A Front Cover Of Inspiration . . .

Where has 2015 gone! One month left and I can probably count on one hand the amount of times I've blogged.

A lot has happened since I last visited - some good, some bad. The worse? My feline friend, Daisy, passed away. To say I was heart broken is an understatement. I was ridiculously attached to that cat so it's no surprise I took it hard. BUT, I now have not four, but eight little paws pattering around here now.

Meet Doyle and Bodie, two of the most handsome brothers I know. They're 5 months old now and such joys to have. And I'm now lucky enough to be working full time form home so I'm thoroughly enjoying their kittenhood - even if I do have to battle for rights over the laptop.

The flow of creativity is still strangely slow. I really need to buck my ideas up to get over this lull. I'm not sure what it is - a mixture of laziness coupled with anxiety maybe. Who knows. But it has to come to an end sometime. So here's a short piece I wrote the other night for a small exercise in hope that it would get those juices flowing again.

A Front Cover of Inspiration

Writing Exercise: We took a random book cover and let the inspiration flow, to see what it spoke to us. The Book? Under the Dome by Stephen King.

Out of everything, the one thing I wish for most is for the heat to go. The sun bears down on me continuously. I see clouds but they provide no shade, and the more I look at the them, the more I'm convinced they're not moving. 

I don't know where I am. I know I've been here for a long time though. The straight road runs for miles ahead of me, and as I turn, it runs for equal miles behind, splitting though the mountain range on the horizon. The hills in front aren't as severe in sight as the mountains, but they're still menacing. 

I honestly don't know how long I've been standing on this road. Definitely not days or weeks. Years? I can't tell how many. It feels like an eternity. I feel I should be old now, but I'm still the same twenty-four year old I was when it happened. I'm talking about the accident. Memories of it are few and far between but I do know that it happened quick. One minute I was reaching for a bottle of water sitting on the passenger seat of my car, the next I'm peering into the piercing eyes of a wild dog, followed by the sound of shattering glass, crunching metal and a blinding white light. That was it. Now I'm standing in the middle of this road, in the middle of nowhere - alone.

Everyday I walk. I walk for miles. I look at the hills ahead of me and walk towards them. Maybe civilisation lies beyond those peaks, people who can help me, hot food I can eat and cold drinks - not that I feel hungry or thirsty any more. I long to see what lies over the horizon and I walk all day but it never gets any closer. And as if in mockery, the mountain range behind follows me, stalking me and matching my every step. They never shrink in size, never grow any further away, yet I walk from them every day.

I have even ventured off the road. I look to the flat horizons either side, littered with half dead bushes and dry, cracked dirt, but no matter how long or how far I stray, the tarmac road follows. It's never further than twenty feet behind me. 

I don't know where I am. I don't know how long I've been here, and I don't know why I can't leave. In frustration, I yell at the sun above me, always glowing and never giving in to night. The days are one, the stars extinct. I hate it. Did I die in that accident? Is this purgatory or hell? Will I ever be able to leave?

But then as I walk the same tarmac I've trodden for what feels like an eternity, a strange feeling comes over me. Something feels different. As I turn back towards the imprisoning mountains, I see it, a ghost emerging from the heat waves off the road. A car, speeding along towards me, ever closer. After spending so long on my own, with not one living thing scampering my path, I begin to feel something I haven't felt for a long time. Fear... 

Writing Exercise: Stumbling Into Book Scenes...

It's been a while since I posted one of these, but here's a writing exercise that our writers' group done the other night.

The exercise was to pick a book - any book - and imagine that for some unknown reason you wake up and find yourself in the middle of a scene.  See how long it takes for you to guess which book I chose :)

Exercise: Stumbling into book scenes  

Red.

As soon as my vision came back all I could see was red.  Had I really hit my head that hard?

As my eyes began to come round I started to make out shapes in the redness, shadows, objects...a hand...my hand.  And as other colour began to bleed in around me, my hand remained its rosy shade.  I twiddled my fingers.  They felt fine and moved with ease, but why were they red?  Looking up, I stared at the scene that unfolded before me, like a coloured fog lifting from the ground.

I was in a garden.  The grass was green and lush, the sky crystal blue, and hedges surrounded me on all sides, all crisp and trimmed to form blocks that opened up for paths to lead off beyond them.  It reminded me of a maze.

A tree grew beside where I stood, a small tree just a little taller than I was, and I noticed the roses that grew on it, fully bloomed and beautiful against their leaves.  The fact that some were red and some were white didn't strike me as odd.  What struck me was why I was here.  One minute I had been painting my bathroom, slipping from the stool, falling and feeling my head make contact with the sink - and the next I was standing in this summer garden.  Where was I?

It could have been a dream, I thought, but the warmth from the sun and the feel of the cool breeze felt so real - and those roses!  Their smell!  That was real too.

"Who's been painting my roses red?"

The voice boomed from behind the hedges, deep and angry yet somewhat feminine.  I thrashed round to look across the way but no one was there.

"Who's been painting my roses red?"

Gasping I looked down at my hand again.  It was still red only it wasn't a fog.  It was paint.  Red paint.  I looked at the red roses on the tree.  They were dripping, bleeding their redness on the leaves about them and revealing patches of white petal beneath.

Was it me?  Had I been painting those roses red?

It dawned on me then.  This sounded familiar.  Where had I seen this before?  Where had I read it?  It involved a little girl; a little girl with blonde hair and a blue dress; a little girl named Alice and a cheshire cat and a...

"Who's been painting my roses red!"

A large form in a boulbous dress burst forth from a path, her face red with anger, and her wide eyes glared around the garden before falling on me and my hand.

The Queen of Hearts stared daggers at me.

I shook my head, unbelieving of the whole scene that was playing out before me.  Was I really in Alice in Wonderland?  No, I thought.  I couldn't be.  Must be a dream, but then the Queen raised her hand and stretched a fat stubby finger in my direction.  The fear I felt was very real.

