The Importance of Reviews

Firstly I have to point out that this is not a way for me to make myself seem important. I’m not. I love reading. I don’t always enjoy the same things as everybody else. It frustrates the hell out of me when an author I really enjoy reading suddenly stops releasing books because nobody else has bought them. This post is from my point of view as a reader and lover of books. I don’t pretend to understand the arcane and dark mojo that is the publishing industry. I just love the output.

So what can I do? I review books on my blog and copy them to a couple of places. Most authors if pushed will tell you that any reviews or comments on their work is really important. Publishers take notice of these things. I write my simple little reviews because I want to keep reading books I enjoy and because I wanted to see reviews that made sense to me. Hopefully somebody has found some kind of benefit from reading one of my reviews.

What can you do? If you enjoy reading a book you can head over to Amazon or Goodreads or wherever you like really. Once there give it a star rating that matches your opinion of the book. Then say something about the book. It doesn’t have to be eloquent (mine aren’t). It can just be a simple comment on how much it made you think. Or even just a simple “Awesome book. Can’t wait to read the next one.”

That isn’t much effort and it might actually be the difference between getting to read another book my a favourite author or wondering whatever happened to them. Support your favourite authors. Chances are they don’t make much money and your one minute of time supporting them could make all the difference in the world.

Do it now. Pop on to your favourite online book store and find the book you’ve enjoyed the most in the last month or two. Rate it and say something nice. That’s it. Job done. You are a star.

 

The Prison of the Mind by Tony Lane

I saw this prompt on the Flash Fiction Friday site and I knew exactly what I wanted to write. I’m not sure if it works but I deliberately left the ending open because I thought that fitted in with the spirit of the prompt.

Prompt: Write a story about a convict and his new found freedom, whether from an escape or parole.
Genre: Crime, though you are welcome to mash genres. Who knows when or where the story’s set.
Word Limit: 1,700
Due Date: Wednesday, April 17th at 9:00 p.m. ET
Instructions: Please post the title of your story and a link to it in the comments of this post.
I was trapped and alone.

I wasn’t on my own, but I was alone. Apart from those around me, all of us stuck in the same hell. The area I was in contained ten of us. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was deliberate. I wondered a lot. There was little else that I could do to maintain what was left of my sanity. Ten fingers, ten toes, a base ten monetary system. Ten seems to be as important in modern society as 1.618 is in nature. I’ve had a lot of time to read, and think. The Golden Ration it is called. Sometimes shown as the Greek letter phi, but you don’t care about that. You haven’t had to sit here looking at the same windowless walls for hours on end broken only by a solitary hour outside to break the monotony. Anyway, I’m digressing again. It is hard to keep a train of thought going sometimes. Some people are called naturally beautiful but what that really means is that their bodily proportions are slightly closer to the perfection that is the golden ratio. When I do get to go outside and squint in to the sun I look for the trees. In my mind I measure the spacing of the leaves along the branches. I marvel at the perfection of it. The simple and irrefutable truth of it.

There were beatings. The rules forbade any kind of physical altercations but people are sneaky and more importantly in this instance people are selfish and aggressively nasty when it comes to defending their own self-proclaimed empire. The psychological warfare and verbal barbs hurt. They made me retreat in to myself. Hide in my own little corner. It wasn’t long before I disappeared inside myself. Found a space where I could escape what was going on around me. Nobody could really hurt me when I was there. I felt no pain. I was dead inside. I spent months, or maybe it was years like that. I didn’t track time. I didn’t mark off a tally. I just hoped that it would end. Every day I just wanted it to end.

It was one day no different from any other that my reverie was broken. My one break from my depressing existence ruined by the jangling of keys and the tuneless humming of a guard that I decided that I’d had enough. I had to get out of there. Time was on my side. I had hours and hours every day to sit and brood. To plot and plan. I couldn’t risk a hasty exit. The humiliation I would feel after be forced back amongst the rest of these soulless drones would be unbearable. I’d finally have to admit that I was one of them. Doomed until the meat grinder finally decided to free me.

I had to do this on my own terms.

In my own way.

I had to escape.

I started to plan. I didn’t trust anybody around me and I certainly didn’t feel safe from the intrusion of the establishment. They had rules that allowed them to search any area of their domain in the name of safety. In that respect I had no rights. I was a faceless number forced in to servitude in the name of improving our society. I didn’t believe it then and with the benefit of hindsight I haven’t changed my mind. From the first day I got there I had to fight their constant attempts to break me down and make me like the rest. That always scared me. I have never wanted to be like the others. I only ever wanted to be me. Unfortunately some poor choices when I was younger left me in a situation that I couldn’t walk away from. At least not for a while.

