Backwards and Forwards (With Links!)

It struck me recently that, things having become busy towards the back end of the year, I haven't mentioned a couple of recent publications here to date.

First off, I was extremely pleased to have a couple of short poems published as a result of my participation in Three Line Thursday this year- first off, twice over in Light Lines, an anthology full of superb, compact three line poems stemming from photo prompts posted throughout the year due to an unexpected win at the competition website one week and, secondly, in Flash Fiction Magazine due to a "Special Challenge" win for the week.

I was also lucky enough to secure a second win over at Angry Hourglass for the year, which I hadn't
really expected.

Even more surprisingly, I managed to secure a win over at Flash! Friday during the final week's contest - a competition I had always genuinely thought placing for would prove a feat impossible, having seen the superb standard of entries for week after week.

It was also lovely to be blind placed as winner by Dragon Team 8, with one half of the judging team (unknowing prior to having e-mailed the results in) being a fellow Poised Pen member !

Given my win was the last for the competition prior to Flashversary and, sadly, the competition's closure, Rebekah was kind enough to waive the word restriction for first time winners and allow me to expand on the interview questions posed.  If you so wish, you can read the final interview here .

I'm really proud to have my Winner's Page on the website alongside such talented writers!

Finally, I have also been working on three flash fiction stories which will be published as part of the Flashdogs ' third anthology (Volume Three), in due course.

(Image Credit goes to the very talented Tam Rogers ).

For Now Or Forever (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass)

For Now Or Forever

The boat is already waiting, close to the bank, with the water lapping, as Cara approaches the edge.  As she puts a foot on board it sways slightly as her weight disturbs its easy equilibrium.  The rope tethering the vessel swings in accompaniment.

“Fare, please,” a thin voice demands.  Cara looks down, seeing the tiny hand outstretched towards her.  She frowns slightly, squinting.

“What are you?” she murmurs, looking into the bleached face with its dark pupil-less eyes beneath wispy strands of white hair; looking through the skin itself, where objects behind it display themselves.

The girl shrugs her shoulders.  “Ferrymaid, for now.  Fare taker forever, perhaps, if day due Danakes remain unpaid - with lesser lads ‘n wenches.”

“I..” Cara says.

“Pay up or hop off,” the girl interjects.  “Others ‘ll be waiting.  ‘Tis not my matter when women wish to wander.  Though we’d call it wasteful when we’re all wanting ‘n wishing for farther in..”

“We?” Cara asks. 

The young girl shakes her head quickly.  “What may be – as well as what was once, though but half-formed; what should be, should circumstance allow.”

“Large thoughts for one so little,” Cara says, brow creased.  “Do you know what they mean?”

“Do you?” the girl retorts.  “Since my fare’s still owing?  Will we journey - or will you bide by the Styx?  Your choice; where others have little hope of it.”  After a pause, “You must be dead, you know.  By definition.   I’d be dead too by now, if I could.”

“Would you?” Cara asks, shortly followed by, “Sorry?  What?”

“You’ll understand, in a while.  ‘Tis not for me to say.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Cara asks.  “Is there no choice in anything for the Never Weres?  Or is that Never Ares?  Do you yourselves distinguish between the two?  If not – shouldn’t you?”  She lets out a quick breath.

“Remembering now, a little?” the girl queries.  “Though your Isle awaits.  You’ll be better there,” she adds.  “Forget about this; me.  You’ll mean to remember.  You’ll even try to – but won’t.”

“Will so!” Cara exclaims.  “God - you’ve got me regressing!”

“Not possible; not now,” the girl says.  “Time’s passed and ebbing.”

Comment

Somewhat to my surprise this week, this story won!  I received some nice praise from the week's judge (see here - along with comments concerning a strong round of stories generally)  That makes me this week's Flash Master!

The City Of Innocent Deaths (Angry Hourglass)

Image courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass)


The City Of Innocent Deaths

Remember is scrawled onto the palm of your right hand – uneven beneath flaking carmine crusts – the skin pale beneath the stains.  You try to, obedient to the instruction – and think you do.  You recall dimly in the dark the cauldron oil, the Pool of Blood, drowning deep; its copper taste as you floundered, fingers grasping for purchase, before finally you swam.  The moment they made you climb the Mountain of Knives amongst the labyrinthine levels of the Courts, blades cutting quick to the bone.   There is no pain now.  You cannot die once resurrection calls you.  Cold-eyed; frostbitten to the core, you rise again.  Again, once more.  Brought back; you are – a Frozen Thing.

Five flavours.  The words etched across your left hand – revealed when you open your fist.  Now you remember the bowl, filled to the brim with liquid, spilling as it got nearer.  You drank when bid to by Lady Dream, mouth opening to grasp the sharp rim.  You had no choice.  Not really.  There was no regret.  You wanted well rid of the – fall – fist – splintered bones driven deep into your body.  Your possible – probable – life – lives.  You know – knew – what they held.  You think you do. 

No.

Water’s oblivion.  The murky bitterness of pond and herb lingers at your lips as you run your tongue across them.  Something hides beneath.  Somewhere, someone lurks.

Yes.

You lift your right sleeve as far as your elbow, frowning.  The intricate lines on your skin form a maze of marks, right, left; twists and turns leading upwards.  Your brow furrows more deeply before the lines fade.

The left sleeve.  Your fingers close around it, as the right slides back into place.  You pull it up, course fabric beneath calloused fingertips.  One word.  A name.  Your choice.  You know the why now.  You can trace its raised scars.  You do, circling the ridges.  You had worried they would heal before you knew.  Before you were – again.

Two arms.  One choice.  Your choice.  You know well now where the blade came from which mapped your course.  Confusion no longer lingers.   

Remember.  You do.  You know where you must go; what to do.  

Comment

This story stems from a Chinese legend about the Lady of Forgetfulness - couldn't resist writing about that!

