fiona receives the attentions of the women with graceful smiles.
Rosie taps her foot and checks her watch as she stands in line. She wanted to be first but the coach-load of colleagues from Fiona's college pushed her aside outside the wedding venue. When she got to the Keats Room, Mitchell's friends from the golf club beat her to the queue.
Eventually Rosie reaches the happy couple. She hugs Fiona, and tells her favourite cousin how beautiful she looks. Fiona manages a blush for the fiftieth time that afternoon, and thanks Rosie for coming. Rosie steps to one side to allow Mrs Patterson to pass on her congratulations.
"Thanks for coming, Rosie," says Mitchell. He shakes Rosie's hand. Rosie forces a smile. She doesn't like Mitchell. He stinks of money and influence.
"No problem, mate. Wouldn't have missed it for the world. One word of warning though - you hurt Fiona, and I'll kill you," says Rosie.
Shock flickers across Mitchell's face before they burst out laughing. Mitchell claps Rosie on the back. Rosie ruffles Mitchell's hair.
"Good one! I'll look after her, I promise," he says.
"You'd better," mutters Rosie as she leaves the couple and heads toward the other cousins by the window. She drops a handful of Mitchell's hair into her purse.
29th October 2015
Mitchell sits on the sofa in Deirdre's living room. He looks around at her modernist decor, and smiles. He remembers Fiona's chintz and pastel shades, and shudders. He rubs his wedding finger, glad to be rid of the ring.
His phone buzzes on the sofa beside him. Another text from Fiona. Mitchell shakes his head. She's been hysterical since he left three days ago. He tells her that it's not her fault, that these things happen. He tells her she can keep the house, he really doesn't care. He tells her that he wishes it could have turned out differently. He tells her that she's not to blame, and nor is Deirdre. He tells her that he cannot help who he falls in love with.
Mitchell sees movement outside the living room window. He sighs, and hauls himself up from the couch. He expects to see Fiona outside. She has been by twice already, pleading with him to change his mind. He told her to leave, to stop embarrassing herself. He told her the divorce will be fair. Mitchell kicks himself. He needs to call his solicitor and find out how to begin proceedings.
The front garden is empty. Mitchell wonders if Deirdre is back from work. He peers up the road, trying to spot Deirdre's Nissan Micra.
Pain shoots up his left arm. Mitchell lurches backwards, clutching at his shoulder. A throbbing beat begins in his abdomen. He falls to his knees, doubled over. A fresh wave of agony shudders through his body. He looks up and sees a shadow beside the window.
He calls out for help. A fist of pain reaches into his chest and grips his heart. Panic seizes Mitchell. A wave of agony knocks him onto his back. He feels as though a giant is thrusting a hundred needles into his chest. A burning sensation crawls up his arm from his right hand. Tears spill down Mitchell's face now, his blurred vision focussed on the shadow at the door. He tries to call out but the pain is too great.
He wheezes as an iron grip clamps around his heart. Mitchell twitches twice, before lying still. His glassy eyes stare at the wall, seeing nothing.
* * *
"I told you I'd kill you if you hurt Fiona, but you didn't listen, did you?" asks Rosie.
She stands outside the whore's house, watching Mitchell's body twitch through the front window. Rosie puts away her lighter, and drops the doll filled with Mitchell's hair into her bag.
Rosie smiles and leaves the garden and walks away down the street. The coroner will conclude a heart attack killed Mitchell, and Fiona will claim both his life insurance and his fortune. The slut will get nothing.
Rosie gets into her car. She looks in the rear view mirror. The Angel of Vengeance looks back.
November 1, 2010
Photo Prompt 05
Just in case you're not doing NaNoWriMo this year, here's my fifth prompt to hopefully get you started on a Friday Flash!
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! I promise to comment on any story that comes from this photo.
The fifth prompt is Statue.
Have fun!
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! I promise to comment on any story that comes from this photo.
