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Unforgotten – a serial worth remembering

Chapter 6
Written by: Ray Stone

“So who is your wonderful boyfriend?” I asked. I was shaking uncontrollably as shock set in.

Viola shifted her body from one buttock to another with small nervous movements. “Davey,” she answered, her frightened eyes flickering between her coffee cup and her feet. “Honest Dawn, I really didn’t know he was a dealer until yesterday.”

I was confused. The day started really well with high expectations of a great dinner party for two and making love all night with Simon. His trip to Hong Kong was a big success, or so he said on the phone the night before he was due to fly home, and I was excited. He lied though. If Davey found him in an alley with a knife in his back, he must have come home earlier and called me just before he died. Another thing. What was the connection between the two men and the drugs Simon carried back in his sample machine?

“So you two involved me to find the drugs that Simon supposedly stole. He was obviously killed for them so what’s Davey’s problem? The drugs wouldn’t be at my place, as Simon never made it home.”

“There could have been a hiding place like a Deposit box or a left luggage locker somewhere and you could have the key.”

I stood up, a little unsteady on my feet, and I held on tightly to the worn rail fencing next to the container yard. I rubbed blood from one hand carefully; the lacerations stung like mad. I looked at Viola and shook my head. It sounded to me that this Davey was not too bright and damn dangerous. The sooner we got clear of him the better.

“Where is he?” I asked. “One minute he was chasing us and the next he disappears.” I thought for a moment. “Someone opened the doors of the container from the outside although it wasn’t locked, but who would do that?”

Viola sniffed loudly. “It could be the Mason boys. They have a bar at the ‘White Creek Motor Camp.’ They sometimes stay in their own motorhome, the one with ‘Unforgotten’ written across it, and do their business from there. They financed Davey’s buy so they’ll want their money back plus interest.” She stood and looked over at the container yard. “Maybe they were just looking for Davey and heard us after opening the door and waited until we escaped.”

Common sense should have told me to get the hell out and go and call the police, but no, I decided to look for Davey and the Masons. My Simon was dead and I wanted to get a little more information together before reporting his death.

I slipped quickly and as quietly as I could back under the rusty link fencing. It squeaked loudly and my feet crunched on broken glass as I stepped onto the asphalt apron. I stopped abruptly. A pair of feet protruded from under the container door and cigarette smoke curled out above it.

 

Don’t get tense about tense. Let past become present – perhaps!

Tenses | The Story Mint

Tenses







Submitted by Suraya Dewing on Wednesday 8 July 2015

One thing the serials reveal immediately is change in tense. If one chapter is in the past tense and the next in present it stands out and causes the reader to pause to figure out what is going on. It can be quite confusing.

We all have writing challenges. Mine is where to put the commas. Other people try too hard to be clever instead of letting the story tell itself. Others struggle with tense.

Mignon Fogarty, who calls herself the grammar girl, has written quite a useful blog on tenses. One of the points she makes, as do others, is that the use of present tense for fiction is a relatively new thing. The advantage of using past tense is that it allows the writer to manipulate time and events with greater ease. However, present tense seems to have become a modern favourite.

Some of my short stories are written in a combination of past and present tense. The reason for this is that I am signalling a different time-frame but also cueing the reader that these stories are linked to the main narrative but separated by time and situation. Readers are able to move between events that happened recently and those that occurred many years earlier. The use of tense in this way is a very useful tool. The transitions present a challenge but, if they are smooth, readers experience the story as two interwoven narratives showing how, in life, things never happen in isolation.

I use tense consciously. That is, I am aware of how I am using it and why.

I have read a lot about present tense being the preferred way to write as opposed to past writers who relied on past tense. This is not a good reason for using present tense.

There has to be a conscious decision about which tense best tells the story.

This is part of one of our serials, which is in present tense.

They are teetering on the edge of a huge crater. This is the site where the meteor landed and started spreading the infection. Lillith knows the antidote also lies within this smoking indentation in the earth. It is like a suppurating sore and Lillith reels from the odour it emits.

The writer has followed the present tense set by previous writers but goes into past when telling about the past – when the meteor landed.