Of The Moment (Angry Hourglass)

Of The Moment

The sun is high and Hel can feel it on her skin as the beat reverberates from the sound stage.  She sways a little with the rhythm, bottle in hand, feeling the moment up against her skin.

“Hey,” a male voice says.

“Not interested,” she replies, without looking.  “Try the beer tent.  You’ll score there, for sure.”

“Cheers,” the voice replies more warmly.  “Literally, I guess.”

“Figuratively, too,” Hel responds, turning towards the man.  “I guess.”  She shrugs, before the corners of her mouth quirk, surveying the dishevelled dark hair and lighter eyes as she looks upward.  “Hard core tat,” she appraises.  “Corruption, though?  Really?”  She shakes her head, letting out a breath.  “Classy.”  Her eyes roll, as her shoulder shifts away.

“Where exactly did you think a guy like me would hang out?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.  “Kind of perfect, if you think about it.  Pretty great rate of success, courtesy of lowered inhibitions..”

“I’m sure,” Hel says, laughing openly now.  “Like I said – beer tent’s where you want to be.  Best of British - though you won’t need it, several ales in.”

“Spoken like a true observer,” the dark haired male says. 

Hel shrugs.  “Doesn’t take much.”

“You haven’t asked me what I’m doing here.”

“Besides hitting on the wrong women?” Hel asks, tone sharp.  “I have already told you.”

“Besides that,” he agrees, voice remaining level.  “For what it’s worth.”

“Is it?” Hel asks.  “’Cos you can’t take a hint, can you?  It’s not like I haven’t been clear.  I mean – really – is it?”

“Well, I am Corruption, as we’ve already established,” the man says, an apologetic note entering his voice.  “Seeing as you were enjoying the moment, so to speak, I couldn’t resist stopping to chat..”

“We’re done now,” Hel says, blunt.  “You’re leaving.”

“Hedonism,” he replies.  “Took me a minute or so to put a name to the face.  Got it now though.  New one on me.  Takes a careful eye – though once you know what you’re looking for…”

“Jesus!” Hel curses, looking around hastily.

“Long gone,” Corruption responds.  “New Guard all the way, sweetheart.  Get with the programme.”  He smiles.  “Y’with me yet?”

Comment

A second story for the Hourglass photo prompt this week.  This one came third.

  

A Time For Choosing (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass)

A Time For Choosing

You fetch up onshore, drenched, coughing the vestiges of the river’s bitterness from your oesophagus onto the jagged rocks beneath your knees.  Their sharp edges are intimately acquainted with your skin.  Further into the dark maw before you, you hear Hynos’ drowsy murmurings.  “Not this time,” you say.  Turning your left wrist, you see the raw tally marks – a cluster of raised red five-bar gates across its breadth.  You run a finger over the start of the next underneath - the beginnings of a run along the length.

“Here,” a voice says, thrusting a small token into your outstretched hand.  You look towards the object gripped in your fist.  Your benefactor is nowhere to be seen when your head turns again.  You gaze instead into the pitch of the cave, from which audible rumbles echo intermittently.

Walking forward, you begin to pick your path over the prone bodies, their oblivious snoring, towards the assembled Brothers and Sisters lined waiting before the entrance’s black mouth.  You nod to each in turn. 

“Choose,” Lethe says, proffering two vessels, one already full to the brim.  The other she bends to fill from the waters running freely to her side.  Drops spill over the sides as she raises it, meeting your eyes; waiting.  Your head turns, seeing the soul to your right, who slurps greedily from an identical cup, head thrust back to down its contents in swift gulps.  A few seconds later he slumps and swoons.  The Androktasiai carry him towards the other sleepers, all shoulders and ankles.  “As ever,” one murmurs, with a sharp toothed grin, eyes glinting.

You point at one of the cups.

  

“You’re ready?” Atë asks.

You shrug.  “I want to remember.”  You grasp the receptacle firmly, draining its contents.  The splutters begin shortly after, though you keep the liquid down after gagging.

“Remember,” Algea says, shaking her head.  “You chose Mnemosyne; wanted everything.”

“Careless,” say the Makhai simultaneously, smirking.

“She’ll learn,” says Horkos.

“She’ll know,” adds Eris.  “Poor thing.”

Your heart jumps as you feel the pressure building beneath your skull.  You feel your mouth open without volition.  Somewhere, a cry sounds.  Someone is screaming.  Someone doesn’t stop. 

Cut To Fit (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass)


Cut To Fit

“What d’you think to that one?”  The voice, slightly nasal, carries from beyond the racks to where Carey is standing near the till.

“Colouring wouldn’t suit me,” another voice replies, dismissive.  “Plus, you know Bart wouldn’t approve, considering the expense.”

“He would the end result!  Don’t deny it!” the first voice says, tone loaded.  “Sure I can’t persuade you this time ‘round?  It’s nice sometimes to slip into something different - try it on for size.  Cut from the finest!  Great if you’re jaded.”

“See, how much do you know about the cleaning processes, Maddy?  I’ve always wondered about that side, not that I’ve looked into it,” the second voice jabbers.

“We maintain our standards rigorously,” Carey says, stepping from behind the hanging rail, scissors in her belt.  “The inspection accreditations are just over there, if you’d like to take a look?” she adds.  Both heads, red and dark, swivel towards her quickly.  “Ms Cain, my pleasure,” she greets the first woman quickly, holding out a hand to take the lady’s with her own, smile wide.  “Madam,” she nods towards the other.  The redhead’s brow tilts towards him, cheeks flushed with sudden pink.  She gestures towards the framed certificates, encased behind glass on the wall, one eyebrow raised.  The red haired woman shakes her head slightly, cheeks burning red.

“Shall we check your measurements?” Carter asks, looking at the long haired brunette.  “They’re on file, of course,” she says, “and surely won’t have altered.  Still, it’s standard for any new issue, as you know.  Particularly so with the permaskins, though you don’t need to worry about that, seeing as this is an overnight loan only.”  A pause, then, “Your made to measure’s wearing well,” Carey appraises, looking the woman up and down.  

