I having been able to do anything with the prompts for the 5th and 6th, so I’ve gone straight to the 7th. I’m asthmatic. The worse asthma attack I’ve had in recent years was on 17th June 2015. I left the house to go to sewing and before I got 100 yards from the house I was struggling to breathe. It’s not fun. I was reacting to something in the air, and the reaction was pretty immediate. As soon as I got indoors and rested I could breathe normally, but the second I went back outside it started again. I don’t know what caused the reaction, but I live near oil refineries, factories and docks, as well as fields of rape. It could have been any or all of them.
Monthly Archives: April 2017
4th April Prompt – 7-year-old boy
I’m getting behind with my short story prompt posts, aren’t I? I’ve had a dodgy few days but, hopefully, I’m back on an even keel now.
The ball flew over the wall into a garden that backed on to the road. The boys, playing in the street, looked at each other. Oliver started to cross the road to the back gate.
“You can’t go in there.” James grabbed his friend’s arm.
“Why not?” Oliver scratched his nose. He was new to the street but the house didn’t look any different from all the others. On his side of the street the front doors faced the road, on the other side the back gardens ended at the road and the front gardens looked out on to the green in front of the whole estate. The boys were all in the same class at school.
“Everyone say’s the woman who lives there’s a witch.”
“She shouted at us last holidays for playing on the path in front of her house.” Robby, who wasn’t really one of the gang because he went to a different school but they let him play with them anyway, added indignant.
“Well, I want my ball back.” Oliver jutted his chin out, determined to get the ball, even if his friends were too scared to go with him.
“But you can’t go in there. She’ll magic you. Let’s go and get another one.”
“No. I want my ball back.” Oliver snapped at his friends. He pushed past them and finished his walk across the road.
Oliver stood at the gate. The driveway was like all the others on that side of the street; long, paved in grey, concrete slabs with gravel down the middle. No car sat on the drive.
Oliver turned to look back at his friends, “There’s no one in.”
The other boys crossed the road to stand on the path, watching. It was true, their wasn’t a car, but there never was. The gate opened easily. It wasn’t even locked, there was an unpadlocked, rusting, chain hung around the metal linking the two gates together above the latch. Oliver unwrapped it, dropping the chain on the ground with a clink. He pushed open the gate.
Somewhere a dog started to bark.
Oliver pushed the gate shut behind him, leaving the gate unlatched, for a quick get-away. The drive ran between a high fence on one side and a brick wall like the one at the end of the garden, separating the house from it’s neighbour, on the right. Over the top pf the fence trees were visible.
Oliver couldn’t see his ball on the drive. He walked down the drive a little until he came to a gate in the fence. It was as high as the fence, with a rounded top and a dragon cut-out, at adult eye level. Standing on his toes, Oliver tried, and failed to look through. He pushed on the gate, reaching up for the latch, but the gate was locked. He could see a keyhole in the black plate beneath the latch handle.
Steeling himself, Oliver turned to walked the rest of the way to the house. It felt like miles as he walked between the canyon of brick and wood, wind ruffling the tree branches that draped over the fence and gravel crunching under his feet. He looked back. His friends leaned against the fence, watching him. Turning back to his objective, Oliver made for the door.
The drive opened out on his left, a square of concrete with a rotary washing line full of clothes in the centre, wheely bins and recycling boxes neatly lined up beneath the back window greeted him. It looked so ordinary. His mum and dad had the same washing line. Oliver shook his head, the boys were being silly. A witch couldn’t live here. Witches wore black dresses; there were pink t-shirts and green jeans on the line.
The dog barked again. A voice told it to shut up.
Oliver looked back at his friends, his heart blocking his throat as he tried to breathe.
“Come back.” Robby shouted. The other boys nodded. Oliver ignored them.
The dog in the house started bouncing at the kitchen door. A voice shouted for it to shut up as Oliver raised his fist to knock. A shadow crossed the window.
Oliver looked back at his friends for support, but they had hidden behind the back wall. He could see James’ yellow trainers sticking out. They shuffled backwards as the door opened.
Oliver turned round and looked up.
“Yes?” A soft voice spoke, and a pair of grey eyes blinked at him through a narrow gap between the door and the frame.
“Sorry. My ball.”
“It’s in the garden?”
Oliver nodded. The person sighed.
