This Is My Dictionary

dictionary_bee

That quote is an honest-to-God quote from an actual self-published book that I actually read.  And yes, it did cost me no pounds and no pence but that is no excuse.

As indie authors, we must consider the impact of our atrocious spelling on our Dear Readers.  To illustrate: in this particular case, I was reading the offending book (and yes, it did offend, mightily) on my flight from Atlanta to Amsterdam.  It was a full flight, everyone packed in arse-to-elbow in seats designed for people with the dimensions of your average pipe cleaner.  I couldn’t sleep, what with two hundred people breathing in my close vicinity, so naturally I started reading.  The plane was quiet, people dozing off to the somnolent drone of the engines.  And then I read that sentence.  Like a reflex hammer on my reading knee, I exploded in a Tourette’s-like outburst and shouted ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’  I woke up my seat-mates and every sleeping passenger for six rows back.  From then on, as if I’d created some monstrous psychic link with everyone I’d pissed off, whenever I got up to pee or stretch my legs, forty pairs of eyes would snap open and stare balefully at me until I was out of sight.  The trolley dollies smirked at me and ‘forgot’ to give me a hot towelette.  Every time I dozed off, my seat-mates would ‘accidentally’ elbow me.  I was last off the plane because nobody gave way so I could gymnast myself into the minuscule aisle.

It’s a bloody miracle the pilot didn’t come out of his pilot-office or wherever the hell they live and throw me off the plane in mid-air I’m telling you.  All because some fuckwit couldn’t spell ‘guerilla’.

It is time, my wordsmithing friends, for a Writers’ Creed, to go with the Sacred Oath of the Indie Author.

The Writers’ Creed

This is my dictionary.  There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My dictionary is my best friend.  It is my life.  I must master it as I must master my writing.

My dictionary, without me, is still a dictionary.  Without my dictionary, I am useless.  I must consult my dictionary true.  I must wordsmith greater than my indie rivals, who are trying to beat me in the Amazon charts. I must write my book before he writes his.  I will.

My dictionary and I know that what counts in writing is not the number of words we write, the length of our books, nor the covers we design.  We know that it is the spelling that counts.  We will spell.

My dictionary is a book, even as I am a writer.  Thus, I will learn it as a writer.  I will learn its pages, its words, its definitions, its lexicon, its meanings and its spellings.  I will keep it prepared and ready, even as I am prepared and ready.  We will become part of each other.  We will.

Before the Word Processor, I swear this creed.  My dictionary and I are the defenders of my writing.  We are the masters of our story.  We are the saviours of my writing.

So be it, until victory is my published work and there is no writing, but writing!

The Angry Apostrophe and the Bee Who Couldn’t Spell

 

angry_apostrophe


Once upon a time, an apostrophe sat beneath a Bo tree and contemplated the origin of suffering within its curly tail.

A Bee bumbled upon the apostrophe.  ‘Why are you crying?’

The apostrophe looked up.  ‘Because I am abandoned and alone.’

‘Well,’ said the Bee, and settled on the ground beside the apostrophe.  ‘Your not alone anymore.’

The apostrophe stared at the Bee for a long moment – and then crushed the Bee with its curly tail.

‘IT’S YOU’RE, YOU ASSHOLE!’


I’m with the psychotic apostrophe on this one.  Never, in the history of the written word, has a punctuation mark been so maligned, misunderstood, abused and abjured.  No wonder it’s gone a bit dot-dot-curly-wurly-cuckoo.  Let’s take that asshole and do a short edumercaytional lesson:

your = that asshole belongs to you, you own it, it is yours, congratulations!

you’re = when you behave like an asshole, you are – you’re – an asshole, congratulations!

Rules on the use of apostrophes are actually very simple.  Perhaps they’re (ooh, an apostrophe!) too simple, who knows?

  1. To indicate the possessive
    • This is the apostrophe’s story.  It is a gruesome tale, whereby the apostrophe’s tail dismembers a stupid Bee.
    • Personal pronouns (my, his, hers, theirs, yours, ours etc) don’t need an apostrophe because they’re already possessive, like Gollum, my precious.
  2. To indicate missing letters (commonly known as contractions)
    • It’s bloody annoying when people don’t use apostrophes correctly.
  3. Sometimes to indicate the structure of unusual words
    • I bcc’d my BFF to tell her to mind her p’s and q’s when it comes to apostrophes, otherwise the Red Pen Serial Killer will be paying her a midnight visit.

