Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 97

Friday Flash - Regular Guy

My name is Henry Carpenter and I am just a regular guy. I tell myself this for twenty minutes every morning, beginning at 8:02, and I repeat the mantra again at 6:36pm. If I tell myself this, I do not hurt people. If I don't...



An insurance salesman called at 6:34pm. I didn't realise what he was selling until it was too late - normally I don't even answer those calls. I hung up when I saw it was 6:38. I said my mantra all the same, but there was blood on my shoes the next morning, and a claw hammer was missing from my garage. I found it the same day the missing woman reports appeared. It was wrapped in plastic in the trunk of my car. The hammer, not the woman. They never found her. I always feel guilty about that. The remorseful part of myself wishes I could remember, so I could let someone know, and the families would have something to bury. But the remorseful part of me is weak, and I do not remember.



Eight months passed before the next incident. A power cut damaged my alarm clock and I slept beyond 8:02am. The next day, a man went into an underground parking lot, but he didn't come out. That night, I couldn't find my straight razor. I didn't look very hard for it. They never found the man or the razor, and eventually people said he simply ran away with a secret lover. I do not remember what happened but I doubt that is true.



Four months later, I was on a business flight to Europe. The time zones threw my system out of line. I woke up in a strange hotel with a corpse at my side. Bleached blonde hair, blackened green eyes - not my usual type. The remorseful part of me wanted to report it - that was the first time I'd been faced with what I'd done. Instead, I slipped out of the hotel and disappeared into the early morning shadows. I told myself that no one would miss a prostitute. As far as I know, no one did.



These incidents keep happening. I say my mantra for weeks or even months at a time and all is well. But real life has a habit of breaking a pattern. I have moved three times over the last year. I meet people in bars and they ask me why I move around a lot. I tell the men that I am escaping from bad women. They laugh, and welcome me into their circle. I tell the women that I am a restless nomad, always wandering, and searching. They cluck and fuss, and seek to be what they think I need. I am sure I have left behind more than bad memories and broken hearts - I simply don't let myself remember.



I do not know why I am telling you this. None of it really matters because, like you, I am just a regular guy.



I could be anyone you know.

Post Marked: Piper's Reach Blog Tour

I love playing host to other writers here at the Blunt Pencil, and today I'm throwing open the doors to an ambitious antipodean pair, Jodi Cleghorn and Adam Byatt. The duo are aiming to resurrect the art of letter writing through serial fiction, but I'll let them explain the project! "Post Marked: Piper's Reach is an ambitious organic narrative collaborative project between Jodi Cleghorn and Adam Byatt traversing an odd path between old and new forms of communication, differing modalities of storytelling and mixed media, all played out in real and suspended time."



The official blurb reads thus;



In December 1992 Ella-Louise Wilson boarded the Greyhound Coach for Sydney leaving behind the small coastal town of Piper's Reach and her best friend and soulmate, Jude Smith. After twenty years of silence, a letter arrives at Piper's Reach reopening wounds that never really healed. When the past reaches into the future, is it worth risking a second chance?



So what do Jodi and Adam have to say for themselves?



1) How do you resist the urge to fill in backstory by having characters remind each other of things they already know?

(JC) In short we don't! The two decades silence serve as permission for them to remind each other of things... some remembered, some forgotten (like who hurled down Jude's back at the after formal party: Bart or Paul?) They retell their time together as a deconstruction of the past, sharing how they felt and thought about different events, revealing the side of their relationship they kept hidden from each other at the time. On one hand they are prompting, but it is juxtaposed with things never known.



(AB) A letter is perhaps the one form where backstory is integral to understanding the characters, their relationship and their current situation. The events of the past inform the present. As the characters replay significant events from their past, they focus on their perspective of that moment. The reader is able to understand each character's perspective and point of view, what they focused on and why it is important to them, in the past and present.



2) Do you miss dialogue when writing fiction as letters?