"Off with her head!"

Before I could argue my defence, before I could plead my innocence, guards rushed towards me from behind her and seized me.  The grip I felt on my arms was just as real.  Too real.  I couldn't control the scream that emerged from my throat as they swept me off my feet and dragged me deep into the maze with the full intention of carrying out what they had been ordered to do.

They were going to cut off my head.

And as they dragged me closer to the guillotine, one question sprang to my mind.

Where was Alice?
     

Region's Most Wanted . . .

The aim of this 10 minute exercise was to imagine what we would do if we were walking through a park and we saw someone sitting on a bench, someone we recognise, and someone, we suddenly realise, is wanted for murder.  We know the face from TV, from news broadcasts across the region. 

So once we realise, what do we do?  How do we proceed with the knowledge that the county's most wanted man is sitting on a bench not two yards away as we pass by?

This piece was inspired by how I felt in a similar kind of moment a few years ago.  I'll blog about that one day too...

Region's Most Wanted 

His gaze bore through me as I walked passed.  At first he was just a normal man sitting on the park bench, but as I drew closer I knew it was no ordinary man.

I had seen him before.  I even had a name for him, a name I had heard on TV, a name belonging to a killer.

Was it him?  My eyes wanted to study him as I approached but I was too afraid to look.  What if he saw me?  Would he guess that I knew who he was?  If he did, would he come after me to silence me?

Keeping my gaze low, I walked on passed, my legs quickening their pace without any command given.  They wanted to take me away from that bench as soon as possible.

He remained seated as I went by, but the fact didn't stop my heart from pounding in my chest.

What should I do?

If it was him, the police needed to be told.  If it wasn't then the man on the bench had nothing to worry about if visited by the police.  Surely, if it wasn't him, he must be aware of his striking resemblance to the killer?  He must be expectant of some contact with the police?

I needed to call them regardless.  I needed to get a safe distance away, take my phone from my bag and make the call, but my legs kept going and my arms remained stubborn in their swing.  They weren't going for my phone.

I'll make the call at work, I thought.  Safety in numbers.  I needed to talk to someone about it before I took that step.  Yes, that's what I needed to do.  Maybe then my mind's panic would settle and I'd see sense.  Maybe then I would realise that it wasn't him sitting on that bench at all, that my confused mind had only connected the two.  Yes, that made sense.  I didn't really have to make that phone call.  I didn't really have to get involved, did I?

Rewriting Scenes In Your Own Style . . .

Sounds like plagiarism, rewriting scenes in your own style, and maybe it is but it served for a great writing exercise last night at our writers group. 

A colleague read a scene from a chosen book, a scene that was only half a page long.  The book - I forget what it was called - was told from the POV of a cat on the run from cat catchers, and the scene had them trapped in a ...shed?... and the cat catchers burst in and captured one. 

The point of the exercise was to practice our genre telling.  We had to rewrite the scene in a different genre and in our own style.  Out of the whole scene read, one part gripped me, and that was the magpie that flew in, crying it's warning to lock the door before flying to rafters above.  With this in mind, this was what I churned out:

When Angels Fall

The other angels gathered in the abandoned church whilst one stood on guard outside.  The night was long and dark, and the clear skies had allowed the frost to settle on the ground and forgotten gravestones earlier than usual.  The stars sparkled above them.  There was no moon.

He remained silent, a skill angels were created with, and his black, pupiless eyes roamed the shadows.  He felt uneasy, fearful, but knew this meeting was inevitable.  The three angels meeting inside were discussing their rebellious fall from the heavens and were planning their next move.  There were more like them out there.  At the time of the riots, twenty or so angels had escaped and swept down to the lands below in a bid for freedom after centuries of being cooped up.  Every one of these had gone their own ways, treading their own paths - and all aware of the Black Angel that had been assigned to follow and deal their punishment.  

This was what he was on the look out for.  He trusted that what ever plans his fellow angels would come up with would be wise and would take them to safety but he had to ensure that their choice had its chance to be made.  

His black eyes studied the darkness of the surrounding churchyard.  A light breeze drifted across the back of his neck.  He turned.  The shadows loomed, their thick masses sneering at him, and he gave an uneasy shudder, ruffling the feathers of his wings.  

Nothing moved.  There was only silence.

He turned back, not liking the niggling feeling that ate away at him.  Something was wrong.  By the time he saw the large, black wings swooping down towards him, he knew it was too late to retaliate.  The size of them tripled his own, and there was no chance of defeating such a ferocious being.  Thrashing around, he swung through the opening of the church.

"Lock the door!" he yelled. 

Startled faces peered back at them.  He repeated his command as he opened his wings and lifted himself up to the rafters but there was no time to follow them through.  Instead the other angels scarpered, desperately seeking for a hiding place.  He saw from above as two disappeared in the shadows for protection, but it was too late for the third as the menacing form of the Black Angel stormed through the opening and pinned him to the ground, his large black wings enveloping him and his talons piercing through flesh...   

A Walk In The Park . . .

This was a writing exercise that we took part in the other week.  The phrase given was 'A Walk in the Park', and this was I produced within the ten minutes we were given.

Enjoy.

A Walk In The Park

"Once you've done it a couple of times," they said, "it will become easy.  The weapon will become like an extension of your body, of your being.  You will disassociate yourself with any emotional implications that often follow such tasks.  You will feel nothing, you will be numb.  It will be like a walk in the park."

Of course it's easy to say these things, easy to imagine.  People who fantasise about such things fall in love with the power it can give them, the prospect of money, of stealth, mystery and travel - but yet put them in this very spot and I bet they feel as I am now.

I press my finger gently on the trigger, not enough to let the round off, but enough to stop myself from trembling.

The life of an assassin promised me everything I had dreamed of.  I had spent months training with a firm that fails to exist in the eyes of the public, a firm that can track you down within minutes, no matter where in the world you are, and a firm who will quickly and brutally put things right if you mess up.  