And that’s it.  It’s also worth bearing in mind that apostrophes really hate it when they’re used to incorrectly indicate a plural, so let’s recap on the fruits of our apostrophic labours:

fruit_apostrophes

Writing stories is a little bit like being in labour.  Let’s make sure that we pay attention to our contractions so we don’t give birth to any self-published carnival monster’s.  <–I did that on purpose.

p.s. I haven’t forgotten the Bee Who Couldn’t Spell – that bumbling idiot will be centre stage in the next post…

The Sacred Oath of the Indie Author

pinky_swear

We do this thing because we love it.  Because we can’t not do it.  Because there’s a burning hole in our soul where our story resides and the only way we can put that fire out is to get it down onto the page.  Like hacking up a thorny, fiery, fur-ball.

And for some of us, that’s where the story ends.  For others, there’s more hacking and fiery fur-balls, and we examine the smoking pile we’ve barfed up onto the computer screen, and we decide: “Yeah, I want to share that with other people.  I don’t care if it looks like a pile of Friday-night vomit.  I’m publishing!  Go me!”

A few years ago, we’d have to find an agent, get a publisher, suffer through edits and meetings and, um, advances – actual money in the bank because a publisher has deemed our fiery fur-ball worthy of print.  In those days, self-publishing was a bit of a dirty word, and expensive.  We’d have to shell out our own money to get our work out there.  And then along came Amazon, and the world exploded.  Like, it literally exploded: earthquakes and tsunamis and meteors, oh my.

And like any explosion, there’s an aftermath.  You only have to read some of the self-pub stuff out there to see the debris: broken editing; collapsed storylines; the bloated bodies of dead character development.  All for 99p!

But there are some absolute gems out there, in the self-pub universe.  Hugh Howey is often lionised – he’s like, the Stephen King of self-pub, an icon to which to aspire and all that.  I’m pretty sure Hugh Howey didn’t barf up his fiery fur-ball on the first go and just press ‘send’.  No.  He probably let the smoke die down a bit first, poked through the ruins, chewed over the remains and then hurled up another, bigger, better fur-ball before he shared it with the world.

That’s where the discipline of the indie author comes into play.  It’s so tempting to write our tens of thousands of words; feel fantastic at the achievement; and then publish.  The discipline is in letting the fires of our fiery fur-ball die down first.  Put it in a drawer for a couple of months (start another story while we’re waiting).  Come back to it with a fresh eye, and take up the Red Pen.

This is where our writing becomes our craft.  And our Dear Readers deserve that.  Our stories deserve that.  As indie authors, we don’t have the luxury of a publisher or an agent helping us to craft the best story we can.  It’s up to us.  And that’s why indie authors should have a sacred oath, and it’s a simple and profound one:

Don’t be crap.

Writing in the 3rd Dimension

prof_red_pen

What makes a good story?  No matter our story’s archetype, our characters are king.  Or queen.  Or Optimus Prime.

There are only so many story archetypes in the world.  Take the star-crossed lovers.  The story of Hero and Leander is perhaps one of the earliest examples of this one.  Hero was a priestess of Aphrodite who lived in a tower.  Leander would cross the Hellespont River every night to be with her, guided by Hero’s lamp. This story archetype surfaces in the tales of Lancelot and Guinevere, Romeo & Juliet, Cathy and Heathcliff.

What makes these stories different isn’t the settings or time periods (Ancient Greece, Dark Ages England, Medieval Florence, Nineteenth Century windswept moors) but the characters.  Leander was a smooth-talking son of a gun who seduced the virginal Hero into rumpy-pumpy, only to drown on a stormy night when Hero’s lamp blew out and he lost his way.  Lancelot is driven by duty and love for God until he meets Guinevere and risks everything, then leaves on a lonely quest when he realises he can’t have her.  Juliet, a quiet and obedient girl, becomes a powerhouse of strength and rebellion when she decides Romeo’s the guy for her.  He thinks she dies, so he kills himself.  She follows swiftly after.  The template for thousands of dreamy-teen stories the world over. Heathcliff is a cruel and twisted bastard who taps into Cathy’s wild and tempestuous nature and her yearning to be free of society’s constraints upon her. A co-dependent abusive relationship that paved the way for Fifty Shades of Grey and if Emily Bronte wasn’t dead I’d do her in myself for that one.

The similarity in these characters, though, is that they are all flawed.  There’s no black-and-white here.  And that’s what we want – what we need – for our stories: well-rounded and flawed characters who develop and grow as the story progresses.

Think of it like this: if someone asked us what we did at the weekend, the conversation might go something like this:

“Well, I was in Nando’s on Friday night and this swoon-worthy guy was at the table next to us, and this time I was determined not to be a wallflower.”

“Ha!  About time!  What happened?”

“I kinda-sorta nonchalantly leaned over, and I was so mesmerised I forgot I was holding a chicken wing and I dropped it into his lap.”

“O-kaaay.  And how did that work out?”

“He called me a stupid tart and got up and left.”

“That is so rude!”