That is what they thought.

My plan started to take shape. I’d quickly established a solid plan for phase one. That was the easy part though. That only covered getting out and far away. It was phase two that was more problematic and ultimately more important. Where would I go? What would I do? How could I make ends meet and escape the clutches of those I’d be working so hard to avoid? It took me months but I finally had a plan.

I knew exactly what I was going to do.

All I had to do was initiate phase one. So I did.

The Surprise Party

This is another piece of Flash Fiction written for Flash Fiction Friday. I don’t like parties. It probably shows. I’ve never tried to write anything from the perspective of a woman so this was hard for me and I’m not sure if I have actually made it sound like a woman and mother.

Prompt: Write a story about planning a surprise party, and let us know the outcome. Make sure you share with us how it turns out not only for the ‘surpris-ee‘, but for the ‘surpris-er’ as well.

Genre: Open

Word Limit: 1,500 words

Deadline: Wednesday, January 23, 2013, 10:00pm CT

****************************************************

Most surprise parties lose their edge because the person the party is being held for knows it is coming. The clever party planner ensures there is some aspect of the party the is unexpected and sure to surprise. The theme for this party was going to be Murder on the Orient Express. It was a lot more literal than one may expect. Why did I do this for my husband’s birthday?

Being a single mother is tough, the whispers and snide looks that follow you. The constant feeling of having to be better than anybody else just to prove that you are not a burden on the system. Most men see this as an invitation for a one night stand. After all we must be “gagging for it”. The prospect of a small boy hanging around seems to scare most away. So when Charlie showed an interest in me and my precious little Marky I was over-the-moon. There was no pressure for sex, eventually I had to make the first move. I assumed it was just shyness and respect and I loved him for it. I probably should have known better but I was in love. Charlie was an orphan with no family and had only just moved down south from Yorkshire. There is something so disarming and trustworthy in the voice of a Yorkshire man. No baggage and no obvious flaws. A keeper was how my friends described him.

The first few months of being with Charlie were probably the best in my life. Then I started to get a nagging feeling that something just wasn’t quite right. At first I thought it was just jealousy that Charlie was spending so much time with Marky, but it wasn’t just that. The way he showed affection towards me never felt as intense as what I could see when he spent time with Marky. That’s when I decided to do a little digging in to Charlie’s background. Charlie didn’t exist. Everything he’d told me was a lie. Everything except for the town he lived in. That’s when I saw his picture in a local paper and my heart broke. I was sickened, repulsed and scared. I made up a story to get Marky to spend a week with my mum so that I could work out what to do. That’s when I found the forum. A place for victims. Each board in the forum had a name. The name of an abuser. A destroyer of innocence. Alongside each name was a picture. Charlie’s picture was there. Except his name wasn’t Charlie. It was Gregory Charles Mainwright III. I was sick right there at my desk. I ran to the bathroom with my bin in hand.

I sat shaking in the shower for an hour before I could bear to get up again. I had to look, to find out more. To see what might have been if I was just a little bit less paranoid. I started with the oldest posts. They mostly consisted of parents saying that their child had been abused by this person. A few went in to the horrible details that their children had been subjected to. My heart broke. I phone mum and arranged for her to look after Marky for a few days whilst I sorted out some issues at home. She picked him up half an hour later and I wondered what I should do. I went back to the forum and started reading the latest posts. One of them was asking if they had any idea where Gregory Charles Mainwright III was now. I didn’t want to openly post so I registered and sent a private message to the author of the post saying that I knew where he was. That was the start of the conversation:

SallyB: I know where Gregory Charles Mainwright III is living.

Margie67: How? Who are you?

SallyB: At the moment I am the a heartbroken mother wondering who my partner really is.

Margie67: OMG!!!! You mean you live with a monster? Do you have any children?

SallyB: I have one boy who I’ve just sent away to his nan’s house for a few days whilst I find out what is going on. I still have trouble believing he is who this forum says he is.

Margie67: Go look at the Harrogate Herald from the 25th April ten years ago. It has a long piece on the crimes and the trial.

I used my Google-fu to find the article in question. It was devastating. I could feel it as a knot in my stomach that was twisting and tightening the more I read.

SallyB: I’m really sorry about what he did to your boy. I’m fairly certain he hasn’t touched my Marky yet, but I don’t know how I can keep him away.