“Thank you,” the lady, Madeleine, simpers.  “I fancied blonde tonight.  Dinner date.”

“Indeed, Ms Cain,” Carey says, face expressionless.  “Everything tallies,” she adds, winding the measuring tape about her wrist.  “Here you go.”  She passes the bagged tempaskin to the woman.  “Return due pre noon tomorrow.”  Eyes rolling as the doorbell tinkles she murmurs, “Hope she doesn’t stretch it.  There’s a pre-order for that one next week already.”

Comment

A completely different take on the same photo prompt.  Always interesting to see where a photo prompt can take you!

Allotted Apportionments (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass)

Allotted Apportionments

Eyelids down, pitch; they sleep unknowing in their beds, as a slim form glides into view, illuminated here and there by the streetlights’ pale glare.  Do you see her yet in your mind’s eye?  Does she call for you, tonight, the dark daughter? 

The woman’s steps are sure, as she walks, the minimal breeze blowing her long skirts from her ankles, here and there.  A pattern of knots is twined throughout, interspersed at intervals.  The scroll is crumpled in her left hand.  Aisa pays it no heed.  No need. 

The Spinners crowd about her feet, either side, gambolling, gossamer threads flying from their limbs as they jump – up down - at her heels.  Their eyes gleam; their lips upturned – the knotted strands binding them together straining slightly as they seek to part from their partnership.  They need no telling.  They never raise the unwary before their time.  The measurements are too precise for disruption.  So has it been written into the Weaving.  Such is the command.

With a nod, her arm stretches, fingers pointing.  “There,” she says.  Her crouched companions hop in front to the nearby doorstep, fading briefly from view as they reach the burnished wooden frame.  She nods again and approaches it, after them.  She, too, passes beyond its barrier.

Inside, alone, she pauses at a doorway.  “My son,” she says.  Looking towards the one alongside it, she says, “My daughter.  We will see one another soon.  So states fate’s sight.”  With that, she turns, continuing along the corridor to the final room.  Entering, she makes her way to the bedside, where the Spinners sit grouped, waiting.  Their heads turn en masse, looking up towards their mistress.

Aisa leans, her shadow falling across the long length of the body beneath her.  A breath in, before beginning.

“Night night.  Sleep tight, child mine,” she says, smiling infinitesimally, eyes a solemn contrast, as she wields the sharp shears.  They snip – a single cut of separation.  One more, one less, is in their bed.  No outward sigh.  “Come, little ones,” she says.  “He’ll follow after.  The twins are still waiting.”

How many remain in her wake?  How heavy her toll tonight?

Comment

A slightly left field response to the photo prompt for this particular entry.  I enjoyed writing it though!

Our Final Dance (Angry Hourglass)

Photo prompt via The Angry Hourglass

They told me they took her heart pre burying her down deep.  Such were our instructions.  Specific to the last, when we could hide no more from it – from her.  For that, they thought us heartless.  They did not see them as they lay, bloodless; the vacant eyed stares, scattered across the parquet.  I scrubbed it myself until spotless, once they were gone; though I saw them still – could scarcely help it; after.  I had helped heft their weight, before the remainder.

She returns, red-eyed, against snow skin; cherry stain smudges at her lips; faded brown marks beneath her fingertips to face me, accusing.  I know well what we have done and that which we have failed in.  The dark spread pooling across her front tells its tale.  They tried for the liver.  They paid dearly for it.  She is rich with the toll – its metal tang clinging to her still, though she is not full.  Not now.  Not yet.  Not ever.

No need to call for her father – she has him with her, by the hand, between gripped nails.  A hopeful glance becomes hopeless, as I see he is cold beyond me, though I may join him yet before we are through.

“Daughter,” I say simply.  “Snow.”  The hand I hold out merits me a glance lacking recognition.  “My child.”  Her little legs are whittled into wastage – the ivory flesh pared to minimal covering over bone.  Her hair is pitch plastered to her skull.  She smiles sweetly, showing sharpened teeth.  The blood-shot gaze aimed towards me speaks for her.  With a thud, she discards her father’s arm – my previous prince – my once king – throwing him from her, to leave her own limbs free and able.  There is no helping her now – nor me, if I am accurate in my assessment.  I have seen the results of her handiwork when left to her own devices before.  There will be no savouring scraps beneath restraint for her.  Not now.  Nor for her, ever.

I loved her once, before.  Still now, I love her, ever.  I thought to save her this.  Instead, she forces me to dance final, failing steps for her.

Comment

Another piece for Angry Hourglass.  This one placed as Second Runner Up for the week.

The Crescent Quarters (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass)


The Crescent Quarters

They will take you to the Crescent Quarters on dark, moonless nights, if you know where to find them.  That is Test One.  Do you see them yet?  Those shadow silhouettes with painted faces, casting themselves as chameleon; as tricks of the light?  They are there to locate, once you know how; in the hidden spaces.  Once spotted, they show themselves immediately to the sharp eyed.  Such is the bargain they made, though no one knows with who or how it was arrived at.  The details remain shrouded; lost in time’s passing.  Perhaps they too will be rediscovered, though not today; not by you.  They are not your task.  You are already upon it. 

Will you take them by the hand, to let them lead you where they will?  That is Test Two, though none can say whether yes or no means pass or fail.  All stay silent on that score.  The decision is yours alone for the making.  You have taken it already. 

The way lies above ground, through the Long Ages; that you gather, as the white gloved hand leads on and into the dark.  You fancy their cries beat upon you, as the long, carved staff hits the ground; it’s constant click the audible companion to your own footsteps.  Your guide keeps his counsel, face forwards, dark eyes averted.  What do you hear?  What calls to you?  Is it the jolt towards justice?  The sound of sympathy?  What do you feel stir beneath your bones?  Is it the burn of revenge?  That is Test Three.  Multiple choice.  You have your answer ready.