(JC) Letters are really a delayed, one-sided conversation, so my inner dialogue addict hasn't gone into withdrawals. I still hear the voices in my head—I hear Ella-Louise talking with her friends Ava and Matt (and their daughter Ellie). The voices thing only happened recently for this project and it's more to do with Ella-Louise trying to sort out her feelings, about what she should say, and do and think about Jude in 2012. Ella-Louise's 'voice' in my head is, more often than not, couched in the one-way communication of the letters, rather than an actual conversation.



(AB) As Jodi said, a letter is a one sided conversation. Dialogue allows for tics, idiosyncrasies and favourite expressions to be developed in the character. A letter is a concentrated version of a character's idiosyncrasies. When writing Jude's letters, I hear how he speaks and translate it to paper. He has a poetic feel to his writing and a letter allows it to speak through his recollections and how he remembers and reimagines the past.



(JC) There are tiny snippets of dialogue inserted - but it's as narration of what is being said around the characters and how it makes the characters feel. It would stand out as appallingly contrived in a normal short story/novel, but I think it's used sparingly and to good effect in both our letters.



3) The rise of e-mail has largely done away with writing letters. Do you agree this is a shame, since families can hardly pass on emails etc. to the next generation?

(AB) I have a foot firmly entrenched in both camps of the digital and the analogue. I love the immediacy of email, facebook and twitter; I can skype with my sister who lives in America. I can have conversations with people in via different web media in real time or over a couple of hours or even days.



(JC) All my old friends and I lament the digital age and the fall from grace of letter writing. While we love being able to see what each other is doing on Facebook, have instant access to photos, status updates and to comment on them... we miss receiving a letter: of making a cuppa, finding somewhere comfy to sit and escaping from life for a bit and of the mindfulness involved in finding paper, pen and the time to sit and write. We do still write though it tends to be a treat for birthdays and the occasional handwritten Christmas missive.



(AB) A letter requires thought, time and preparation. An email is quick and convenient. You can spend time on an email, but its impermanence doesn't endow it with long-term meaning. We have traded connection for convenience; the private for the public. We need to learn, and to teach, how to find the personal space and personal connection again.



4) Who was the last person you wrote to?

(JC) Ironically, Adam. And no, I'm not talking the scribbled post it note on the back of one of Ella-Louise's letters. I was home sick a fortnight ago and was reading an essay on loss in the age of hyperconnectivity, which was followed by an intense discussion about connection/disconnection, quiet spaces. And running on the fuel of a pretty wicked fever, I had this moment of fearing I was dissolving into the page as Ella-Louise. My first and greatest love, letter writing, was being consumed by a fictional character.



So I sat and wrote a letter as me, then stressed for two days about having sent it because I had transgressed out of one intimate space and into another. Which is actually quite daft! I think we need to spend more time in these intimate spaces--with ourselves firstly, and then with others in the intense and private spaces afforded by letters.



(AB) I do not know who I last wrote to. It's quite embarrassing to think I haven't written someone a letter for such a long time. I leave notes for my wife from time to time, but she was probably the last person I actually wrote a letter to. I have recently seen a number of blogs advocating projects focused on letter writing. It's a wonderful example of the immediacy of the digital age allowing a reconnection with the beauty and intimacy of the past.



* * *



Thanks to Jodi and Adam for stopping by.  You can find out more about the project here and meet the authors here. Follow the blog tour schedule at http://postmarkedpipersreach.wordpress.com.

Photo Prompt 80

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 80th prompt is Butterfly.





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!

Friday Flash - Talent Show

Simon Powell sat at the table in the village hall, and motioned for quiet. The dull hubbub of voices in the audience died away, leaving behind a silence so pregnant it almost gave birth on the floor. A young man stumbled forwards onto the stage, forced on by an assistant in the wings. Simon recognised him as Edmund Rock, the butcher's boy.



"Hello there, Ed! What are you going to do for us this evening?" asked Adrina Sayle. She sat beside Simon, draped in fur and smelling of mothballs and violets. Simon thought she was a little overdressed to judge a local talent contest, but Adrina didn't get out much these days.