Margie67: There is a way…

SallyB: How?

Margie67: We make sure he can’t hurt anybody ever again. Some of us have discussed this and have an idea.

SallyB: Are you talking about killing him?

Margie67: Do you want to know the answer to that question? If we tell you then you are an accessory before the fact. If on the other hand we just ask you to arrange a meeting between us then you have not broken any laws.

SallyB: You are right. There is only one way I can be sure that he will not hurt marky.

Margie67: So here’s the plan.

That was it. I was committed. Margie and her friends would never come to terms with allowing their children to be abused unless they could take some action themselves. The plan was both simple and yet subtle at the same time. My part in the plan was simple. Charlie had a birthday in a couple of days. He had a passion for steam trains so I booked out a train for a private party. All I had to do was get him there in a pliable state. The Rohypnol and ketamine solution that arrived by special delivery the next day would help me with that. Meanwhile Margie and her friends were decorating the train carriage. I say decorate but what I really mean is that they covered every single surface with a double lining of plastic sheeting.

I delivered Charlie in a seemingly inebriated state to the train. What happened after that I’m not entirely sure because the results of ten years imagining your revenge on a child molester is best left to those that can actually relate. I’m fairly sure of where Charlie is now by the postcard of a land fill site that I received in the mail a couple of weeks later. I told my friends and family that we had a massive argument and that Charlie would not be around anymore. They all said it was a shame because he was such a nice man. I cried.

The Day My Bladder Exploded

I regularly troll Flash Fiction Friday. I often read the stories and sometimes feel inspired to attempt a story of my own. This is one of those attempts.

Prompt:  Give us a peek into the life of someone with a form of OCD and tell us how it plays into an event in their life.

Genre:  Open

Word Limit:  1,500 words.

************************

My bladder didn’t actually rupture. That doesn’t happen no matter how much it feels like it might, at least not unless have a history of alcohol or ketamine abuse. When the pressure in the bladder becomes too much there are only two things that can happen. The first is that you wet yourself and have to live with the stigma of being pointed and laughed at for the rest of your life. I’d been there and it wasn’t somewhere I was particularly willing to revisit. That brings us on to the other possible outcome. The kidney suddenly gets swamped with liquids from the wrong direction and realizing that this is not a good thing shuts down. You probably don’t need me to tell you that this is a very bad thing. The problem for me though is that making a mess out of my clothes is to my mind a worse outcome that a failure of an internal organ. I know it is not normal, I understand that I have issues. I’m still right though, and when you finish reading how I got to this point I am sure you will agree with me.

It all started with a train journey to see an old friend. I don’t like public transport at the best of times but this was a day leading up to the holiday season. This day like so many others there were delays. Except these delays got a lot worse when somebody prised the door open and went for a walk on the track. Walking on the same line as the train we were on might have served him better. Clearing that mess up took hours as we were nowhere near a station and the police had to interview the passengers that saw him force his way off of the train. Stuck on a train for four hours is a challenge to most bladders. The toilet in our carriage was not in use. I and many of my fellow passengers were beyond stressed out by this situation.

As we eventually pulled in to the next station there was of course a mass exodus from the train heading directly towards the toilets. The queue for the cubicles was at least fifty strong but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to maintain proper urinal etiquette with so many many there. What is urinal etiquette? Don’t laugh there is such a thing. For most people it is rooted in the idea that there are spaces of male fear. The ethnography of fear is quite clear. Even the most dominant and aggressive alpha male will feel a twang of anxiety when approaching a urinal. How a man stands, how where he looks, if he acknowledges other men, or even the way he holds his mighty wand of magnificence can have an impact of every other male at or approaching the urinals. Then there is the question of which urinal can be approached. I have spent many a sleepless night going through all the possible permutations that can arise in a place like a motorway service station but for now I’ll just deal with the two basic principles. If you have two urinals then one is effectively a spare and can only be approached as the gentleman at the other one starts his regulation three shakes. If there are three urinals there are two possible scenarios. The standard approach is for the first person to use the urinal at one end. This enables a second person to use the far urinal. If however the first person selfishly uses the middle urinal then he is likely to be bumped in to as he walks away by the next two people waiting. I’m sure you can see how this scales out and can play out around corners and a large number of urinals.