Yes, the fantasies of being an assassin are delicious, but in real life it's not so easy, it's not just a walk in the park - as my target is about to realise.  The street he's strolling through at the moment is heaving with people.  I hide at the distance, in the trees, waiting - and it's a wait that is allowing doubt to flood through.

I begin to wonder if my first kill will ever happen . . . 



Writing Exercise: A Lunch Break To Remember . . .

Back from holidays. And did we let the recent storms ruin our time? Never. We soldiered on like the proud holiday-makers we were.

Having said that, the weather wasn't too bad where we were. We had two full days of rain out of seven, and the rest was just wind (well, I say just wind; some nights we did believe our caravan was going to be blown over, not to mention the bowing walls). But at least we didn't find ourselves having to stand on a hill, watching as our caravans drift out to sea in flood waters like many suffered in Wales.

And at least we saw some sun. I even managed to get a little tan (or is this wind burn?)

Still, back to reality now, and back to blogging basics. Today I'm going to publish a writing exercise piece from last night's writers' meeting. The task was to write about a lunch break from your school days, and we only had ten minutes to do it.  And before you ask, yes this did happened  :)

Enjoy.

A Lunch Break To Remember . . .

As soon as the bell sounded we were out that side door, running passed the music block to a little secluded area that was almost out of bounds. A yard or so further and it would have been.

So what made this corner so special? The privacy it gave our group was one thing. It was well away from the main playground and the hoards playing football or tag. It was well away from scornful looks from those who flirted and guarded their targets like prey. It gave us the freedom to be who we were with our friends and to enjoy the hour we had outside class.

The second was the wind. It blew in from across the field and caught in the alcove we gathered in, creating a whirlwind that blew us around. Hours of fun was spent on windy days, seeing what could float on these up drafts and what could go the highest or the furthest.

One of these thing was a coat - a lightweight Naff-Naff jacket that seemed to be the in-thing back in those days. Of all the things we tried, from crisp wrappers to food, this was the one item that beat the lot, the champion, and the only thing to cause one girl embarrassment as she had ask the caretaker to retrieve it from the roof...

Writing Exercise: It Was An Odd Way To Start The Day

It's been a while, but today I thought I'd publish a piece of flash fiction that I wrote Monday for one of our Writers' Group Exercises. We each picked a random sentence and had to then let our imaginations go woth the flow...

Sentence: It was an odd way to start the day...

It was an odd way to start the day but who was I to complain. After everything that had happened recently a touch of normality was needed - but it felt strange.

I say it was an odd way to start the day; waking up to the smell of coffee and pancakes simmering away was one if the best ways to start a day - but as I mentioned before, it felt strange.

For the last few years I had been held captive by Pirates off the Turkish shores. I had originally set out with my wife in our yacht for a sail through the Med, something that wasn't unhead of. We had spent many months sailing the world but on this particular occasion, our trip didn't go to plan.

Our yacht was seized, we were captured and our belongings ransacked and sold on. I spent a month or so with my wife, chained in the brig of one of their ships before we were seperated.

After that I heard rumours of the pirates asking for a ransom. The fact that payment was refused infuriated them to the core. It was something they later loved to taunt me with, the fact that no one cared for me enough to pay.

I never saw my wife again. For years I was forced into labour on board their ship. If I couldn't earn them money through a ransom I would earn my keep another way.

Eventually I was able to plan my escape. With the shores of India in sight I waited until I was unguarded, something that now happened quite often, and I slipped overboard and swam to safetly. Once there I managed to seek help and was offered a hotel room while officials done their job.

This morning, after spending my first night in a bed that wasn't floating, I woke to the smell of coffee and pancakes. It was nice but I knew I wouldn't enjoy it. I strangely missed the rough handling that usually accompanied the rising sun - and I missed my wife.

Today, I knew, was to mark the first day of my search for her. I didn't care of the outcome, whether she was dead or sold on somewhere, but I knew I couldn't rest until I knew.

Wanted: Dead or Alive . . .

I've been duped! Duped big time stylie!!!

After finishing Son of Jack I wrote a series of short ghost stories and then decided that I could happily have a little break from writing - only for a week or so. I figured that now I didn't have any deadlines to contend with I could put my feet up for a bit. I started to draw, then that idea got a bit old; read some and then became a member of LoveFilm. I could stream and watch films instantly.

After watching god-knows how many films, I got back into the ye old faithful series of True Blood. Seeing as I'm not one to sit down religiously at a set time every week to watch a series on TV, I got the DVD, but I'm a skin-flint. I only had season one on DVD and thought I'd wait until the price dropped before buying the rest. So, after watching season one I had to get the second season. Now I've watched every episode I find myself in a rut. What am I to do now? I'm at a loss. I've ordered season three but it won't be here for at least a week. What am I going to do in between times???

Then I remembered that I'm actually a writer!!! How could I have forgotten? And then it dawned on me.

Yep, I've been duped. My muse enjoyed his little break and obviously doesn't want to come back without a fight. He's been quite happy sitting down, watching TV and becoming the stereotypical couch potato. Now I want to put him back to work, he's up'ed and made a run for it. I've tried, I've fought, and I managed to write the opening chapter of the vampire story that I had in mind, but then he got the upper hand of the fight. I'm not quite sure where he is now. He's hiding and could be anywhere. But I know he's still in the house. I hear him creeping around the shadows at night; I know he's playing games with me; I feel him peaking over my shoulder when I'm reading through previous work, and as soon as I put finger to keyboard he sniggers at me and runs off.

By allowing him this little break, I've been too soft on him and now he's running riot and doing as he pleases. I need to gain control of him! I need to put him back to work and that means discipline! He's not going to like it, but once he's under control again, everything should be fine and he'll see it's for his own good. You have to be cruel to be kind.