“Give me a minute. The back gate better be closed.”
Oliver nodded mutely, hoping the others hadn’t pushed it open when they’d watched him venture down the drive.
The door shut in his face.
A minute later the door opened again. The dog bounced out, followed by the woman in a faded blue dressing gown pulled tightly around her, and a pair of green wellies. He hair was wrapped in a towel, a wet strand dangling across her forehead.
“Come on them.”
The woman lead the way up the drive, carrying a key in her right hand. The dog had gone to the gate and was nosing at it.
“Budgie, come here.”
The dog looked back at his human, disappointed. There were people out there, and the gate was almost open. He huffed, but trotted back to the humans. Budgie sat down in front of Oliver, shoving his snout into the boy’s hand.
“He wants to know if you have any sweets. If you have, don’t let him have any. Budgie’s on a diet.”
The dog whined and turned away from them, staring at the wall.
“Grumpy hound. Ignore him, he’s sulking.”
The gate to the secret garden opened easily, the key turning smoothly in the lock. The gate opened inward under it’s own weight.
“Go on then.” The woman pointed into the garden.
Oliver walked past, hesitating on threshold to look around. The garden was surrounded by trees covered in pale blossom. In the centre was a small pool with a fountain. At the back, near the wall, was a table and two chairs. On the table a ceramic dragon looked imperially over the vegetation. Around the fountain were empty raised beds. Under the trees fruit bushed were putting on leaves.
The ball floated in the pool.
Oliver ran across the garden, around the beds, to snatch the ball from the pool. He held it, dripping, away from his jumper. It wasn’t damaged. He breathed a sigh of relief. His mum would be so mad if he’d burst it. He walked back out of the garden, smiling.
The woman locked the gate behind him and escorted him to the gate, retrieving the chain. The gang waited on the street, wide-eyed as Oliver let himself out. Budgie pushed out behind him, but the woman grabbed his collar and pulled the dog back into the garden. She shut the gate, wrapping the chain around it and adding a padlock.
“Next time, knock on the front door. Or play elsewhere. There’s a field over there.” She pointed in the direction of a park a few streets away. They weren’t allowed to play there without an adult with them, but the boys nodded anyway and moved away from her gate.
Safely hidden in James’ front garden down the street the boys gathered ’round Oliver.
“Did anything happen?”
“Did she magic you?”
Oliver shook his head; they were so silly. “It’s only a garden, with trees and things. There’s a pond.”
“Oh.”
Disappointed that the witch’s garden was so ordinary the boys kicked at the grass.
“Let’s play.” Oliver dropped the ball, “New teams. Game was interrupted.”
“That’s not fair, we were winning.” James whined.
As they argued about the game, Oliver looked over his shoulder. A dragon flapped lazily on the top of the wall.
Review: ‘Dunstan’. by Conn Iggulden
Published by: Penguin
Publication Date: 4th May 2017
Format: Hardback
I.S.B.N.: 9780718181444
Price: £18.99
Blurb
The year is 937. England is a nation divided, ruled by minor kings and Viking lords. Each vies for land and power. The Wessex king Æthelstan, grandson of Alfred the Great, readies himself to throw a spear into the north.
As would-be kings line up to claim the throne, one man stands in their way.
Dunstan, a fatherless child raised by monks on the moors of Glastonbury Tor, has learned that real power comes not from God, but from discovering one’s true place on Earth. Fearless in pursuit of his own interests, his ambition will take him from the courts of princes to the fields of battle, from exile to exaltation.
For if you cannot be born a king, or made a king, you can still anoint a king.
Under Dunstan’s hand, England may come together as one country – or fall apart in anarchy . . .
From Conn Iggulden, one of our finest historical writers, Dunstan is an intimate portrait of a priest and murderer, liar and visionary, traitor and kingmaker – the man who changed the fate of England.
Uni Update: The last one for this year
That’s it, the term has finished. I should be relieved, it has been tiring and stressful at times, but I’m not. I’m anxious that I won’t see anything of the people I’ve met on the course now that it’s over. I’ve got half an assignment to finish writing and hand in on 26th, when I’ll see everyone again – we’re going for lunch. After that, who knows?