The top hat bobs beside you, leading you further in.  Deeper; still deeper.  The shaded city is side to side now, its buildings all around you; its shadows upon you.  You hear them now, around you.  The souls stirring to meet you.  They hear you breathe; feel your heat amidst their chill.   

Your heart jolts as you realise it is you and them now.  Your guide has stolen silent from the scene, somehow; somewhere.  Now you have no choice.  You must find your own way back or remain amongst them.  It is your final test.

Comment

For some reason this picture prompt started me thinking about New Orleans and tours of the Quarter, which led me eventually to this little tale.  I might even try to expand on it, time allowing...

Wifely Wisdom (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass)

Wifely Wisdom

All Hallows Eve was the night Will lost his head.  Literally.  Fortunately, his wife had some insight, being versed in witchcraft, as she was.

“Not to worry, darling,” she said, as the body crawled over the threshold, “though you might want to wait there for a minute whilst we work something out – the blood’s staining the floors and I don’t want to have to worry about castings on top of this one.  We need the energies.”  The stump assented, as far as Cara could tell.  At least, it was dipping and swaying the right way.

“D’we know where and when you lost it?” she asked.  “A point in the general direction would save time in the searching, that’s all.”  Will’s finger hit the air aimlessly.  “I’ll take that as no,” Cara surmised.  “Guess that’s not so surprising, considering.”

Cara sighed.  “You know we’ll have to work quickly, given we don’t know where to look yet?”  Her husband’s neck waggled at her.  “No need to get tetchy!” Cara exclaimed.  “I’m not the one who got careless with my bodily bits on my travels.  Plus, I’m doing my best here, under pressure I might add!”  The stump subsided in its movements.

“Better.  Now, we need a substitute ‘til we find the real one.  I know just the thing.  Have it here.  Lucky it’s still intact.  Hadn’t gotten around to carving it.”  Cara moved towards the stove, placing both hands on the rounded orange object on the work surface.  “Might be a bit heavy,” she said, doubtfully.  “We’ll have to see.  Bend down, there’s a dear.”  Will’s body obliged, stumbling to kneeling.  “There we go!”

Cara thought for a moment, whilst the newly assembled body remained motionless.  “Nose and eyes,” she said, decisively.  “This might sting,” she warned, as she inserted the knife’s point into the pumpkin’s surface.  “Stay still.”  Will did, as she carved.  “Mouth will have to wait,” she said, after.  “I can only do so much magic at once and shedloads went into animating the head.  You can wait ‘til tomorrow, sweetheart, can’t you?” 

There was a pause before Will's body moved violently.  “That’s a yes, then,” Cara responded, placid.

Comment

I couldn't resist writing a slightly tongue in cheek entry for this week's photo prompt - this being the result.  This placed as one of the runners up for the week.

Ursilla (Angry Hourglass)

Photo by Ashwin Rao via The Angry Hourglass

Ursilla

Tam had clipped dutifully, shearing the horny substances crusted into her small palms and soles, amidst winces and squirming.  Slices of horn had formed slowly in their place; barriers harder to break down, spreading - finally - into webs between digits.  That had decided it.  Now, the water sings as he stitches stalks, liquid reach kissing his knees; needle driving through velvet thickness lit by moonlight.  Its point pierced his skin when salty distractions blurred his vision; the pin prick dulled now to numbness as he works onward, methodical, towards the finish.  Blood soaks the makeshift thread as it closes the gaps, sealing over the criss-crossed weeds hugging its breathing centre.  Dark eyes watch within as he does.  He would have the best for his girl.

Tam loses track of time in the driving of sharpened bone, one side to the other - finds himself keeping count of the tiny crosses closing over the X marked chest.  By the end the number is beyond him; no way of knowing.  Once fully sewn in and left with a fur filled sack requiring dispatch, he hefts his heavy burden further into the waters, holding her carefully still above the caresses of the cresting waves.  Tam looks further out; watching; waiting.  She had told him, though he hadn’t listened then.  No choice now – just as he had no choice then.  He is up to his middle, clothes sodden, arms outstretched, feet as yet holding firm beneath him.  She will know.  She will come at the waves’ calling.

A bobbing break in the surface announces the harem’s presence and Tam relieves himself of her weight, pushing her out into the depths.  His breath catches momentarily before he sees her borne aloft by semi sunken silk undulations; a rise and fall, out and into the beyond. 

Wading from the brine, Tam seeks higher ground, climbing cliff side stairs to glimpse her before she is gone completely; still cloaked in the salt’s sting, its traces tracked upon his cheeks, as well as clothing.  He will watch the distant specks a while longer, with the scent of the sea on his skin.  Until they swim from sight.

Comment

This one was written for The Angry Hourglass Flash-Frenzy-Round-37.  Somehow I found myself writing about selkie children and weaving hints from various folktales into my piece...  This one placed as First Runner Up for the week, which I was surprised and pleased by, given the number of incredible entries!

The Dispensary (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy Ashwin Rao via The Angry Hourglass

The Dispensary

Everyone ends up at The Dispensary eventually.  Some go beforehand to visit.  To feel better.  Temporarily.  Feeling worse afterwards.  Hollow.  Bereft.  One visit leading to another  and another.  The regular clockwork crowd crawling in.  Callum relies on them and they never let him down.  Whether they will or no, they can’t avoid their final visit here.

“Y’got it for me?” Jordan asks.

“As promised.  Pretty decent, all things considered.  Had compliments from the punters.  Kept her back special for you.  Had a feeling you’d be in today.”

“Pass her over then.”  Jordan reaches a hand to the dispenser, taking the slim vial from his grasp, pressing it to his lips.  He swallows it down, throat working once as it passes into his system.  The dispenser sees his eyes glaze immediately, hand curving on the counter, as it takes hold of him.  He breathes – in – out, expelling in a slow sigh.

“Sweet,” Jordan says.