“I know, right?  He didn’t give me the chicken wing back!” *

*This is not a true story that did not happen to me.

The real story here isn’t that it took place in Nando’s.  It’s that our narrator is obviously a nerd-worthy social illiterate.

So how do we conjure a three-dimensional wonder from our imagination?  First, we have to know who our characters are.  So we might develop a character profile for them.  Then, when we’ve worked out our character’s development, we use our story elements – plot, scene, setting, dialogue, interaction with other characters – to show our character’s journey.

We’ve got some options when it comes to character profiling.  Here’s the profile template I use (in Scrivener), with a draft for a major character in my Work In Progress:

Character Name Felicity ‘Flick’ Dunbar
Role in Story Major Character POV
Age/DOB 32
Hair Colour Brown; shoulder-length; fine and straight
Eye Colour Light Blue – stonewashed denim
Skin Colour White
Height 5’6″
Weight/Body Type 140lbs; curvy, prone to weight gain
Physical Description Soft features; averagely attractive, with a full mouth and button nose – as a young woman she was ‘cute’; as a mature woman she’s aged well into her features
Personality Quiet, generous, helpful, strives for a normal life, kind, resilient
Personal Quirks Doesn’t like swearing
Moral Code Her kids come first in everything. She hates judgemental people (having been judged herself); always gives people the benefit of the doubt – which bites her in the arse with regard to Daley later on
Flaws Lack of confidence in her intelligence, capabilities and judgement
Key Traits She’s braver than she realises; has enormous courage; selfless
Secrets Her father abused her when her mother died.
Fears That her children will leave her behind, intellectually and emotionally; no idea what she will do when they leave home; that people stereotype her as a ‘single mum’
Possessions/ Status Working class, low-income, few possessions – old Ford Fiesta on its last legs
Occupation Cleaner
Origin and Childhood Mother died of cancer when she was 5yrs old; father violent, uncommunicative, judgemental. He abused her from age 9-15, when she became pregnant by a boy at school. She knows it was the boy, because her father always used condoms. She was not promiscuous – she had sex with the boy because she knew if she became pregnant her father would leave her alone. She thinks the abuse by her father is a secret, that her brother never knew. But he did. They have never talked about it.

She became pregnant again at 17, when she had sex with a casual labourer in the village, a black guy – this was her first romantic love. When she had the baby, a mixed race child, her father threw her and the children out of the house; he refused to have ‘a picaninny’ in the family.

She took the children and moved to a hostel for women and then into a council house at Bridgehaven, where she has been ever since.

Character Progression At the beginning of the story, she lacks confidence in her own abilities and decision-making; she knows she’s not smart (see Fears) and she generally defers to her children when it comes to decisions. The threat to her family, though, transforms her – and she finds a hidden ruthlessness, her protectiveness of the kids transforms into a lioness-like refusal to go down. She becomes strong, internally and externally; her meekness gives way to decisiveness; she discovers that she may not be book-smart, but she is intelligent and resourceful.
3 Critical Moments

1st external; 2x internal

  1. The home invasion – where she hides the kids and distracts the rapists from looking for Ally; she realises the extent she will go to to protect the kids
  2. Standing up to her father – when he refuses to take them in because of Ally; she purges her past
  3. Deciding to exile Andy from the group – when he attempts to rape Grace; she realises that she has become the leader of the group (something everyone else has already figured out)
Hobbies, Interests None: she devotes all her time, money and energy in providing for the kids
Family & Friends Two children: Rob (16) and Ally (14); never married; both from different fathers; Brother Ben Holloway

A character profile is a living thing and I might need to make some changes to Flick’s profile as the story develops.  Character Progression and Critical Moments – these are the cornerstones of the profile that will help me drive my character forward in the story.  We can use the character profile to make sure that, when we edit, we don’t have any continuity issues that make our Dear Readers tear their hair out – or throw their eReaders across the room.

Once we start writing, though, our characters will argue with us and be determined to do the opposite of what we intend for them, because they’re pesky like that.  And if they do start getting pernickety, that’s a good thing – it means they’re coming alive, jumping off the page and slapping us around the head saying ‘No!  I will not do it, Creator!’ (or, if they’re anything like some of my characters, punch you in the face with a succinct ‘Fuck you!’ before slinking back to the page in a sulk).

Craft Corner

Useful resources, book-wise, to help develop strong characters:

  • The Writer’s Journey by Christopher Volger
  • The Writer’s Guide to Character Traits by Linda N Edelstein
  • Characters & Viewpoint by Orson Scott Card
  • The Emotion Thesaurus and The Negative Trait Thesaurus, both by Ackerman and Puglisi

Places on the web to find free character profile templates:

Happy character-building, scribes!

