Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 95

Jubilee Yarnbombing

I don't normally post about things in my life outside of writing but I thought, in the spirit of the day, I'd break with tradition and talk about both current events AND one of my hobbies! As some of you know, I'm a keen knitter and I really enjoy putting together new projects. Well everything I've ever done pales into insignificance alongside the recent yarnbombings in Saltburn, North Yorkshire!



Yarnbombing is essentially graffiti composed of knitted or crocheted objects, although it doesn't damage its environment and it's easily removed. In Saltburn, the guerilla knitters first struck with a set of Olympic themed figures along the pier, and now they've done the same for the Diamond Jubilee up by the clifftop lift. Aren't they fantastic?!




 

Jubilee chinaware



 

Royal Couple




 

Queen Victoria




 

I think this might be the Queen Mother but I'm not sure!
[image error]

#FridayFlash - The Fishwives

The fishwives stand in a line along the sea wall, their arms outstretched as if they’d hold back the tide. They wear near-identical clothing, choosing the drab colours of those who dwell in the Underground City. The only difference between them is within the lace motifs of their mud brown shawls, motifs which mirror the intricate cables of their clans.



An excited chatter begins, tearing along the line. Movement is sighted at the bottleneck into the bay - their husbands return. The sea boils and churns, waves parting to spit forth the menfolk. Their grey scales gleam in the fading light; fins and gills put the husbands halfway between fish and men. Webbed hands clutch treasures of the deep, and muscular arms throw the catch of the day to the fishwives.



Some women cram baskets with fish and crabs, others seize precious stones and assorted detritus, the spoils of many shipwrecks beyond the bay. Their hauls depleted, the men turn and dive beyond the waves. They flick powerful tails in goodbye as they return to the depths.



The fishwives load the baskets onto carts, and haul them towards the gaping tunnels at the foot of the cliffs. Bereft of their husbands but laden with bounty, they begin the slow trudge back towards the Underground City. Their goods will soon appear in the markets and junk shops, their pockets lined with copper.




* * *


This story is set in the same universe as my laryngitis-inspired tale, Vault of Lost Voices.[image error]

More free e-books!

A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about FREE e-books, notably the Yin and Yang Book by eMergent Publishing. Well they're at it again, and this time you can pick up the Eighty Nine anthology, which features my own story, Thirty Years In The Bathroom. Based on the song title of the same name by The Wonderstuff, released in 1989, I went for a Hollywood twist on the Dorian Grey story, set against the backdrop of the Batman premiere.



Eighty Nine is free from Amazon US and Amazon UK until 8:59am on Friday (UK time) and 11.59pm on Thursday (US Pacific time).



Some Background

The third literary mix tape EIGHTY NINE, based on a playlist of 26 songs from the year 1989, went on sale in October 2011. Editor Jodi Cleghorn randomly assigned a song per author and asked them to create a story around the song that reimagined the events of 1989 through a speculative fiction lens. The 26 authors from the Nothing But Flowers anthology chose the songs for the playlist. Blake Byrnes, a final year fine arts student, turned an accidental promo photograph into the ‘eighties grunge’ cover, based on the character “Amiga” from Dale Challener Roe’s story Shrödinger’s Cat. Byrnes’ artwork provided the visual template for the character of “Amiga” in Devin Watson’s live action book trailer.



Blurb

1989: a cusp between decades. The year the Berlin Wall came down and Voyager went up. Ted Bundy and Emperor Hirohito died. The birth of the first Bush administration and computer virus. In San Francisco and Newcastle the ground shook, in Chernobyl it melted. Tiananmen Square rocked the world and Tank Man imprinted on the international consciousness. Communism and Thatcherism began their decline, Islamic fundamentalism its rise. It was the year Batman burst onto the big screen, we went back to the future (again), Indiana Jones made it a trifecta at the box office and Michael Damian told us to rock on. Based on a play list of 26 songs released in 1989, Eighty Nine re-imagines the social, political, cultural and personal experiences at the end of the decade which gave the world mullets, crimped hair, neon-coloured clothing, acid-wash denim, keytars, the walkman, Live Aid, the first compact disc and MTV.[image error]

Photo Prompt 87

New prompt available!



