Paul J. Fleming's Blog, page 2

The Enchanted Journal

Jackson watched as the old man placed the leather-bound book upon a table at the far end of the cellar. His apparent reverence of the tome held Jackson in thrall as softly-spoken, indiscernible words pervaded the air and shadows cast by the flickering candle flame danced upon the walls.

He’d feared his search for anything of value among the overburdened shelves would be in vain but now felt persistence had worked in his favour.

That book clearly held some importance. It had value.

Jackson waited patiently for the old man to depart before he ventured out to claim his prize.

100 Word #weekendchallenge by @WriteStoryBooks
Enchanted Journal – © 2022 Paul J. Fleming

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New Beginnings

Tommy raced into the room and slammed the door shut, then fell back to rest against it as he tried to catch his breath.
His chest heaved as he felt his heart race within.
One last job. That’s all it was, but they were waiting for him.
He’d raced back to their hideout to warn Emily but the room was empty.
She’d gone and taken all their spoils with her.
The downstairs door crashed open and he heard their boots upon the stairs.
Soon he’d be caught, while she was free to start her new life.
Without him.

100 Word #weekendchallenge by @WriteStoryBooks
New Beginnings – © 2022 Paul J. Fleming

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Secret Crush

“Oh, dear Rupert…” she remarked and let out an admonishing sigh as she laid her hand gently upon his shoulder. “For all your studies and research into the inner workings of man, you remain so naive when it comes to affairs of the heart. Tell me, did you even take notice of the young woman who delivered that book you’re now reading?”
“Miss Davenport? Of course I did,” he replied with an indignant glare toward his sister, “she is the youngest daughter of my most learned colleague and mentor.”
“And quite notably infatuated with you,” she said softly and smiled.

100 Word Quick Read #weekendchallenge by @WriteStoryBooks
Secret Crush – © 2022 Paul J. Fleming

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Another day, another story…

Roughly around ten years ago, I pushed the boat out with great pomp and ceremony to self-publish my first novel, Children of Earth.

Riding high on the adrenaline rush and the emotional wave of actually seeing my name on a book cover, I followed up with a much shorter tale, Hijacked.

Now, there’s no worse critic of a piece of writing than the author of that work but I soon came to believe that both of those ‘tales’ were very lacking in form and structure.

The catalyst of my fear…

I read through Leviathan Wakes by James S.A.Corey.
The plethora of scenes that played out in the mind’s eye with such an oozing sense of atmosphere made my own efforts pale in comparison. In a similar vein, works from the greats such as Clarke, Heinlein, Asimov and Scalzi sported scenes and dialogue which rose up from the page to craft pictures that lingered even after the story finished and the books were closed.

It really, really bothered me.

I picked up my own printed novel and began to read through it. Just to compare.
My worst fears seemed to crawl off each page to engage in some weird, twisted dance of shame in my mind.

Imagine, if you will, the great painter John Constable and his fine works:

The White Horse by John Constable (Photo by Geoffrey Clements/Corbis/VCG via Getty Images)

Now, imagine the same scene but reproduced by a 5-year old let loose with crayons and little supervision:

Source: Pixabay https://pixabay.com/users/marimari1101-4367124/

This is how I viewed my work when compared to that of those fine authors.

In a fit of despair, I unpublished both Children of Earth and Hijacked in early 2018 with a view to save what little reputation I had left. I couldn’t even bear to look at the Amazon stats which showed hundreds of downloads during a free promotional period.

Family & friends all knew about ‘the book’ and that I was ‘an author’.
My desperate attempts to re-draft the work and make it seem simple, yet coherent, all fell away as I fought the inadequacy of my understanding as to how stories actually work.

Who was I kidding? I couldn’t write like those authors.
Their works are masterful and enthralling while mine was, to be polite, a meandering mess.

The realisation dawns…

At this point, I would like to thank Chris Fox, the prolific author of the Void Wraith saga, Magitech Chronicles and a source of wisdom & knowledge for aspiring authors of many levels.

His advice?

I think he explains it best in one of his YouTube channel videos:

Give yourself permission to suck!

The authors I mentioned above didn’t just pop into existence as fully formed writers at the height of their powers. They had to work at their craft to earn the experience which then allowed them to deliver works such as 2001: A Space Odyssey, Starship Troopers, Foundation, The Expanse: Leviathan Wakes, Old Man’s War.

In fact, I doubt their earliest work was as polished as their later, more reputed novels when they’d grown into their voice and stride as a writer. However, their example is one to aspire to.

The outcome of all this…?

Read, write and then read some more.
This is what I’m now focused on doing as part of my ‘rehabilitation’.