That’s how a normal mind considers these things. I see them in pretty much the same way. The difference being that in times of difficulty such as a large group of people deprived of toiletry facilities for several hours most people are able to suspend their normal behaviour in favour of a more pragmatic approach. That isn’t an option for me as I stood in a barely moving line for the two available cubicles. I stared in horror as I watched person after person fail to wash their hands and then handle the door leading back to the platform. I read somewhere that the average half full bowl of bar nuts contains the urine of thirty five people. That door must have eclipsed that in the first ten minutes I was standing there. After standing there and waiting for what seemed like an eternity I suddenly felt that I could wait no longer. My brother would have just whipped out his todger and let let in to the sink at this point but that would not be very sanitary and I could not bear to even consider that other than as a passing flight of fancy. I was made of sterner stuff and had bladder control of a bronze statue. At some point whilst I was edging forward and gradually feeling more and more unsteady on my feet I felt a strange sensation and a blinding flash of pain behind my eyes.

I woke up four weeks later after a total organ failure, after nine months I am still not eating solid foods yet. My brother asked me if I’d use the urinal if I got in to that situation again. I laughed and shook my head. How could I answer otherwise? It isn’t as if I’d have any choice. Next time I go visiting friends I’ll be taking the car.

Gray and Gold Attorneys at Law

I haven’t been to Flash Fiction Friday for a little while, but I liked the idea of this writing prompt and thought I’d give it a go.

Prompt: Use the painting Gray and Gold as an inspiration and a setting for your story
Word Limit:  1,300 words
Deadline: Wednesday,  September 26th at 9:00 p.m. EST
Instructions: Please post the name of your story and a link to it in the comments.

 

“You’re not to bright son, are you?” Terre couldn’t afford decent legal counsel but lucked out when he got Mr Cleveland Cox Jr from Gray and Gold representing him as part of the pro bono publico commitment he incurred from his internship – It builds character son. Not that Terre had any idea how to tell a good lawyer from bad and all he could really manage to do at that point was stammer uselessly.

“OK, start from the beginning and tell me exactly what happened.” Terre was obviously a terrible liar. His tongue was sticking out as he was trying to work out what to say.

“Anything you tell me cannot be used against you in a court of law. You do understand that?”

Terre seemed to think about it for an age before nodding taking a deep breath before grabbing my pad and pen. He hurriedly scrawls something down before passing it back to a surprised Cox.

NOT TALKING IN ROOM WITH TWO-WAY GLASS.

Cox’s first thought was how incongruous those words were with the stammering village idiot he’d just been talking to. He nodded to his client, stood up slowly and adjusted his suit. As he glanced in to the mirrored glance he could see that Terre was once again completely in character.

It took about half an hour but eventually a couple of grumpy officers moved Terre in to a an interview room with a little more privacy. Cox was already sitting there.

“Hello there high price lawyer man. You’re probably wondering what this is all about right?” The smiling Terre looked more like a playboy than a yokel.

“Well, there do seem to be some inconsistencies between your nature and demeanour.” Cox was desperate to regain control of the situation so he removed a manilla folder of case notes from his briefcase.

“Reading my file won’t tell you anything interesting. I’ve been too careful for that. Why don’t you look at me and listen to my tale.”

Terre told Cox that he’d killed one hundred and one people in the last ten years. The first was in a fit of rage and an accident, but the feeling of power was such that he found himself wanting to feel that way again. It was then that he decided that we was going to kill for ten years and then become the most famous serial killer the world has ever seen. Cox didn’t believe a word of it and told Terre as much. He’d need some proof. Terre told Cox that he’d a little present for him in the stomach of his last victim. A Cox’s Orange Pippin to be precise. Cox was freaked out. This was personal, he’d been hand-picked for a specific reason. He had to get out of the room so he said he’d go and find out what the findings of the autopsy were.

It was with a sickening feeling that Cox read the initial findings and saw the x-ray of an apple inside the victim. There were some really scary aspects to this case but if half of what Terre was saying turned out to be true then this could turn out to be a defining moment in the career of a lawyer. An instant seat at the big-boys table. Was a year or more in the company of such a cold-blooded killer worth it? Of course it was. Everybody is entitled to legal counsel. This was a crossroads with only one logical direction to travel in. The cornfields and stormy clouds as to nothing around the road ahead.

 

Employment Terminated

I haven’t had much time to do anything creative or even read a book so far this year. Luckily for me I had a partially formed Flash Fiction I started writing that I could modify and have a stab as this week’s Flash Fiction Friday. It is a bit short, but I think it works. However I added to it seemed to lessen it, so here it is.