The fifth prompt is Statue.
Have fun!
October 31, 2010
My Halloween Gift To You
It's Halloween, so it seemed as good a time as any to release my second e-book. Checkmate & Other Stories collects together the fifteen stories I had published online between July 2008 and June 2010. They cover a range of styles and genres, from fantasy to horror, but mostly sit in the speculative fiction camp.Some of them are no longer available online as the sites that published them have either been taken down, or the site archives don't stretch far back enough, but I thought I'd collect them together to save people trawling through my publishing credits to read my published work.
The front cover is my own photographic work, although the short story inside, The Mirror Phase, features an illustration by the very talented Jimmy Misanthrope.
Checkmate & Other Stories is available for FREE from Smashwords, in all the various different formats that you'd expect. Don't forget that The First Tale is also still available, for the princely sum of 99c. Of course, if you really enjoy either work and want to donate something to show your appreciation, you can do so by clicking the button in the sidebar! All proceeds go towards funding my PhD.
Enjoy, and have a wonderful Halloween!
October 29, 2010
The Great Chocolate Conspiracy part 9
Welcome to The Great Chocolate Conspiracy! Chocolate Digestive biscuits have disappeared from the shelves right across the eastern seaboard of the USA, and now the shortage has spread to London. Detective Chief Inspector Sam Adamson and his international team of investigators from the Metropolitan Police's Confectionery Crimes Unit (CCU) have been tasked to solve the mystery.
This is the ninth installment of a multi-part flash fiction story that originated during a chat between the authors on Twitter. You can read how it all began here. (Links to all the installments will be added to the author list as they are posted)
The next installment will appear on Friday, November 5th at Cecilia Dominic's Random Oenophile, and you can keep up on developments in the meantime by following the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter.
* * *
Adamson leaned back in his chair. It tilted with his movement, and he grinned. He bounced back and forward, reaching under the chair to yank on the levers. The chair slid down with a hiss. Juniper rolled her eyes; no inspector would be that impressed by ergonomic furniture in Italy.
"Having fun there?" asked Agent Bronyaur. Aside from the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly vacant expression, he seemed none the worse for wear after his 'episode' at the crime scene.
"By Christ I am," replied the DCI. "My chair back home's held together by sticky tape and good luck. If I leaned back on that, I'd make a right arse of myself."
Bronyaur and Juniper exchanged a smirk. Adamson had relaxed the moment he dunked his first chocolate digestive in his coffee. La Paglia made an obscure Jekyll and Hyde reference.
"You seem unusually buoyant," she remarked.
"I think we've made some progress. Might get this wrapped up sooner than we thought," replied Adamson.
"So we'll have chocolate again?" asked Bronyaur. Adamson couldn't tell if his eyes glazed over at the thought of a decent Mars bar, or if he still suffered the effects of the tranquilliser.
"That we will. And coffee." Adamson took a swig of his cappuccino. He didn't normally like "that fancy stuff" but La Paglia persuaded him to try it. Juniper giggled at the DCI's new foam moustache.
"Can we get started soon?" asked La Paglia. She drummed well-manicured nails on the table.
"Not without Motley and Marier," replied Adamson.
"Motley and Marier...they sound like they should fight crime," said Bronyaur.
"Oh give over, you pillock. They already do!" said Adamson.
Agent Bronyaur hid his blush behind another chocolate digestive.
"Where are they?" asked Juniper.
"Motley said something about needing to make a personal call while they were in the briefing. Marier's gone to get her," said La Paglia.
The door opened. Motley walked in first, followed by Marier. She cast glances at Motley all the way to her seat beside Adamson.
"You alright there, Prof?" asked Adamson.
"Yes, fine. Everything's fine." Motley looked at the replenished platters of biscuits and chocolate.
"Help yourself, Prof," said Adamson.
"Maybe later."
"So what did the Sheriff want?" asked La Paglia.
