A little bit of flash - Characters

Not strictly speaking a story - but the challenge was to show character-in-action. Both are sketches of characters who I'm hoping will appear in future Rurik stories...

Feliks

The crowd parted.

Into their midst strolled Feliks, his left arm curled possessively around the waist of a Ladylark. As the men fell back he acknowledged them with a wave of the ebony cane in his other hand, the ruby in its handle throwing shards of blood red light over their features.

“Are you having a good time, boys?” The question fell into deep silence. Feliks’ grey eyes narrowed. “It seems not. Rosa - sing!”

The woman at his side planted a kiss on his cheek before wriggling free of his embrace.

Feliks turned towards the bar. “A bottle of Bloodboil, and be quick with it.”

The barman almost ran across to the raised platform, but Feliks still arrived first. The gentleman lowered himself onto the couch, crossing his legs carefully so as to avoid creasing his linen trousers. The cane was laid aside as Feliks fetched a thin silver case from his pocket.

The barman, a sheen of sweat visible across his bald pate, struck a match.

Feliks opened the case and placed a dark cigarette between his lips. He leaned forward to touch it to the flame, which trembled only slightly in his employee’s hands. When a wisp of smoke rose into the air, Feliks waved the man away. 

With a sigh of satisfaction, he loosened the cravat at his throat, undid the gold buttons of his jacket and draped a silken-sleeved arm along the back of the couch.

He took a deep pull on the cigarette, rolling the smoke around his mouth while he surveyed the silent men standing beneath him. As the first notes sounded on the piano, Feliks blew out a perfect smoke ring. 

The diamond in his tooth flashed as he grinned. “Sing, boys! Sing!”

Amba.

 A grimy hand snatched the bread virtually from under the stallholder’s nose.

“Oy!”

But already the thief was out of earshot.

Amba scurried between the long skirts and greatcoats and market barrows, her eyes darting from side to side in a constant search for uniform. She clutched the loaf to her chest, drawing into herself what little heat remained in it. Gradually she slowed her pace.

Only when she was absolutely certain that no-one was after her did she stop. Amba allowed herself a triumphant smile. It had been so easy!

She tucked the loaf into the waistband of her skirt in an attempt to keep it clean and flicked a black flea from the golden crust. They would have a feast tonight – providing she could get it home safely. Almost absently she scratched at a couple of bites on her arm, considering the safest route to take with her treasure.

A pungent smell wafted under her nose. Amba sniffed the air, trying to pin down the source of the deliciousness. Her eyes widened. Over there!

The barrowman speared a fat sausage from his makeshift grill and slapped it between two slices of thick black bread. The sandwich joined several others, all kept warm on a metal tray heated by several candles.

Saliva flooded Amba’s mouth. What a prize that would be, if she could get it.

 

She moved steadily towards her target, taking a circuitous route just like Pa had taught her, all the while scanning faces, making sure that they hadn’t noticed her. She was almost there. Within touching distance. Wait! Wait…till the barrowman turns to the grill again…Now!

Her hand shot out and closed around her prize. She snatched it back and spun away…but she’d been careless! Over there - the unmistakeable navy trousers and red coat of a Protector.   

Progress on my writing targets - how much have I achieved?

Some time back, I set myself some targets in my writing. You can see them here. I looked back over them today, and have surprised myself with what I've achieved.

1. Get Rurik ready for York; York is a dim and distant memory now, but Rurik was there! Admittedly he got conflicting reviews (!) and since then, has been tweaked to reduce the 'ring problem', but that means he's...

2. ...ready to submit to agents again. Over half term next week, I shall be hunting children's agent details, ready to send Rurik out into the world again... And if all else fails, I may self-pub.

4. Plot ideas for a new book; (and yes, I've missed number 3 out - I'll come to that in a minute!) I have begun to jot ideas for not one, but TWO completely different stories. One fantasy, one historical. I've been very organised (for me) and kept them in separate notebooks so they don't get confused, and I've taken the 'just do it' approach to Ani's story, which has been a bit of a revelation.