The awesome picture in this post is by http://yangtianli.deviantart.com/art/the-evil-professor-163692217

He Said She Said Say What?

hesaid_shesaid

Talk.  Most of us do it all day, every day, and sometimes in our sleep.  But when it comes to our writing, talking transmogrifies into something terrifying called “dialogue” and we run away screaming, and hide behind the sofa, and mumble that we can’t go on, that it’s too fucking hard, all because “dialogue”.

Come out from behind the sofa and get the dust bunnies out of your hair.  Dialogue is not a monster.

But that’s not to say we can’t turn it into one, with our adverbs and our stilted prose, and our refusal to use contractions, because this is a novel and not the real world so our characters have to talk like they spent their formative years in an Edwardian Boarding School, wtf.

Harry, who is eight years old, and Gretchen, his older sister who has just had her tenth birthday, are lost in the woods.

“I do not think we should go this way.”

“I do not agree with you.  This is definitely the way we should go.”

“No, I insist.  We really ought to go this way.”

“I have torn out my eyes with my fingernails to avoid reading any more of this drivel.”

Aside from the fact that no children in the history of the universe have ever sounded like that – no, not even in an Enid Blyton novel – we have no fucking idea who is saying what.  Although we can, it is true, empathise wholeheartedly with whoever has clawed at their own face to escape that turgid exchange.

That first sentence is exposition – otherwise known as telling our Dear Readers shit they could find out in a much more entertaining way.  For example:

“You’re only eight,” Gretchen yelled.  “We’re going this way, Harry!”

“I’m not following you anywhere.  You got lost in McDonald’s on your birthday.”  Harry started walking in the opposite direction.  “Two years older than me doesn’t make you smarter than me, Gretchy.”

“Don’t call me that, you little twerp,” said Gretchen.  “It would serve you right if a witch came out of the woods and gobbled you up!”

Harry laughed and didn’t even bother turning around.  “Only girls believe in witches.”

I’m pretty sure Harry will come upon a gingerbread house and find himself trapped inside an oven, whereupon he will Learn An Important Lesson about Something Or Other.

Dialogue has to move our story on and contribute to either character or plot development.  It connects the Dear Reader with our characters.  It’s grease on the axle of our story locomotive and without it the bloody wheels fall off.  It’s the chew-chew for our choo-choo.

Using the correct punctuation is the nuts and bolts of our dialogue mag-lev.  It seems like a small thing, where to put a comma rather than a full stop. In dialogue.  So that it, makes sense to our, beleaguered, Dear Readers.  Catch my drift, hombres and hombresses?

  1. Read it aloud – if we sound like an alien trying to master the English (or any other) language, then we re-write (unless of course our character is an alien trying to master … etc)
  2. Get rid of the ell-why’s – you know whys
  3. Think about dialogue tags and remember that “said” is an invisible word.
  4. Here’s a simple little flow chart I use to remind me where it’s at in the dialogue hierarchy:

punctuation_flowchart

And lastly, an uplifting quote from Nietzsche: “Whoever fights Dialogue Monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a Monster of Dialogue.”  He totally said that.  Google it, when you come out from behind the sofa.

Wherein the Adverb Dies – Horribly

murdered_adverb_2Ah, the adverb.  The literary device that indiscriminately shits all over our manuscript.

These incontinent -ly’s must be annihilated.  Exterminated.  (Perhaps with fragments.)

Okay, so maybe not all the adverbs in the world need to be taken down to the basement and tortured by the Red Pen Serial Killer.  Like an expensive perfume, some adverbs can be lightly spritzed about the body of our manuscript, just enough to turn the Dear Reader’s head and make them swoon (with lust, not their gag-reflex).

Where adverbs definitely need to die, though, is in the dialogue tags.

“Oh my god!” the Scribbler’s Apprentice cries astonishingly.  “But how else can I express the depth of my character’s experience?”

“I dunno,” says the Red Pen.  “Maybe you could put the action in the actions of your characters instead?”

“Ha, ha,” the Apprentice laughs uproariously, “what a novel idea!”  She stares at the Red Pen thoughtfully.  “What are you talking about?”

The Red Pen takes a switchblade out of its pocket and begins scraping the blood from under its fingernails.  “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Uh, yes.”  A bead of sweat forms on the Apprentice’s brow.  “I think.”

If a character laughs, do we really have to add “hilariously”?  Or “infectiously?”  If our character has an infectious laugh, then we should be showing the laugh, not telling our Dear Reader something they can’t picture (unless they picture “infectious” as Patient Zero in the Zombie Apocalypse, in which case, I want that Dear Reader as my Ruthless Critic and I will give them sweets and cheap wine).