The challenge to writers who choose to write solely in present tense is that they have to find a way to talk about past events in a way that is smooth and does not jar.

In the sentence, this is the site where the meteor landed….the reader receives background information and past tense is the only way to deliver this so that the context is clear. I suspect that this need to combine earlier events with present events is what causes writers to trip up occasionally.

So let’s take a look at this same sentence in past tense and see how the back ground information works.

They were teetering on the edge of a huge crater. This was the site where the meteor landed and started spreading the infection. Lillith knew the antidote also lay within the smoking indentation in the earth. It was like a suppurating sore and Lillith reeled from the odour it emitted.

Both tenses work. The secret lies in choosing the one that tells the story best and then managing the words that create past or present tense. It will take practice but, once mastered, it becomes second nature to use the right one.

Below is another example of manipulating tenses and how they can throw a writer into using the wrong one.

I am writing this with a chagrined attitude.

‘I am writing this’ is present and ‘chagrined attitude’ is past. To make it read smoothly (and that is always my aim) it should either read:

I am writing this with chagrin (present) or

I wrote this with a chagrined attitude (past).

For those who find tense difficult to manage, the best advice I can give is to observe how words change when they change tense and check to see if they are consistently used in that way.

Make – present

Made – past

I know I make it sound simple, but if we get into past progressive and present progressive you will panic just as I once did. This is what editing is about….observing every word and its behaviour. Whatever tense you are using, it should be consistent.

A Mind Blowing Chapter

Chapter 10
Written by: Sumanda Maritz

“So Eric, how do you feel today?” Dr. Stanovich asked. It’s my final appointment with the doctor before my release from St Joseph’s Psychiatric Facility. Oh, I’ll still be seeing the doc for follow-ups, but today is the day I get to go home.

“Grateful, Doc, you’ve given me back my life.” And that is truly how I feel, both physically and mentally.

“And are you ready to go back outside now that Infection has been cured?” Dr. Stanovich asked with a gleam in his eyes.

“Yes, doctor! To think I experienced a Schizophrenic attack just because ‘extreme isolation and zero contact’ ended. They were such vivid hallucinations that I seriously thought all that was happening to me was real. Believe me, there is no way I’m going off my meds.” I never want to experience those horrors ever again.

“Well, in that case, I will make sure that your release papers get processed as soon as we are done with your physical exam.” Dr. Stanovich’s eyes now held a satisfaction that I believe is because of his success with my recovery. One last physical exam and I’m out of here. “If you’ll just take off your shirt.”

It was over before I could count to fifteen. “Eric, I’m very happy to tell you that the scars you got from scratching yourself will be completely invisible in another week or so. The nanotech we used has worked wonderfully for you.” Dr. Stanovich sounded very happy, just as I was. The faint scars left on my abdomen still distressed me if I looked at them.  Not that I’d tell the doc that, I wanted out more than ever. Even though Lillith only visited me twice during my stay, her happy smiling face has been the one thing that made me want to get better.  I’ve texted her and we are go for a Back-2-Normal coffee and movie date. I can’t wait to get out of here.

 

Case notes:

Subject has successfully been infused with the One. Number 158 has re-established our observation position. The programmed suggestions of multiple population exposure will make the altered infection more effective and efficient. Reintroduction of the subject into the new society will ensure success within weeks. The additional nanotech taken daily will keep the subject unaware of the One’s final transformation. We believe we have finally achieved our ultimate goal.

Dr Stanovich, A.H.

 

Dr. Stanovich opened the telepathic link received from Soldiers Martin. ‘Ultimate, we have an update for you on number 147. We might still have a resistance problem. It seems 147’s abnormal reaction was due to the last nanotech upgrade. At this time we need more data to ascertain if the upgrade was specifically altered.’

Dr. Stanovich thoughtfully stroked his chin while his mind processed this through his various bodies.‘We don’t believe resistance will be a problem. He is the last element we needed. As from today, we are on countdown to final colonization.’

Sumanda Maritz (South Africa)

What a great chapter – want to read how it all came down to this?  http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/infection

COLD

Chapter 10
Written by: Lrennes

It was getting dark now.

