Cirque de la Vie

Delighted to announce that my short story, Cirque de la Vie, has been placed as a runner up in the Retreat West quarterly circus themed competition! 

Part of my prize was to have the story professionally recorded by a voice artist...and I have to say it's flippin' awesome! There are all sorts of background noises that add to the atmosphere of the story. You can listen to it here:

It was a story that came to me all at once. I wanted to include various circus performers or acts, and I had in my head 'the circus of life' as a working title. But which characters or acts to link to which aspects of life? 

As is the way with stories, it combines fiction with life in places - I loved the Bat Out of Hell musical; I was a lumbering lump when pregnant with Squidgeling T, and that really is what the midwife said to me when he was born! 

If you want to see what the judge had to say about it - or read the story rather than listen to it - you can find it here.

Some Personal Thoughts On Flash (Fiction)

Image from Flash Gordon Returns! My big blonde crush
Friday July 31 2020, 12.01am, The Times

Flash! Ah-aaah! Yes, I think the film's barmy and brilliant, but that's not what this post's really about...

On this site, I've often posted short stories that have come about as a result of a writing prompt. (The 'Free Fiction' page will take you to a list of links if you've not read any of them before.)

I've always called them 'flash fiction' as they are quick to read - though not necessarily to write - and most of them have a definite beginning, middle and end as you'd expect from any story.

I entered a piece into a flash competition recently - it's been longlisted and I'm waiting to hear whether it gets any further - so I must be doing something right? But I have to admit that, when I read competition-winning flash, my confidence in my ability to write it usually takes a nosedive.

Does it sound awful to say that I don't understand some of these winning entries? I read one recently that appeared - to me - to be a random putting-together of unrelated sentences. I had no idea what the story was. It felt as though the author was trying to be really 'literary' and in doing so, the story (whatever it was) was hidden so deeply in the prose that I couldn't find it. It had been shortlisted with  others - the majority of which I found equally as confusing to make sense of.

Now I'm certainly not dissing flash fiction as a form; there is very definitely an art to writing a story in very few words that still has impact and takes the reader on a journey. I actually enjoy the challenge of condensing the essence of a story into 500, 250, 100, even 50, words. Every single word needs to earn its place, there needs to be a story although it may not be slap-you-in-the-face obvious, and the ending often lies rather more open-ended than you'd get in a novel, hinting at possibilities rather than drawing a definite line under the action. It's very, VERY different to writing a novel.

I'm no expert, either - though there are plenty of other authors who are. 

When I do compare my own flash pieces to those of other authors - especially to those that are long- or short-listed - most of the time mine feel too simple. I'm not sure how they could ever stand out in a field of poetic prose and deeply hidden plot. I mean, I realise I must've caught the judges' eye for some reason to have been longlisted with the current piece, but it's still on the surface a very simply written story. I can tell you that I think it's good, because it's clever in its structure, but the language is simple and there's no attempt to hide the story as it moves through from start to finish. 

Of course in any competition, however good your piece is, it needs to connect with the reader/judge. If it doesn't - for whatever reason - then you probably won't be placed. Sometimes, you get lucky, other times not. 

I think I'm coming round to the idea that I have to write flash in the way I can, not in the way I can't - that I essentially have to keep in mind the voice I want the piece to have, and that my natural style leads to a simpler prose compared to other authors. I need to embrace that I am a different kind of author. And I musn't try too hard to be something I'm not, making sure to work to my strengths rather than focusing on my perceived weaknesses. 

Then, when I read the flash of others and perhaps don't understand their particular nuances, I have to remind myself to stop making comparisons. I need to accept that each author knows what they were aiming to achieve, and sometimes the reader/judge will get it, sometimes they won't. Either way, it's probably less a reflection on the author and more on me as the reader.

I'll keep writing flash of course - it keeps the old brain ticking over with new ideas - and submitting to competitions, but only if the piece feels really, really good to me. 

A little bit of flash...The Midsummer Madness

Wrote this for the 'Midsummer Madness' themed monthly competition in the Den of Writers...it was chosen as winner. (I get to set July's challenge now).

Anyway, I thought I'd share it with you, 'cos I'm rather proud of this one. It's less than 400 words.

The Midsummer Madness

“Are ye well prepared?”

Aliz nods, her eyes wide and dark in her face. “I soaked the rope in rosemary water like ye said, an’ the pegs were whittled fresh from holly.”

“Good. And the other?”

“I have it.”

No tremor in her voice. Will she remain as unaffected if she is forced to use it?

“Good.” I tap my finger on my top lip and glance around the clearing. Have I missed anything? The symbol is marked on the floor with white flour, thick black candles stand at each of its points, the jug is filled with rosewater… “Let’s get on, then.”

Aliz sprinkles the rosewater and the scent of summer blooms hang heavy in the air, masking the rancid stench of fear.

The earth is warm through my shirt when I lay within the floured sign. I keep silent as the still-damp ropes bite into my wrists and ankles, their aroma sharp and cutting against that of the roses. The ground vibrates under me as the pegs are hammered in and the other ends of the ropes secured.

Curtains of black hair frame her face when she leans over me.

“Is all done?”

She nods.

“Ye will stay by me, and watch to see if the madness descends?”

“Aye, my love.” She brushes my lips with her own.

“And if it does, ye will end me?”

Her eyes close then, shutting me out. But she nods. Again.

“Then move to yon trees and wait. Keep the blade near.”

I turn my face away so I will not see her leave. So little time we’ve had, Aliz and I, but if the madness descends on me, as it does on some men on the Midsummer of their twenty-fifth year, she will at least have something to remember me by.