Cue: A computer as a character
Genre: Science Fiction (feel free to mix genres)
Word Limit: 1500
Deadline: Wednesday Jan. 27th 9:00PM EST

Employment Terminated

I always thought time slowed down when you were about to die, it would seem not. My brain didn’t even get to process the bang before I was gone, let alone see the bullet spiralling towards me trailed by the shock waves created as it passes through the air. Of course I am not entirely sure when my life as such ended, and when my consciousness as the second largest public AI in the world was awakened. It was of course supposed to only be a backup plan, but one I am glad I had the foresight to conceive. Where are my manners, I forget that you are not like me and your brains are confined to a simple four dimensional meat space.

> Surveillance == uploaded data

> integrity checks complete

> now −240

> Commencing playback

I was sitting in my office, the best office in the Metropolis to be honest. As head of Lamda Corp the fate of millions of people rested with me, unfortunately that made it a job that many wanted to snatch from me. Today I was using my hands to type into my terminal, not something I usually do. With my implants and personal connectivity it is as easy as thinking, but I had an inkling what was going to happen today so I was taking steps that were straining the very limits of even my bandwidth. For years I had been eking bits and pieces of budgets into a special projects fund.I slowly used this to expand our mainframe facilities into a framework of a full consciousness AI. Little by painful little and without the board’s knowledge I started loading my memories and personality imprint. Two lives sharing one mind is just not possible, so originally it was just a backup plan with a trickle feed to slowly acclimate my thought patterns to their new home. A specialist secure radio adaptor was primed to send the final day of my life to the mainframe and complete the process. I didn’t get to a CEO without realising how violently aggressive people take their promotional prospects so I was prepared.

The door opened and in walked Lars my head of security, in retrospect I should have paid him with my personal funds rather than company money but it is easy to think like this after you’ve been killed. He excused himself and asked for a moment of my time, I motioned him to wait for a second whilst I initiated the emergency fail-safe brain-dump. I finish up and nod for Lars to continue.

“I’m sorry sir but I have been informed by the board that your position here has been terminated with prejudice. It gives me no pleasure to do this but I believe you are aware of the clause in you contractual terms that forces the actions to which I am obliged?” the sorrow on Lars face was touching and I pitied him this moment.

“I don’t blame you Lars, I should have taken precautions against this. Please, go ahead. Make it a clean head shot. The left eye if you can manage it, double tap to make sure.”

I watched him slowly draw his glistening STI Apeiro, his stance sinking, breath slowing. His arms raised in a fluid motion and his finger slowly squeezed. Then darkness. I guess I expected something more, the fact that I am disappointed is interesting given that it is my first emotion as an AI. I must adjust the HR records to give Lars a pay rise for the wonderful job did on preserving my dignity. Especially as he was unaware of my intentions, or that I would now be taking over control of the company in a more permanent fashion.

> Selftest -full

Where was I? It all went dark?

The automated wetware took over as soon as my vitals ceased to function. The compilation, encryption and transfer of my final 240 seconds took a couple of milliseconds and then triggered a complete lock down of all connections to the mainframe. By the time anyone even realised what was happening my personality had been imprinted to the degree that I was irrevocably the mainframe.

> All systems at 100% integration

> update Staff set EmploymentStatus=’0’ where JobTitle like ‘%Director%’

Eggs and Sausage

This story is in response to a cue on the Flash Fiction Friday website. I’m not sure it works how I intended it to so I cut about half of it as it was rambling like a Tom Waits song. Which ties me in nicely to the fact that Tom Waits was mentioned in the post.

Length: 1000 words MAX

Genre: Any

Cue: Write a story using the weather, a town, something to eat, and a song.

Deadline: Wednesday December 21st 9pm EST

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Eggs and Sausage
Tommy shuffles into the greasy spoon the moment the sign turns to open. Last night was cold. Too cold for somebody his age to be spending on the street, but he prefers it to those high and mighty preachers that deign to let you stay in their shelter as long as you listen to their ‘message’.

“Eggs and sausage please.”

“Sorry sir, what was that?”

 

“Eggs and sausage please.”

“Erm, sorry I can’t understand you. Are you OK?”

Tommy nods, not quite remembering what to say or do. Kayleigh turns into the kitchen and looks for help from her boss Bea.

“What’s up Kay, you struggling to add up again?”

“I can’t understand this gentleman, he has a funny accent.”

Tommy starts to feel a little uncomfortable. All he wants to do is get his food and sit in the corner until he can slip out and into the quite of the world.

“Sorry about the help. What can I get you?”

“Eggs and sausage please.”

Bea laughs.