 

Sitting in the car as my ‘escort’ drove me to wherever my destination was, I tried to piece together all the strands of the web which had culminated in me being here.

It was hard. Really hard.

The last time I had seen Angel – or the ‘Asphalt Angel’ as she’d come to be known – was at her funeral, at Emily’s funeral. She had earned her moniker due to the tragic means by which she had died; killed in a car crash by one of her best friends.

But now she was alive. And apparently, so was Emily.

Or was she?

Ralph seemed to think he’d found her body. Who to believe?

I couldn’t understand why she was saying that Emily needed to be protected from me. I would never harm her. Was it something to do with the mob?

It couldn’t be. I had only come in to contact with them after the funeral. They had contacted me out of the blue with an offer, an offer which admittedly was… less than legally ideal. It involved running diamond shipments and exchanging them for whatever payment had been promised: Drugs, cash, weapons, I never asked. It was an easy way to finance myself while I investigated the cold case. Though there hadn’t always been a lot of investigation to occupy my time, clues were often few and far between.

But now I wondered if it was no coincidence that they had come to me.

And Tom, he had been involved the whole time? Had he conspired with Angel to fake her death? And Emily’s death? If she was even dead.

It was all too much. A wave of doubt crashed over me.  Not doubt about any particular fact, I was beginning to give up on those, rather, doubt that I possessed the necessary cognitive skills to make sense of it all. It was getting ridiculous.

‘Forget it. I give up. I’m done with it all,’ I thought. It was kind of liberating, in a way.

We rounded a corner. Up ahead were stationary cars, facing us and blocking the road. Angel slowed the car and came to a stop. She got out and walked over to speak to someone. Rain fell on the windshield making it hard to see who was out there. It seemed whoever ‘they’ were had arrived.

I didn’t really care who ‘they’ were anymore.

Angel came back and leaned into the car. She looked sad.

“It’s time to get out of the car,” she said before she closed the door.

Fair enough. I opened the door, and stood, squinting through the rain into the headlights, trying to focus my eyes on who it was confronting us.

I didn’t see the gun go off. I didn’t see the direction it came from, let alone who fired it. But I felt it.

And now I’m on the ground. It hurts, it’s probably easier this way. It’s liberating, in a way.

 

It’s getting darker now.

Want to read the whole serial?

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/cold

The Infection

Chapter 9
Written by: Gabrielle Burt

“Quickly! Drink this.” Lillith pressed the flask to Eric’s slack lips, tilting it until the liquid bubbled slowly into his mouth.  She watched as he swallowed it all.

Martin, materialising from the dark crater, crouched beside them.  He ducked instinctively as the approaching headlights brushed over them.

“It’s all a con!” He rasped with barely concealed fury. “It began in the late 1950’s, with an over-eager theoretical physicist hypothesising to his undergraduate class;

‘What would happen if we could arrange the atoms, one by one, the way we want?’ ”

The assembled scientists hadn’t been able to resist the challenge and now, 70 years later, nanotechnology was a fact.

In the ‘repair-and-go’ approach, a flexible capsule filled with a solution of nanoparticles could find cracks in micro surfaces and repair them. Or invade with devastating consequences!   Simple molecular robots, powered by the body’s own electricity, were being used to build molecular-scale machines capable of reorganising themselves into a variety of shapes to carry out any number of tasks.

But despite all this progress, advances in nanotechnology had been pretty basic until a major breakthrough involving Contributing Hallucinogenic Manipulation (CHM) promised hitherto unimaginable financial reward. And the potential for global havoc.

And a random meteor strike became an alien landing!

Martin pulled a small package from his pocket. His hands shook as he disentangled something, then pocketed the rest.

“Here.” Nestled in his palm were four luminous objects, each about the size and shape of a jellybean. “Push these into his ears and nostrils. Make sure they’re tight.”

Martin offered a silent thanksgiving she hadn’t argued, but instantly bent low over Eric’s now unconscious form and obeyed his instruction.

“What about his mouth?”

From inside his jacket, Martin produced a hospital bag, stamped ‘STERILE’.