I’ll be back at uni in September to re-enrol, and then I have to wait until next January to start my final module before I do my dissertation. In the months between now and then I will be researching background information for my dissertation novel, and having a trial run at producing a booklet, which is the final assignment I’ll need to hand in, in a year from now before starting my dissertation.
Talking of assignments, I got 70% for my life-writing assignment. If I can get that or more for my ghost story, I’ll be very happy. I’m trying to get my assignment average results above 70%.
I’ve learnt some useful things this year. I’m better at prose than poetry, for a start. I have learnt to write reflexive essays, which were a complete mystery to me at the start. I have a vague understanding of how to write a script now. I got my highest mark in drama, although my 5000 word short story wasn’t far behind. Now it’s in third place after life-writing. I’ve had some useful feedback on my writing and I feel slightly more confident about it.
The next few months will be busy, as well as research for my dissertation, I will be finishing work on Hidden Fire, Fire Betrayed and Fire Awakened, and making progress on Fire Storm. I want to try to self-publish them. I made the decision based on a couple of things:
- It’s hard to sell a series to an agent or publisher, and if I do sell the first book they might interfere with the rest of them
- It can take years to get published the traditional way and I want these books out of my head and out of the way so I can get on with the other ones currently living in my head and demanding my attention. It’s very hard to focus on Fire Storm when Thane of Lindsey, The Three Ladies, Wool Thief, Killer Granny and When the Fat Ladies Sing are demanding I write them, this instant. These are all provisional titles/nicknames, by the way. The first three are historical fiction and the final two are contemporary crime novels.
- I want to share the stories with people
Probably not the best reasons but they are good enough for me. Right, there will be a book review, and three short stories later today, but first, it’s dinner time.
Extract: ‘Hidden Fire’, by Rosemarie Cawkwell
Brief summary
Hidden Fire is a fantasy novel, the first of four set in The Northern Isles of a world called Erce, in which a young woman, LIZZY FITZALBONI, discovers herself and her place in the world. Privileged form birth, she must learn that not everyone exists to make life easy for her, while navigating a complex political world where many would like to see her dead.
Synopsis
The Northern Isles are four islands to the west of the great continental empire of Belenos. Midway between Belenos and the western continent of Camar, they are key trading ports, controlling the supply of furs and oils from Camar to Belenos, and of silks and spices back to Camar. When the islands go to war everyone suffers. Lizzy FitzAlboni is the illegitimate child of the King John VII of Albon. His political marriage to Jocinta Tarjani, the granddaughter of the ruler of the second largest island, Sumoast, has always been rocky. When Lizzy is kidnapped just before her 21st birthday evidence points to the queen and her kinsmen in Sumoast. Jocinta is exiled back to her family. In Albon, political and religious currents awaken as religious authorities object to the queen’s exile and the people agitate for further reform of the political system. Lizzy becomes involved, while raising her brothers. When her friend Lord Gos Val goes missing while on in Belenos, Lizzy and her friends must investigate, but are too late to prevent the war everyone knows is coming.
Copyright Notice: The author asserts the copyright to this material. No copying, sharing etc. without permission.
(This is my work; steal it and I’ll hunt you down with a big axe and two mad hounds.)
Continue reading “Extract: ‘Hidden Fire’, by Rosemarie Cawkwell”
Advance warning
I am going to be brave and post an extract from my novel Hidden Fire. I am fairly certain it has reached the point where I really need to do something with it, but I don’t know what to do. I’m conflicted. Should I try the traditional publishing route of find and agent and then hope a publisher buys it, or do I self-publish?
3rd April prompt – Elderly geologist
BBeing a former Natural Sciences student (way back in the early years of this century) I’ve met a few elderly geologists. They’re usually the ones teaching the first years.
“A good example of sandstone layering can be seen above us.”
Doctor Albert Grenville pointed to the cliffs behind him. His class of first year Earth Sciences students nodded along as they huddled around him in the chilly April sunlight. The wind had dropped and a few brave souls had taken out pens and notebooks in an attempt to get some notes down.
“Today I want you to walk the beach, observing the cliff closely. Your assignment depends on you being able to remember a few things about it. I recommend taking photographs and sketching. Remember, I want an A3 poster describing the past environments embodied in this stretch of cliff. Point out the swales, and the ripples, the mud stone layers and what they tell us about the changing environment. Really get to know this cliff. Forty percent of you module mark depends on it.”