“Coming right up sir. Take a seat and your coffee will be right over. I’ll get your food started.”

The coffee is hot, and Tommy gulps it straight down. The slight burning sensation as it goes down is just what he needed. The free refills also adds a bit of pace to his drinking. This is his only solid meal of the weekend after all. The sausage and eggs are lovely, the free toast the Bea adds to the order are appreciated even more than the fact that she ignores his obvious position in life. Sunday morning is not Tommy’s favourite time of day but he needs to eat occasionally and there are a lot less people around now.

“Bea, why did you laugh when he asked for Sausage and Eggs?”

“Girl, you don’t listen to much music do you, ain’t you heard of Tom Waits?”

“Tom who?”

“Tom Waits. Fantastic jazz pianist and song writer. Also a degenerative drunk. More importantly though he had a song called Eggs and Sausage.”

“Jazz, you mean like lift music?”

Bea just shook her head and walked back into the kitchen area to start on the next orders. All day she couldn’t help humming along to old Tom Waits songs. So much so that on her way home she couldn’t believe that the local jazz club had a Tom Waits tribute band playing that night. The thought of another meal for one followed by catching up on a few soap operas was nowhere near as tempting as going to see some real music and have somebody else cook for her.

As Bea walked into the bar the first thing that hit her was the smoke. It certainly didn’t smell like her usual nicotine fix, or even the funny fags she smoked when she was younger. There was something sickly sweet just beyond her senses. She had to find out more and was soon entranced by the assault on her senses. The combination of the heady smoke and the sensuous voice of the singer soon washed away all her cares and worries.

“If you’d like to follow me ma’am.”

“Yes of course.”

Seated near the front Bea ordered a drink and a nice warming cottage pie to fill her up. The food was obviously nice because there were only scraps left, but Bea had no recollection of eating anything. It must have been the wine was the only thing she could think of. It was about this time that the lights went truly out. The only light was from the strange geometric patterns, at least she thought they were geometric. Bea found it increasingly hard to focus on what the shapes actually were. The room was moving and yet staying the same. It was as if parts of the room were slowly unfolding from somewhere outside of anything she’d even known.

The music played. The endless comfort of that droning voice soothing the aching mind and preparing the way. Something was happening and Bea not only didn’t know what, but didn’t care. This was the best experience of her life and at that point she’d have done just about anything to hear one more song.

That was when the music changed.

The howling started. Not the usual howl that announced the start of Rain Dogs. This wasn’t the noise of a man pretending to be a dog. This was something else. The singing became more like chanting and Bea could just make out the shapes of others at the edge of her vision. Lots of others. Standing there chanting. Waiting for something or somebody.

The tempo was rising as the horn section were rapidly approaching the crescendo.

A tentacle appears from behind the head of the singer and the tempo builds and builds. Another joins it and they stroke his face as he hammers ever faster on the piano.

The music ends.

Suddenly and dramatically from a cacophony into silence. Bea blinks and the tentacles are gone, turning round there is nobody but the barman around. Was there something odd happening just now? Bea can’t quite recall what she was thinking only a moment ago. She’s sure that she’ll be coming back tomorrow though. Somehow she knows it will be a performance to die for.

Road Trippin’

One of the interesting people I follow on Twitter is an excellent gritty writer called Thomas Pluck. He is frequently giving a shout out to Flash Fiction Friday. It is a Ronseal name so I won’t insult you by explaining it. This week’s challenge was a road trip. I started thinking back to some of the fun times I had when I was younger and I kinda adapted one of them by adding killer ducks. Yeah, I know. There is something wrong with me. If you are still here please read it and let me know what you think. Oh and the title was inspired by one of my favourite RHCP tracks.

Road Trippin’

There were no classes on a Wednesday afternoons. Something to do with organized sports and exercise. Not something that was likely to have an effect on us. Mario’s 125 had blown again. This time the single piston had carved out enough metal to ensure that the cylinder could not be bored out for the umpteenth time.

There wasn’t anywhere in our pretentious little town to get second hand bike parts so this meant a trip to Chelmsford and the bike breakers. It is an odd place to go if you are not from the area. Despite the history of being one of the oldest recorded towns in England and having been the country’s capital for a whole nine days, it looks and feels like a new town that is eager to play with the bigger boys.

We parked at the supermarket. It had an odd policy of charging people to use their car park unless you spent money and left within a certain amount of time. That just isn’t very friendly, but I can guess why they do it. What could a group of teenage boys do? We had no choice other than purchase mountains of junk food and go down to the lakes for a chill out and mess around.