“Here. Hold this very still.” He passed her the bag and, reaching in, drew out a shiny, woven film which he began to carefully wrap around Eric’s entire head, neck and hands.

“Stop!  You’re suffocating him.” Lillith sprang at Martin, but he was too quick and knocked her aside.

“The capsules will provide sufficient oxygen to keep his brain alive and keep his lungs artificially ventilated. As it breaks down, the masking will be absorbed through his skin and release a gas that’s lethal to the parasites. They’re viable only in the toxic environment created by oxygen and alcohol. Hurry! We’ve got about five minutes before Stanovich and his men arrive.”

Working together, they hauled Eric towards the crater and lowered him, none too gently, over the side to a small ledge just below the rim. “He won’t be seen here.”

Then, crawling on their bellies, they moved as far away as they could before the Mercedes pulled up beside their battered van.

“Stay down!” he hissed.

Defiantly she rose.

“STANOVICH!”  Her rage crackled.  “You lying bastard!”

“Dead robots don’t talk!” Stanovich’s silhouette taunted as a red dot blinked over Lillith’s control centre.

Anger made her fearless.   “Admit it!…they weren’t alien life forms.”

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/infection

 

Missing Pieces

Chapter 3
Written by: Ray Stone

Stevenson rested his free hand on top of the large envelope to stop his fingers trembling and half smiled as the cop handed his driving licence back. As he placed the licence back in his jacket pocket he felt the bulge of the Saturday night special against his chest and took a deep nervous breath before exhaling slowly. If necessary he would use the gun but knew if he did the plan was finished and ‘the man’ would be after getting his twenty thousand back instead of a key worth considerably more. He froze momentarily as the cop reached in and tapped his shoulder.

“Taillight needs fixing. Get it fixed buddy and drive carefully.”

Stevenson nodded and cuffed rainwater from his face. With a cautious look in the driving mirror he wound up the window and drove slowly away. Six blocks later he pulled into the curb outside ‘Pinkies’ topless bar in the red light district. A plastic cup popped loudly as the van rolled over paper and plastic garbage and stopped. With the envelope wedged tightly beneath his coat Stevenson stepped off the curb and headed for the dilapidated block of apartments opposite. He fingered another piece of picture in his pocket and grinned. Max was in for a surprise.

Apartment 3742 was at the end of a long dirty first floor passage. One out of three overhead bare neons worked or flickered and flashed, illuminating graffiti on the walls and worn linoleum strewn with cigarette butts and the odd beer can. Stevenson looked disapprovingly at the filthy surroundings. The place stunk of the lowlife humanity it housed and he wanted out of it as soon as possible.

His knuckles rapped on the door. He looked with tired eyes at his watch. Time was short. He’d been up all through the previous night. Max had to be in, probably drunk and stone dead to the world. He knocked again. The sound of heavy footsteps and Max’s unmistakable rasping cough reassured him. The door opened and slammed backwards against the wall as Max staggered and fell in a tangled heap at Stevenson’s feet.

Stevenson dragged Max unceremoniously along the passage and into the sitting room. He let the large figure drop to the floor and stood for several moments gasping for air. A half bottle of JB stood on the coffee table next to Max’s arranged pictures. He laid his creased picture in place.

Stevenson poured the whiskey down the sink as Max stirred.

“Remember me, Max?” Stevenson sat on the worn couch and pulled the envelope out.

“What the hell do you want?” said Max, squinting.

Stevenson pointed to the table. “Another picture’s there. Take a look.”

Max’s eyes opened wide. It showed himself standing next to the girl. She wasn’t as he remembered her but he was sure it was Mia; much older. He hauled himself to his feet and slumped into the armchair. Something about her, the jetty and boatshed looked familiar but he couldn’t think straight.

(Suraya) To write or not to write – and how.

A writer’s list | The Story Mint

A writer’s list







Submitted by Suraya Dewing on Friday 19 June 2015

Metro (a popular NZ magazine) editor, Simon Wilson, recently produced an excellent list of tips for writers.

There are some that are stand out must do’s in my view so, while the reader of this blog can go to the list through the hyperlink provided, I would like to choose some that stood out for me and explain why they resonate with me.