Let’s take our character with the (non-apocalyptic) infectious laugh.  What does an infectious laugh sound like?  Is it like a braying donkey?  Does it start with a snuffled giggle, low in the belly, then erupt in a volcano of cackles?  Does it sound like a nineteenth century steam train?  What makes it infectious?  That’s what we need to capture in our writing.  Not an -ly tacked onto the end of a word like a lazy afterthought.

What about an example from the dialogue snippet up there?  What does “thoughtful” look like?  An image will probably come to mind: that friend of ours who always looks as though they’re just about to shout ‘Eureka!’; the woman we saw in the coffee shop the other day, staring out the window and seeing nothing; the frown of concentration on a child’s face as they try to tie their shoelaces for the first time, tongue peeking out of the corner of their mouth.  Which, if any, of those images suits our character?  What do we want to show our Dear Readers?  Whether we’re writing a romance or a horror-filled gore-fest, we’re trying to achieve the same thing: the enticement, the seduction and then the ravishment of our Dear Readers.  We crook our finger and invite them deeper inside our story with a flash of leg here and a hint of a smile there.  Then we slap them around a bit and lock them in the dungeon until they write us a good review.  Wait.  I may have got that bit wrong.

Anyway.  Physical reactions are some of the clues that gradually reveal our characters to the hungry eyes of our Dear Reader.   Another clue, of course, is in our characters’ dialogue.

(I spritzed a little adverb in there somewhere.  I’m hoping the Red Pen Serial Killer won’t see it and go all Crazy 88 on its ass.)

Johnny Gets A Tattoo

Chuck Wendig’s Friday Flash Fiction Challenge for May 17th was a doozie.  The challenge was to a pick a stock photo from one of these weird, bizarre 50 Completely Unexplainable Stock Photos No One Will Ever Use and write a 1,000 flash using the photo as inspiration.

I went for photo No.27 (Mona Lisa tongue tats).


Johnny Gets A Tattoo

mona_lisaMikey said this would be easy money, and I know Mikey is full of shit like a bank is full of zombie sharks, but I was desperate.  I’d lost my job at the plant and one of the aforementioned undead fish was threatening to foreclose and I figured, hell it’s not drug running, right?  So it can’t be that bad.

It turns out ‘bad’ runs on a scale, kind of like the Richter scale, except this one measures ‘How Fucked Up Are Things Really?’

And it turns out that Things were Really Fucked Up.

The Mona Lisa tattooed on my tongue wasn’t the half of it.  That measured somewhere around ‘Things Are Getting A Bit Fucked Up’ on the scale.  No.  It was the ginormous albino meathead currently tenderising my torso like he was preparing steaks for the grill that tipped me to the top of the HFUATR scale.  I’m calling it the Hoff-You-Ater scale because acronyms have to make a word, right?  Like NASA and fucking FUBAR.

‘Johnny, where’s the picture?’  The voice belonged to a thirteen year old cheerleader and I looked around for her, hoping she could maybe rescue me, until I realised it was coming from him.  Disquieting didn’t cover it.

I wanted to stick my tongue out and show him, but I figured he’d take that the wrong way so I tried to tell him but my tongue was still AWOL from the novocaine and so I sounded like a Vietnamese on pot:

‘In mah mow.’

He sighed, a disappointed-mommy sigh, like when you get caught stealing a cookie before they’ve cooled.  Oh you little reprobate you, what am I going to do with you, hmm?

I could pretty much guess what fish-white mommy-dearest over there was going to do with me, and it didn’t involve being sent to my room without supper.

I was supposed to have the picture on the inside of my thigh.  I’d carry it through Customs, invisible to the body scans.  Piece of lemon drizzle cake, right?  Meet the greeter on the other side, take a comfy ride to wherever, and some (frankly incomprehensible) gizmo would vacuum up all the nanos the picture was made from and – hey presto! – topper-than-top-secret government files would be in the hands of an Evil Criminal Mastermind.  Or whatever.  Maybe it was nekkid pictures of Beyoncé.  I didn’t know and I didn’t care.  Either way I’d have my five thousand bucks.

Obviously, it didn’t go like that.  The nano-tattooist said some shit about Customs getting wise and needing a different place to put the speckly little babies.  I think the Mona Lisa was his idea of some kind of artistic fucking license.  Mutant Paper Albino pulled my pants down as soon as I got into the car, saw there was no tattoo, punched me several times about my person, and hauled me into some kind of Saw-Meets-Hostel abattoir, complete with rusty hooks and chains.  Except I was pretty sure that was not rust.

The pale horseman of the Johnny-ocalypse perched on a stool and cleaned his fingernails with the tip of a very large knife.  I always wondered why the bad guys did that in movies.  Turns out, it’s because it’s fucking intimidating, that’s why.  He held the knife up and turned it this way and that, so it flashed in the light, and I reckoned this guy felt about his knife like a trophy wife felt about her diamonds.  (Mine.  Pretty.)