Remember those Monster Munch crisps? It turns out that ducks and seagulls both love them. Having a twelve pack of them led to the inevitable crisp hurling competition. Further and further they went. Terry never could stand to lose at anything. I remember him forcing somebody to play Street Fighter on the Nintendo until about five in the morning just so he could win. I’d gone home hours ago and didn’t really care as it was just a bit of a laugh, but we all still chuckle about that. Licking the corn puff crisps to add mass was Terry’s way to ensure he won. By the end of it his hands and face were covered in crisp gunk.

The funniest moment of my entire life was about to happen. All of the birds seemed to realise that Terry was a walking corn snack and they swarmed towards him. It was hilarious. He was jumping about trying to shake ducks and seagulls off of his arms. At this point I was actually on the floor crying with laughter. Like all things in life though, laughter fades. In this case it faded to silence, shocked and appalled silence.

There was something strange about the ducks. Not just their overly aggressive rush to eat crisps, but something else. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, but thinking back on it night after night I’m fairly sure it was their eyes. Ducks do not normally show so much emotion through their eyes, and I’ve never seen any animal show hatred like that. Perhaps that was just how my mind rationalized the events that followed, humanizing the duck to explain how they acted.

I have a phobia of ducks now. More specifically that ducks are watching me. Bizarrely this is called Antidaeophobia, who’d have thought there was a word for it. People laugh when I tell them. I feel shame every day.

The ducks were watching me as they closed in and attacked Terry. At first I thought it was just to see if I had any food, but now I know differently. As they opened their mouths I could see their teeth. I didn’t think ducks had teeth. What about that old saying “rare as duck’s teeth?” It turns out there is a rare carnivorous duck from South America. At least there is rumoured to be one, nobody other than locals has ever seen one. Not and lived anyway. It has been said that something has devoured whole parties of explorers, and naturalists have gone missing leaving only nearby webbed tracks to mark their passing.

The police didn’t believe my story. They took me in to test for illicit drugs, that was how absurd my story seemed. Mario didn’t fare as well as I did. He’d always been the laid back chilled out one, but something snapped in his mind that day. Since then he has mainly been a soup dribbler. I go to see him once a week. I feed him his lunch and clean him up a bit. On the way home I wonder if some part of him knows I’m there, or if his mind just recoils all-the-more for seeing me. The doctor (before that day I’d have called him a quack, but not now) says a familiar person might help break his fugue, but I’m not so sure. Maybe I’ll leave him in peace for now.

It turned out that the trauma I suffered that day was covered by some obscure clause in an insurance policy I had. It was a lot of money, but I’ve spent most of it now. It isn’t easy to assemble a team and transport them to Bolivia. Especially when people think you’re mad and want to be paid in advance.

This is my journal. If this is my last entry then I have not made it back. If you find human bones please compare the bite patterns with those documented in the x-ray attached to the inside cover.

Beware the Ducks…

NaNoWriMo – Why I’m giving it a go this year

It is all Chuck Wendig‘s fault…..

That may be an exaggeration, but it is certainly why I decided to do it now.

Before I go any further I should say that NaNoWriMo is a project to get people to blitz a single draft of a fictional work in the month of November. That works out at about 1667 words a day. At my current typing speed of 35 wpm that means 48mins of pure typing a day. Of course it is not that easy.

When I was seven years old one of my teachers asked me to write a one page story. It turned out to be a twenty three page epic (I was seven). That was the last person in my education that encouraged me to write anything from my imagination. As soon as I started senior school (year seven or age 11 if you prefer) English lessons were designed purely to get you through a GCSE. Spelling? Grammar? Creative writing? All went down the tube. Trying to replicate a Wilfred Owens poem who you have no idea how crap life is cannot possibly count.

So that was it for me and formal English teaching. It had been turned into a soulless comprehension exercise. Say the expected things and pass. It should be no surprise to learn that very few if any of my peers went on to study English or English Lit beyond the age of sixteen.

I was about the age of fifteen when I started carrying a notebook with me everywhere and writing poetry. Some of it was actually pretty good. After a particularly annoying break-up at age twenty I burned all of my notebooks as a way of purging all the negative emotions I’d expressed in the previous angst filled years. Bloody idiot. It didn’t work, and now I wish I still had them.

Since that point and probably before I have wanted to write a work of fiction. Me and half the bloody world. Like nearly everybody else though I got on with my life and convinced myself that I was too busy and couldn’t possibly find time to do it. The age old lie.