Pray hope the babe in her belly is a girl, for I would not wish this uncertainty on any son. And I doubt I have Aliz’s strength to end a life if, by some miracle, I survive this night.

National Writer's Day

No, I didn't know there was one either! But there is, led by First Story. You can find out more about it here , but essentially it aims to promote and celebrate the pleasure and power of creative writing.

As part of the day, there's a challenge... 

HOW TO DO THE #247 CHALLENGE:

1. Write a 24-word story on a piece of paper (or record on video) starting with ‘One day…’
2. Take a photo of your story or take a photo of yourself with your writing
3. Share your original pieces of writing via Twitter, Instagram or Facebook, using #247challenge.
4. Tag three friends!

Simple! Why not have a go?

Here's mine:

When a picture paints (not quite) a thousand words...

Late posting this - life seems to be running away with me rather at the moment, but I'm working on the view that it's better late than never!

Last week's NIBS meeting was all about pictures. Each of us took a picture prompt to the meeting and when we'd seen all of them, chose one to write about. There was a magnified damsel fly's head, a monk-scribe, ladies at Ascot wearing fabulous hats, a fantasy castle, and a tray set out with a teapot and cups. Mine was a picture of a robot, surrounded by piles of books and reading a large book, which in spite of some other interesting pics, I decided to use. The piece isn't finished or very polished, but you can see the shape of it and what it might become;

The order came through to Z38's digi-brain at 26:03.1. 

CLEAR LEVEL MINUS THIRTY TWO.

ACKNOWLEDGED Z38 shot back to digicentral, before beginning its descent. By 28:13.2, it had reached its destination. Without hesitation, it pulled the incinibin towards the first pile to be destroyed.

Z38 worked methodically, selecting precisely a 3 span measurement to fit the incinibin's opening. Even if that meant taking a portion of a whole; the programme would not allow a deviation in thickness of more than 0.1 span.

Alone on the level, Z38 worked on, clearing pile after pile, until the inbuilt timescan hit 30:03.0.
Somewhere in the circuitry, a new connection was made. Z38 froze. And accepted a new order.
Then, it selected 0.765 span of material, a measurement precisely contained within two battered but still solid retaining boards. 

Z38 lowered itself onto a pile measuring 2.5 span and flipped the top retaining board open. Inside were thin sheets of material, covered in an unfamiliar code...which Z38 assimilated and sent to a computer system beyond digicentral's reach, where a printer began churning out the assimilated code.

'IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES, IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES...' 


Our second exercise was to write using the same picture for everybody. I'd chosen two along similar themes, and couldn't decide, so I asked the group 'black and white, or colour?' They chose black and white. Here it is:

We had all sorts of pieces resulting from just this image... A dark world, where the mask was used to suck juice - but if the juice touched your lips, the penalty was death; a dialogue between the crow and the man with eyes to the right and nose to the left; a museum of mannequins, with the murder victim hidden behind the mask; a devious plot which used the mechanical crow as a device; a masked fancy dress celebration, where the eyes gave away the identity of the person... And then I wrote something really dark! (With a nod to Rod Duncan, whose novel The Queen of All Crows gave me the idea for the title of the man...)

The Keeper of Crows surveyed the land from the same knoll where previously, the King had stood and watched too. Royalty had long since departed - round about the same time it became obvious that victory lay with The Elite, not the peasantry.

There would be few spoils of note on this field, for the peasants had had little. In fact - and a low chuckle sounded in The Keeper's throat at the thought - they had much less now, for even their lifeblood was leaving them, draining into the soil and turning it to red-brown mud.

Even so, The Keeper would send the automaton to lead the flock and find what petty pickings there might be. The royal side had not been completely unscathed; Sir Arndal had fallen, and Count D'Eakk. Their jewel studded armour would be stripped soon enough if the birds went in fast.

The battle was drawing to a close. The Keeper could sense it. If he waited much longer, the human scavengers would begin the crows' work, chancing their sight on plucking loot from the dead and dying before his feathered conspirators descended to snatch back the treasure...and maybe an eye or two while they were at it.

The Keeper scratched the place where the mask's edge always caught his cheek, thankful that his true identity was contained behind the golden beak. Then he flicked the switch on the automaton and threw it into the air, his heart leaping as it took flight. A million black birds responded, erupting from the tree tops behind him. 

It feels to me like there's more to this particular story...I may turn it into a longer piece, as I have a challenge coming up and I can sort of see where my tentative ideas for that might benefit from a character like this...

NIBS - 'First'

We had a full house for NIBS this week, our first meeting of 2018! So it seemed only appropriate to have a theme of 'First' for the evening.

We kicked off with a short warm-up, of three words. The words could be taken as three nouns, or two nouns and a verb, as one could've been used for either.

Some great hilarity ensued, as folks produced either multiple sentences for different selections of words, or produced a short section of text based on just one.

My own offering is what follows, based on 'Ghost, Wheelbarrow, Watch.'

The ghost of the first gardener kept watch over the wheelbarrow. That's what they told me.

I didn't believe it of course, not until the day I ran it into the potting shed wall and put a great dint in it. The wheelbarrow I mean, not the wall. 

Course, I left it. Was only a wheelbarrow after all.  

Nothing went right the rest of that day. There was compost spoiled, pots broken, and stems snapped.

"You've got to knock the dent out," Seb told me. "The First Gardener (and yes, he gave it capital letters) won't let you get on until you do."

"Rubbish," I muttered, and ignored the dent. Up until I cut my finger for the umpteenth time taking apple cuttings. I threw down the knife. "Right, have it your way." I stomped over to the wheelbarrow and did what I could. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but I gave the wheel a drop of oil to make up for it.

"Will that do you?" I asked no-one in particular. "Will you let me work in peace tomorrow?" 