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 87th prompt is Ruins (actually Urquhart Castle by Loch Ness!).






All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

#FridayFlash - Eyes That See

The swing band in the corner fought for attention over the
din of chatter in the hall. Women in furs quaffed champagne as their menfolk
told dreary jokes and ignored the exhibits. Gabriel scowled at them – no appreciation
for history at all. He’d assembled the finest pieces ancient Egypt could offer,
and they were more interested in society gossip.




Marie St John sashayed up to him, all shining eyes and pearl
strings. Marie’s mother was one of Gabriel’s greatest supporters, although she
might not invest as much if she found out about his tiny crush on her daughter.




“Gabriel, darling. Splendid show you’ve put on.” She kissed
both of his cheeks, leaving scarlet imprints like plague posies beside his
mouth.




“I’m glad you approve, Miss St John. Your mother had a lot
to do with this. So sorry she couldn’t be here tonight,” replied Gabriel.




“She’ll come along and see it in a few weeks when she’s back
from Paris, I expect.”




Gabriel nodded. Mrs St John’s other daughter lived in
France, and felt obliged to help out now the war was over. Pity she wasn’t in
Paris in 1940 – the Germans wouldn’t have stood a chance.




“So has anything in particular caught your eye?” asked
Gabriel.




“The jewellery is fascinating.” Marie looked across the room
at a large glass case. Women clustered around it, cooing over the ornate
collars and gold bands.




“Very different from what you wear.” Gabriel nodded to the
Lalique brooch on her dress.




“I daresay Mother would wear it!”




Gabriel laughed. Mrs St John was no shrinking violet, and it
was easy to picture the mountain of a woman draped in white linen, and dripping
with Egypt’s finest. Marie smiled and looked away, her eyes roving the crowd.
Feeling his chance slip away, Gabriel laid a hand on Marie’s arm.




“Have you seen this piece?” asked Gabriel. He steered Marie
through the crowd towards a glass case set on a plinth in the middle of the
room. A wooden box lay inside the case. Scenes of Egyptian life were painted on
three sides, with hieroglyphics adorning the lid. One side was blank, except
for a pair of painted eyes.




“What is it?” asked Marie. She wrinkled her nose.




“A coffin.”




“I thought mummies came in things like that,” said Marie. She
pointed across the room to a brightly painted sarcophagus. A young man lounged
against the case containing the sarcophagus, a cigarette in one hand and a
cocktail glass in the other. Gabriel frowned.




“Later ones did from around 1550 BC. Before that, coffins
were rectangular. The mummy lay inside on its side, facing the east, and the
eyes were painted on so it could ‘see’ out,” said Gabriel. He pointed to the
eyes. Marie shuddered.




“That’s awful.”




“Why do you say that? It’s no different from burying a body in
the hope it’ll be resurrected on Judgement Day.”




“Is there a body in there?” Marie stared at the box, her
rosebud mouth turning down at the corners.




“I daresay there is. I don’t believe in opening them up.”




“So you brought me over here for a dead body in a box?”




“I thought you might be interested. It’s not every day you
come this close to an ancient civilisation.”




“Indeed. If you’ll excuse me.”  Marie tossed her head and stalked away,
heading for the throng of young men around the statue of a bare-breasted
goddess.




Gabriel sighed. He thought Marie had the same fascination
for history as her mother. Still, he’d been wrong about women before. Two
ex-wives proved that.




“I despair of humanity sometimes. I’m so sorry you had to
witness that,” said Gabriel, laying one hand on the glass case.




He looked down at the coffin. The eyes on the box blinked.

Photo Prompt 86

New prompt available!