“Rich, from what I’ve heard,” Callum responds.  “With body.”  He raises on eyebrow.

“Nice little number,” Jordan agrees.  “Not what I’m looking for though.”  “Guessing you knew already.”

“Might’ve had an inkling.  She’s special order though.  Still waiting for her to come in.”

“Any idea on timings?”

“Hard to say.  You know how it is.”

“Request’s been through some time now,” Jordan reminds Callum.

“Got folks on it, for what it’s worth.  She’ll come in.”

“Better do.”  The words are sharp.

“Everyone ends up here eventually,” Callum says.  “Just a matter of time.  Plus there’s a pretty decent palate to work your way through in the meantime.  Plenty of choice.  Daily deliveries.”

“Just not the one.”  Insistent.

“She’ll turn up.”  A pause.  “Try another in the meantime.  On the house.”  The dark glass is already in front of Jordan, liquid obscured behind the opaque surface.  His eyes light as he sniffs, savouring the scent, before gesturing at the colour of the receptacle.  

“Really?” Jordan asks.  “I’d have your sources if I wanted.   Sod them.  Told her I’d find her, one way or another.  She can’t hide forever.  Everyone ends up here eventually.  You said it yourself.  Just a matter of time, that’s all.  Then I’ll have her.”

Comment

This last week's story forThe Angry Hourglass  Flash-Frenzy-Round-36.  This one follows on from a previous Hourglass story I wrote, "Sampling Spirits".  It was plenty of fun to write!

The Invitation (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass)

The Invitation

You pass the door several times, circling the block, before making your way to the door, invitation in hand.  No need to check the number.  You know it is here.  The sign across the frontage is faded,  unobtrusive - in contrast to the fluorescent slivers of light moving behind the glass from side to side.  You touch a hand to it, watching as the school gather swiftly about your fingertips before flitting away once more.  The door swings outward, inviting you to enter; to pass beyond the velvet curtain inside, into the warmth.  The fabric parts and you move forward through its whispering folds, which hold the remnants of a rich scent you cannot place precisely between them.

Beyond them, a white gloved hand proffers the embossed tray to you.  You exchange the crumpled paper folded into your palm for one of the chilled morsels with a nod, placing it to your lips, head back, swallowing quickly; one gulp and gone.  The aftermath is the kiss of bitter sweet brine at the back of your throat.  Pinprick lights dance overhead, their steps reflected in the sheen of the polished floor beneath your feet, before dimming down into blur.  The room spins on its axis about you, as you ride your silken slide into oblivion, over and over, colour swimming circles, around and around.

You open your eyes to dark shadows clearing.  A deserted hallway lies before you, a door at the very end.  A peal of low laughter sounds from beyond its silence.  You make your way to its promise, tiny blasts of breath creating caresses of heat at the nape of your neck as you move closer.  It is almost time.  You know your way now.

Your fingers grasp the door handle firmly.  You hear the sharp click of the mechanism as you turn the ridged metal clockwise, opening the burnished wood wide on its frame.  You move through, eyes searching; expectant.  Now you see them in front of you; take a step towards them, raising a hand in greeting to the familiar faces, brushing with the other at your moist cheeks.  You are here.  Together again.  At last.


Comment

This one was written for this last week's Angry Hourglass competition.  I wanted to try something different and so put together a - slightly tricksy - sense oriented second person point of view piece.

Work In Progress (Writing Process Blog Tour)

I was honoured to receive an unexpected DM from the decidedly talented Jacki Donnellan requesting permission to co-opt me for the current Writing Process Blog Tour as one of her three writers whose work she enjoys recently – especially given how much I enjoyed her recent Angry Hourglass winner "I Serve" and the incredibly powerful and moving "Cynthia".  Add to that her impressive record over at Flash! Friday and fact that her micro poetry has recently been distributed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival (other publications aside) and I can only say thank you, given I’m well aware of the number of talented writers she could have chosen to feature – especially given I’m a relative newcomer to the flash fiction scene in real terms.

In appreciation of the opportunity afforded to me, on with the questions, before giving a nod to several great writers I’ve had the fortune to happen across during my time online…

What Am I Working On?

At the time of writing this entry I guess I’m currently juggling a number of projects and/or have more than one potential project bubbling away at the back of my subconscious, waiting to steal the forefront away from other current writing.  

In an average week there tends to be a steady mix of Twitter based micro poetry and flash fiction based prompts – or so I’ve found to date, this being only a ten odd month work in progress in terms of consistent writing for prompt/website/Twitter/whatever.  

Presently pending is my story “Dealbreaker”, a horror/mythology/urban legend mash up, which will feature in "In Creeps The Night" as of 30^th September 2014 – just in time for Halloween!  Alongside my own tale, a couple of other writers whose names will be/may be familiar are featuring.  I’m very much looking forward to reading the stories from them in due course!

I’m particularly looking forward to the opportunity to write for my writing group The Poised Pen's first Halloween based (and international) flash fiction competition (fellow “flash dogs”, do you have your ideas at the ready yet? ;)).  I also have four or so short chapters of a novelette length YA story in first draft format and the beginnings of something holding out for a darker steampunk premise – probably also likely to end up at novelette length unless it gets carried away with itself!  

Ideally I’m also aiming to head back into the world of music prompts via Mid-Week-Blues-Buster, now the competition’s recently returned from what was previously specified as an indefinite hiatus.  Given the opportunity, I quite enjoy the chance to write something slightly longer than two hundred or so words, as a bit of a change of pace.  Also – there can never be too many fictional words (or indeed worlds!) shared between writers, surely…

How Does My Work Differ From Others Of Its Genre?

As a couple of the writers who’ve posted on this topic before me have mentioned, I’m another writer (albeit fledgling seeking to spread my wings compared to a number of others I might care to mention!) who tends to play out ideas off the back of my reading matter and viewing experiences.  I suppose this explains why I’m prone to jump from a Milford style crossroads demon story to poetry prose on Atlantis, resulting in a mix of stories and poetry, as opposed to sticking completely to one particular medium/genre/sub-genre, given I’ll read anything ranging from Shakespeare to Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, depending on my mood.  Experience to date suggests that’s a habit which reproduces itself in my writing, to an extent.  