If I believed in ghosts, I'd have said that someone breathed 'that'll do' in my ear.

But I don't. And they didn't.

I've never run the wheelbarrow into any walls since, though.

The only problem with having a full house of eight members meant that the feedback took a bit longer than normal, so we launched ourselves into the second task as quickly as we could, whilst still allowing enough time to share whatever we were going to write.

I'd found out and scanned a selection of first pages from novels at home, trying to cover as many different approaches to openings as I could. I asked the NIBSers to choose one, read it, and at a point of their choosing, continue writing the story... One sentence was the minimum requirement.

Unfortunately, I'd given the group far too much choice of potential text to use; I tend to be quite impulsive in my own choices when doing these types of activity, and can make a decision quickly. But others within the group had a much harder job deciding because I'd overwhelmed them with too much choice. Eventually, everyone picked something, and silence descended as we scribbled. (As a result, our February meeting theme will be 'One' - a single picture to provide inspiration AND cut out choice completely!)

The results from these continued first pages were amazing. Some remained in the idea stage, because of course we have planners as well as pantsers among our merry little band, and although the planners knew what they wanted to achieve, they hadn't written anything 'finished' to read back. Those who are pantsers produced some fabulous work, very emotive in some cases and full of laughter in others. I would have to say that the quality of several of the pieces were worthy of submission to competitions, and I told their authors so!

If we'd had more time, we'd have tried to work on another short piece, based around first prize, first glance, first love, first person or first encounter. But we didn't, so I offered it as homework to anyone who wanted to scribble a bit more between meetings.

Anyway, here's what I wrote, based on the opening sentence in my friend Jody-Klaire's book, The Empath.

'My problem is that I know too much.' That's why they're after me, sir. I tried not to see, tried not to listen, but when you need to light the fires, you have to go into the bedrooms while they're sleeping.

If they didn't want anyone to find out, they should've been more careful. She should've woken him early, pushed him out from under the bedclothes to get dressed in his night-chilled shirt while she stayed warm in the love nest they'd created.

I promised not to tell, I did. And I wouldn't, cos I've seen with my own eyes what they do the ordinary folk caught up in a lovemeet. Effra knows what they'd do to those as important as the Chairman of Elders and the White Woman.

No, I wouldn't tell. But they woke, and seemed to think I might, so they gave me a headstart. Until the sun rises, that's all the time they gave me before they started after me. When they catch me, they'll silence me.

So excuse me sir, but I have to run... 

I feel quite fired up about writing at the moment - long may my enthusiasm continue! And these two bits of flash feel like a good start to the new writing year.

#sfh2 - Paperback release

Did you know that:

* According to Shelter, 65,000 families will be homeless this Christmas.

* At least one more family becomes homeless in Britain EVERY TEN MINUTES.
* There are 250,000 homeless people in England. That's a quarter of a million!
* 300,000+ in Britain.
* In the worst hit areas, 1 in 25 people are homeless.
* Last year, the lowest number of socially rented homes were built in 71 years. 71 YEARS!
* Tory austerity is linked to 120,000 deaths, according to a study in BMJ Open (medical journal).

These figures are shocking and unacceptable. The numbers seem too big for us 'little people' to do anything about. We are left feeling helpless and hopeless in the face of such desperate need...

Except... Today, you CAN do something to make a difference. YOU can help Shelter, the charity which helps and supports people suffering from bad housing and homelessness. And all because a collective of wonderful people have given their time and skills for free to put together and publish a second anthology of short stories on the theme of home, with every penny of the profits going direct to Shelter. 

Today is Paperback Launch Day:

Stories for Homes, Volume 2 (#sfh2) contains over 50 stories in paperback for £12.99. Already out on kindle, (£5.99) the book has received nothing less than 5 stars in every review it has received so far. We - the folk who've been involved in both the book and the online anthology, as well as everyone who helped with the cover artwork, blog tour, publicity, and line up of events to launch the book - are hoping it will be every bit the bestseller that the original Stories for Homes anthology was.

The paperback - looking good

And we'll achieve it, with your help. Please - buy the book. For yourself, or as a present. Tweet. Share. Retweet the tweets you see. Buy the ebook. Blog about it. Read it. Make a noise about it! Do all of it, knowing that you - yes, YOU - are making a difference and helping Shelter to ensure there's help for those caught up in bad housing or homelessness both now, and in the future. We already know they appreciate it: 

To finish, there's one other statistic I'd like to share with you. 

71 - the official number of deaths at Grenfell Tower; the anthology is dedicated to the victims of that tragedy.  

 

Put your best foot forward...

I've an excuse for being a bit quiet on the blog recently - the next round of edits arrived for Kingstone, so I've been working through them to make sure Bink have the completed and polished version in plenty of time for publication in June.

I've still been scribbling, though: I've entered a couple of competitions with some flash and a couple of short stories I've written for other things (I don't usually go for comps as they can be very expensive, but these are local and somewhat cheaper than usual) and I've been scribbling with NIBS.

Last month's theme for NIBS was feet.

We kicked off with a description of a walk, and there were plenty to go on... A favourite walk on the parade at Wells-next-to-Sea; a walk in shared silence with a family member; favourite moments from walks with the dog; a walk to school, and a list of sayings which involve walking - like 'a walk in the park', 'walk this way', Ministry of Silly Walks' and so on.

Then we had some story openers, choosing one from the following:
One more step...
Her feet were killing her...
There was something on her shoe...
The floorboards creaked under her feet...
The bloody footprints led to the basement door...

I chose 'one more step' and wrote a rather fractured piece about a rogue muck raker robot that had its 'head' knocked off by a farmer... I know. Bananas!