5. Be more disciplined about writing; since giving up work, I have not felt under as much pressure to write, which oddly, has meant I've been more productive. I have the freedom to clean the house in a morning for example, then write for a couple of hours in the afternoon. The Ultimate Blog Challenge has helped, as have the challenges on terrible minds and the latest charity collections by the short story group I belong to. On the whole - yes, I now write every day - blog, flash, on the laptop, in a notebook, on rough paper...

Finally.

3. Self-publish Granny Rainbow; She's formatted, looking lovely, and out with some young readers at the moment. Laura is working hard to get the pictures finished this month (studies permitting), and I am waiting to hear when I can meet the local publisher to see if he wants to take Granny on. If not, I'm ready to go POD. A friend is playing with cover ideas and I've also been researching local independent bookshops with a view to asking them to stock a book which has been written and illustrated by local folk ('It's a local shop, for local people!' The League of Gentlemen). All this - without a physical book in my hand. I think it's the area where I've had to do the most, yet I'm still a way off achieving the end result. But it will come, hopefully before Christmas.

So there you go.

Squidge is on track and feeling good, though she's becoming aware that she needs to stop herself from getting too distracted by all the 'little' writing projects and keep focussed on the bigger WIP's.

A little bit of flash - Advice

All based on my own personal experience... 

Primary school dress code (females).

Don’t be tempted to buy expensive items to wear at school. Buy from Primani or a charity shop, so you won’t get upset at the glue/paint/snot/pigeon poo that finds its way onto your clothing and never, ever comes off.

Wear what you want to wear, even if it’s a bit different to what is currently fashionable. Better to blaze a trail than follow the herd. (Don’t worry that the Year 6 girls don’t agree with your choices – you can get your own back when they arrive, completely overdressed, for the school disco).

Always check the back view of your reflection. You might be able to ignore it, but the kids will tell everyone about your horrendous VPL.

Do remember to wear several layers, as classrooms are either red hot and stuffy or freezing. The upside is that when you look like the Michelin woman, children just bounce off when they run into you on the playground.

Choose shoes carefully. The one day you decide to wear heels will be the day after rain, when the teacher takes the class out onto the field for an inventive lesson in spelling. 

Don’t wear anything the same colour as the school uniform if you are vertically challenged. It’s not good for morale to be told off by a dinner lady who has mistaken you for a pupil. 

House warming - literally.

I live in a pre-war semi. They are not renowned for their warmth.

The weather has turned distinctly autumnal and chilly this week and boy, are we feeling it. It’s not as bad as when we first moved in, twenty years ago. I can remember being so cold, I used to sit in the lounge and cry, wondering whether we had done the right thing in buying the house.

Since then, we’ve ‘Taken Steps’. Every set of curtains now has a thermal lining…we have replaced the steel window frames with double-glazed wooden ones…we have a more efficient boiler…I have draught-excluders for every door… I wear two pairs of socks routinely, three jumpers, a scarf and fingerless mitts if I’m sitting typing. Or, like Garfield, I sit in the sun by the French windows, moving with the patch of warmth as it crosses the room.

It’s not helped at the moment by the fact that some of our draught-proofing measures need to be replaced. I have to find another pillow to stuff up one of our chimneys for example, as the last one went a bit rank thanks to the dead pigeon.

The current project is underfloor insulation. I did offer to go under the floorboards for Mr. Squidge (I’m 5’0” – he’s 6’3”) but he declined to accept. We thought it would be a fairly easy job; measure the distance between the joists, cut the boards to the right length, whack it in and bingo!

What we hadn’t reckoned on was joists that are most definitely NOT parallel, the various pipeworks that are under the floor AND the fact that the trapdoor isn’t wide enough for some of the pieces we’ve cut so they’ve had to be cut again.

It has taken the best part of two days so far and we’ve not even finished the first room; we still have the back room and the hall to do.

This isn't Mr Squidge, by the way!