I didn’t want that knife anywhere near my tongue.  And that’s the only reason I licked my shoulder, I swear to God.  I had some stupid idea that I could just wipe the nanos off my tongue like a bad-tasting guacamole.  Which was stupid, right?  I mean, if they could be wiped off that easily, I would have swallowed them when I took a swig of water (okay, two pints of beer) at the airport.  Right?

So I licked my shoulder, because that’s the only part of my body I could reach with my hands chained to a fricking chair, while he was busy admiring the diamond-edged sharpness of his knife-as-phallic-replacement.

I looked down to see a perfect imprint of the Mona Lisa on my shoulder and at first I thought ‘Yay! My tongue is saved!’ and then I thought ‘He’ll probably cut my arm off now’ and then I thought ‘…what in holy hell?’ as the Mona Lisa began to smile.  A real smile.  A shit-eating grin, in fact.  And then she sank into my skin, faded, and was gone.

I started to feel rum a few seconds later.  Like my body was a bug zapper and all the mosquitoes in Florida had decided to come investigate (Blue light! Blue light! Zzzt!).  I started jerking and the albino looked up from his Zen contemplation of his Johnny-Killer and glared at me.  Then his eyes widened comically.  And it was comical.  He went from a squinty-pink-eye to a wide-eyed anime character in, literally, the blink of an eye.

‘What the fuck?’  He rose slowly from his stool, took a step backwards, and blanched.

It’s not pretty, seeing an albino blanch.  He went from paper-white to the slimy patina of raw cod that’s been left on a windowsill for a couple of days.

I looked down at myself and, to be fair to the albino, I probably blanched too.  Something was going on under my clothes, and I’m not talking bedroom-rodeo-something.  My body was … undulating.  I stared down at my stomach and I truly thought I was having a John-Hurt-in-Alien episode and so I panicked, in a way that only the thought of an alien female with teeth just inches from your manly bits can make a guy panic.  I surged to my feet and the chains binding me to the chair blew apart, just disintegrated.

The albino and I looked at each other for what felt like an eternity.  I didn’t consciously go for him.  I just launched myself at him with the intention of I-don’t-know-what … and he turned to run.  But I was fast.  I moved like quicksilver and I hit him in a horizontal tackle and … I went straight through him. Knife.  Hot butter.  Howdy-doody.

Skin and sinew and blood and bone and organs exploded all around me.  I came out the other side and landed on my feet like a cat, not a spot of blood on me.  A steaming mess of red gore littered the floor, though, with an albino head at one end, a twitching foot at the other, and an arm over to one side.  His eyes kept blinking for a couple of seconds, as if he couldn’t believe that was all that was left of him.  I sympathised with him, I truly did.

I bent down and plucked the big knife from his dead fingers and looked at my reflection in the blade for a long time.  Dark speckly bits swirled in the whites of my eyes and I watched until they became completely black.

I felt the Mona Lisa smile as I walked away.

The second that time forgot

Another Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge from 12 May 2014:

Three sentences, use one or all:

“The borderlands expire thanks to the hundred violins.”

“A poetic pattern retains inertia.”

“The criminal disappears after the inventor.”

I ended up using all three sentences because, well, it’s a challenge, isn’t it?  And here’s my effort.  It’s a little over the 1,000 word limit Chuck set, though (1,220) …


The Second that Time forgot

The clock sAbstract clockworktops at 4pm every day.  It’s an old Grandfather clock; wood the colour of stained tobacco fingers, and brass that lost its shine a long time ago. He has to be right in front of it, otherwise he will miss it.  And if he misses it, then he
can’t travel the cogs, and if he can’t travel the cogs then he can’t get into the borderlands, and if he can’t get into the borderlands then Charlotte dies.  Every day at 4pm.

Consequences are like seconds, he has learned: one follows the other in a sequence of relentless inevitability. Tick-tock.

So the criminal stands in front of the clock and waits.  An invisible thread ties his eyes to the decrepit hands of the clock and, as 4pm arrives, his Self seeps from his eyes and travels along the thread like smoke escaping from beneath a locked door.  He slides down the hour hand to the centre of the faceplate and slips through a crack onto the first of the cogs.  He glides onto the meshing gears and rides them in bronco bucks, jumping deep into the workings of the clock, which has an inside deeper than any clock has a right to have, miles and miles of cogs and gears and mechanisms, their movements whirring in lightning flashes of pristine brass more brilliant than a noonday sun, until he arrives at the smallest cog of all, so far from the faceplate that the afternoon light from the window in the room where his body still stands is a distant memory of a different time.

He jumps from the last cog and emerges into the borderlands.