"I, er, I-" Edmund broke off to dash across the stage and into the wings nearest Simon and Adrina. Faces twisted and handkerchiefs were held to mouths as the sound of retching filled the hall. Simon waved to the assistants backstage. Nervous contestants shuffled among themselves.



A girl pushed her way to the front of the gaggle and strode onto the stage. A hush fell across the gathered villagers as they recognised Melandra. Her bushy hair wafted in the faint breeze from an open window near the stage. She sucked at her crooked teeth and stared at the judges with her mismatched eyes.



"Is that the girl from the beach?" whispered Adrina. Simon nodded. The whole village knew, and avoided, the old beachcomber's hut in Piper's Cove. Parents told their children tales of a mad old witch who would eat their pudgy feet, and even the village drunkards gave the hut a wide berth. Apart from the fishermen, people largely stayed away from the whole stretch of coastline. It wasn't safe.



Melandra cleared her throat. Simon jumped, and fought to regain his composure. Ripples of unease spread throughout the audience. The tension hummed so loudly that Simon wondered if one of the boys backstage was practicing the cello.



"Yes, dear, what were you planning to do for us?" asked Adrina. She pasted a false smile on her face, the lines deepening around her scarlet mouth.



"I wanted to sing for you tonight." Melandra's voice grated on Simon. He saw Adrina suppress a shudder out of the corner of his eye.



"Very well, Melandra. When you're ready."



"This song is for my mother, who cannot be here tonight," said Melandra.



"I'm sure she's here in spirit, dear," simpered Adrina.



"She is closer than you know," replied Melandra. She glanced at the stuffed siren above the village hall doors. Simon caught the eye of the talent show host - also the man who harpooned the siren. Reuben Fens spread his hands wide and shrugged. Outsiders often condemned the villagers for their attacks against the sirens but they didn't know, couldn't know, what it was like to fear that mournful wail every night.



Before anyone else could speak, Melandra pushed her shoulders back and forced herself to stand straight. She opened her mouth and launched into her song. Simon's eyes widened to hear the liquid notes slide through the air, tumbling over one another like flakes in a snowstorm. Gasps and exclamations of amazement quivered among the audience.



Simon tried to lean sideways to speak to Adrina, but couldn't move. He forced his eyes downwards, and saw his hands folded on the desk where he'd left them. He looked to his right. Adrina sat bolt upright, her face frozen in a mask of amazement. He couldn't see the audience, but the only sound in the hall was that of Melandra's silvery song.



A siren song.



Simon's heart hammered in his chest but his hands refused to follow his commands. His body remained rigid, unable to move. All feeling in his tongue had gone, and the warning died in the back of his throat. Panic fluttered its shimmering wings at the edge of his mind.



The windows flew open and a cold wind ripped through the hall, tearing the flames from the oil lamps. Simon stared into the sudden darkness, and saw only the silvery outline of Melandra, painted in moonlight. The doors of the hall burst open, and screeches from the depths of damnation itself filled the air.



Simon wanted to close his eyes and his ears against the wet tearing sounds behind him, but Melandra's sisters brought their retribution to the whole village. It was their sole act of mercy that he didn't feel a thing as they tore him apart.

Burned out and washed up?

Hello all, remember me? Wow, this makes a change, a blog post that's not a photo prompt or a Friday flash!



I know, I know, I've been somewhat lacking when it comes to writing blog posts of late. I've been telling myself it's because I've been too busy. If I haven't been working on stuff for my teacher training course, I've been prepping for teaching sessions. If I'm not doing that, I'm writing Friday flashes, putting in some words on To Kill A Dead Man, planning the next book I'm going to write, or working on my PhD's literature review. Or, if I'm honest, I'm killing things in Azeroth on Warcraft.



It's all perfectly reasonable. I've got a lot on. But it's more than that. It seems that I get plenty of ideas for posts, and they're all entered into an 'Ideas' note I have in the Blog notebook in my Evernote app. And that's about as far as they go. Anyone who follows me on Twitter (@icypop) knows I waffle on about blog posts I think I'll write, or that I want to write...but then they never materialise. I think I have isolated the problem.