Having thought about it a little for the purposes of the blog post and with @TheShakes72's previous comment on Twitter about “imaginative takes” on prompts in mind, I guess it would be fair to say occasionally I consciously “subvert” prompts by writing for them at a tangent.  That’s probably me deliberately trying to stretch myself as a writer and make progress, given I always know there’s plenty for me to make as a relative newcomer to writing!

The very kind @DonnellanJacki tells me my writing is poetic, which might result from the musical “aspect” of my head.  Aside from a love of music in general terms, I used to be involved in an orchestra, meaning I tend to “hear” my story’s/poem's cadences in my head, dialogue included.  Occasionally, this means I can also “hear” the right fit for the patterns and the rhythm clicks into place.  Obviously, that’s on a good day!

Why Do I Write What I Write?

Partially because my fellow “Poised Penner” @zevonesque made reference to a number of flash fiction competitions at meetings a while back (alongside reading his own work), beginning with Flash! Friday and I followed up on the website links and have carried on writing flash fiction ever since… 

I liked the concept of writing “small scale” with a designated number of words and – to an extent – the immediacy that would demand with deadlines in mind as a way of getting back into writing, given I’d been scribbling bits of things down since a relatively early age but never really written regularly on an ongoing basis.  Given I’ve also been known historically to muse on how and why fiction works, I suspect my love for reading translates directly into seeking to work with words myself and – hopefully - establishing my own connections with fellow readers somewhere along the way.

Opportunity to practice writing aside (and hopefully improve too!), it’s given me the chance to frequent a number of great websites and become part of active, continuously supportive writing communities - Flash! Friday and Angry Hourglass being some of the first ones I came across.  (The corner of the internet frequented by my fellow “Flash Dogs”, particularly – you know who you are, all of you -  seems to be going from strength to strength over the recent weeks!)  I’ve also posted reasonably regularly at Mid-Week-Blues-Buster and Office Mango's "Horror Bites" challenges, as well as for @Angela_Goff's VisDare photo prompt and previously at Trifecta and Race The Date.

I guess I like trying to maintain an eclectic mix in terms of the types of prompts I’m writing for at any given time and the type of story they are likely to inspire, because it forces me to write beyond the boundaries of my “default”, which tends to be spec fic – something I read (and thus reproduce in writing terms) regularly.   

How Does My Writing Process Work?

I actually wrote a “How I Write” drabble about this fairly recently for the The Poised Pen's third anthology "Half Baked".  In essence, it depends on the prompt and how it “speaks” to me.  For online poetry prompts I tend to scribble the word prompts down by hand and pick one or two on any given date that I think I can work with.  Mostly, I work them through on paper before they make it into type and onto Twitter.  Occasionally, this means I end up having to cut them down to fit the requisite number of characters! 

With photo prompts, I like to make sure I’ve taken a look at them at an early stage to allow an idea to develop itself.  If I’m really lucky, I’ll have an idea straight away – sometimes accompanied by a line of dialogue belonging to the story, which I end up writing down on paper.  Occasionally, if I’m pushed for time but have a story idea I want to see through to completion I can end up typing straight away onto the computer screen with a deadline looming!  There’ve also been a couple of occasions I’ve found myself writing towards a specific ending without necessarily knowing how I’ll get there but my favourite stories are definitely those that somehow seem to write themselves along the way and where I get to surprise myself with where I end up…

Introduction To 3 Other Writers

It goes without saying that there are any number of extremely talented writers who could feature here – and, indeed, a number have already been tagged previously – justifiably - as part of the tour.

L E Jamez

Twitter: @LEJamez

Blog: http://www.officemango.com

Laura is a fellow flash fiction writer and author of the collection of flash fiction stories "Kitchen Antics", as well as running the "Horror Bites" horror flash fiction challenge over at Office Mango.com.  She is also involved in the soon to be published flash fiction anthology "In Creeps The Night". 

Laura already has her writing process blog tour post up here.

Casey Rose Frank

Twitter: @CaseyCaseRose

Blog: http://www.caseyonpurpose.blogspot.co.uk/ 

Casey is a fellow “Angry Hourglass” contributor (and back to back winner!)   Read her wonderful winning story "Communing With Nature" here and “Farmer’s Market” here.  She writes everything from quirky humour to stories involving powerful, human emotion and I always enjoy seeing what she creates in response to any given prompt.

Ruth Long

Twitter: @bullishink

Blog: http://www.bullishink.org/

Ruth is a fellow Office Mango "Horror Bites" flash fiction contributor whose ongoing The 12th Paladin series (written for the site's prompt) I've really been enjoying.  She's also written for a number of anthologies, as well as being due for inclusion in the forthcoming "In Creeps The Night".  Additionally, she's working on an urban fantasy novella.   

Ruth already has her writing process tour blog entry up here. 

Running The Gauntlet (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of TheShakes72 (via The Angry Hourglass)


Running The Gauntlet

They will be there, waiting.  They always are.  Leaning casually against the lockers at intervals along the corridor – wanting - needing - Mark to run their gauntlet.  Instead, he is crawling towards the group of guys standing between him and his exit into a world beyond theirs, within these walls.

“Div!”  Whispered words, tone low; still he hears them as he passes Daz, the first of them.  Already, he is retreating into himself, head tucked hidden, a small shouldered curling, feet sliding forwards, as though sticky substances seemingly glue them to the ground underfoot.  He feels them threatening to pull him in; to consume him with what they see.  He tells himself he cannot – will not - be devoured by their daily lessons in diminishing. 