And then we turned to pictures for our final task. You know the saying, 'If you want to understand a man, you have to walk a mile in his shoes'? I thought it'd be a good idea to find some photos of different shoes and we could write about either the people who they belonged to, or the shoes themselves.

However, in my quest for something a bit different to farmer's boots or slippers or stilettos, I typed in 'Ridiculous shoes'.

Oh. Boy.

I found centaur feet shoes. Rattlesnake cowboy boots. Winged biker boots. And then I found a pair of crocodile shoes. So here's my short story for you to enjoy...


Crocodile Shoes.

The advert seemed innocent enough.

One pair crocodile shoes. Worn once. Size 7. £15. Collection only.

Crocodile costs. You've seen those designer bags...hundreds of pounds, if not thousands. And here's a pair of shoes going for less than twenty quid? Fashionistas like me know a bargain when they see it. I whipped the card off the noticeboard and rang the number as soon as I got home.

"Yes, we've still got them. Cash only. Bartock's Shoes. Midden Way. Behind the Post Office, you can't miss us."

The windows were streaked with grime and plastered inside with brown paper and flattened out shoe box lids. I pushed the door open and walked in.

"I've come to collect the crocodile shoes."

"Oh yes. Money?"

I counted out three plastic fivers.

A wooden shoe box - wooden? - was thrust into my hands, and I was outside and on the pavement before I could say "thank you", propelled by hands that felt even keener than my own.

"But - " I turned back.

The open sign flicked to closed.

I trudged home in the rain, clutching my bargain to my chest, resisting the urge to peek. The wait would only increase the pleasure...

Inside at last, I prised the lid loose, shut my eyes and held my breath as I slipped my hand inside.

Snap!

I screamed and snatched my hand back, staring in disbelief at three fingers and two bloody stumps.

Crocodile shoes. They weren't kidding, were they?

Getting in touch with my dark side

Last night, we had our monthly NIBS meeting. I chose to take the paint sample cards again as we'd had fun with them in the past and after my recent school visits, I have *ahem* obtained quite a few more to choose from... (Mind you, I resorted to sending Squidgeling J into B&Q last time because I think the staff are beginning to recognise me...)

Special mention HAS to go to AT, whose piece had us all laughing again. I've mentioned before that Valspar, the company who produce these paints, have a creative team working on names for the thousands of different shades they produce. In a nutshell, AT's piece was about a member of that creative team; a gentleman who, after years in the job, finally went a bit doo-lally because there were only so many names he could come up with for 'pink'!

I chose 'Skein of Blue' to start with, but nothing gelled so I plumped for 'Ceremonial Ochre' instead. Ended up with this (unfinished) piece:

The priest pounded the red earth, mixing it with great gobs of his own saliva into a paste. Aleeka shuddered, knowing that before long, some of the revolting mixture would be smeared across her forehead.

Payter's grip tightened on her upper arms. "Don't show them you're scared," he hissed into her ear.

"I'm not scared," she growled back.

"You should be."

And yet she wasn't. Even though she knew that smear of paste on her skin would mark her out as the village's latest sacrifice. 

No-one ever came back from the cave. You knew you were as good as dead as soon as you picked out the black pebble from the reindeer skin bag. Aleeka had stared at the stone, numb and disbelieving, looking up only when her mother's ululations broke the silence of the choosing ceremony.

She had since been guest of honour at her own death feast, her face whited out with ash so that all present would know she was not of this world any more. 

Fear had not figured in her emotions then, and now she experienced only raw excitement...

Might be the start of something bigger, I think. Today, I've used some of this and combined it with an older bit of flash (also created at NIBS) into a piece of flash for a competition. That means I can't share it with you yet - but of course I'll share when it doesn't win and I can do what I like with it. *winks*

Our second activity used a rather unusual resource. Have you seen those sets of postcards based on book covers?

I picked a set up from an 'unwanted Christmas present' stall at church; the box contained 100 Penguin classic book covers. I'd thumbed through them and though I'd heard of many of the titles, there were even more I hadn't. Like...The Case of the Curious Kitten. August is a Wicked Month. Vile Bodies. Kiss Kiss.

So I sorted out a few with a darker feel to them and challenged the group to visit their Dark Side. Sweet Danger, Not to be Taken and The Half-awakened Wife were picked by the others for their grisly and gruesome stories, but I chose Vile Bodies... It wasn't really so much a story I wrote as a racist handbook, something that might figure in a dystopian novel. See what you think...

Among a homogenous race, the vile body must be removed. Consistent standards must be maintained at all life stages. Aberrant forms will not be tolerated.

Height charts will be consulted to ensure growth patterns are within normal range. Excessive growth will be curbed and insufficient growth encouraged by compulsory chemical intervention.

Regular weighing will dictate dietary requirements and exercise regimes.

Skin colour will be restricted to shades B26 to B71. And shades outside of this range will require bleaching or UV exposure as necessary.

Sensory perception will be maintained at 90% effective, minimum. Intervention techniques may be used between 80 and 90% effectiveness, but anything under 80% will not be tolerated. 

Bodies which do not meet homogeneity standards will, in the first instance, be corrected. If correction fails or bodies are deemed to be vile and beyond correction, then euthanasia is preferable.

*shudders*

It seems that the writing mo-jo is definitely switched on again,,,even if it is churning out some shadowy stuff! Hooray!

A little piece of flash - The letter

Today, I'm cheating a bit here, because The Letter is being published over on the Randoms' website, not here on the Scribbles, to help promote our latest anthology: Something Rich and Strange.

It's a prequel or scene setter, I suppose, for the events you'll read about in my anthology story - Gold - which combines what might have happened after Ali Baba discovered his fortune around the time of the Gold Rush with legends of American Indian gold mines...

