Published: At The Water's Edge

Flash fiction, that favourite of mine, that tale in a thousand words (or fewer), is in. It is the thing. For me, anyway. I don't get much time to write at the moment. I try, but especially at this time of year (NaNoWriMo - eek!) it seems that I can sometimes only squeeze in 30 minutes to an hour a day.

And the thing with me is that I don't like leaving things unfinished. The thing with me is, I worry. My novel is causing me panic and stress because I am constantly thinking of new plot twists, characters, pieces of dialogue to squeeze into it, and I will do until it's finished (and even then I'll have trouble letting go, but that's another post...). And although I enjoy it, and wouldn't not be writing it for the world, it is nice to finish something. To simply sit down for a finite time with a finite number of words, and complete a story.

That's why I like flash fiction.

It is also why I decided to send a submission to Brazen Snake Books' Rattles Flash Fiction anthology At The Water's Edge.

There was a picture, a woman standing on a beach or perhaps a pier, the waves creeping towards her, and she was looking out over the water. At something. Or maybe nothing. That was the challenge - to take the picture and make a story from it in under 1000 words.

I love those challenges.

I'm pleased to say my story, 'Her House', was chosen for inclusion within the anthology. Mine is a story of loss and life. I hope it grabs you and saddens you and makes you smile just a little.

At The Water's Edge is available from Amazon for just 86p, and the print edition will be out soon.

Don't forget, Rattles Flash Fiction has a monthly prompt for inspiration, and plans more flash fiction anthologies, so there's no reason not to get involved!

Published: Satan's Toybox - Demonic Dolls

Lately I have become addicted to submitting stories to anthologies. It started just a few months ago after a chance remark in a forum; I clicked on the link, followed the instructions, wrote and submitted a short story and BANG! I was accepted and was going to be published.

It was a nice feeling, a great feeling, so I searched for more anthologies, and eventually came across Angelic Knight Press. They were looking for horror stories for their Demonic Dolls anthology. And the deadline was in two days. It seemed perfect for me, just the sort of thing I enjoyed reading and writing. But to come up with a short story, complete and edited, in just two days? This on top of a day job and a toddler? Somehow, I did it. And I'm so glad that I did - my story, 'Mr Doll' was accepted and became part of this terrifying anthology.

Here's the blurb:

"Remember when you got your first doll, that loveable companion who saw you through the best and worst of days? Remember when Barbie was the doll version of who you wanted to be when you grew up? Be careful what you wish for…

"In the world of Satan’s Toybox, nothing is ever what it seems, and being Barbie might not be all it’s cracked up to be. None of the dolls in these stories are the harmless comforting companions you may remember. From a haunted dollhouse to possessed porcelain dolls; you’ll find mischief, mayhem and bloody murders in these 18 tales.

"You’ll find Mexican "Worry Dolls" who will make you worry, a lonely woman's cherished companions, a little girl's vehicle for revenge, a beautiful doll with a strange taste for blood, an adult movie star's look alike doll, the strange world of Barbie, an evil doll maker’s minions, a witch's influential dolls, a dollhouse with revolving occupants, living dolls who punish the criminal, a foreign clown doll intent on possession, a lonely child's one true friend, a demon doll who collects the souls of the innocent, and a doll possessed by none other than Jack the Ripper.

"So go ahead, turn out the lights, cuddle up and prepare to be terrified. Just don’t take your eyes off the toybox…"

What more could you ask for? Every story in this anthology lives up to the promise - creepy, chilling, sleep-reducing stuff. And there's a new anthology on its way from the wonderful Angelic Knight Press; Satan's Toybox is filling up, and this time he's got his toy soldiers out to play...

Satan's Toybox - Demonic Dolls is available for Kindle and will soon be out in paperback.

Sheppey Writing Workshop: Plotting

Plotting... I've been doing this recently. Not only is the dreaded/longed for (delete as applicable) NaNoWriMo coming up in a matter of days, but I've got deadlines. Quite a lot of deadlines. This is not something I've ever really come up against before since until a few months ago I only really wrote to my own tune. Or something.