So, if anyone sees an unaccompanied muse wandering around, no doubt he's mine. He's Wanted: Dead or Alive. You know how to contact me if he's sighted and your cooperation is very much appreciated.

Thank you.

Odds and Sods...

What a weekend. Lots of things happened - well, I wouldn't say lots, but there was more than usual.

1: I finished the second part to Son of Jack, which you would have read about in Friday's post. It's now been emailed around to my critique group for them to savagely rip to pieces nicely :) I'm now planning part three and will begin new adventures in writing very soon.

2: I had a fight with my cat. It gets chilly in here sometimes, and just recently I've had to resort to bringing my blanket out of its summer hibernation (god knows what I'm gonna be like come winter). So, as I sat, wrapped up all nice, warm and cosy like in my blanket whilst working away, I was well aware of a pair of beady eyes watching me and sizing me and waiting for that moment. As I got up to get a drink, the fight began. As you can see from the below piccy, she won...lol.


3: Hatfield House celebrated 400 years of existence. For those that aren't up on English History, the house that stands today was built in 1611, however, there was another house there before that was built in 1497. It housed two of Henry VIII's children, Edward - who was crowned King after Henry at the age of 9, and who died at the mere age of 15 - and his sister, Elizabeth, daughter of the famous Anne Boleyn, Henry's second wife who was beheaded for adultery and witchcraft. Elizabeth was to eventually to become Queen Elizabeth I.

In 1608 three wings were torn down by Robert Cecil, the First Earl of Salisbury, and was rebuilt to a new design, the design that still stands today and that celebrated its 400 year anniversary. And, boy, did it go out with a bang. Just under 15,000 fireworks were used on and around the actual house in the most spectacular firework display I've ever seen.



4: I finally got round to giving the picture of the X-men (Revisit that blog post to refresh your memory if you wish) that I had been working to my friend. I was really pleased with the way it come out and I hope they like it. But I couldn't give it away with taking a sneak piccy on my phone. The colours, albeit subtle, didn't come out in here. I may get another piccy at a later date.



5: And not forgetting the 10 year anniversary of 9/11. I held my respects on Sunday and my thoughts are with all the victims and survivors. I can't believe 10 years has gone since that horrible day. I can still remember exactly where I was and how sickened and horrified I felt when it happened. It's a day that has scarred us all.

Writing Exercise . . .

This piece was written a while back as an exercise for our writers' group. I can't quite remember what the in's and out's of it were but I know it had to include the sentence:

' . . . As I watched the mountains began to fade away . . . '

This is what I churned out.

Enjoy!

Time travel. So many people had been warned of the consequences of messing with time, but of course the advise was never listened to and the price was always paid.

I had always considered myself as someone with their head firmly attached to their shoulders. I was smart and sensible. Time travel was something I would never mess with - but that was until I met the hand of temptation.

I stared at the photo - the one thing left I held close to my heart. To my relief it still looked the same. The family - my family - who stood in front of the log cabin looked happy and excited, and I remembered back to when the photo was taken.

We had inherited the log cabin two years ago, although to say two years ago now would be an error as the booking wouldn't take place for another hundred years - at least. The location had been my parents favorite, with the picturesque scenery and the mountainous backdrop, and it had been a holiday to remember.

It had been our last holiday to together.

"As long as the picture remains the same, you will be okay," had been the last advice given to me before I left. Now every second I got I was staring at the picture.

My actions in the deep past had not yet affected my present, and my heart slowed with relief in my chest. Whole families had been wiped off the planet because of simple careless actions and irresponsible decisions. I didn't want to be one of those, the cause of something like that happening.



Copyright Lea Roberta Michelle Weikert

 But it had happened, and it had happened fast - too fast for me to realise. Suddenly my spontaneous actions in response to what was happening was wrong. They were the kind of actions that would bring consequences to my family. I continued to run every event over and over in my head for some speck of hope that I might be saved, but I couldn't see anything. The only reassurance I had that my actions hadn't been disastrous was my photo - but as I looked it began to change before my eyes.

And as I watched, the mountains in the background began to fade away.

I wanted to cry but I felt numb. There was nothing I could do. Within minutes my family would be erased from existence . . . and I would fade with them.

Creating A World of Fairies . . .

My 8 year old neice lost a tooth the other week. As usual she placed the tooth under her pillow and went to sleep dreaming of the tooth fairy coming to replace her tooth with a shiny coin that she could spend. But the tooth wasn't the only thing she left. She also left a tiny little pad, and on each page was a question for the fairy.

It was such a sweet thing that my sister-in-law had to answer the questions, but there was a problem. My neice knew her handwriting and so she needed to come up with an alternative. Me.

I had a field day with this. I brought a little pad with a picture of a fairy on the front and I copied and answered each and every question. In doing so I actually created an entire world of fairies and their habitat, something that became so real in my mind that who knows where it could lead with future writing projects.

Allow me to share how the tooth fairy answered the questions of an 8 year old girl:

Why do you need our teeth?

Teeth have a lot of something called 'Calcium' inside them. We use this calcium to make other teeth and help all the animals out there who have toothaches or who need new teeth.

What do you eat?

We eat anything nature can give us.

What happens when you lose your teeth?
When we lose our teeth we put them with all the others that we have collected to help other animals in need.


Who takes your teeth away?

We are in charge of our own teeth and take them to the collection ourselves.

Do you have pets?

No, we don't have pets but we have many wild friends.

What do you make our teeth into?

We use the 'Calcium' in your teeth to make and mould or repair other teeth for all the animals.

Are you scared of anything?

No, but we are very shy which is why you never see us.

Do you have babies?

Yes we have families, and our young fairies go to fairy school to learn how to become good tooth fairies.

How big is your food?

Our food can be tiny nibbles to something much bigger than us depending on what we can find. We always cut it down to size and share.

Where do you get your powers?

Our powers come naturally to us, just like you can naturally talk, run around and climb trees.