My creative drive appears to have shrunk to the size of a walnut. Therefore writing down the idea seems to satisfy that drive, and I no longer have an urge to finish writing the damned thing. Simply recording the idea was enough. It's an absolute wonder that I've even bothered to write this one! I tell myself that it's saving myself from publishing a load of crap on here but...nah.



Trouble is, the problem extends to more than just my (erratic) blog posts. It's also begun to extend to my fiction as well. I've got an Evernote notebook dedicated to Fiction, and I keep all my ideas for stories in separate notes. Right now, I've got thirty notes of ideas I'm yet to use. Sometimes it's because I'll have an idea I want to use, but then I have another idea I use instead, but the problem seems to be that once I've written the outline, I no longer have an urge to write the story itself. It's like my brain is stuck in 'summary mode'.



If I'm honest...it worries me. I see all of these blog posts and tweets about the work people are putting into their writing careers, and I feel like I'm just sitting on my hands watching the world pass me by. All the writers I know seem to be writing in every spare moment they have, while I'm finding excuses not to write.



So, I guess the question is...have I finally burned out?

Photo Prompt 79

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 79th prompt is Feather.





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!

Friday Flash - Nevermore

A piercing caw broke the midnight silence. Maxwell Fischer groaned and pried open his crusted eyelids. Moonlight sneaked through a gap in the curtains and fell across the carpet in silky waves. He threw back the covers and swung his feet to the floor with a thud.



"Not again," he growled. He hauled himself upright and glared at the window.



"Three weeks, you bastard. Three weeks!" He screamed at the avian silhouette beyond the curtains. The bird continued to caw, a plaintive cry that bled melancholy into the nocturnal peace.



Maxwell shuffled across the floor and threw open the curtains. His bloodshot eyes peered into the night outside. The raven sat on the branch opposite the window.



"You. You always wait until I'm just falling asleep, and then CAW!"



The raven fluttered its wings and fixed him with a steely glare. Maxwell scowled at the bird. With one hand, he slid open the catch on the window, and pushed up the sash. With the other hand, he felt around in the corner beside the window. His fingers fastened around a metal tube. He lifted it to the window, and poked it through the gap.



Moonlight glinted along the barrel of the shotgun. The raven stared at Maxwell through the window and let out a final caw. Maxwell grimaced.



"Never more."

Photo Prompt 78

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 78th prompt is Burnt Grass.





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!

Friday Flash - Speak Easy

Dora sat near the back of the room, a trashy romance novel in her hand, and a glass of cheap lemonade on the table. She paused at the end of each page to glance around the cavernous basement bar. The hotel dated back to 1910, but the current decor screamed 1980s time warp. Even the background music seemed to be stuck in a world of TV infomercials and bad karaoke.



Matches my book, really, thought Dora. All sleazy leopard print and bouffant hair.



She studied the image on the cover. The book's heroine, Kitten Chantal, was draped across the hero, Steel Grainger. Dora sighed and returned her attention to chapter fifteen's steamy encounter in the pool house. An elevator muzak rendition of REO Speedwagon's Keep On Lovin' You provided the soundtrack.



The song finished, and a saxophone blared into life. Dora started at the sudden change and looked up, expecting to see someone at the jukebox. She couldn't even see the jukebox through the heavy pall of cigarette smoke that hung in the air. Laughter and raucous jazz filled the room.



Dora stared at the scene before her. Wood panelling replaced the acrylic splendour of the bar, and men in fedoras and women in long gloves filled the room. She looked down at the tall glass of lemonade on the table, now replaced by a martini glass. Dora sniffed the drink, the scent of pineapple and white rum hitting her nostrils.



"Don't sniff it, honey, drink it!" The woman beside her winked.



"What is it?" asked Dora.



"A Mary Pickford. Don't you remember ordering it? Jeez, how many have you had?"