Doctor Grenville laughed, his students joining in nervously. It was their first field trip and they were unsure.
“Right, get on with it. I’ll leave you to your own devices, but be back at the coach at four this afternoon, and keep am eye on the tide.”
The students nodded and muttered. It would have to do, Albert shrugged, students seemed to get less articulate every year. He watched them disperse along the beach, a few had already given up on their notebooks and had take out cameras and phones to record their work. Really, things had changed so much since they had first come here, fifty years ago.
Albert, young and freshly appointed PhD student in the new geology labs at his university, was on holiday with his fiance and her mother. The summer air was filled with the ozone smell of the sea and the fried fish he and Melissa carried along the beach, looking for somewhere private to eat their supper.
The young couple are arm in arm as they stroll along the pebble beach, joyfully empty of shouting children and overbearing mothers.
“Look, there’s a cave. We should explore.” Melissa pointed to a shadow in the cliff base twenty yards away. Her blond hair escaped from her scarf, a few curls around her forehead.
“Food first. I’m ravenous.”
“Me too, absolutely famished.”
“How many more houses is your mother going to make us look ’round?”
“I’ve no idea darling, She was quite taken with the two we saw this morning.”
They scrambled into the dip in the cliff base, barely two yards deep. They found two rounded boulders sat in the middle of a sandy floor, the tide line a clear break just inside the cave. Melissa sat, crossing her ankles, and opened the newspaper wrapped packet of fish and chips.
Chewing on a chip, Albert’s professional curiosity got the better of him. He rubbed the walls, feeling the sand slough off on his fingers. Coarse, probably from a beach, mid Jurassic. but he could be wrong. The cave was cool the evening breeze and shade taking the edge off the August heat. Albert leaned against the side wall of the cave, barely an inch behind his boulder, to cool his skin further. A day driving in the sun had reddened his fair, freckled skin painfully.
“Sir, Dr Grenville!”
“What?” Albert jumped, sea water soaked through his shoes, “Oh Emma, it’s you.”
His PhD student, helping wrangle students on the field trip for extra pay, stood next to Albert. He looked around, closer to the shore students watched the pair, phones out.
“You’re going to get stranded if you don’t watch out sir.”
“Oh yes, the tide is in already. Thank you Emma. Let’s get back to the getty, shall we?”
“Definitely Dr. Grenville.”
They turned, Emma leading the way, taking a route that lead through the shallowest areas.
“Well, that’s another pair of boots ruined. Melissa won’t be happy.” Albert checked himself as he remembered.
“Yes, that’s why brought my water shoes with me. I remember my trip here as a first year.” Emma distracted him by lifting a foot out of the water high enough for Albert to see the moulded neoprene shoe with individual toes.
“I might have to get some, for next year.”
They walked a few yards further. Emma was troubled. Grenv was getting on a bit but he wasn’t absentminded enough to walk along the spit when the tide was coming in; he’d repeatedly reminded them before they got off the coach to stay close to the cliff and watch the tide.
“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, why were you so far out?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Nostalgia I suppose.”
“I’m sorry sir, I don’t understand.”
“The first time I came here was with Melissa, the summer before we married.”
“I see.” Emma’s eyebrows shot up.
Albert laughed at her reaction, “Young people are supposed to be open minded Emma.”
Emma laughed, embarrassed.
“But it wasn’t a dirty weekend. We were here for a fortnight with Melissa’s mother, looking for houses.”
“For you and Mrs Grenville?”
“No, unfortunately not; I couldn’t afford to buy a house then. No, my mother-in-law wanted to move to the seaside, for her health. Melissa enlisted my help as driver for the holiday.”
“And the beach?”
“Our refuge from Dorothy. She was set in her ways, had very strict ideas about how an engaged couple should act.”
“I see. So, good memories? Watch out sir, there’s a deep hole right in front of you.” Emma grasped Albert’s arm and led him around the pit.
The tide had turned while Albert and Melissa ate their supper, the first chance they’d had to be alone all day almost over. The sea lapped up the beach getting dangerously close to the mouth of their cave.
“We’d better be going, the tide will cut us off.” Melissa interrupted Albert’s exploration of the cave.
“Just a second.” He pulled out his camera, winding the film on to the next negative, and took a photograph of Melissa on her boulder, laughing at him.