How big is the world to you?

The world is a very big place to us, but when flying it doesn't take long to get round.

What are your houses like?

Some build houses with twigs and leaves. Others like to live in trees or bushes. Trees are our favourite places as they last a long time and keep us warm and cosy.

Do you live under mushrooms?

No, but we do like to play around them and use them as umbrellas when it rains.

What do you wear?

Spider webs make lovely silk and we use this to weave and make material which makes our clothes. We use flowers to make the material into different colours.

Who are your friends?

My best friend is another fairy called Taloula. She has long blonde hair and blue eyes. But I am also very good friends with other fairies and lots of insects and animals.

Do you have teddies?

Young fairies do. These are made with the same spider webs that make our clothes.

Are you friends with bugs?

Some of our bestest friends are bugs. We love having piggy back rides with butterflies, moths and dragonflies. They are very nice and very pretty. Spiders are very friendly to us and very helpful too. They love weaving their webs for us to use. Lady birds are always funny and make us laugh.

It's surprising how much sense this all made to an 8 year old girl...

Writing Update . . .

I missed my usual blogging slot yesterday. I do apologise. My cat is poorly, bless her, and I had to take her to the vets. She's gone in today for tests, and even though I know she'll be fine, I have no control over the tears. It's great having pets but I can't help but think maybe I'm a little too attached. Here's a piccy of our Daisy . . .

Anyway . . . A brief update on writing, seeing as most people are giving one at the moment. Seems to be all the rage just recently.

I've gone and broken all my rules, but it's for a good cause. I've started a second novel. Ever since my early writing days, I've always restrained myself to one manuscript at a time. That way I can pour all resources into it for the best result - and saves getting confused with minor details that could ruin continuity. Short stories are fine, in fact I recommend writing them as they allow you to work on something different without having to put so much commitment into them. Anyone who has more than one novel on the go at a time, fair play, but it's usually not for me.

My first, Lady of the Seas, is still going strong. She's up to 37k and is rolling smoothly.

But my second is called Son of Jack, and is going to be published via our new project 'Starfish ePublishing'. This is being run by members of our Writers' Circle, and we're all putting something forward for publication in November. Visit From Sand to Glass for more technical details surrounding this venture.

Son of Jack was a basic idea I come up with for an exercise that our group were doing, and it just evolved from there. It's based around the fears of four people who live in a society shadowed by the threat of a serial killer. Even though it only took me five minutes to come up with the idea, I felt it deserved more attention and so decided to write it for Starfish ePublishing. Within the two weeks of planning and writing, she's up to 12k. I'm aiming for around 70-80k. And, as usual, I was so excited I've even designed a front cover.

So there you go. All other projects are being put on hold and my concentration is now laying within these - if I can stop blubbering and worrying about my cat, that is . . .

A Conundrum and a Moose's Head . . .

Flicking through my notebook, I found an old piece of writing from an exercise we did at our writers' group. I can't remember when we done it or what the exercise was, but I think it had to involve a 'moose's head'. (*Shrugs shoulders)

I remember writing the piece, and I remember what inspired me. It was a story I heard on the radio that morning that was so unbelievable but yet true. It's listed up there with the Darwin awards. The story is not exact, all characters purely fictional, but the key elements are there . . . and I involved a moose's head.

Enjoy.

Conundrum: Can a person be charged for their own murder?

Daniel Redgrave, the alleged murder victim, had suffered with depression for most of his adult life, and during a particularly bad period, decided to take his own life by jumping from the roof of the tower block where he still lived with his parents. However, after he jumped, the coroners stated that the cause of death was not the suicide fall, but the bullet wound in his chest.

This puzzled the authorities, and after an investigation, this was what they found.

Three months prior to Daniel Redgrave's suicide/murder, he had been the cause of a family feud and was disinherited from his parent's will. It appeared that his mother refused to give him anything in the event of her death, including the head of a moose that hung on their wall.

In a fit of rage, Daniel Redgrave loaded his father's rifle - the very rifle used to kill the moose - and placed it back on its perch above the mantelpiece. His father, it was told, often got into heated discussions with his wife and always grabbed the riffle from the mantelpiece, threatening to shoot her. Daniel knew this, and this spurred him into loading the rifle in hopes that his father would shoot and unwittingly kill his wife.

But after three months nothing had happened and the bullet was forgotten.

Daniel Redgrave's depression continued to worsen, and eventually he decided that enough was enough. He climbed the stairs to the roof and stood on the edge, determined to take his own life.

Little did he know that floors below him, his parents were engaging in one of their heated discussions. As he always did, Mr Redgrave grabbed the riffle, unknowing that it was loaded. As Daniel Redgrave leapt from the roof in his suicide bid, Mr Redgrave shot the rifle. However, the bullet missed his wife, passed through the window and hit his son in the chest as he plummeted to his death.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

The courts tried to charge Mr Redgrave for the murder of Daniel Redgrave as he was the one who had shot the rifle, but because he didn't know the rifle was loaded, all they could charge him with was manslaughter.

However, because of the evidence against Daniel Redgrave, clearly showing that he was the one who loaded the weapon with the intent of murder, the charges against Mr Redgrave were dropped and they had no choice but to charge the victim with his own murder.

His mother kept the moose's head.

Writers and Exercise . . .

People say that writing is a lonely game. I read many blogs about such things not so long ago. The fact is, it can be, but then it isn't. It depends on the writer. Shutting yourself away from the world so you can have some quality time creating your new one isn't everyone's idea of a good time - but for the writer, it might sound like heaven. And, let's face it. They won't be entirely on their own. Their characters will be with them.

I bring this up now because I have nothing else to blog about at the moment and I'm in danger of becoming a full time Hermit.