Enjoy.

The Letter.

A new anthology

Just before Christmas, Something Rich and Strange was published, the second anthology from the Random Writers.

It's been well received so far - there are some stunning stories, written by both published and unpublished (as yet. Watch this space) authors. To raise awareness of the anthology, the Randoms have written short pieces of flash or blogs, which will appear on the website over the next few weeks.

My own flash, The Letter, is a kind of scene setter for the events you'll read about in Gold, my contribution to the anthology. It'll be posted up on the Randoms' website on the 21st January, but there will be other juicy morsels before and after. Today, you can read a fascinating encounter with wolves by L Wilson for example. I'll make sure a reminder pops up here during my absence...

Forgot an important birthday...

The big day completely passed me by... no card, co cake, no celebration of any kind.

Ooops. Poor Scribbles.

Because - can you believe it? - Squidge's Scribbles has been up and running for 2 whole years as of last weekend! Two years!

Happy Belated Birthday, Squidge's Scribbles!

And what a year it's been... all 135 posts of it!

As regular readers will know, this blog was set up first and foremost because I'm an author.

The last twelve months have seen the publication of several short stories in KlicBait Volume 1 and A Seeming Glass, as well as the second book of Granny Rainbow stories - More Granny Rainbow. I've been on author visits, held reading sessions at the library and helped to set up a local creative writing group, NIBS (otherwise known as the Nanpantan Improving Body of Scribblers!) I went to the Festival of Writing in York again, and raised money for charity through auctioning my books for Comic Relief and Authors for Nepal. I continued to write bits of flash fiction and shorts, posting them here on the blog for you to enjoy.

The highlight of my authorly year was the news that, after spending last November editing StarMark (I did NaNoEdMo instead of NaNoWriMo), the novel was picked up by Bedazzled Ink in the US and will be published this autumn.

I discovered that I like writing 'nasty' and after a setback on Ani's story, I began a brand new story as part of my 100 days of writing challenge I set myself (working title - The King Stone) and I'm delighted to say that after 65 days (out of 76 days since I began) the s****y first draft is almost finished!

Oh - and the Scribbles won their first award!

But it's not just writing that I blog about. You're just as likely to find me writing about home and family. Like the problems we had with the new bathroom, or when the stove was fitted. Or I'll tell you about flower arranging with toilet rolls, or wedding bouquets or the Miss Piggy rose... Being a photographer's model... Relaxing with some colouring in... My skiing holiday... Perhaps even what Mr Squidge has been up to...

And you - lovely reader of the Scribbles - you've probably been with me for a goodly chunk of the past year, haven't you? There are over 50 of you officially following this blog, but I know many more dip in and out to see what's going on in my life. It's still a surprise to me when someone says they've seen my latest blog post, especially if I don't know they 'follow' me - it can feel sometimes like I'm just writing this for my own pleasure. (Which I probably am because it's my on-line diary!) I forget that I've invited you in to share it as well...but I love the fact you're here! Thank you for still being interested.

So - Happy Birthday to the Scribbles, and let's see what this next year brings to celebrate around the time of a third birthday...

National Flash Fiction Day 2015

Today is National Flash Fiction Day. There are loads of great flash pieces going up on the internet throughout the day - as well as special events in lots of places. Or check out the shorter pieces on the 'Free Fiction' page here on the Scribbles...

To celebrate, I'm posting a little bit of flash myself. The story was inspired by a particular shade of red on a paint chart, called...

Planet Fever.

No-one escaped that planet unaffected. It didn’t matter how long you were there, you got changed. Altered, mutated, transformed…into something you never were before.

It wasn’t anything obvious. You didn’t come back with two heads or sprouting horns after a single visit. No. The symptoms took time to show, and then presented as a hint of blue on the end of a finger or a patch of purple at the edge of your mouth. Like a bruise, except the colour never faded.

It wasn’t contagious, but the marks were viewed as a badge of honour almost. Singled you out as having been there, once. Maybe twice.

The weak returned more often of course. Couldn’t resist the pull of the Pleasure Pools, the only reason anyone ever visited the planet in the first place. They weren’t hard to spot.

I remember something written in an ancient text – a story for children, I think – where a girl turned purple-blue and blew up like a balloon because she couldn’t get enough of something. They ‘de-juiced’ her. Seriously. That’s what they did in the story.

The multi-timers are left the same colour as that girl in the text, but there’s no de-juicing. No need. As the colour deepens and spreads, those who have been repeatedly infected just…dry out. Become husks. Sapped of life – and juice – until they die.

But it wasn’t contagious.

At least, it never used to be.

Except…

Except, look at me. I’ve never set foot on the planet myself, and I’m a nice shade of blueberry, with skin stretched paper-thin across bones that can barely hold me up. And dry. So dry…

I am not the only one.

I wonder sometimes, was the pleasure worth it?  

Challenge Me (May 2015) - The story.

It's going up a little later than I planned - sorry! - but here's the story from the Challenge Me post. Family Squidge picked their favourite combo, which happened to be bdcharles' thoughtfish, something polyodorous, and the Sam Bentley Correctional School for Girls. 

I'm struggling with a title for it at the moment...but I'll add one as soon as I think of it!

In the meantime, hope you enjoy this short story.

Amelia Maybelove stood as tall as she could, which wasn’t easy.

She’d been blessed with many things, had Amelia – a good eye, a quick hand, a keen nose – but height was not one of them. Even so, she would not allow the scorching gaze of Master Bentley to cause her to shrink further.