Ah well, at least once it’s finished, I might be able to take off a layer or two.

The Forgotten Library.

Right - I ought to explain the reason behind this blog post.

I follow terrible minds, the blog by Chuck Wendig. Every now and again, he sets a writing challenge for his readers - this is the first one I've had a go at. You can check out how the challenge works here. 

So, welcome, fellow terrible minders - hope you enjoy my offering and feel free to have a look round while you're here! (If you like what you're reading, you can even challenge me...check out this post.) 

The Forgotten Library. 

I don’t know why I kept having this urge to keep going to the Old City.

‘It’s dangerous,’ they said.

‘There’s nothing there,’ they said.

‘The hive mind has declared it unnecessary,’ they said.

The hive mind. Yeah.

Perhaps part of the attraction was because I was only weeks away from being initiated into it? I was rebelling against the restrictions that were soon to be placed upon me.

‘It’s perfectly natural,’ Maira told me. ‘We all go through it. Prior to initiation we are so used to thinking for ourselves, we imagine it hard to give up that independence of thought.’

‘Is it? Hard?’ I asked.

She smiled. ‘Of course not.’

Even so, I made the most of the weeks left to me. I explored the shells of houses, wondered at the simplicity of engineering in the rusted vehicles, imagined what it must have been like to live – in those times.

I discovered the library one day when it rained; I only went in so I could eat my lunch and stay dry.

I noticed the twisted columns first, flanking a door which hung loose from its hinges. The roof still looked fairly intact so I risked it, pushing my way through the gap. Inside, it wasn’t as dry as I’d hoped; a glass dome in the ceiling had partially collapsed, rain staining the marble floor beneath it. But from both sides of the room, a sweeping staircase ascended to a balcony; it’d be dry under there. I dropped into its shelter, shrugging off my damp leathers. When I looked up, my breath froze in my chest.

Books!

How had the hive missed them?

‘All relevant information was aquired after The Resolution and absorbed by the hive. Physical books were destroyed as there was no requirement to assimilate knowledge on an individual basis.’ I could almost hear Draib’s voice in my ear – the lesson had been drummed into us in preparation for the initiation.

But right here, right now, I still had my brain to myself. I crept towards the nearest shelf. I’d seen paper of course, but in the relic rooms. I’d never held a single sheet, let alone a whole book; there were thousands here. Had it been a public library? A space where knowledge had been freely available to anyone who walked in? Or was it a private collection? 

I ran my finger along the wooden shelf, not daring to touch the books, pausing by a faded spine which caught my eye. Thank the hive for lessons in the Ancient Language. ‘The C..l..or o.. M…gic, Terr..Pra..ett.’ Had the words inside fared better?

Trembling, I pulled the paperback from the shelf, dislodging dust and dead flies. I felt the weight of it in my hand and stared, entranced, at the colour and wild images on the intact cover.

‘The Colour of Magic, by Terry Pratchett.’ My voice was loud in the rain-soaked silence. ‘In a distant and second-hand set of dimensions, in an astral plane that was never meant to fly, the curling star-mists waver and part… See… Great A’Tuin the Turtle comes…’

It was only when I heard the dogs barking that I realised how late it was getting. The book had been like a drug, compelling me to keep reading. Is this what it had been like? Before the hive? How was it possible for words to create images in my head, make my heart pound, make me laugh out loud? I stuffed the book back on the shelf and began to run, hoping to make it home before curfew.

I went back as often as I could, devouring those pages that remained legible within their covers, losing myself in mythical worlds and fairytales and horror and history. And I started to write…strange tales that were not as polished as those I read, but which sought to be free of my mind. I filled notebooks with scribbles and ideas, revelling in them all, yet strangely angry that I would lose this newly awakened ability at my initiation.

On the day of the initiation, I tucked that first book – The Colour of Magic - into my shirt. I would keep it with me throughout the procedure, hoping that its physical presence would soften the blow of losing it all.