As always, he has to take a moment to allow his senses to adjust to the jangled terrain before him.  Hills droop like mossy stalactites above him, rivers meander in their upside-down valleys, waterfalls tumble upwards.  Parts of the sky lie beneath him, and clouds perform lazy somersaults into an abyss of stars and planets far below.  Jumbled like a length of string in a small boy’s pocket, the roads spaghetti into careless twists and knots.

Bad things happen in the Knots.

The patch of ground the criminal stands on is littered with mounds of dried and fresh vomit and he bends to the inevitable with his hands on his knees and voids his stomach.  It hardly even hurts now, he has done this so many times.  He cocks his head to listen for the sound of a violin.

There.  He turns his feet and steps onto a road that twists and curves up into the air like rollercoaster tracks.  He walks until his feet and knees ache, the sky now above him as the road curls, now below him as it twists, but the music fades and so he stops.  He turns in place until he hears it more clearly and the spider feet of fear skitter along his insides.  The music comes from the other side of a Knot.

He is an old man now and his body is failing.  He became a criminal long ago and not so long ago to protect the clock.  He has slipped into the borderlands more than a hundred times; he has many more than a hundred wounds; and he knows that one or a hundred more will make no difference.  As long as he saves Charlotte.

So he doesn’t hesitate, he simply jumps from the road he is on and up into the Knot above him.  The jakalaki barrels into him as soon as his foot lands in the Knot, claws slashing, screaming its mad name until the air itself splits and clods of earth and road fall into a chasm of stars below.

The criminal reacts with a speed borne of more than a hundred visits’ experience: he screams into the thousand-spines maw of the hideous creature and lashes out with frenzied kicks and punches.  He forces it to the tear in the cosmos it created with its own noise.  At the last moment, amber eyes bigger than a world and smaller than a pinhead widen in fear and the jakalaki’s claws scrabble for purchase at the ruined precipice of the road.  Its magenta-scaled hindquarters hang out into the nothingness and as it falls its barbed tail whips up and tears a jagged gash in the criminal’s cheek, a parting souvenir.  The criminal listens to its fading crazy laugh as he tears off a piece of his shirt to wrap around his face and staunch the bleeding.  The last time, the jakalaki’s tail caught his leg, and that was a bad wound, so all in all the criminal considers this is a light punishment.

He doesn’t fool himself.  If it had been a Weasel Monster, he would have been the one to fall into the abyss.  He has never defeated the Weasel Monster, in more than sixty encounters.  He would have had to start again, from the beginning, at 4pm in front of the clock.  The idea frightens him.  Not because he is afraid of the borderlands – he is, terribly afraid, every time he comes here – but because he is afraid that one day, the clock will strike 4pm and he will see the second hand move past the hour hand and he will know that Time has found its lost second and Charlotte will be gone forever.

So he counts himself lucky, and jumps to another road, and then many more, for minutes or years or both, until his shoes are worn to paper-thin wafers of old leather.  Until he finds Charlotte with her feet in a cloud and her head in a meadow, playing her violin.

Her eyes contain the grief of a thousand graveyards. ‘A poetic pattern retains inertia,’ she says.  ‘I cannot stop or it will unravel around us.’

‘I know,’ he says, and his voice contains the weariness of a hundred lifetimes lost.  Now that he has found her, the other ninety-nine Charlottes unfold from the meadow like poppies flowering in spring, red hair gleaming, grave eyes pleading. He leads this Charlotte slowly to her other Selves and when she joins them, the music stops and their bows bend and flail like a field of poppies in a storm.  The sound is a screeching wail worse than the jakalaki.

‘Run, father!’ They scream as one above the disharmony they create together, and the criminal sprints and leaps and tumbles over roads and hills and clouds that crumble and collapse and disintegrate until he arrives at the spot where he began, and the sickness on the ground dissipates even as the sickness in his heart coagulates.

The borderlands expire thanks to the hundred violins.  Thanks to the hundred Charlottes, playing their incoherent requiem so that Time can remember the second that Charlotte made it forget when she invented the Clock.

The criminal stands at the edge of the beginning of the end of all things and Charlotte’s hand slips into his.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says.  ‘Was it worth all this?’

‘It was worth a hundred lifetimes,’ he says, ‘to bring you back.’

She turns and, as she turns, she wisps into smoke and drifts onto the smallest cog.  With one last look at his hundred daughters, lost forever in the second that Time forgot, the criminal disappears after the inventor.

Last One Standing

On Fridays, Chuck Wendig sets a flash fiction challenge on his blog.  (If you’re interested in writing, by the way, Chuck has some awesome advice, so his blog is definitely worth following.)