The Hall of Judgement held the sort of silence that can only ever be made by over two hundred girls holding their breath. Amelia could feel their eyes on her back, watching, waiting. How many of them had done worse than she had, to earn a place in the Sam Bentley Correctional School for Girls? And how many had done less…?

‘So.’

The single word dropped into that silence, spreading ripples of fear through its audience. Even Amelia felt a shiver, in spite of her promise to herself, that she would not give any of the Masters the satisfaction of seeing how scared witless she was.

‘Amelia Maybelove, You stand before us–’ Master Bentley indicated the men sitting either side of him behind the wide oak table.

To his right was Master Crastor: fat rolls pouring over his high collar, stomach straining jacket buttons to bursting point, dabbing with a giant handkerchief the sweat beading his forehead.

To his left, Master Hodkins: skeletal, grey-skinned, peering at her over the top of his seeing-eyes. A veritable husk of a man.

Amelia’s eyes slid back to Master Bentley. He was almost handsome: good jaw, strong cheekbones, no grey in his hair. But add the edge of flint in his eyes and a hint of cruelty at the corner of his mouth…

He was still talking. ‘…your actions. You have come here direct from the perfumery, have you not?’

Amelia cleared her throat. ‘Yes’, she said, quickly adding ‘master’ when he frowned.

‘Would you care to explain to the assembled company what you did that has brought you here?’

The Master already knew – they all did – but actually saying it, owning up to it, made Amelia squirm.

‘I made a perfume,’ she muttered, looking at her feet.

‘Louder.’

‘I made a perfume!’ There. It didn’t sound so bad, now she’d said it.

‘But it was not a …pleasant…perfume, was it, Amelia Maybelove?’

‘No.’

‘Speak up!’

Her head snapped up. ‘It was! To begin with, anyway. Hints of honeysuckle and vanilla and honey, sweet and heady. Then…’ Amelia paused.

‘Then?’

How could she possibly explain? That floral and spicy notes were not enough for her? That she had a desire to extract the essence of aroma from everything? Her experimentation with essential oils of garlic…fish guts…soilheaps..? It had been a challenge; no-one had ever created a polyodorous perfume. Single, pure scents, yes. Blended scents, yes. But one that changed over time, that smelled steadily worse instead of better…no. Until she’d made hers.

‘Amelia Maybelove! Answer! And then what?’

‘Um…’ Her nose wrinkled as she remembered the sequence, almost as though she were smelling it again. ‘Boiled cabbage.’

‘Silence!’ Master Bentley roared as titters broke out through the hall.

Their sound gave Amelia the courage to continue. ‘After that, rotten egg, like the worst farts imaginable. And then…’ She warmed to the telling, encouraged by the girls’ open laughter – at least they appreciated what she'd achieved. She raised her voice ‘…my piece de resistance. Spoiled meat. It’s all in the chemistry.’

Masters Bentley, Crastor and Hodkins did their utmost to restore order. Their demands for silence fell on deaf ears, and it was only when the inmates were threatened with school-wide repercussions that the room fell silent again.

Two spots of livid colour burned in Master Bentley’s cheeks. ‘Tell me,’ he asked Amelia, his voice deceptively quiet, ‘was it worth it?’

She had nothing to lose now. ‘Oh yes! You should have seen them, the ladies, grabbing the free samples. And how they came running back, gagging and heaving! They didn’t appreciate the workmanship, the skill–’

‘The perfumier you were apprenticed to has been ruined,’ Master Crastor interrupted. ‘The compensation…’ He broke into a fresh sweat at that.

‘Such disruptive behaviour will not be tolerated,’ Master Hodkins added, his voice as dry and cracked as his skin.

‘We will judge.’ The three Masters leaned close to each other and spoke in whispers, casting ocassional glances in the miscreant's direction.

Time slowed as Amelia waited. She was acutely aware of the girls at her back – she would most likely be joining them until she’d worked off her debt to the perfumier.  

It didn’t take the Masters long to decide. When they leaned back in their seats, it was Master Bentley who spoke.

‘We have reached our decision. Amelia Maybelove, you will be cleansed by thoughtfish.’

A collective gasp sucked Amelia backward two steps. All her bravado seeped away.

‘No, please!’ She shook her head, trembling in every limb. ‘Not a thoughtfish…it’ll take everything.’

‘You will remain incarcerated in the Sam Bentley Correctional School for Girls,’ the Master continued, as though she had not spoken, ‘until we are certain that all knowledge relating to the preparation of perfume, including any personally derived recipes, has been removed.’

Amelia’s skin prickled. ‘But what’ll I do then? No other guild will reapprentice me! I’ll have no way of making a living–’

‘You should have thought of that before.’ The Master made a movement with his hand.

Strong hands gripped Amelia’s arms and legs, lifting, carrying, until she lay pinned to the very table at which the Masters sat.

‘No! I’m sorry! Please – I’ll not do it again, I promise!’

Three or four young women held her fast as another approached, carrying a jar filled with writhing silver-green worms.

Amelia thrashed and fought right up until the moment the tongs, with a single wriggling thoughtfish held captive in them, touched her nostril; that’s when she screamed and fell still.

The Masters watched Amelia Maybelove closely, until her eyes rolled back in her head.

'It is embedded. Take her away.’ 

And the thoughtfish grew fat on the mind of Amelia Maybelove… 

Challenge me! (May 2015)

It's a while since I've done one of these, but I feel the need for something to write other than the WIP.

Maybe it's because it's holiday time here in the UK and I'm feeling frivolous? (Homemade blackberry wine will do that to a person, y'know)

Maybe it's because I face the prospect of a bit more painting in the dining room before the new carpet arrives on Thursday (with all the upheaval and room-clearing that entails) and I'm trying to have something nice for when that's all over?