I like my own company. I'll quite happily sit at home, just me and the cat, and spend all that time creatively. And with a husband who is a lorry driver and away most of the week, I almost get my wish - but it's not healthy. Now I'm working from home, so I have no more travelling into the office everyday, no more interacting with people - it is literally just me...ALL DAY! Definitely not healthy.

So I've taken up going for walks in my lunch break or, like today, going for a bike ride. I used to bike all the time before we moved. I used to ride to and from work everyday and I loved it. It kept me fit and gave me the exercise that I wouldn't have otherwise got from working behind a desk all day. Then we moved away, then I got a driver's licence and now I get no exercise at all. (So you can imagine how I'm feeling today - exhausted, sore and reminded how unfit I am.)

However, despite deadlines and just that one more paragraph that needs writing, remember that getting out, socialising and getting some exercise is just as important. You'll be no good to anyone if your not healthy and in no state of mind to write that best selling novel. Once that's done, then you can shut yourself away.

Prioritise. Health or Novel.

And it was just bad luck for Stephen King to get hit by a car on one of his daily walks all those years ago.

Right, well I'm now off to sulk and nurse my aching muscles. Tomorrow is but another day . . .

Lessons In Punctuation . . .

I've always known, but it was confirmed last night that the school I went to all those moons ago wasn't all that. When it comes to writing, everything I know today is what I have picked up through reading, practice, and through critiquing sessions in our writer's circle. I don't remember them teaching us a lot about punctuation - let alone creative writing.

One member of our writers' circle is someone I've been friends with since those wonderful days, and she agrees. She finds punctuation hard to deal with, although I have to admit she is getting better. Using the correct punctuation is just as important as every other detail of the story you are trying to tell, from the characters, their world, their dialogue - everything.

However, choosing your punctuation is an art form. Some people use a bit of everything, throwing in a bit of this, a bit of that, and maybe one of those too, where others may just prefer to use the basic full-stops and commas. And is this wrong or right? It doesn't really matter. As long as they are used in the right context, it can help to aid your story along.

But your personal use of punctuation is much like your style of writing. It differs from the next writer.

We ran an experiment last night. I was hoping that it would prove useful to those who struggle with their full-stops. We wrote a short piece in our own writing style, how we usually would, but left out all the punctuation. Then we passed it to the next person to add in where they thought the punctuation should be. Despite us getting a large percentage of it right, the added punctuation changed the original flow of the story completely. There was punctuation added in places where I wouldn't have used it. And despite them not being wrong, it was surprising how much a extra comma or one less full-stop can change the style so much.

Anyway, this was the piece I wrote with the original punctuation in.

Purgatory

The door closed. Should I have gone through it? I didn't know.

I stood and stared at the giant doors before me. They reached so high the top was engulfed in the gloomy mist above. Relief sculptures climbed the paneling, each body entwining with the next, and each with a story of their own to tell.

I looked around me, confused and nervous. Had I missed my chance? What was I supposed to do now? This was new to me, as it was new to everyone else who stood before these doors. Purgatory wasn't a place often frequented by the living.

I continued to take in my surroundings; the shadows; the mist; the pillars. The room appeared round but was somehow shapeless, and it was spacious but felt small and oppressive. And there was a ceiling. I knew that, but I couldn't see it.

What was I supposed to do now? When I first entered the room, the great doors had opened, revealing a light that was warm and tempting, but fear had held me back. As I stood and watched, debating whether to walk through, the doors had closed. Would they reopen?

Movement caught my eye. I looked up and saw as figure on the door moved. He turned his body, untangling himself from another figure and then turned to face me. And he wasn't the only one. The whole door was now alive with squirming bodies, all turning to face me. There was no noise, but their mouths were open, calling me and reaching out their hands.

Fear engulfed me. I wanted to step back, to run, but their hands, even though too far away to reach me, seemed to pull. I couldn't fight the force and I began to move forward. I realised then what was happening. The doors had shut on my one chance to enter Heaven. I was stuck in purgatory, and those who entered before me were the figures on the door. As I was pulled closer, I knew my fate now lay with them for the rest of eternity.

Tonight Was Different . . .

Wow! What a week I've had. If you happen to work for an Internet company and they come up with the bright idea of working from home, make sure you - AND they - think it through good and proper before taking that leap.

Still, hopefully now everything should settle and life can start to resemble something that was once considered normal.

For today I thought I'd blog a little something I wrote last night during our weekly writers' circle meeting. We were given three random words and basically we had to come up with something that involved them all. This is what I churned out.

Words: Quivering, Society, Lurched

She couldn't see me. I was invisible to her, just as I was to everyone else. For neigh on 50 years I had been trapped in my own purgatory, free to roam wherever I pleased, but doomed to do so alone. Despite often being surrounded by people, no one ever knew I was there.

I was a ghost - once a man who's life had been stolen from them at the age of 31. I had the chance to move on then, to follow the path that opened to me, but things had happened so fast and so unexpected that all I could do was turn and run. I was frightened and didn't know what was happening. Now I regret not taking that unknown step forward.

It took a while, but I soon become accustomed to my new existence, and I took to sitting and watching as society evolved and grew. It comforted and soothed me to see people come and go, blissfully unaware of my prying eyes. And I'm sure that my eyes were not the only ones watching - but I had never seen these.

Tonight, something was different.

Tonight she had an aura about her, an aura that heightened her senses and made her more open to my presence.

Tonight she knew I was there.

The first time I saw her, I was engulfed with emotions and feelings that I hadn't felt in over 50 years. They enthralled me and she enthralled me. I had never met anyone like her before, and suddenly I was longing to be alive again, to be able to touch her, to feel the softness of her blonde hair running through my fingers, to smell her sweet scent, and to experience the warmth of her breath on my skin. I wanted all the things any lover would want - but I was denied.

Instead I watched.

I watched her work; I watched her cook; I watched her relax, and I watched her sleep. I wanted her so badly it hurt.