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 86th prompt is Bird in the Library.














All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

#FridayFlash - The Vault of Lost Voices

Grimelda Purkiss waddled down Green Urchin Close. She pulled
her shawl tighter as if to block out the foul smells of the narrow
thoroughfare. She ducked to avoid a damp low-hanging sheet and tutted. Why the
women of the Underground City chose to hang out their washing when they had no
sun by which to dry it was beyond her.




She turned the tight corner at the bottom of the Close and
the object of her errand came into view. A bow window jutted into the alley,
grime caked to each of its tiny panes of glass. A hand painted sign above the
door read 'The Vault of Lost Voices'. Grimelda smiled.




A bell jangled above the door as she stepped inside. The air
smelled cool and clean after the warm squalor of the alleys and closes outside,
and ornate lanterns blazed with blue flames either side of the door. Walnut
shelves ran the length of the back wall, groaning beneath the weight of
assorted bottles and jars.




A black velvet curtain swished to one side, and a tall thin
man appeared behind the counter. A mane of white hair clung to his skull, and a
pair of pince nez perched on the end of his beak-like nose. He held out a bony
hand.




"Farridon Upworth, at your service. How may I be of
assistance to you today?"




Grimelda fished around in her bag and withdrew a slate. She
found half a stick of chalk in her pocket, and wrote "I require a
voice" on the slate. Farridon nodded, his expression suitably grave and
serious.




"I understand, madam. Here at the Vault of Lost Voices
we pride ourselves on providing the very best vocal capabilities to our
customers."




Grimelda raised one eyebrow and wiped her slate clean. She
scribbled a new message and held it up for Farridon to read. He frowned.




"Well yes, it is true, we sell voices that have been
lost but never claimed, but I assure you, we shall find the right voice for
you. Now if you'd like to come closer?"




Farridon gestured to a spot beside the counter. Grimelda stepped
forward and gazed at the bottles and jars on display. She could see more
shelves stretching away into the darkness beyond the curtain. It seemed many of
the City's inhabitants were accustomed to losing their voices.




"Now then. What kind of voice were you looking
for?" asked Farridon.




Grimelda wrote on the slate. 'Stately. With gravitas'.
Farridon read the message and looked Grimelda up and down. She narrowed her reptilian
eyes, convinced she saw mirth in his expression. He turned away and his
shoulders hitched as he scanned the bottles on the shelves. She glowered at his
back, though sadly he wasn’t the first she’d encountered who couldn’t look
beyond her appearance.




"How about this one?" Farridon turned back to her,
forcing away the remnants of his grin.




Grimelda took the bottle from him. The voice flickered
behind thick red glass. She looked up at Farridon, and he motioned for her to
open the bottle. The voice fluttered free when as she removed the cork,
settling on her throat.




"What do you think?" asked Farridon.




"I'm not entirely sure this is what I wanted,"
replied Grimelda, her voice deep and rich. She screwed up her nose – she
sounded like Senator Williams.




"It is indeed a stately voice, madam."




"Yes but I'm a woman. This voice is not a woman's
voice."




Farridon took back the bottle and flicked the fluttering
voice free of Grimelda's throat. He captured it in the bottle and replaced the
cork. He returned the bottle to its place on the shelf, and handed Grimelda a
tall blue bottle. She pulled out the cork and another voice appeared. It flew
in lazy circles above the counter until Farridon forced it in Grimelda’s
direction.




“And this one? This is a high quality voice, madam.”




“I don’t think it suits me.” The voice was high alright –
too high. Grimelda envisioned one of the shrivelled City Mages, taking a week
to make a single pronouncement.




“Very well. Does anything in particular catch your eye?”
Farridon removed the voice and put the bottle under the counter. He gestured to
the shelves behind him, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.




Grimelda pointed to a curvaceous silver bottle up near the
ceiling. The voice inside sparkled in the lantern light. Farridon raised an
eyebrow and pointed to the bottle.