"Just a run down on what's been going on. Who it could be, why, and whatnot," replied Adamson.
* * *
Somewhere in the depths of Middle America, a man shouted "Eureka".
* * *
Motley's phone buzzed. Everyone turned to look at her. She pulled the phone from her pocket, and glanced at the screen. A smirk hovered around the corners of her mouth.
"Something you want to share with the group, Prof?" asked Adamson.
"Just good news, that's all," replied Motley.
"About your...ah...family matter?" said Marier.
"That's right."
"As you were saying?" asked La Paglia. She glared at Motley before turning back to Adamson.
"You and Bronyaur are going back to DC. I need you to investigate the Biological Weapons division of the Counter Terrorism and Terrorism Departments. Bronyaur will fill you in on the details on the way," said Adamson. "Marier and Juniper, you're going to Sacramento to check out the Intelligence Communication Department."
"What about me?" asked Motley.
"You're coming with me," replied Adamson.
Bronyaur and La Paglia left the room. Marier and Juniper headed to the door. Juniper cast a longing gaze over her shoulder at the platter of biscuits. Marier cocked her head, looking at Motley. The professor returned her scrutiny with cool detachment.
"Go on then, clear off. Yes, Juniper, you can take some biccies with you," said Adamson.
Juniper squealed with delight, filling her pockets with biscuits. Marier relented and grabbed a chocolate bar. They closed the door behind them.
"So, DCI. What's the plan?" asked Motley.
"Well first of all, you're going to tell me why the hell you never said you were allergic to chocolate."
October 27, 2010
The Inevitable NaNoWriMo Post
Monday 1st November is almost upon us, which in the writing world, means just one thing. No, we writer folk don't celebrate All Saint's Day (well, some of us might). No, I mean it's almost NaNoWriMo, aka National Novel Writing Month. The name is something of a misnomer since the concept has since gone international since its American inception in 1999, but if you know a writer, you'll no doubt hear plenty of "NaNo" talk over the coming weeks. Hell, if you use Twitter, you'll no doubt consider un-following anyone who mentions it for the 8394th time. The Internet is already crammed with posts about why people are doing NaNo, why they aren't doing NaNo, why you should do NaNo, etc. etc., and as much as I could sit here and blather on about the same, I figured I'd just give you a couple of my strategies for getting through it. If you don't have any intention of doing NaNo, then look away now...
It's not Zombigeddon
I'll let you in on a secret. NaNoWriMo is not an experience that you must "survive". This is not a zombie apocalypse or the Poseidon Adventure. You will not find yourself going on the run with Snake Plissken. It is a hard slog but it is one that should be enjoyed as opposed to endured. If you think it's going to be too hard and that you might want go "Bruce Banner" ten days in, then maybe consider not doing it. Furthermore, if writing that many words at all, let alone in one month, fills you with fear, then might I suggest crochet or origami as a hobby as opposed to writing?
Project
Before you do anything else, you're going to need to decide on your project. Why stop at a novel? By name, it might be National Novel Writing Month but you could easily use the time to write a bunch of short stories, or even a web serial which you can then divide up and start posting in December. There is no NaNo police who will hunt you down if you choose not to write a novel. (I hope - don't quote me on that) The whole point of the exercise is purely to write, and to get yourself into the habit of writing daily.
If you do choose a novel, make sure the plot is strong enough to sustain one. What might seem like a neat idea to start with might turn out to be less of a concept and more of a notion, better suited to a flash fiction or at its longest, a short story. Remember that while books can often be boiled down to a single sentence (Hobbits take Ring to Mordor, boy wizard battles evil wizard, vampire emigrates to the UK and causes hassle for the locals) there's a lot more going on in them. Have you got sub-plots?