Tonight was different. She huddled on her bed, quivering, feeling my presence in her room. I meant her no harm, but she didn't know this. She was only aware of something she didn't understand, and this frightened her. Wanting to calm her, I leaned on the bed and gently reached out my hand. I had never attempted to touch her before, but as I said, tonight was different. As my fingers touched her chin, my palm brushing her soft skin, I expected to feel her. I wanted to feel her, and felt shocked and surprised when I didn't. Why, I didn't know. I hadn't felt anything physically since I died.

But she felt me.

Her eyes widened and within an instant she had lurched towards the other side of the bed. She was terrified, and I had done this to her.

I was grieved by this revelation so much. I didn't want to frighten her. I loved her. But seeing my affect only made it clearer in my mind what I had to do.

I had to leave. I had to move on.

I loved her too much to succumb her to anymore fear.

Turning, I faded into the shadows, leaving to go back to my loneliness, and as hard as it was, I refused to look back.

Creating Real Characters . . .

My thoughts on this topic:

I read a blog not so long ago about whether or not your protagonist should appear pleasing to the eye - ie, should they be the tall, dark handsome stranger that us women often fantasise about - or should they be rugged with flaws?

Well, there's no right or wrong answer. I believe it's down to the author. If you want your character to be the next Casanova, to be dashing and handsome and be able to sweep women off their feet with just a whisper, then so be it. But if you need your protagonist to be disfigured in someway that makes them feel ugly, then you should. It all boils down to the story you're creating and who needs to be involved.

In my opinion, a protagonist who's either disfigured or drop-dead gorgeous doesn't alter a good read.

But for characters to feel real, they do need flaws. A lot of writers with good-looking protagonists compensate by giving them 'psychological problems'. Maybe they're smug, knowing that they're good-looking, and they constantly look down their noses at others.

Or those who are disfigured, how would you have them be? Underneath their scars, could they be the nicest person in the world? Is that nice person trapped under all the resentment that they harbour over their looks, the main reason why people cross the street when they see them? Either way, these little things help give a character depth, making them feel real.

A couple of examples:

Phantom of the Opera: He hid his scarred face under a mask and lived under the opera house where no one could see him, then fell in love with Christine after hearing her sing. But Christine was able to see past the scars and his bitterness and fall for him, too (I'm guessing at the storyline here).

Quasimodo from the Hunchback of Notre Dame: Seriously disfigured and kept in the tower away from civilisation - until he falls for a gypsy woman.


THEN - something I watched the other night - V for Vendetta: Horribly disfigured and hides beneath the mask of Guy Fawkes. He's a monstrous terrorist who's killing everyone involved in what happened to him - but beneath he's a kind man who is reminded that he is capable of loving - and of being loved (rather touching).

But then, what about those in between? Those who aren't stereotypical, Hollywood hunks, but those who aren't disfigured. One man has caught my attention. Professor Brian Cox. He presents the TV Documentary, Wonders of the Universe, which explains about the big bang theory and supa-novas. He freaks me out. When he's quiet, he looks fine, but when he talks he has a constant, wide grin on his face, with those round, chubby, gleaming cheeks - and the way his whole mouth moves when he talks. It's probably just me, but there's something about him that makes me question his looks . . . do I like him or don't I? . . . or are these questions that I see one of my characters asking? Forget Hollywood Hunks (if that's possible). These are the real people that would inhabit worlds of fiction.

What do you think about this guy? I know I'm being vain - and I apologise if it sounds like I'm judging him on his looks alone.

Normal . . . I'm thinking, yeah, he looks ok . . .




Then there's the grin - and yes it is that wide when he speaks, too . . . lol

The Dark Tower - Film Adaptation . . .

Something has been brought to my attention today (which is a good thing because I didn't know what to blog about). This is something that I should have known, seeing as I'm a huge fan, and I hang my head in shame with the fact that I didn't.

The Dark Tower series, by Stephen King, is being made into a film (for 2013).

For those of you who haven't read The Dark Tower series, shame on you. I give you permission to flick away from this blog right now, go find the first book, and read that instead (as long as you come back and finish this post, that is...). There's seven books in total, starting with the Gunslinger (1982), The Drawing of the Three (1987), The Waste Lands (1991), Wizard and Glass (1997), Wolves of the Calla (2003), Song of Susannah (2004), and the finale, The Dark Tower (2004). They follow Roland Deschain and his companions across worlds that mix Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Horror and Western, in search for the fabled Dark Tower, the source of all existance.

It truly is a King masterpiece, and I'm sure those who have read it will agree.

However, there's much debate about this movie adaptation (or three movies and a TV series to be precise). Will it do the books justice, or will it be like other adaptations and be a disappointment? I'm open minded - and easily pleased when it comes to the big screen.

One of the other big debates was who is going to play the role of Roland Deschain. The choices were Daniel Craig, Christian Bale, Viggo Mortensen and Josh Holloway . . . but it looks like they've decided upon Javier Bardem. I like him. He's rugged enough to play the part.

And for those who have been blogging about art work commisioning for their WIP's just recently, you should check out some of the pieces for this series. There are some fantastic pictures.

Oh, and did I mention that it's being directed by Ron Howard? Happy Days . . . lol . . .

I will continue to fish for news regarding this topic.

Short Piece . . . Anchored . . .

Friday's Pic of the Week inspired me so much I thought I'd write a little piece to go with it. Enjoy!

Anchored

And so this was how it was to end. There was to be no fairytale romance for me; no riding off into the sunset with the man I loved. Instead here I was, bound and waiting for death. His blood churned with the water that surrounded me, like smoke in open air – only this was red. It danced in the currents, taunting me and reminding me of its intentions. It was calling on the waves; calling to any willing to listen; any that was willing to bring about my death. I prayed that none would come, but I knew it was inevitable. The smell of blood on the open currents carried for miles. Something would be coming soon to answer those calls.