Maira strapped me in, waiting as I sank into the soft gel seat and the first tendril snaked down from the pulsing blue mass above my head, questing, looking for my nose. I stiffened at the tickle in my nasal cavity, swiftly followed by the thrust of the tentacle breaking into my brain. I pressed a hand to my chest – to where the book was concealed – and closed my eyes.

An image of Great A’Tuin filled my head. A weight pressed down in my brain, suppressing it, until it disappeared like smoke on a windy day.

Another image: a wooden trunk on legs, running, always running. Followed quickly by a failed wizard…dragons…a skeleton in a black cloak with eyes like blue diamonds… Every time a new image rose up, the weight in my brain tried to press it down…

But there were too many pictures.

Instead of the weight, from elsewhere I felt…curiosity? Inquisitive others, seeking more of what I was viewing inside my brain, images that could not exist in mere fact.

The pictures began to merge, a collage of characters and scenes and emotions. With a herculean effort the hive pushed the tentacle further and harder, but I fought it.

My eyes shot open as I realised other minds connected to it were fighting too.

Above me, the hive was seeping green-blue fluid from a million puncture wounds, shrivelling even as I watched. The tendril inside my head retracted so fast, it felt like it dragged half my brain with it. 

With a scream of pain...fury...despair…the blue-green mass exploded. 

‘Where are the books?’ Maira whispered into the stunned silence.

Tried to find the artist's name to credit this, but no success.  

Hope you don't mind that I used this picture as inspiration for the story. Katherine 

'Can't you see I'm getting older?'

It's a line from George Micheal - his album 'Older' - which I bought the year I was 30. I suppose it came to mind because last Sunday, we had a family celebration for my mum's 70th. So 'age' was very much on-topic, especially as we sat working out how many grandchildren would be 18 the year I was 50!

Sometimes, my own age takes me by surprise. Not that I feel ancient - just that I suddenly catch sight of myself and think 'how did I get so grey?' or 'when did my daughter get taller than me when she's not wearing heels' or 'exactly how old am I again?'

When I was 40, we put together a load of photos of me growing up and I flicked back through them yesterday evening. Made me laugh - I obviously had a thing about dressing up even when I was little (I could've posted a picture of me as Great Uncle Bulgaria, from The Wombles...but wasn't brave enough!)

I thought I'd share a few of them with you, so you can have a laugh at my expense this wonderful Wednesday!

Toddler Squidge

Dressed for a dance show

'Big School'

The Uni years

2004 - the grey creeps in

        

2006 - 70's night

A little bit of flash - 'It rained anyway...'

My sister always plans everything to perfection.

“Quentin and I will be married on Moonlight Island as soon as it gets dark,” she told me. “I shall be Ophelia, and he, Oberon. Fairy lights will twinkle in the trees and the lake will be full of our guests, watching from candlelit gondolas. There will be swans and mermaids -”

“Mermaids? “

“Mermaids, yes. And afterwards, the new Mr and Mrs Farquason-Smythe will be rowed sedately back across the lake to the sound of haunting music.”

“What, as in ‘whoooo’?”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll proceed to the magical gazebo - ”

“A tent that does tricks?”

“Jane, you’re not taking this seriously.”

“Sorry. Carry on.”

“Proceed to the gazebo, where we will partake of a sumptuous buffet, followed with starlit dancing on the lawn until the small hours.”

“Riiight…”

You see, that’s the problem with Marcie. She never does things by halves; her wedding day is Midsummer’s Eve, so now we’re up to our necks in Shakespeare, impractical gossamer gowns, mermaids and fairies. I swear she’s even organised a balmy summer evening.

I tried to sound a note of caution, but she would she listen? Would she heck!

Nothing would go wrong, she assured me. Her wedding was planned to the nth degree. Everything was sorted, from the bridesmaids disguised as flower fairies to shower the newlyweds in rose petals to her exquisite designer stilettos and matching fairy wings. Woe betide anyone or anything that spoils her dream.

But there are some things you just can’t plan for.

It rained anyway.