Maybe it's just because I don't have much to share with you about what I've been doing - other than working on the WIP, entertaining family over the weekend and sewing up the rainbow cardi I've now finished... (pics will follow)

Anyway, here's how it works.

You, dear reader of the Scribbles, paste three items in the comments section below. Please make them reasonably clean - I reserve the right to delete any that are too rude. I will then turn over the combos to Family Squidge to pick just one combo...and I will write a piece of flash which includes those three items.

If you want to see what I've done with three things in the past, check out the following - A Sixpence, Shells and Champagne, Arnie's Aerial Adventure and The Ride to Heaven Retirement Ranch -  all 'challenge me' fiction pieces.

You have until the 31st May to post your items, and I'll endeavour to post a short piece by June 14th.

Get posting!

A little bit of flash - A Sixpence, Shells and Champagne

Just a little piece of flash, created when I selected a sixpence, shell and champagne cork from prompt items used for an exercise at a NIBS session. 


They'd insisted she put a sixpence in her shoe.

For luck, they said.

She'd need it...She'd done everything else.

Old was the dress from two-years-ago season. A little frayed at the cuffs, but still sharp at the collar. New, her shoes. Sturdy and stout, for the miles she needed to walk. Borrowed? Her sister's fur coat: mangy fox and smelling of mothballs. Blue: her fingers, thanks to the thick snow. Snow, in May. Who'd have thought?

It was as unlikely as this match.

The tiny chapel, barely big enough for the two of them and the priest, coated with seashells and stones from the coast. A labour of love...and she wished, from the bottom of her heart, to feel something of that for the man standing beside her.

When it was done, his ring hanging loose upon a finger shrunk with cold, they toasted their new future with champagne, the cork exploding like a bullet from the bottle, lost in the gooseberry bushes.

Married. At sixteen, to a man ten years older than her father.

As she eased the sixpence out of her shoe, moist with sweat, a perfect circle imprinted on the sole of her foot, she hoped - wished - yearned for it to be true.

For it to bring her luck.

FREE FICTION!

The eagle-eyed among you may have noticed that I've recently added an extra page to the Scribbles. It's called, unoriginally, free fiction.

(On the right hand side of the screen if you've missed it.)

As I sometimes post bits and pieces of my writing, I decided that to allow visitors to enjoy my writing without looking back through years' worth of posts to find them, I'd collect all the links in one place for your convenience. No doubt the list will grow as time moves on...

So, if you fancy a read, head on over and take a peek. They are there for your pleasure.

Squidge x

Just one word of caution - I often write for children, but not all of these pieces will be suitable for younger readers. If in doubt, please read them through before sharing.

A little bit of flash...A Desperate Wish

Haven't posted much fiction for a while but last month, I had a go at The Word Cloud monthly competition for the first time in months. The theme was 'once upon a time...' and the story had to open with those words, include something magical, and be a 'told' story. It appealed to my storytelling nature - after all, Granny Rainbow is full of 'told' stories - so I thought I'd share what I wrote with you. Enjoy!

Once upon a time…but which time, exactly? There are times of then, of now, and of yet to come…

Then there are other times.

In such an other time, when the ganderbuss trees were in blossom and the river rushed green from snowmelt, a sickly babe’s incessant wailing sent her mother, the Queen, half-mad.

“How I wish the child was mute!” the Queen cried.

Which would have been as effective as a prample-juice poultice for a pimple, had not the western wind been blowing northwards that evening. And when THAT happens, wishes come true…

The baby was struck dumb.

Wracked with guilt, the Queen sought out the finest of fairies, the whitest of witches -sometimes the blackest of them, too - to undo the damage. Until…

“She will speak only when she must,” the Hag of Hogarth croaked. “The wish was made in desperation. Only in desperation can it be broken.”

The princess grew. When she was hurt, she sobbed: silently. When happy, her body shook with laughter: silently. When angry, she stamped her foot and frowned, but could not give vent to her feelings with the words she wanted to speak.

Until she learned her letters. Then, her pencil fair flew across the page, the previously unvoiced conversations pouring out onto paper.

Happy that - at last - her daughter could communicate, the Queen stopped searching for a way to break the bindings of her wish.

One autumn morn, when a waterfall of russet leaves was falling and the princess had reached her sixteenth silent year, a traveller arrived at the palace.

“My gift will make the princess speak,” he told the Queen. “All I ask is for her hand in marriage when she does.”

The Queen studied the young man with the long black beard. He stood as much chance of succeeding as the others before him, which was none. 

And so the young man handed over his gift: a pen.

The princess took it up with a smile and wrote her thanks.  

What appeared on the page was not ‘Thank you’, but 'Buggity plopbasket.'

The princess’s eyes widened. She tried again.

Plippetty stinkrabbit.

And again.

Noddlebum twiddletty.

The mountain of discarded paper grew, covered in flackery muppetburger…jubeelious mickettyflop…pustulous creppittyho…

The pen was bewitched! But when the princess tried to throw it away - horror of horrors - it was stuck fast to her hand! No amount of tugging or pulling could release it. Her only means of communication had been snatched away - what cruelty was this?

Without thought, the princess opened her mouth. “Help!” she whispered.

The pen disappeared with a bang and a flash of green flame as the wish was broken. The princess found her voice, married the young man and if, sometimes, he wished for a moment’s peace from her chatter thereafter, he never showed it.

Least of all when his wife whispered ‘I love you’ in his ear.