I closed my eyes against the swaying sight in front of me. I didn’t want to look upon the horrific scene anymore. It wrenched at my broken heart. I felt the gentle shift of the sand against my tail, a contrast compared to the rough feel of the iron anchor against my back. Every little movement caused it to grate against my skin, and I should have been reeling in pain but my sorrow numbed me to it. Instead I had no choice but to accepted it – and wait.

I recalled the events that brought me to this situation, this final hour. They had started off so promising, and I was hopeful that there was going to be a happy ending. I didn’t know how it was going work, but I knew we’d be together. Then things went wrong. We were caught and we were punished – by both our people.

Man and mermaids were forbidden to meet.

At least that was the law under the waves – a law that I chose to disobey. But it wasn’t my intention. I couldn’t just stay back and watch as nature claimed the life of this man. He had been thrown overboard from the galleon ship that he crewed during a storm. He would have died had I not taken hold of him and carried him back to shore. As I lay on the sand watching over him, I had no idea what was happening to his ship. I didn’t know that the storm was to claim it, that the seas were going to drag it down and state it as its own. How could I?

I was too preoccupied with staring at the man I had just rescued, mesmerised by his beauty and innocence. And when he opened his eyes and stared upon me, we were both hooked.

I knew it was wrong, but my heart couldn’t deny what I felt. My love for him continued to grow, and he felt exactly the same. We’d meet in a nearby cove where no one ventured, and we’d share our love – but one day we were caught, and our relationship wasn’t just frowned upon, it was revolted against. His people were sickened and claimed that it had been me who had taken down their ship. I had been the cause of all those deaths, despite the fact that I saved one and was nowhere near the ship when it went down.

They sentenced my love to death.

Horrified, I sought help from my own, hoping that they could help, that they could somehow rescue him, but they shunned me. Our law of never meeting with man was because of this exact scenario. Men believed mermaids to be a bad omen, and because of their beliefs, they were cruel and cold hearted. They believed me that I had nothing to do with the taking down of their ship, but my being there at that time was bad luck.

They wouldn’t help, and they turned me away.

In the end I had no choice but to go back and try to plead with the men, but they chose to use me as an example instead. They wanted to send a message beneath the waves that they were not people to toy with. If we took lives, then so would they. Where their beliefs came from, I didn’t know, and I certainly didn’t understand. We had never hurt anyone, but still I found myself captive and brought back out to sea. I was forced against their anchor and bound, the crew jeering and taunting. My love could only cry as he watched, his eyes telling me how sorry he was.

And then the anchor was dropped overboard.

What they hoped to achieve with this, I didn’t know. Didn’t they understand that I couldn’t drown? That I lived in these salty waters? But as I registered the splash above me, I knew what they meant to do.

Looking up I saw as my love, bound and tied to iron weights, sunk to the seabed before me. He withered against his ties, the oxygen in his lungs running out, and I screamed and fought against my own ties, wanting to help him, wanting to prevent him from downing.

But I couldn’t help.

I watched with shame as he stopped moving and stared at me one last time, and then as he died before my eyes. I had wept then, cried and wailed. I fought some more against the rope that bound me to the anchor, but I couldn’t move.

My heart was broken.

And then I noticed the blood.

I understood then how they were intending to kill me. They had slit my loves arms, wanting his blood to be taken by the surrounding currents. They wanted to call the beasts that lurked in the deep, wanted them to smell the blood and come with hunger in their minds. They wanted to have our flesh ripped from our very bones. And me being tied to the anchor, I couldn’t hide. But then why would I? I had lost the one person I loved, been shunned from my very people because of it, and I couldn’t live with the grief and guilt that it had been I who had done this to him, I who had caused his death.

No, I decided. Let the men win. Let the beasts come.

Sci-Fi V's Fantasy . . .

I made a discovery last night. That discovery was the fact that I would never be able to write a piece of serious Sci-Fi.

I like Sci-fi, but I mainly stick to watching movies as opposed to reading books. Having mentally scanned through my book mountain, I don't actually recall owning anything in that genre. I have horror (lots of horror), thriller, drama, historical, romance, adventure and fantasy etc - but no Sci-fi. (note to self: read a Sci-Fi novel)

I used to believe that when writing, there was a fine line between fantasy and Sci-fi. They come part and parcel. When hunting for publishers and agents, amoung their lists of accepted genres is their list of unaccepted genres - usually including fantasy and Sci-Fi.

In my opinion the two genres are very similar in that the worlds they are based in is nine-times-out-of-ten completely fictional. They have fantastical characters and aliens, robots and mythical creatures, space ships and enchanted lands, scorcery and technology. However, one happens in space and one happens on land. That's the basic difference.

So why, coming from a person who has devoted the best part of their years to writing fantasy, will I not be able to write Sci-Fi?

The truth is . . . I don't have the brains!

A few people in our writers' circle write Sci-fi, and last night we gave critique to a short piece. And it was a good piece. It was well written, easy to follow, and descriptive enough for me to imagine where we were. Okay, there were a few points regarding characterisation etc, but nothing that couldn't be fixed.

Then they decided to delve deeper into the Science Fiction of the story - and I'm not kidding, I was lost. These people were talking about the laws of physics, what decay would be like in a world with no atmosphere, how the world would differ in sight because of the lack of atmosphere (there wouldn't be a blue sky, for starters. Its the atmosphere that makes that blue) etc. I was stunned. They were discussing the reasons why a world would be desolate, what could possibly have happened to kill the entire world off, and the natural events that would follow within the next million years. I didn't know any of this - didn't even have the foggiest clue as to what they were talking about half the time.

I couldn't help but sit in silence throughout most of it. I offered my part where I could, but I soon realised that writing Sci-Fi is so much different to writing fantasy. There are rules that need to be followed to make it sound plausible and possible, whereas with Fantasy we can just add mystical reasoning - 'it's like that because it is . . .'

Nope, I'm blonde, and when it comes to Sci-Fi, it shows.