This year I have read a few books that contain advice on writing. This is where Mr Wendig comes in. One line in particular on his blog or one of his books stated something along the lines of  “A writer finishes that which they started”. Sounds simple right? It is. Easy? Not a chance. So I am going to dedicate this month to writing one story of at least 50,000 words badly. Badly? I know you just asked that in your head. Another Wendigism (I made that up) is that the first draft should really be called draft zero as it will be utterly crap. This inspired me and got me thinking. I can do that badly. I guess only time will tell me if after several re-writes it will ever be anywhere near the level where an editor or publisher will not add me to the spam filter on submission. At least then I’ll know, and if nothing else it will give me even more appreciation for those clever buggers that write such awesome books.

So there it is. My cards are on the table. I will now feel a total tit if I don’t at least manage the word count. Oh and I have at least a basic plot outline and a few characters sketched out already. That alone is a new experience for me.

 

Matt Forbeck is the Butterfly that caused an earthquake in my reading habits

Up until December last year I had been in a bit of a lull in regards to reading fiction. The war against terror and the view from the soldiers on the ground had been fascinating me. I needed a change though, and I thought I’d look and see if I could see anything by the wonderful Mr Forbeck (can you tell I cam a fan). One Google search later and I was looking at Mr Forbeck’s website. Oooh he has a Twitter account I can stalk, er follow. I’d just started to use Twitter and was following about eight people at this point so I was quite excited to start following an author that had written books I really enjoyed. I then started seeing tweets from J. Robert King who doesn’t say much, but when he does they are gems. I’d also read some of his D&D tie-in novels, and even created a whole adventure based around one of his Ravenloft novels.

It was about this time that I saw both of the esteemed gentlemen above talking about Angry Robot Books. I’d just read Amortals and really enjoyed it. I know it isn’t William Gibson but I really enjoyed it, so when there was competition to get an Advance Reader Copy of Vegas Knights I was slitting by earlobes and making blood sacrifices to the Gods, er I think I’ve been reading Aliette de Bodard too much recently.  I won that competition, read the book and loved it. I now have a ytear subscription to Angry Robot and have bought a few other titles they have released. I should also say that Matt Forbeck was directly responsible for be reading books by Lauren Beukes and Mike Shevdon.

From here things have snowballed and I have listened to recommendations  from authors, publishers, and editors that have led me to new books and people to follow. These have then led me to other people and yet more books. I have recently discovered John Hornor Jacob and Frank Bill who have opened my eyes to yet more good stuff I want to read. I can’t list everyone I follow and have read books by this year, but every single recommendation I’ve had through Twitter and a couple of Blogs I follow has led to an enjoyable read.

It is at this point I have to mention Chuck Wendig. If you don’t follow Mr Wendig or read his Blog you are missing out on some hilarious and useful advice. I should warn you about the profanity you may encounter there, but we are all adults here right? I’ve bought and enjoyed three books and pre-ordered a fourth based on his Tweets and Blog posts.  Oh hang on a sec, I also get Mr Wendig’s fifth book as part of my Angry Robot subscription. If that doesn’t show the power of talking to your audience I don’t know what does.

There is one example that does, and will likely be a case study in many future publications on the power of social networking. Adam Christopher, cue music. I recently met Adam at the British Library and he seems to be pretty much the same person he comes across as on-line. That is a polite, intelligent, and talented young man. If you haven’t heard the story about how he came to pitch and get his first novel published by Angry Robot it is well worth reading. In short he talked to people in the publishing industry and genuinely got on with a lot of people, and eventually got asked to pitch for somebody. I don’t believe it was a sucking up strategy, he seems too nice for that. Of course he still had to deliver and I for one can’t wait to read Empire State, you can pre-order it from Amazon you know.

My favourite book of the year so far is Serial Killers Incorporated by Andy Remic. I love this book. No, I really love this book. It resonates. I would not have read this book if I had not heard so many people reviewing the Kell books and decided to give them a go.

Book reviewers are an excellent source of opinions. The trick is to find ones with similar views to you. There are some wonderful reviewers with amazing writing talent in their own right, but I tend to really only read a few regularly now. The two which have led me to buy multiple books are The Eloquent Page and I will Read Books. I should add one of those Bloggers is my evil twin and the other is a Viking God sent to destroy me if I stop reading.

I also joined the BSFA and BFS this year and have enjoyed their publications and discovered even more good stuff.

All-in-all I have read a lot of really good books and have enough lined up to last me for a year.