The first one is to write all the time. There is nothing like writing at every opportunity to give the skills a polish up. These pieces of writing must be more than just scribbled notes. They need to be pieces of writing you would be happy for even your greatest critic to see. They need to have strong argument based on sound research, make sense, and read smoothly. It can be fiction or non fiction. Both genre train the writer in expressing him or herself clearly with sound reason behind each word. There is no such thing as, ‘this is something I threw together’.

Another point he makes is that writing is all about sub-text. I loved this one because I strongly believe that if you have a story without subtext you have a flat one-dimensional piece. Subtext adds layers to a piece of writing. It gives characters hidden emotions, motives.

Writing is evocative if it has the reader marvelling at the way words are put together, imagining scenes they have never seen and emotionally responding to the situation the writer has invited the reader in to. If a reader finds him or herself walking beside a character, or feeling as if they are part of a scene/situation, then the writer has achieved the best possible outcome.

He tells us that writers need to have a moral code. This point really caught my attention as I had not given it a lot of thought. Then I realised I had taken ‘having a moral code’ for granted. It was an ‘aha’ moment. So obvious, yet one we rarely articulate because it is so self-evident. Our moral code threads its way through everything we write and the reader acknowledges it without really identifying what it is he or she is agreeing with or, for that matter, not agreeing with. It is fine to have a contrary view so long as care for humanity and a generous spirit guides the writer. Ugly thoughts become ugly words and ugly actions. Anti-heroes are part of storytelling and have their part to play but a main character will inevitably reflect a writer’s inner self because that is what sub-text is all about and that is where depth of character comes from.

I strongly believe that in the end a writer’s own philosophy of life will seep through whatever stories the writer tells. That will either win a reader’s heart or turn the reader off.

He also recommends that writers learn some facts. When I was very young and VERY naïve, I believed I could produce good writing without having to take the time to learn things. My imagination would do it all. How wrong I was. Imagination feeds off facts. It needs information in order to create something that readers will understand and to which they can relate. The best writers are also the most widely read. It is also helpful to know that if we are writing something controversial, we can go to a source to back the claim up.

Opinion also has its place. We need to stand for something. Readers need to see that. But if we are expressing opinion, the reader needs to know that that is what it is. However, opinion becomes very powerful if a writer also backs the opinion with facts. This process takes a reader through a new door into a new world where a fresh view is like opening minds and giving the reader a refreshing drink or a less palatable experience, depending on his or her point of view.

I would add to the list just one other point. A writer must control his or her emotions. Being angry about an event or something someone has done is fine but, if emotion burns uncontrolled, it will incinerate the writer and leave the reader bemused. Be very careful about moderating emotions so that the reader can be part of the experience and empathise if need be.

I found Simon Wilson’s list of writing tips compulsive reading. I am sure you will find it compelling reading and you might even have some thoughts of your own to add. I’d love to see them.

Success on the horizon

Irene Kimmel originally shared:



 
Lunch at Oniro’s in Coral Bay with author, +Ray Stoneto discuss website redesign, Twisted Wire on Audio, Crate of Lies launch, and Isia’s Secret with California Times Publishing. Exciting stuff coming up.

Cut Away Pass

Chapter 8

Written by:  Suraya Dewing

An uprooted bush tumbled across the loose metal car park. As it lodged in a corner of the building, it rustled eerily. Nearby, a horse, tied to a rail, stamped on a small patch of grass. Ray’s eyes narrowed. The silence wrapped around him and began squeezing until his breath came in short, anxious gasps.

Ducking behind some rocks, he ran to the door and crouched. He looked around. Despite the horse, there was no sign of its rider. Then, through the tears the wind tugged from his eyes, he saw a small flat-bed truck parked at the end of the yard. Although mud spattered up the side of the door, he could make out the logo of Montana Environmental Training. As relief flooded through him, Ray slumped against the wall. The people who could help him were inside. He knew them well.

The strength returned to his legs as he pushed himself upright and turned the door handle.

Two heads turned his way when he walked in. Ray knew neither of them.

“What the hell,” he barked.

The older one casually stood, slipping his thumbs over his belt, letting knotted fingers hang.