Plan
So you've got your idea, and you think it'll be enough to support the weight of a novel. Excellent! Well done. Now you have to break it down into chunks. Why? Well I'm not saying you need to have a wall covered in Post-It notes, or an entire floor of your home dedicated to a plot map, but it might be a good idea to know roughly where the story is going to go before you start. If you don't, then your characters might run away with you, leading you down blind alleys and causing you to waste precious words on diverting but ultimately pointless excursions. Try and work out major plot landmarks ahead of time - then you can feel free to make stuff up as you go along to get the novel from point to point.
Words
50,000 words certainly sounds like a lot, and it works out as a minimum of 1,667 words per day. Writing that much used to be enough to write a complete book, but many novels nowadays are 75,000 words or more. Still, you can't expect writing novices to sit down and crank out 2,500 words a day (unless they want to) and 50,000 words seems far more attainable. Besides, you don't have to limit yourself to 50,000 words by 30 November. The whole point of NaNo is to get you writing - if you want to keep going and not finish your book until January when it will weigh in at a mighty 140,000 words, there's nothing stopping you.
Targets
I would argue that your most important strategy is to make sure you write something every day to keep the momentum going. If you only write 500 words one day, that's fine, but remember you'll need to write 2834 words the following day to stay on track. My suggestion is to aim to write more than 1667 words per day, so if you fall short of that target, you should still make your minimum word count.
Yeah yeah yeah, Icy, but I've got other stuff to be getting on with, I hear you say. Well, not to be facetious, but so did I when I wrote my first novel in 2008. I had to find time where I could. Nowhere does it say you have to write all 1667 words in one sitting. If you wrote 580 words in three bouts, you'd have written 1680 words in one day. Doesn't seem so much when you break it down, does it? If you do 500 words before breakfast, another 500 words at lunch, 500 words before dinner and 500 words before you go to bed, you've done 2000 words. As the meerkat would say, "Simples."
All you need is love
You will need a whole heap of love to get the job done. Love for your plot and your characters, in particular. If you don't love writing them, even the villains (or should I say, especially the villains), and you don't love your story, then it will feel like a chore. If that happens, don't get too despondent - maybe your story and your characters are better suited to a short story, or a novella.
Allow yourself to suckLast but not least, remember that you will not get a finished book out of NaNoWriMo. If you make it to the finish line, or go beyond the 50,000 mark and complete the novel, all you will have is a first draft. It will need a lot of polishing to get it to an acceptable state for an agent. Therefore, you may allow your writing to be utterly awful. No one need ever see this but you. So just get your head down, get writing, and have fun.
October 25, 2010
Photo Prompt 04
Wow, we're up to the fourth photo prompt already!
Photo Prompt 02, Money Pool, inspired 'When You Wish' by Emma Kerry, while Photo Prompt 03, Angel, inspired Jim Bronyaur's 'Raven Angel'.
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! I promise to comment on any story that comes from this photo.
The fourth prompt is Shop Window.
Have fun!
Photo Prompt 02, Money Pool, inspired 'When You Wish' by Emma Kerry, while Photo Prompt 03, Angel, inspired Jim Bronyaur's 'Raven Angel'.
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! I promise to comment on any story that comes from this photo.
The fourth prompt is Shop Window.
Have fun!
October 22, 2010
Friday Flash - The Priest Hole
Pete threw down the EMF meter in disgust. The needle lay at the neutral end of the scale. Six hours of staring at it, and the damn thing refused to move. He hoped he could find the receipt when he got home.
Pete made another circuit of the room. His objects remained where he'd planted them. No footprints disturbed the flour sprinkled across the floorboards. The thermometer wouldn't budge below a consistent 22°C.
He yanked open the door and stomped into the corridor. A trail of flour followed him down the hall.
"Hello? Who's there? Is that a spirit?"
A voice called from the library. Melanie. The supposed psychic who called him in on the job to accompany her. Oh Bettley Hall is definitely haunted, she'd said. I felt a real presence when I went to see Lady Maude, she'd said. I'm sure we'll have success this time, she'd said.
"No, Mel, it's just me," he replied.
"Oh."