What I'm trying to say is that since I've been actively searching out writing opportunities, I've had to plot. Otherwise I'd never get anything finished on time. I've had to be organised and dedicated. I've had to stop being a pantser, which is something I never thought I'd say (for a variety of reasons). But the thing is: I love to plot! I can't believe I've never done it before! It makes writing so much more... fun. It also makes it more successful. For me, at any rate. And plots can change, of course. I can still do a little bit of pantsering (I made that word up, but you know what I mean) if the mood strikes.

Last night's third meeting of the Sheppey Writing Workshop dealt with plotting. We broke the plot down into its fundamental elements: structure, motivation, subplots, outcome. And from what you find here, you should be able to write one sentence which sums up your entire work, from flash fiction to an epic novel. And then you should be able to write the book or story.

Try it.

It works.

That should be enough to get a very basic plot for your story. Of course, there will be a lot of filling to do, that's what writing is about, filling the frame so that a picture emerges. Chaucer was one of the first writers to use the framing technique in his story-telling. Think of the Canterbury Tales: the frame here is that a group of pilgrims are travelling to Canterbury and each one has a story to tell. Within this simple frame, the stories provide the picture.

We also discussed what happens when a piece of writing simply isn't working. It happens. And it seems such a shame to delete the entire thing when a game of 'what if?' might just save it...

What if... you mix genres or change genres?

What if... you swap the main plot with the subplot?

What if... you change from first person to third person or vice versa?

What if... you change the structure, start at the end, in the middle?

What if...

But remember, don't alienate the reader. Remember who you're writing for. In the 1960s there was a movement of writers who thought that 'shuffling the pack' would be a good idea. Sounds interesting, right? It meant that the writer would complete their novels and then 'shuffle' the chapters, picking them randomly, putting them back in a different order. This piece of experimentation didn't last long.

Strangely, I'm tempted to give it a try (for my own curiosity's sake anyway).

The next meeting is on 14th November, and by then we need to have a first draft of our story... Now that it's been plotted, I need to get writing!

Second Campaigner Challenge: The Imago Mirror

I hope you enjoyed my first shot at the Rachel Harries' Campaigner Challenge. Now it's time for the second challenge!

This one was not an easy task... Rachel asked for a blog post of 200 words or fewer which had to include the word 'imago' in the title, and the words 'miasma', 'lacuna', 'oscitate' and 'synchronicity' in the story.

There was an added challenge to make the post exactly 200 words and to make reference to a mirror in the story... So I took all the challenges and came up with this...

There is a mirror at the back of this bar, and it is the only thing that stops me from leaving. It always stops me from leaving even though I should know better, even though the miasma is heavy, sorrowful, heart-breaking. I should go, but the mirror shows me too much, and I can’t stop looking. It fills the lacuna in my life, because it shows me my very own imago – my ideal love.

Or rather, my idealised version of love. It isn’t what I thought.

In the mirror, I do not sit alone. Next to me is a man, older than me, quite scruffy, but crinkle-eyed and wide-smiled, his tie is loose and his shirt is rumpled. He talks, he listens, he holds my hand. I can almost feel his fingers entwined in mine, the synchronicity of whatever brought us here at the same time, needing the same thing, blindsides me.

But when I turn to him, he is not there. Instead there is an oscitating emptiness.

I wonder; is there a lonely, crumpled man in another bar in another time, or world, or life, looking at me in a mirror?

I’ll have another drink and look for him.

©Lisamarie Lamb 2011

Sheppey Writing Workshop: Characterisation

Lauren Cooper... Love her or hate her she is definitely a character. Not someone you would enjoy meeting in real life, I imagine, but someone who, simply by clucking her tongue or mouthing, 'Am I bovvered?' can induce rib-aching laughter.

And so began our second workshop meeting; Geof treated us to a Lauren sketch (the one for Comic Relief, also starring David Tennant - you can watch it here) to explain in no uncertain terms just what characterisation is.