Here’s the challenge: Chuck selects ten words and you choose five of these and incorporate them into a single piece of flash fiction (1k words).  This week’s ten words are: whalebone; foxglove; djinn; orphan; lollipop; casket; hermit; hound; acid; and topaz.

I figured this was a great opportunity for me to pop my blogger cherry and so here’s my effort.  I used whalebone, foxglove, orphan, hermit and acid, in 968 words ..


Last One Standing

Nobody knows when the last whale died.  We were way beyond donations and celebrity campaigns by then.  I think people were just too preoccupied with surviving to Wastelandcare about the extinction of yet another species and so the last whale probably died lonely and afraid, like we all do in the end.

I’d found the whalebone on the beach, almost four feet of curved wickedness with a shred of unidentifiable gristle still attached.  I spent a good few minutes gnawing it off the bone before I set off again with a new sturdy walking staff to add to my meagre possessions.  I had a feeling it would be useful as a weapon.  Nothing like the end of the world to make a pacifist look kindly upon the Americans’ love of guns.  I would have killed for a gun.  Literally.  Less brutal and calorie-intensive than beating someone to death with a whalebone.

I hadn’t seen another living person for months, though.  Plenty of dead people.  Even this far out from the city the stench never really left your clothes and hair, as if  the sheer volume of all those rotting corpses had somehow permanently changed the molecular structure of the air.  I used to complain about the smell of tobacco, but I would’ve killed for a cigarette to mask the greater stink even for a moment.  Besides, I was already breathing in death, what difference would it make?  And maybe I could pretend, just for a few puffs, that none of this had happened and I was sitting in a pub garden somewhere with a pint of Adnams.  But there were no more pubs.  And no more cigarettes, that I could find anyway.  It made a kind of sense that of all the things I craved it was the one thing I’d never tried.

I made my way back through the pine trees, following a convoluted path through the woods to the hermit shack I’d discovered back when I was a kid and the world was a bright and hopeful playground filled with sea shells and rock pools and fish and chips.  Thirty years later, it was barely a structure at all, just a few planks of wood leaning against each other like drunk friends after a stag night.  But it provided shelter from the frequent downpours of acid rain.  And it protected my stash.

My eyes fell of their own accord onto the foxgloves laid out on the dirt floor of the shack.  The insides of their trumpet blooms cast a seductive allusion to blood spatters in the gloom.  I emptied the contents of my back pack and laid them out on the dirt next to the foxgloves, a ritual I performed every time I returned to the shack and repeated in reverse every time I left it.  One tin cup.  One army canteen.  One camping stove with enough gas for one more cup of tea.  A jar with five olives.  A box of matches.  A sleeping bag.  A wind-up radio.  The only thing that changed was the number of olives in the jar.  Tomorrow, there would be four.

I climbed into the sleeping bag and spent some time aligning the other objects on the floor until their arrangement pleased me; I moved the tin cup so its edge caught the moonlight and reflected it onto the jar, limning the fruit with silver, honouring their preciousness.  I didn’t bother winding up the radio.  The airwaves had been dead for months.  I had no books.  Most dissolved or crumbled the moment you picked them up, as if the words within were too fragile to hold themselves together, their sentences unravelling like the world, so I’d stopped scavenging for them a long time ago.  It was too painful.  Instead, I stared at my collection until the last thought dripped out of my leaky mind and I could sleep.

When there were no more olives in the jar, I boiled the foxgloves and made the tea with the last of the water I’d collected.  I let it steep for another day, just to be sure.  But when I tried to leave the drunken planks, a terror struck me, more brutal than the time I’d smashed the man’s head in for the olives.  I was so weak it took me all of the afternoon to cockroach through the pines to the beach.

I drank from the canteen as the sun began to set.  Its glorious rays transformed the dead sea into an adamantine lake and the bereft land into a bas-relief of polished bronze.  For the first time in a very long time, the world was beautiful again.  I lay back and closed my eyes.  Years ago, I’d scavenged an old Triumph motorcycle, and my hands curled around the whalebone, imagining it was the handlebars and my stuttering heartbeat was the bike’s temperamental engine.

I heard a voice and shivered against the vibrations of footfalls in the sand.  And then a papery hand settled on my cheek.  Even the poison seemed powerless against the shock of being touched by another living thing after so long.  My eyes snapped open.  The person gazing down at me was filthy, so skeletal it was impossible to tell if it was male or female, and it was angry.  A fury utterly beautiful in its purity burned from that ravaged face and I wanted to form the words but my mouth had stopped working.

I understood the rage.  Of course I did.  I was leaving it alone, an orphan in an empty world.  I wanted to be sorry, but death gives birth to truth, and I wasn’t.  I thought about that last whale, how lonely it must have been at the end, and so I pushed the canteen into those paper-thin hands and closed my eyes.