Pete pushed open the door to the library. Melanie sat cross-legged on the floor, a ouija board laid out in front of her. She sat at the northern point of a square formed along with her three assistants. The teenagers kept their black hair long and straight, and wore identical black outfits. They turned their sullen gazes towards him.
"Any luck?" he asked.
"Not as yet, although I'm still hopeful," replied Melanie.
"I thought you said you'd felt a presence," said Pete.
"I did. I can't understand it, I thought we would have made contact by now. But there's still time," said Melanie.
"Still time," echoed her assistants.
"It's nearly dawn. We've been here for hours. Surely, if something was going to happen, it would have happened by now?"
"It's your negative energy, that's the problem. You've chased it away."
"Oh really? Maybe I should go into exorcisms then."
Melanie pouted. She leaned in toward the ouija board. Her assistants did the same, and they all laid their fingers on the glass.
"Would you mind leaving the room? I don't want your negative energy blocking the spirit," said Melanie.
Pete rolled his eyes and left the library. He walked back down the corridor to the morning room. Lady Maude claimed most incidents happened there. Disembodied voices, orbs, cold spots, floating body parts - Pete couldn't think of a typical symptom of a haunting she hadn't listed.
He retrieved the EMF meter from the floor under the table. He switched on his digital camera and waved the meter over it. The needle flickered, and dropped back to zero when he turned the camera off.
"So at least you're working," he murmured.
Pete checked his watch. Only an hour until dawn.
"Seriously, is there anybody there?" he called.
Nothing. The EMF meter remained quiet. Pete walked around the room, feeling for cold spots. He switched the camera back on and took a few aimless shots. He couldn't see anything on the viewer but maybe something would show up on his PC.
Who am I kidding? There's nothing here, he thought. I'm just a ghost hunter who can't find any bloody ghosts.
The anticipation of the vigil had turned to boredom some time earlier, and Pete left the morning room again. Instead of turning left to the library, he turned right. The corridor crooked around a corner. Pete ducked under a cracked oak lintel into a narrow passage. Threadbare tapestries covered the panelled walls, and the pitted floorboards creaked beneath his boots.
Pete shivered. He guessed the passage led to the west wing, the original block of the house. Lady Maude told him the first Bettley Hall dated back to the Tudors, and the family harboured priests during Elizabeth I's campaign to uncover Catholics.
Pete shoved his hands into his pockets. Puffs of his breath hung in the cold air. Pete wondered why Lady Maude never installed heating in this part of the castle. She could make a fortune renting it out as holiday accommodation.
The EMF meter crackled into life in his pocket. Pete pulled it out, feeling the cold nip at his fingers. The needle shot up the scale, buzzing around the upper level. Pete's jaw dropped open.
A sharp knock made him jump. It came from the wall to his right. Pete swept the meter along the wall. The meter squealed when it reached a moth-eaten tapestry depicting a pregnant woman kneeling at an altar.
"Is there anybody there?"
"Succurro mihi."
The disembodied voice came from behind the tapestry. Pete held out a trembling hand. He fumbled with the edge of the fabric. Plain wood panelling lay behind the wall hanging.
"Wh-wh-where are you?" called Pete.
"Hic, hac."
An opaque figure passed through the wall into the corridor. It wore the robes of a priest. A large crucifix hung around its neck. It turned its bald head to face Pete. He looked into empty, staring eyes of the apparition, and fainted.
* * *
Fowlis Westerby pulled off his ridiculous Tudor priest disguise. He straightened his hat and moustache. The Cavalier looked down at the pitiable ghost hunter at his feet.
"I do apologise, old boy. You're just so much easier to scare when you're not expecting to see anything."
The ghost strolled down the corridor towards the library. The séance would surely net him scores of Scare Points.