I don't think I had ever considered Catherine Tate and Charles Dickens in the same thought before. Until now. Because Geof then asked us to read a excerpt from Hard Times (Chapter 1 - The One Thing Needful) which introduced us to Gradgrind, a despicable, tough, opinionated, loud, stocky, unsympathetic, aggressive man. And how do I know he is all these things? Dickens certainly never came right out and said it. No. Dickens and his masterful characterisation suggested these things through mannerisms, certain words, sentence structure, simile, everything, even down to the clothing Gradgrind was wearing. The reader fills in the blanks. The reader does the work.

Although I write, and I have characters in my stories, I hadn't really given much thought to characterisation so I found the discussion enlightening. How do you introduce a character effectively? How do you use stereotypes to shock the reader, to wrong-foot them? What about body language, mannerisms, the things they say, how they say them, even what they fail to say, what they look like (the implied information contained in the description), and maybe, just maybe, what their name, or nickname, tells the reader about the character?

We talked about them. Through Catherine Tate and Charles Dickens, we started to get an idea of just how to get it right.

Because characters aren't just there to make the plot look pretty. Without them, there is nothing. The character often drives the plot, and sometimes, due to their world views, their opinions, their innermost thoughts, they change the plot to suit them. It's a funny feeling when a character you have created starts to dictate to you, but it does happen... In my current work in progress, a novel, I have a character named Bear. I always did feel that his nickname told the reader enough about him, and I feel after our group meeting that I am right with him. I'll keep him.

Next came a tricky chat. How to present our work at the end. What would the final product be? We didn't come up with a final decision, and I don't think we will until the very last minute, because things change, new ideas spring up in the middle of something else, a thunderbolt of inspiration could hit at any time. We did create quite a list though:

- A performance (maybe a video option)

- A printed copy (booklet or paperback)

- An eBook

- Some form of Internet presence (Vlog, YouTube)

- A script

- Local radio

- A display of the work in local libraries and arts centres

So, we all have a task before the next session (25th October). It's time to get down to business. It's time to create a character for our story, to imbue him or her with just the right mix of emotions, physical attributes, stereotypical thoughts and words (to play with, of course). It's time. And who knows? This character may just write the story for us.

I think I have an idea...

Competition: Winner: Melinda McGuire

And now I've like to announce the overall winner of my photo prompt competition! The person who wins the £10 Amazon voucher and a copy of Mother's Helper is...

Melinda McGuire!

Her vicious little vignette of a calm kind of revenge was the first choice of all the judges - congratulations, Melinda.

And here it is...

Dr. Leslie would understand when I explained that I had lost Sugar’s Ketamine pills. When I took Sugar in last week, Dr. Leslie and I laughed about how absent minded I was getting. I couldn’t find my glasses, even though they were pushed up on my forehead. And, Sugar, well, she would be fine as long as I took her back to the vet’s office tomorrow for a refill.

I keep dabbing my cheeks and chin, but the sweat keeps coming. My stomach is churning, but I continue to move my food around on my plate. When I checked the menu for the luncheon, I knew the fates had aligned to give me the opportunity I needed. I had been so angry with Agnes and Daniel when I found out. Damn them and their smiles and hugs and gentle pats on the forearm. They think I don’t know. They think I can’t see them and what they are doing behind my back. Even now, Daniel can’t keep his eyes off of Agnes. And, I see that she is wearing her new gray skirt, the one she just bought at the close out sale at Price Mart. She doesn’t think I remember. I can feel him looking at her.

They think they are being so clever, sitting across from each other, a part. But, I see what they’ve done. Every time she turns to sip her coffee, her and her damn sipping, they make eye contact. And, all through dinner, they looked at each other. I’m no fool. I see it. I saw you looking at each other over your cranberry sauce and dinner rolls.

I had been suspicious. I knew something was wrong with Daniel. He had been so chipper lately, even smiling at me while he did his crossword puzzles over toast in the mornings. He had never been a morning person, not in fifty years of marriage, and now he was smiling each morning. I wasn’t falling for it.

But then, when I saw them together after our church Christmas pageant, I knew. Daniel was smiling, and Agnes, that witch, was giggling. Giggling. At our age, giggling. Ridiculous.