“Spaz!”  Louder, as he walks passed Chris avoiding eye contact, then Mark is on his hands and knees, fingers outspread to catch himself, as his feet are out and from under him in one swift motion and he is feeling the friction burns on his skin; the dull ache in his leg in the aftermath of its initial contact with the floor.  His right ankle is a separate, competing sting.  Water threatens to spill and blur from his eyes.  He holds it in, heaving - in, out. 

Suddenly, they are circled surrounding him, silent, whilst he sprawls stunned on the cold tile, red stains from his grazes marking the otherwise ivory white, the broken frames of his glasses to his side. 

“See ya later, Specs!” Joe says, pointing into his face, he thinks, and they are turning en masse, walking away whooping with one another, leaving Mark to catch and calm his breath, which is still racing through his chest, along with the thud of his heart.

Mark breathes, eyes suddenly – thankfully - shut, constructing the layers of himself again from scratch, building them, bit by bit, spiralling forwards, upon each other, as best he can, whilst he remains closeted within darkness, keeping out external threats. 

Finally, he raises himself to his feet, with them steady beneath him, surface shell restored.  One day he will build layers such that they can’t hurt him anymore. 

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Another Hourglass entry - this time for Flash-Frenzy-Round-34.

Drowning Deep (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass)


Drowning Deep

Gazing into the murk over the flagstone clad edge, Lee wonders how it feels to drown - that surface struggle near-vertical, gasping at non-existent air and holding of breath whilst bobbing up, then down; further still, cloth soaked, floundering, arms grasping, windmilling, emoting mute bubbles; face tilted up towards what little shafts of light might make their way into the water’s midst.  He considers how long it would take him to sink towards submergence before he would be beyond saving.  He thinks he could hold his breath for perhaps thirty or so seconds – maybe slightly more – sixty? – ninety, max? - before being forced to inhale as his body betrays him, self-preservation’s survival kicking in, like his legs beneath him, though he would be weighted to drag himself down, choice pre made, for what that would matter then.

Splutter.  Cough.  Inadvertently imbibing more water.  Reflexive laryngospasm tearing and burning its way through his chest.   Squeeze slipping softly into a euphoric blanket of tranquillity - no movement now.  Unconscious sinking slowly towards a bottom he cannot see from his current vantage point – it is beyond him; far below and into the deep down depths.  He doesn’t know precisely how long it would take to hit rocky resistance; to reach his eventual end; he would be blue; a disappearance beyond recognition by that stage, in any event.  Finally a true water baby, colour gilled at the nail beds; liquid’s kiss at the lips.  He sees – knows - how it would be, at his conclusion.  Lee draws in air, pulse beating faster, heart pacing, as he considers the permutations in their possibilities.  The water laps beside him, silent companion in his contemplation. 

Lee takes a further deep breath – a beat - filling his lungs with air, expelling it slowly again - wholly, completely.  Again.  Another.  Now that he is certain, finally, Lana is not going to surface again, he feels free to walk away from the jutting ledge, pulling his toes from their previous curled position at its perimeter.   He doesn’t look back after he turns.

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Another entry for Angry Hourglass - this one for Flash Frenzy-Round-33.  Somehow this one wrote itself into quite a dark ending to produce the relevant twist in the tale!

Cuban Heels (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via Angry Hourglass Flash-Frenzy-Round-32)

Cuban Heels

Heat emerges from beyond Casino’s double doors, as Jay pushes them open and moves inside, tiny sombrero stamp displayed at his wrist.  The floor is full of bodies, improvisation at the ready.  Already he recognises integrated elements of Cha Cha Cha, Danzon and rumba, beyond the usual Dile Que No and a contratiempo.  The band – a short statured trio - Techichi tonight, he thinks - is playing for all their worth, sweat browed.  Still, he isn’t feeling it yet, though the music is hopping.

“Care to dance?” a female voice asks, behind him and he turns, taking in a flame coloured up do above green eyes, looking into his own, decided, daring him to say no.  He doesn’t.  Instead, they are up and onto the floor together, before he is thinking about it and she is pulling his arms around her into position, pre figures and turns.  She is close enough to him he can smell the remnants of a perfume he can’t quite place, before he realises he has missed his count and the beat is beyond him already and away.

“Sorry,” Jay mutters.  “Start again?”

“Sure,” his companion says, smiling a little.  “When you’re ready.”  She raises a pencilled eyebrow at him, eyes sparking. 

Jay looks away briefly, starts to count; to concentrate.  This time he has found the rhythm and they are in it together, hips noting the swing and away, break step firmly in place.  He finds she anticipates easily, given he has never been the strongest of leaders really; quick and graceful in her spins, single and double.  He senses, rather than sees, the looks they are garnering from others around them; knows they are down to his petite partner, who takes the credit.  Suddenly, he is grinning, pulse increased and the steps are sorting themselves, as they work the floor, two together, deep beneath the base.

“We’ll have to try that again,” she says, causing him to realise the song has slowed to a close.  Jay realises right then he could easily jump to her tune for time to come.  The concept doesn’t bother him much – and he doesn’t even know her name yet.

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Another Hourglass entry.  I couldn't resist writing a salsa based piece this week, given the photo.  The reference to the dogs is relatively subtle!

Chick With The Chat (Angry Hourglass)

Photo Courtesy of TheShakes72 (via The Angry Hourglass)

Chick With The Chat

Kev sees her sitting on the high stool at the bar when he arrives, all angled shoulders beneath slim spaghetti straps, kitten heels resting on the wooden struts, as she toys with her glass, fingers teasing at the rim.  He sits at the opposite end, leaving space between them, guessing a friend or two will return from the loo shortly, though they generally go in pairs, in his experience – or lack thereof.  Several minutes later and he figures he is safe.

“Okay there?”

“I was.”  No eye contact.  The tone is low, almost monosyllabic, though Kev can tell she hasn’t had a lot to drink.

“I meant can I get you anything?”

“Some sensible conversation?” she responds, raising an eye towards his; aquamarine and penetrating.