* * *
The theme for this week's flash came from the Write Anything Fiction Friday prompt, "Include this theme in your story… After a long night, a hunter sees something he/she cannot believe." It also marks the second appearance of Fowlis Westerby on my blog – you can read his first appearance here. My beloved spectral Cavalier ghost stars in my very first novel, currently in the redrafting process.
Click here for more information on priest holes!
Pete made another circuit of the room. His objects remained where he'd planted them. No footprints disturbed the flour sprinkled across the floorboards. The thermometer wouldn't budge below a consistent 22°C.
He yanked open the door and stomped into the corridor. A trail of flour followed him down the hall.
"Hello? Who's there? Is that a spirit?"
A voice called from the library. Melanie. The supposed psychic who called him in on the job to accompany her. Oh Bettley Hall is definitely haunted, she'd said. I felt a real presence when I went to see Lady Maude, she'd said. I'm sure we'll have success this time, she'd said.
"No, Mel, it's just me," he replied.
"Oh."
Pete pushed open the door to the library. Melanie sat cross-legged on the floor, a ouija board laid out in front of her. She sat at the northern point of a square formed along with her three assistants. The teenagers kept their black hair long and straight, and wore identical black outfits. They turned their sullen gazes towards him.
"Any luck?" he asked.
"Not as yet, although I'm still hopeful," replied Melanie.
"I thought you said you'd felt a presence," said Pete.
"I did. I can't understand it, I thought we would have made contact by now. But there's still time," said Melanie.
"Still time," echoed her assistants.
"It's nearly dawn. We've been here for hours. Surely, if something was going to happen, it would have happened by now?"
"It's your negative energy, that's the problem. You've chased it away."
"Oh really? Maybe I should go into exorcisms then."
Melanie pouted. She leaned in toward the ouija board. Her assistants did the same, and they all laid their fingers on the glass.
"Would you mind leaving the room? I don't want your negative energy blocking the spirit," said Melanie.
Pete rolled his eyes and left the library. He walked back down the corridor to the morning room. Lady Maude claimed most incidents happened there. Disembodied voices, orbs, cold spots, floating body parts - Pete couldn't think of a typical symptom of a haunting she hadn't listed.
He retrieved the EMF meter from the floor under the table. He switched on his digital camera and waved the meter over it. The needle flickered, and dropped back to zero when he turned the camera off.
"So at least you're working," he murmured.
Pete checked his watch. Only an hour until dawn.
"Seriously, is there anybody there?" he called.
Nothing. The EMF meter remained quiet. Pete walked around the room, feeling for cold spots. He switched the camera back on and took a few aimless shots. He couldn't see anything on the viewer but maybe something would show up on his PC.
Who am I kidding? There's nothing here, he thought. I'm just a ghost hunter who can't find any bloody ghosts.
The anticipation of the vigil had turned to boredom some time earlier, and Pete left the morning room again. Instead of turning left to the library, he turned right. The corridor crooked around a corner. Pete ducked under a cracked oak lintel into a narrow passage. Threadbare tapestries covered the panelled walls, and the pitted floorboards creaked beneath his boots.
Pete shivered. He guessed the passage led to the west wing, the original block of the house. Lady Maude told him the first Bettley Hall dated back to the Tudors, and the family harboured priests during Elizabeth I's campaign to uncover Catholics.
Pete shoved his hands into his pockets. Puffs of his breath hung in the cold air. Pete wondered why Lady Maude never installed heating in this part of the castle. She could make a fortune renting it out as holiday accommodation.
The EMF meter crackled into life in his pocket. Pete pulled it out, feeling the cold nip at his fingers. The needle shot up the scale, buzzing around the upper level. Pete's jaw dropped open.
A sharp knock made him jump. It came from the wall to his right. Pete swept the meter along the wall. The meter squealed when it reached a moth-eaten tapestry depicting a pregnant woman kneeling at an altar.
"Is there anybody there?"
"Succurro mihi."
The disembodied voice came from behind the tapestry. Pete held out a trembling hand. He fumbled with the edge of the fabric. Plain wood panelling lay behind the wall hanging.