It’s why you will see the ‘Quick Reads’ portion of my site continue to grow as I add more 100-Word challenges. These challenges are helping me overcome the reluctance to actually bring something to completion and publish my work for others to see.

I’m also working on Children of Earth and Hijacked ‘behind the scenes’ by going back to their basic roots and doing outlines for each which I can then drop into and target individual chapters.

In conclusion…

I will not deny that confidence in my own writing is still lacking, but I’ve heard the same from such well-known names as Dan Brown and James Patterson. Even Steven King speaks of it when recounting his early years in his book ‘On Writing‘.

The fact that such reputed published names feel the same sense of ‘fraud’ gives some respite to my fears. They all speak of the ’empty page’ or ‘blinking cursor’ and tips to overcome it, which I heartily take on board and will try to adapt into my own working practice going forward.

I’m not claiming my work will be any good, but by trial and error I’m going to continue to practise and learn and (hopefully) improve over time with each piece I finish.

Above all, I’m going to give my work permission to suck!

– Paul J. Fleming 2022

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Pizza

Andrew stared down at the leftovers in the pizza box with a hint of disdain.
Gone was the mouth-watering aroma as he opened the lid, along with the luscious sight of plump, piping-hot slices filled with toppings, coated in cheese and drizzled with sauce.
Now it just seemed like a flat congealed mess.
The cheese was like a rubbery sheet around the toppings, but hunger demanded he tore out two slices to put in the microwave on reheat.
Soon, a delicious smell filled the air and a smile formed as he watched the cheese bubble and melt.
Time to eat.

100 Word Quick Read #weekendchallenge by @WriteStoryBooks
Pizza – © 2022 Paul J. Fleming

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A Fallen Leaf

Mary never cared much for the helicopters which the boys launched high into the air and then watched them spiral down to the floor, yet she would join in the forage under the canopy of the old sycamore tree, eager to find a fallen leaf to join her collection.

Each was safely preserved within her photo album and sported an artistic symmetry that spread out from the stem to each point and fascinated her young mind.

Years later, thin, aged fingers traced those patterns once more and a warm smile broke out upon her time-worn face.
“Old friends,” she whispered.

100 Word #weekendchallenge by @WriteStoryBooks
A Fallen Leaf – © 2022 Paul J. Fleming

Blessing In Disguise

“Where should I begin?”

He lit his pipe and settled neatly within the confines of the well-worn chair set before the crackling fire. For my part, I remained poised to make note of the memories he’d share.

“I could tell of that bullet which laid me low in Afghanistan or the fever that saw my eventual return to England, both of which I now count as blessings in disguise, but that’s not why you’re here.”

He smiled and took another puff of his pipe.

“So I shall tell you about the first time I met my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

100 Word #weekendchallenge by @WriteStoryBooks
Blessing in Disguise – © 2022 Paul J. Fleming

In the days after the events at Reichenback Falls, I thought of Watson at Baker Street in those rooms he shared alongside Holmes, or maybe much later in life if he were to outlive Holmes and then return to the place where it all began…

A little much to compact into a mere 100-word challenge, so I’ll let you decide which you’d prefer as you imagine John Watson in that chair by the fire, recalling the heady days of adventure that once were.

The Fallen Warrior

“A Futile Resistance…”

He scrambled backwards over the rough dirt and debris, the sharp edges cutting into the flesh of his hands as his legs kicked out in a desperate attempt to propel him further, while his feet slipped upon the loose rubble that was strewn all about his position.

Surely he’d gone far enough?

His back impacted on the rough surface of a wall which remained stubbornly upright despite the repeated bombardment of the area and a sharp stab of fear lanced through his chest as he quickly realised his chosen route of retreat was rudely blocked against any further progress.

What the hell had just happened? It was meant to be an easy target.
His chest heaved as he gulped down breath after breath while his mind tried to catch up with the enormity of it.
The team strike team was gone.
His team. His people.

The explosive blast had knocked him clear off his feet only moments before their position was peppered with gunfire. The hail of bullets that tore into the ground with such ferocity churned up a thick cloud of dust that had obscured his view but also gave him the cover he needed to escape.

At that very moment, it seemed like no one else had made it out.
Was he was the only survivor?
His heart seemed to fall away within his chest and he swallowed down the urge to be physically, violently ill at the thought.

The breeze which swept through the ruins had already dissipated most of the cloud to leave only a thin haze above the torn, twisted landscape where piles of freshly gathered debris and bodies littered the ground.
He stared in brazen defiance as he scoured for any sign of movement; any hint of life.
No, he couldn’t be the only one. Surely?