“You riding me?” Kev asks, serious.  “I didn’t mean anything by it.  Seriously.”  He holds his hands out in mock surrender.  “You just look like you could possibly do with another drink.  Simple as.”

The woman looks at him; considering.  “Okay.  Fair play.  This is gin, if you’re willing.”  Kev nods, gesturing to the bartender.  “It’s me who got taken for a ride, by the way.”

Kev nods again.  “Your guy?”

“Not mine anymore.  Someone else’s.  Apparently.  Wish I’d figured that out sooner, believe me.  Cue me sitting here – apparently talking to you, no offence.”

“None taken, as such,” Kev responds.  The woman shoots him an amused glance.

“You’re far too polite,” she says.  “You don’t mean that.  You’re thinking something along the lines of cut me some slack given I’m the guy decent enough to buy you a drink, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I am, at that,” Kev says, grinning a little.  The woman’s candour, whether generated by the gin or otherwise, is disarming.

“Mel,” she says, proffering a hand.

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Uh huh,” Mel says, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

“He really did a number on you, didn’t he?” Kev asks.

Mel gestures assent.  “Broken into bits, can’t you tell?  Not necessarily needing fixing though – just so you know.”  Kev senses she is laughing at them both.  He is gathering rapidly her process of repair is well underway, despite original appearances to the contrary.

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Last week's Angry Hourglass-Round-31 entry.  A slightly oblique take on the prompt but I went with something different on this occasion!

A Fairy Tale Existence (Angry Hourglass)

Photo via Ashwin Rao (courtesy of Angry Hourglass "Flash Frenzy" Round 26)


A Fairy Tale Existence

“It’s gotten beyond a joke!” Gerda exclaimed.

“More importantly, how do we stop it?” Kai asked.

They were gathered in Tale’s town hall to debate the question which had preyed on their minds as things reached crisis point.  That is, those who were still left to save their livelihood. 

“It’s not as though no one knows the score!” Beauty added.

“All right for you,” Goldie said.  “You’re not signed up for indentured servitude.  All you do is sleep.  Raw deal, that!”

“It’s not like I picked, is it?” Beauty responded.  “Besides, aren’t we missing the real point?  The Prince is already trekking in search of Psyche, which flies in the face of pretty much everything, including genre.  Cinders doesn’t care – says she’s sick of re-enacting their first date, anyway; that it got stale on repeat.  Plus, there are only so many times you can fake excitement about an old shoe – even a Choo.  Her words – not mine.”

“Snow’s happy,” Lina said.

“Happy with Happy,” Red observed.  “Hadn’t heard that?  Recent thing, unsurprisingly.”

“Fair play,” Kai said, eyebrow raised.  “Though maybe not in the current climate,” he added, in response to glares from several directions.

“You know there are gaps in the stories already?” Beauty said.  “They’re going to notice, even if they do know them by heart and don’t have to get the books out each time.  Stands to reason.  We’re going to be found out.”

“Don’t make this a group thing!  I didn’t agree to a character strike!” Wolf interjected, teeth flashing.  “Some of us know our place!”

“Which is fine when our place is eat not be eaten,” Red responded. “Grandma’s obviously not here pre regeneration to have her say.”

“We’re heading for revolution,” Lina said, glumly. “Had to happen sometime, given current role distribution.”

“If Tale Town and fairy tales full stop are going to carry on existing we have to sort this,” Beauty said.  “Think, people!”  The characters tried to, before they faded from black on the page, to grey, then white on white, confronted by their overwhelming rigidity.  Perhaps they should have been more like the Prince, after all, if they were to save themselves. 

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Another "Hourglass" entry based on the photo prompt.  Again, I tried to do something slightly different with this one, given a couple of more serious entries.

On The Run (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via Angry Hourglass Flash Frenzy Round 25)


On The Run

It had started with the dreams.  Now Maddie was trekking in the midday sun, backpack creating sticky patches between her shoulders, clasping Phil’s hand, as his feet dragged in the dirt.  Helen was ahead with Kat, Seb piggy backing on her shoulders.  “Are we there yet?” Phil asked.

“Nearly,” Maddie answered, between breaths and a wipe of her brow.

 “You said that last time!” Phil protested.  “I’ve counted three hundred steps since then!”

“Sorry, sweetie,” Maddie said.  “We can’t stop.  Not yet.  We’re still too close.”

“To what?” Phil demanded. 

Maddie gave his hand a tug.  “Just a little further, I promise.”   Phil sighed, trainers stumbling on the parched grass.  “Okay up front?”

“Yep,” Helen said, glancing briefly at Maddie.  “This is right, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Think so,” Maddie answered.  “No way we could’ve stayed, anyway.  Not after Tess and Dan.”

“Little pitchers, waggling ears,” Helen said tersely.  Maddie made eye contact, raising her eyebrows, before letting out a long breath.

“Point,” she conceded.  They were several miles from the village, yet it loomed behind them, in the dip of the valley.  Maddie wanted it gone, though that wouldn’t rid her of the memory of makeshift wooden markers driven into arid mud.  She sighed again.  “Still wish we’d cottoned on sooner. Might have brought a couple more with.”

“No way to know,” Helen said, “without being psychic.”

Maddie gave her The Look.

“Sorry,” Helen said.  “Wasn’t really thinking.”

“It just bugs me,” Maddie said.  “Having so little to go on.  It’s not like there’s a clear thread through it.  Wish there was.”

“Don’t we all,” Helen responded.  “We’re here, though.  Let’s work with that.  Time to crack on.”  She hefted her rucksack, shifting it into position across her shoulders.  “Ready?”

Maddie nodded, trying to clear her head of the missing.  She hated that it was kids; that she saw them slip through the cracks, at night.  Never a trace by morning; just gone.  Prayed that she was right to take them away, to seek to escape it.  Couldn’t quite dismiss the image of the flower bedecked crosses atop the lofty hills.  She could recall how many there had been.

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Another "Angry Hourglass" entry.  This came second!