Memories of all the times since Daniel started smiling in the mornings pieced themselves together, them talking quietly during the library fundraising brunch, smiling when we ran into each other while walking Sugar. They probably planned to see each other then and I ruined their plans. But, when we were at the market and they laughed over some shared joke, that was all the proof I needed. Laughing together, with me on the outside. I wouldn’t live that way, and neither would Daniel.

Daniel yawned again. He was eating less and less and starting to sweat. Agnes is pretending not to notice, but I am going to sit here until I see her look at him with concern in her eyes. Only then will I suggest to Daniel that we go home, that I will help him get ready for bed, that I will take care of him so that he will feel better. But, he won’t feel better.

And, in the morning, I will call the doctor. I won’t even call Agnes. I won’t even tell her. She will have to hear about Daniel from someone else.

Daniel’s hands are starting to shake. It’s time to take Daniel home.

©Melinda McGuire

Competition: Highly Commended - Kirsty Newton-Kirby

Here is the second highly commended entry into the blog competition; there's a great twist in this! It is by Kirsty Newton-Kirby.

Food For Thought

From her vantage point, high above the tables, she could see everything going on without being seen herself. Normally she wouldn’t come out with so many people around, but they all seemed distracted by something happening at the far end of the street, and the smell of the food had been too much to ignore. Besides, they were unlikely to spot her on the high balcony above the street.

It was nice to be up on the balcony. It was a clear dry night and it was quiet up here. A rare moment of calm in her hectic life and a whole world away from under the railway bridge where she now stayed with her family. They once had a lovely home, with regular food and warm beds. But recessions hit some harder than others and all that had changed. At least the bridge gave them cover from the rain, and the homeless people that stayed alongside them often lit fires and were happy to have them join them, so they could usually find a warm spot even on the coldest of nights.

On the tables below, several plates of food were now unattended, and she was sure no one had any intention of returning to finish them.

It was amazing how people could leave so much food when her family were starving. Having to spend each day working hard to try and get together enough to fuel her rapidly growing family. Make sure they were brought up healthy and strong. Desperate to ensure their survival. And yet these people were allowing good food to go to waste. She knew it would end up in a secure bin and be left to rot. At a time when she needed it the most.

Some people were going round the tables, picking up the empty (and not so empty) plates and taking them back towards the kitchens. If only she was able to go round and take just one of the fuller plates and walk away with it. Normally she would never be so brazen, but her belly ached with hunger. It had been three days since she had last eaten. She had managed to bring home food each day, not a lot, but always something. But with her growing sons eternally hungry she had not been able to deprive them and so had gone without herself. If she didn’t get her strength up soon she wouldn’t be able to bring any food home and they all would suffer.

The need overcame her fear. She had to at least try! She scurried along to the stairs and quickly ran down them, staying close to the back wall and hoping not to be seen. Once at the bottom she crouched in a corner of the building and looked out onto the street where the tables were set out. The nearest was only a few meters away and the people were now standing up and milling about, chatting and laughing as though they had no care in the world.

She knew she had to act fast, before the last of the food laden plates were taken away. She dived for the table and for the nearest bowl of food, cramming as much as possible into her mouth. Then she froze! A pair of eyes were staring straight at her. She had been spotted. The reaction from the eyes was initially surprise, but then changed to amusement. They were kindly eyes, understanding eyes. She swallowed, and quickly went on to finish the rest of the food from the bowl. Then as the food hit her stomach she no longer felt any fear. All that mattered was the food! She furiously went from one bowl to the next devouring the leftovers from each.

Then the shouting started. She had been spotted!

‘Someone get that mutt off the table!’

‘Stupid dog! Get out of here!’

She dived onto the ground, feeling bad for not having got any food to take back to her puppies. Then she saw it. A bread roll lying next to one of the tables. Grabbing it she ran as fast as she could back to the safety of the railway bridge. Soon her pups had demolished the bread roll, and then they snuggled next to one of the fires and their ever changing homeless masters. Full, warm and content. Another day survived.

©Kirsty Newton-Kirby 2011