“You want to try that one? Really?”




Grimelda nodded. Farridon let out an exasperated sigh and
climbed a small ladder to reach the bottle. Grimelda scowled as he tossed it
down to her. The glass was smooth and cold to the touch, and the voice made a
beeline for her throat when she pulled out the cork.




“Is this voice to madam’s liking?”




“Oh it’s perfect.” The silvery voice of an elf filled the
room. Grimelda smiled – it sounded like sunlight on running water, the first
snowfall of winter, and a nightingale’s lament rolled into one.




“You wanted stately. With gravitas.” Farridon pouted.




“I’m entitled to change my mind, Mr Upworth. How much will
this one be?” Grimelda returned her slate to her bag, and rummaged in its
depths for her purse.




“That one is sixteen shillings. You may keep the bottle,
too.” Farridon held out an expectant palm.




“A bargain, Mr Upworth.” Grimelda dropped the coins into his
hand. She prised free the voice, careful not to damage its gossamer wings, and
swallowed it. She giggled, feeling it tickle as it took root.




She crossed the shop and pulled open the door. The alley
outside no longer seemed oppressive or noisy. Life itself looked different to
Grimelda. She was different. She wasn’t the timid half-troll any more.




Now she was the half-troll with an Elfin voice.

Free Kindle Books!

Got a bit of a lovely post today since I'm able to tell you about two anthologies that are available for FREE on the Kindle, both today and tomorrow. The Red Book and The Yin and Yang Book are part of eMergent Publishing's Chinese Whisperings project, and you'll be able to pick them up for the princely sum of nothing. My story, The Strangest Comfort, appears in the latter.



But what makes the Chinese Whisperings anthologies unique? I'll let editor Jodi Cleghorn explain...



"Each anthology is a collection of interwoven short stories by emerging writers handpicked from across the English-speaking world. Unlike other anthologies, Chinese Whisperings is created in a sequential fashion and each story stands on its own merits while contributing to a larger, connected narrative.



The Red Book, the first of the anthologies has each successive writer taking a minor character from the preceding story and telling their story as the major character in the next story. Each writer also references events from the preceding story to tie the ten stories together. The anthology can be re forward, or backward, or begun in any place because of its circular nature.



The Yin and Yang Book takes the concept a step further, with the anthology played across parallel airport universes stemming from a decision to retrieve a stolen painting or to leave without it. It's a sliding doors/spider web hybrid. Readers will see common characters slipping across the two universes, some of them behaving in slightly different ways. The parallel universes are anchored between a common prologue and epilogue."

 

You can pick up The Red Book here, and The Yin and Yang Book here!

Photo Prompt 85

New prompt available!



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 85th prompt is Trafalgar Square.












All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

#FridayFlash - The War

I dreamed of the bombers again last night. Their steady drone filled the air, and orange flames tore open the skies. I woke up with my hands clamped against my ears, fighting to block out the banshee wail of the sirens. I thought I smelled the damp earth of the shelter, and I expected to see my mother bent over me. But my eyes adjusted to the gloom and made out the pink floral wallpaper and old wooden dressing table.



I lay in the darkness, waiting for my breathing to slow. Sirens still screamed in the street, like the perverse nocturnal mating call of the police. Fire tore open the world, but these flames came from the hands of youths, and the glass bottles they wielded.



I switched on the radio, hoping to block out the sounds of violence. Baton on bone, fist on flesh. I burrowed into the strains of Chopin, leaving behind the cacophony of war. Not my war, not back in the good old days when the baddies hid in castles on the continent and we fought over decency and common sense. No, this war is alien to me, fought between citizens on the same side. Or what used to be the same side.



I sniff back a tear. I never thought I would be nostalgic for that old Anderson shelter at the bottom of the garden. I loved the old boy, until he left for France and never came back, but in a way, I'm glad my dad isn't here.



It would kill him all over again to see what's become of the country he died to protect.