Dora put the glass back on the table – maybe she'd try it later. Nigel didn't approve of alcohol, and she didn't want to upset him. Although he doesn't approve of my choice of books, and I still read those, she thought.



Dora noticed her hands as she held the stem of the glass. The swollen knuckles and liver spots had gone, replaced by the hands of a much younger woman. She let go of the glass and examined the slender fingers. She remembered these fingers, and these hands, but she hadn't seen them in around twenty years.



The double doors at the top of the staircase burst open, and the shrill sound of whistles filled the air. Dora looked up from her new, youthful hands to see a swarm of policemen sweep down the stairs and into the bar. They brandished batons and grabbed at collars as they went. The good time guys and gals scattered, clambering over tables and upturned chairs in their haste to escape the police.



"Come on, honey, seems the party's over," said the woman beside her. She grabbed Dora's arm and yanked her out of her seat.



 The band cut off their song and leapt down from the stage, instruments abandoned as they joined the stampede for the stairs. A man shoved her in the back and she stumbled forward, her elbow hitting a table as she fell.



Dora blinked. She gasped to see the gaudy Miami Vice stylings of the bar, while a bad instrumental cover of Heart of Glass piped into the room from a speaker near the ceiling. She knelt on the floor several feet away from her table, her novel lying open on her seat. She looked around, but saw no sign of the jazz baby who'd pulled her to her feet. The afternoon drinkers ignored Dora completely.



Dora slipped back into her seat, her face flushed with embarrassment. She examined the wrinkles and blue veins of her hands, and sniffed the drink in her glass. Definitely lemonade, she thought.



She looked up to see Nigel making his way toward her. His nylon anorak didn't look at all out of place in the bar, and Dora found herself cringing to see his neatly pressed slacks and carefully combed over hair.



"Afternoon, love. Didn't keep you waiting long, did I?" he asked. He planted a dry kiss on her cheek.



"Not at all. Did you find your medication?"



"I did. I'd left it in my toilet bag. Silly me, eh?" Nigel chuckled, and patted his anorak pocket. Dora forced a smile, and closed her book. Steel Grainger would never forget his blood pressure tablets. Steel Grainger probably didn't even need them.



"But I had a chat with the receptionist on my way down here. You'll never guess what she told me!"



"I really have no idea."



"This place was once the site of a Prohibition speakeasy! Apparently there was a major bust, and the whole hotel was closed until the Fifties. What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."



"I'm just surprised. How fascinating."



"Come along then, love. Martin's waiting in the lobby. He's eager to show his old mum and dad the joys of Chicago."



Nigel smiled. Dora gathered her coat and put her novel back into her handbag. She followed Nigel across the bar. They reached the double doors, and she imagined a horde of policemen piling down the stairs. Nigel held open the door but Dora gazed down into the cavernous bar.



Sadness bloomed in her heart as she found herself mourning a life that she had no idea she'd lived.

Lucky Seven Meme

I was tagged by both Helen Howell and Sonya Clark for a Lucky Seven Excerpt.



The rules are simple:



1. Go to page 77 in your current manuscript

2. Go to line 7

3. Copy down the next seven lines as they are - no cheating

4. Tag 7 other authors (Done on Facebook)



This is from To Kill A Dead Man, the sequel to The Guns of Retribution . I know it looks like a lot but that's literally seven lines in the front I'm using!



"Boss, pardon me for sayin' so, but you're normally so calm and collected. Only this stuff with Miss Marsden has got you all riled up. Forget about what Marvel said we did, or didn't do. Right now, we gotta find McEavy, get Bess back, and hopefully find Miss Marsden." 



He looked me straight in the eye, his blue eyes all serious and earnest. I'd never seen Billy look like that, and he might as well have slapped me. I took a step backward, and shook my head, trying to clear away all the cobwebs. Billy was right. I was getting carried away, and I needed to focus. I was no good to Peggy if I went off half-cocked.





If you liked that, maybe you'll enjoy The Guns of Retribution!