“Perfect. My siren.” He kissed her and offered her his hand to stand.
“I’m not going to lure you to your doom though.”
“I don’t know; there are times when I’d rather face the Gorgon than your mother.”
“If we don’t hurry back you’ll wish you were facing Medusa. And you’ve got your myths mixed up.”
“Same difference. They’re both Greek.”
Melissa shook her head, smiling. “Well, this siren wants to go back to the hotel and have a bath. Come along, before we’re trapped here.”
The pair left the cave, balling up their chip papers for the return walk along the pebble beach to the getty, where the car waited.
“Here we are Dr. Grenville. Back on solid ground, and just in time for lunch. Will you join the rest of us in the cafe?”
“Why not. There used to be a chip shop that did a lovely battered cod and chips along here.”
Albert looked around, the place had changed so much since his first visit with Melissa. The old chapel was an arcade, and the grocers had become an antiques shop. Melissa had loved their trips here and now they’d never visit together again.
2nd April prompt – Postman
She answered the door naked.
The first time I thought it was an invitation. She slapped me and made a complaint to the sorting office.
The second time I turned my back, holding out the parcel behind me. She laughed.
The third time I had to deliver a parcel I braced myself for the sight. Wobbly belly and veined legs, pale and hairy, pendulous breasts, and a couple of chins. She smiled, took the parcel and closed the door.
She was completely unconcerned by the impression she made on me; how is that possible?
1st April prompt – Fortune Teller
Erica leaned over the railing, puffing on her fag. The weather wasn’t great, and not many tourists strolled along the prom, away beyond the dunes that separated the line of beach huts from the rest of the resort. The beach in front was equally empty. She flicked the butt into the sand and opened the back door into her shed.
There was nobody waiting for a reading when she emerged from behind the heavy, brocade curtains to take her seat in the window. Rain pattered on the glass. Erica fiddled with the heavy gold rings she wore for show on every finger. Her hair itched under the lace scarf. She pulled it and the fake black wig off to scratch the itch. People liked the long dark hair and scarves; it had that ‘ethnic’ look they thought ‘gypsies’ should have, as inaccurate, and immensely racist, as that image was.
A long slow afternoon ended with a tap on the door as she was changing into her jeans and hoody to walk home. She ignored the tap.
Another tap jolted through the building as she unlocked the back door. Thankful that the rain had stopped, she unlocked the back door. The tapping became more insistent as she pushed the door open.
“Too bloody late, pal. It’s home time.” She muttered to herself. If they were that interested in a reading they’d come back tomorrow. Walking away from the back of the hut, along the sandy footpath to the end of the row of the painted beach huts. They all housed summer businesses now, but this early in the season they were shut. She took a quick look to see if her knocker was there.
No one.
She shrugged; they must have left. Walking across the dunes to the promenade, she looked about for her erstwhile customer. Despite the clear evening there was no one around.
“Heh. Must have gone to the beach.”
The March weather wasn’t exactly the sort for skinny dipping.
“Erica.” A voice roughened and low pitched, floated over the dunes from the direction of the huts.
Erica turned in the direction of the voice, searching for it’s source. No one was there. Erica shrugged and carried on walking. Trick of the wind.
Reaching the prom and its bus stop Erica was distracted by a poster for a new Tom Hiddleston film, forgetting the strange voice and persistent knocking.
Wednesday in the hut went much as Tuesday did. Quiet, raining on and off, no customers. Until the end of the day, as she was changing out of her costume.
Tap. Tap.
“We’re closed.”
Tap. Tap.
“I said, we’re closed.”
Tap. Tap.
“Oh for crying out loud.”
Erica pulled her coat on, zipping it up. She pushed open the back door and left. The customer still persistently knocking. Locking up, she slipped between the hut and its neighbour. She could hear the knocking still, Really, this customer didn’t get the message at all.
“Hey! I told you. We’re closed.”
There was no one there.
Short story a day. An explanation.
Writer’s Forum magazine has a page called ‘Idea Store’ every month. The Fiction Square is supposed to be used with a dice to chose characters, characteristics and situations. This month the squares are also numbered 1 – 30 as a daily writing prompt. I’ve done the first two.
The short stories are just first drafts, written quickly with the prompt. I’m going to post the first two after this post. Enjoy.
Everything Is Better With Dragons 