Sporadic gunfire erupted from over to his left.
He shifted position to scour the rubble-strewn wreckage as far as he could see, but could not find the source. The shots were frenzied and rapid, but the howl of defiance which tore through the air gave rise to some hope there were others out there who’d survived.
Now they had to fight for their lives.
The howl turned to screams.
Defiance to terror.
The gunfire stopped.
The ember of hope which had flickered quickly doused as despair took hold and he swallowed hard and pressed his eyes shut, hoping like hell that his comrade had found a swift death.

Of course, scavengers.
He’d seen them on battlefields before as they picked through the bodies to find those who were still alive and then dragged them off toward the enemy lines. They seemed to be an amalgam of metal and living tissue, and highly resistant to gunfire.
Troops would unload full magazines into the things in an attempt to free fallen comrades from their clutches, which only seemed to slow their dogmatic progress in execution of their morbid task.

Stories were told, as they often were in most great conflicts, of inhuman acts metered out on those unfortunate souls taken by the enemy. Tales of mad experiments to test human endurance and of the conversion factories which turned living souls into mindless automatons which swelled the ranks of the invaders rippled through the lower echelons of Earth’s defenders as they waited to be deployed in the field.
Hell, he’d told a few himself.

It was the reason why a consensus was reached that it was more humane to shoot the captive than allow them to suffer a fate in the hands of their enemy.

He tried to push the thought out of his mind as he opened his eyes and glanced down to the rifle clasped tight against his chest, the small gauge built into the side of the firing chamber an indicator of how little use it was to him.
Three shots left, maybe four.

Against the normal militia troops there was a good chance he could take down one or two before using the last bolt on himself, but against those mechanised creatures?
Their hide was too heavily armoured which meant his chances of taking one down with less than a full clip were slim at best.

He lifted his gaze to stare out across the rubble and debris which had slowed his retreat, knowing that his belt filled with reloads was out there somewhere, lost in the mad scramble to retreat.

His head fell back against the surface of the wall as he tried to slow his breathing, taking in hearty gulps of air. In through the nose and out through the mouth.

If he could find cover within the ruins all about him and hide there was a chance he could wait out their search. It was a very slim chance, but enough to relight that sliver of hope deep within his chest.
Yes! He was going to survive!

Somewhere over to his right, he heard the scrabble of metal on stone and his breath caught in his throat. He turned his head, ever so slightly, with his eyes as far to the right as he could manage to try and gain sight of the source.
His hand tightened about the grip of his rifle.

His gaze stretched along the wall he used as support to the far end where its jagged uppermost edge met with the cracked paving slabs, then beyond to the almost mountainous pile of masonry that had gathered where a building had fallen into the street. Dislodged bricks tumbled down the incline but there was no other sign of the thing that caused it, yet he could still hear it moving against the loose rubble as it scrambled and scuttled about.
It sounded fast, agile and close.

His tongue slid across his lips and his breathing reduced to a slow and steady rhythm as he tried to blink away the small beads of sweat that had cascaded from his brow to the corners of his eyes. He had to stay still.
Dirt fell upon his shoulder.
He held his breath.
Something was above him.

Slowly and steadily, he twisted his head around and to one side so that he could look up above to the ruined line of wall that stood above his own place of refuge and felt his heart race within his chest as he watched the two metallic limbs snake about as they came into view. Each of them segmented, which allowed almost organic freedom of movement much like that seen in a tentacle as it writhed to and fro.
On the end of each arm, there was a claw that seemed to flex and snap at the air as the creature moved further into view above him.

An arachnoid. He tried to swallow as softly as he could manage.
They’d found him…

“The Fallen Warrior” © Original Edition 2019 – Revised 2022 by Paul J. Fleming

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The Future

Martin waited for the camera to turn off before he shed the signature smile and cheery demeanour of his online persona. Another live stream completed.
Finally, he was off-line and alone.
The studio within his one-bedroomed flat now seemed more like a prison cell and the solitary window overlooked a park filled with people walking dogs or jogging.
He sighed and turned back to the screen.
More videos to plan, shoot and edit to keep his subscribers fed with content, as it was his main source of income, but he had big ideas for the future.
He would be free.

100 Word #weekendchallenge by @WriteStoryBooks
The Future – © 2022 Paul J. Fleming

A Loud Noise

He unwrapped the bundle to reveal the old, battered bugle which he was forced to play in the village marching band as a boy.
Even the sight of it brought forth a sense of intense dislike.

He could clearly remember puffing his cheeks in time to the music while others around him carried the tune, but all he could manage from the cacophonous instrument was a loud noise, ungainly and unpleasant much like the honk of an irate swan.

He folded the sheet over again. Some things were best left in the past.

100 Word #weekendchallenge by @WriteStoryBooks
A Loud Noise – © 2022 Paul J. Fleming