“Well,” he drawled, “what have we here?”

Anger choked Ray. “We have nothing. I don’t know who the hell you are, but I have two seriously injured people along the Pass and I need help.”

The younger man swept his dark hair from his forehead with one hand as he stood. “We will help you,” he said, sending his companion a sharp look. The older man clamped his mouth shut.

Deciding not to push for an explanation for their presence, Ray nodded curtly. “Thank you. There’s some decency in this world after all.” Sarcasm shuffled along every syllable.

The older man chuckled humourlessly and a slight curl of the lip caught the corner of the younger man’s mouth.

“Where are these folks?” the younger man, who introduced himself as Pete, asked.

The older man sent Ray a look that said there would be no introduction from him.

Pete turned to him. “You can drive to the Centre and raise the alarm.” The older man seemed about to argue but a scowl from Pete shut him up.

“I’ve got my horse out the back.” Pete pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. A bolt matching the one under Dalton’s saddle, rattled onto the floor.

Pete put his foot over it. Ray pretended not to notice. Instead, he led the way out of the hut grabbing a long coil of rope and a couple of shining foil, emergency blankets on the way.

The blizzard had eased, leaving behind a bitter chill in the air.

 

The two men rode in silence.

When they got to the crevasse, Ray called down.

“You still there?”

Dalton’s voice echoed back.

Ray picked up the rope. “If you go down, I’ll guide you.”

Pete held up his left hand from which no fingers protruded. “Sorry mate, can’t.”

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/cut-away-pass

 

Serial Starter from Jasmine Groves

The Bridge
Written by: Jasmine Groves









You have already reached limitation of the maximum allowed chapters for the current serial

Maximum number of words per chapter: 500
Minimum number of words per chapter: 450

The wind whipped at her hair, gently lifting it from her collar, it felt gentle and calming like a lover’s caress, the sun that was peeking through the grey clouds let light filter through her closed eyes and made her cheeks warm like a sweetheart’s blush.

So still, standing without movement, arms by sides, feet closely together, face tilted slightly to the sky. Her mind taking in the stillness while contemplating the options. Turmoil and calm all around and inside her at once.

She is completely unaware of her surroundings, but those people whisking past on the way to their busy jobs or loveless homes just see a lady standing on a platform in the middle of a bridge, leaned slightly forward, not looking distressed but perhaps aimless.

Her presence on the bridge doesn’t make sense to the cars whizzing by, she appears to have no reason for being.  But she is quickly forgotten as the stress of everyday life envelopes the cars’ inhabitants’ thoughts.

Standing on the bridge with her grey hooded sweatshirt flapping in the wind she is completely unaware of the thoughts of the people passing. She is caught up in remembering so many cherished thoughts that appear to her almost as a haze and each time she feels she can capture a memory to hold onto it disappears like steam from a jug.

A tear trickles down her face and she lifts a hand and roughly brushes it aside, disturbing her long black silky hair in the process.  She reaches for her wrist and removes a hair tie and quickly twists it around her tresses, pulling her hair harshly back and unveiling stunning icy blue eyes.

It’s the first time she has opened her eyes since standing on the bridge. Her heart jolts in her chest and she feels that almost for a second it might stop on its own accord and make her decision easier.  Too afraid to make any sudden movement she continues to stand soldier straight and flicks her eyes from side to side and up and down.

She hadn’t imagined what a void would be in front of her, the river stretched for miles to either side, almost appearing as two horizons, the city at the river’s curve looked like the hastily skewed blocks of a child playing, stacked one upon the other in unorganized chaos.

The sky was almost engulfing, not a fog but more like an unreachable, grey muddy haze, but it wasn’t cold, the wind was chill but the day wasn’t cold.

***

Under the bridge in the dank and cold, wrapped in filthy blankets a sleeping body is awoken. She raises her weary head and leans out from her hiding place; her chocolate brown eyes can make out a grey lumpy shape in the morning light.

She shuffles in the blanket, she doesn’t care about the figure above, and life has made her weary, unforgiving.

Begrudgingly she rises to her feet heading for the ladder to the bridge.