On writing 'nasty' instead of 'nice'

I have been told that my writing in the past has been 'too nice'. By that, I don't mean that nothing bad ever happens - far from it. There are deaths and sadnesses and problems to overcome...but the overall sense is that I write 'nicely'. Which actually meant, I came to realise, that I don't write emotion very well. I've blogged about this problem before (Pesky psychic distance; Lighting up my characters;) - about trying to get into the head of my characters so that the reader actually feels what the character is feeling. Which all helps to make the end result feel...not so nice.

So I experimented, writing a couple of very dark (for me) pieces, where I deliberately set out to view the story from the character's head, rather than my storyteller one.

One of the characters I created while I was experimenting, Lord Baraat, is violent and ruthless. In my head, he looks a bit like this....

And I say 'he is violent and ruthless', because he's now appeared in two short stories and a piece of flash. (You can read about him in Thread (published in A Seeming Glass) and Blood on His Hands. on the Random Writers website) 

Several readers have commented about Baraat - here are just two examples of what's been said:

"Highly imaginative and with a deep understanding of the worst of human nature."

"I am starting to worry that you enjoy inhabiting his head a bit too much..."

Others have pointed out that in real life, I am nothing like Baraat - I'm pretty normal! I am not cruel or sadistic, I hate violence, and I don't like reading horror. So where the heck does he and his violent life spring from? Because - guilty secret - I really enjoy writing as him.

Is it that because I'm nothing like him, I can allow myself the freedom - in words only - to 'be' nasty? Is it a bit of a throwback to my am-dram days, when I could throw on a persona with a wig, a costume and dialogue for a two-hour performance, except this time it's a written performance? Or is it, and I think this might be key, I have immersed myself so completely in my character and become so familiar with his world, that I become him while I'm writing, so he's easy to write?

To be honest, I'm not sure, but whichever it is, it seems to be working. Baraat creates strong feelings in readers. He's definitely not a character fit for a children's book, but he has helped me to go inside the heads of characters I've written in stories aimed at children, improving them no end.

It takes time to get to know your characters; it doesn't just happen overnight. But like any real relationship, the more time you spend with them, the more you find out about them.

Now that I know Baraat so well, I may write more about him and the world he inhabits. Perhaps one day, there'll be a collection of Baraat's stories, just like Granny Rainbow's? They'll be just as colourful, but nowhere near as nice...and DEFINITELY only for grown-ups.

A little bit of flash - 'Puzzle Piece'

This little bit of flash is my 'homework' for NIBS next week: we were challenged to find a painting with at least one person in it and write either a conversation between the characters in the painting or between the character and yourself.

And then a friend, Sophie Jonas-Hill (amazingly talented artist, dressmaker and author, among other things) posted this picture on facebook.

It's called 'Puzzle Piece' and is a digitally painted creation of Charlie Terrell. (Mr Terrell, if you see this - I did try to track you down to ask if I could post this in the Scribbles, 'cos you can't understand the flash without the picture... Hope you don't mind that I have.) The original is even better than this little pic - click here to go to Charlie's website, where there are more amazing characters to be found. Anyway, it reminded me of how Sophie looked the first time I met her in York. Not nude, obviously... but see what I mean?

Sophie

I decided that the woman in 'Puzzle Piece' was the character I was going to have a conversation with. Except it morphed and grew and wasn't ME having the convo, but a whole new character. What you're about to read may just be the seed of an idea for a new book...

Enjoy.

'Puzzle Piece'

"Please, won't you cover yourself?" I'm trying hard not to see, but I can see everything. I am used to strangers in my father's house and have seen many things in my time, but this...

My father's latest guest leans against the table, testing the effect of her nakedness. "Why?" she asks.

"Because...because...it is not our custom to expose ourselves." I indicate my own, shapeless gown. Worn by every respectable young woman on my homeworld.

"I have nothing to hide."

Gods, but I wish that were true. My eyes drop to the floor. Calm, Katia. You have dealt with worse. Remember the four-armed Gradat diplomat Father brought home when you were ten? This guest isn't anywhere near as frightening as that. She's humanoid for a start. Just like you.

She's nothing like you! my brain screams. If you had her courage, her self-assurance, her beauty...your life would be so different.

When I find the courage to lift my gaze, she's watching me with eyes as green as the jewels resting on her forehead. Is she measuring me? Against what standard? A spark of anger flares briefly in my chest before it dies. Will she find me lacking? Like so many others?

Her eyes look deep into me, probing, seeking... Blink, Katia! Break the spell! Focus instead on the lines drawn across her golden skin, on the coloured fragments dotted randomly between them. My fingers twitch. Keen, it seems, to trace those myriad patterns.

"Are they...painted?" I ask.

A shake of her head, which sets the black-green feathers at her throat and in her hair fluttering.

"Inked, then?" A ripple of imagined pain runs through me at the thought of hours spent suffering at the hands of the tattooist.

Another shake. I could swear those feathers are alive.

She runs a finger along her flank. "We are created this way. At birth, our skins are empty, like yours."
Is that a statement of fact, or condemnation? I'm not sure. Before I can respond, she continues. "They develop over time, writing our destinies in their patterns. The reading of the destinies is a privilege granted to very few of my people."

"Can you? Read them, I mean?"

This time she nods and almost smiles. "I can."

I feel myself frowning and make a conscious effort to smooth out the lines. It's a habit borne from years of Father snapping 'Katia! You look like an old woman. Smile!' But I am puzzled. And suddenly, inexplicably, afraid. "Why has my father invited you here? We don't have lines for you to read."

Again that look: measuring me. "Because I can read futures without lines."

"You're going to read my father's future?" The tears that never seem to be far away nowadays stick in my throat. Does he really need an off-worlder to tell us what we already know? That he is going to die - soon - of the creeping weakness? How many more times will he need to hear it before he accepts it?

"No," this guest with the patterned skin whispers. "Katia, I have come to read yours."