"Wh-wh-where are you?" called Pete.
"Hic, hac."
An opaque figure passed through the wall into the corridor. It wore the robes of a priest. A large crucifix hung around its neck. It turned its bald head to face Pete. He looked into empty, staring eyes of the apparition, and fainted.
* * *
Fowlis Westerby pulled off his ridiculous Tudor priest disguise. He straightened his hat and moustache. The Cavalier looked down at the pitiable ghost hunter at his feet.
"I do apologise, old boy. You're just so much easier to scare when you're not expecting to see anything."
The ghost strolled down the corridor towards the library. The séance would surely net him scores of Scare Points.
* * *
The theme for this week's flash came from the Write Anything Fiction Friday prompt, "Include this theme in your story… After a long night, a hunter sees something he/she cannot believe." It also marks the second appearance of Fowlis Westerby on my blog – you can read his first appearance here. My beloved spectral Cavalier ghost stars in my very first novel, currently in the redrafting process.
Click here for more information on priest holes!
October 20, 2010
Goodreads
After some subtle persuasion from Paul Anderson and Carrie Clevenger, I set myself up with an author profile on Goodreads. It seems odd to say that, to call myself an 'author'. I'm not sure why - I have had short fiction published sporadically online since July 2008, I have actually sold copies of my first e-book,
The First Tale
, and I now have a short story included in a bona fide anthology - the Chinese Whisperings Yin Book. If the definition of 'professional' is doing something and getting paid for it, then I must be a professional writer (even if it isn't my main source of income).The very supportive Benjamin Solah was good enough to put The First Tale on Goodreads, and it's very cool to see that people are reading it. I genuinely blush when people send me tweets saying they enjoyed The First Tale - and it takes A LOT to make me blush. Yet it's so nice to know that people actually read what you do - and enjoy it. In a lot of ways, it makes the whole thing worth doing. I can't think of anything more sad than being a writer and never letting anyone read your work. I suppose I can understand the reasoning behind it - after all, if no one ever reads it then no one can ever tell you that you're no good. Besides, if you're writing for your own enjoyment and you're keeping yourself happy then it doesn't mean that you need to show it to anyone else.
Then again, writers tell stories. It's what we do. Whether we're novelists, journalists, copywriters or chroniclers, we're all telling stories. Is a story still a story if it isn't read? It's that age old philosophical question - if a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound? I mean, I tell these stories for two reasons. 1) I write them because I have to (I'd go crazy from the voices in my head if I didn't write down what they said). 2) I write them because I want people to read these stories - I want to entertain people! If someone reads something I've written and can escape from the mundane drudgery of their existence for those few minutes it takes to read a flash, then I consider the whole endeavour worthwhile. If the readers learns something too, then brilliant.
The most momentous stage in setting up my profile was selecting what genres cover my style. 'Short fiction' was an obvious, if generic, term, and I felt compelled to put down 'science fiction & fantasy' as opposed to 'horror' because I feel a lot of my stuff comes under the 'speculative fiction' or 'urban fantasy' bracket, as opposed to 'horror'. I always wanted to be a horror writer, but I realised fairly early on that I was no Clive Barker or Stephen King. Indeed, an email I once received about my short piece Left convinced me of that - the author of said email told me my style reminded him of Neil Gaiman or Ray Bradbury. When I'd recovered my jaw from the floor, I realised that horror clearly wasn't my 'bag' unless it was based on reality. But more importantly, I finally nailed my colours to the mast and put down "historical fiction" as one of my genres. I really enjoy writing things that require research, so you can expect a few more historical pieces over coming weeks.
Of course, one of the many advantages of historical fiction is it covers such a wide range of topics. I can continue to write my tales about bodysnatchers, mental asylums or vengeful knights, but still continue to write steampunk (a genre characterised by its adherence to an historical 'aesthetic') and stories about pirates...
