writing

Thoughts Please..

Freaked out business woman with a hammer ready to smash her laptop computer

Have decided in my infinite wisdom that I don’t like Facebook.  Can’t see the woods for the trees.

I haven’t deleted it but I have had a good old clear out and tried to move as many of the people, groups and likes over to Twitter that I can.

To be honest FB has never really been of any great use to me as a writer, there is just so much stuff to get bogged down in.

Am hoping it will be far more beneficial to use Twitter and follow the blogs of like-minded people and support those who interact in this way.

So what are your thoughts?  Which platforms work best for you?

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FLASH FICTION

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Am planning to start taking part in the flash fiction challenges that pop up all over the internet.  I was a regular a few years back.

Due to brain age I can’t remember any other than Vis Dare – (Angela Goff is the host.)

So drop me a note and let me know which ones you submit to every week.

HOSTS – I will place links in my sidebar if you happen to be passing this way.

Problem Solved

Time for a bit of a flash I think.

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PROBLEM SOLVED

‘I’m not signing it.” Bernard bangs his fist on the table and the pen jerks away.

”Think you’ll find you are mate. Marcus wants the cops off his back and that family need closure.”

Delaney circles the table and puts the pen back in front of Bernard.

”It’s a bloody confession and it reads like a suicide note as well. We both know I didn’t do it. Marcus did.”

”Just do it Bernie. Sorts everything out and you can bugger off to Rio or some place for a while.”

”No.”

”Well you have two choices. You know what Marcus wants he gets, and he wants this sorted now. If I was you mate I would do it and get the hell out of here.”

They hear the outer door open and thirty seconds later Marcus steps into the room.

”Not signed it for me yet Bernard? It’s only a bloody signature.”

”I’m not signing it.” Bernard makes to rise from the chair.

”Jeez I don’t have time for this. It’s your fucking choice.” Marcus steps back and pulls out his gun.

”Problem solved” he says and shoots Bernard dead.

He turns to Delaney. ”Now you sign the sodding paper.”

Bucket List

No, no, no.  Not that kind of bucket list.

I am driving myself insane at the moment.  Categorising my documents, listing what has been send where, what I can’t send anywhere and looking for new places to submit. Whoever would have guessed there were so many outlets for flashes?

So this is how I feel right now – love this image – it says it all.

SHEEP GETS BUCKET STUCK ON HEAD

Am I the only one who looks up and realises that it’s after 5pm and I haven’t washed up from breakfast?  Let alone peeled a potato?  I am 100% sure I am not.

Happy days.

It’s A Random Choice

coin-toss

So how many WIP’s have you got? I have eight and to my thinking they all have the potential to be something, if not a full length novel, (I have the attention span of a gnat,) they may make it to Novella length.

But herein lies the problem.  I get several chapters in and then lose the plot.  Sound familiar?

The fact that I am a panster doesn’t really help.  I mean I couldn’t organise the proverbial p*ss up in a brewery so my chances or planning a story are nil.  Seriously.

This therefore, is my plan.  I have put all the working titles of these said WIP’s through a random generator and the one that has come out on top, wait a minute and I will tell you about it, is the one I am going to work on here, on this blog.

I have no real idea what genre it is, but when did that ever stop me? It has murder, a gang of prostitutes (so a bit of sex,) and a head of house who is not entirely what she seems. Oh and it’s set in the Victorian era so the language has played me up a bit – lots of research, but that’s okay, I can do research.

May surprise you to know that I have conducted two interviews with my characters. One with the MC and one with that lady of the house. So I will share those later.

So this is just a working cover, for which I would like to thank the talented Miraly – the girl rocks.

WHORE.SLAYER

Lilith is just a street girl, working up dark alleys and more frequently, down at the docks.

She stumbles upon the very ordinary home of Madam Cynthia and before long she has several of her working acquaintances ensconced in the comfort of said home.

All goes relatively well until the Madam chooses her to entertain a gentleman of distinction in his home.  She is not to breathe a word to anyone of this liaison.

 

See you back here later, I may need your help.

Today I Am Motivated

.. and that doesn’t happen a lot.  Actually you may have noticed.

Am sharing here one of my favourite pieces of writing, I wrote it about three years ago.

JEREMIAH

1

They were killers, rapists and abusers. As hard as any men could ever be. But every night they listened to Jeremiah sob quietly into his pillow and it broke their hearts.

By comparison he had done nothing, that they could see, that warranted him being subjected to the punishment bestowed on them. They deserved it. He was hardly more than a child.

They talked long into the night and when the guards came with their dogs at 5am, they were tired. But they were always tired. It was the nature of their lives.

Shackled together, the ten men, with Jeremiah last in line, shuffled out to start a day of hard labour under unforgiving skies.

What looked like a beautifully choreographed line of men, swinging their pick axes in time to the lament they chanted, was in fact a chain gang, all sentenced to death and waiting their turn.

When the heat rose Jeremiah was unchained, as he was every day. The boy was responsible for trying to quench the thirst of the other prisoners with what little water the guards made available.

They of course had everything they needed to make the day more bearable and its heat more tolerable.

The irrigation ditch that the condemned men were digging grew deeper and wider with every stroke.

For men half-starved and with death hanging over their heads they were strong. Strong of body and of will.

At noon the guards called a break and led the line of bedraggled souls to the shelter of the trees.

Not out of kindness but to ensure they were able to work another seven hours after this short respite from the midday sun.

Huddled in a group, threatened with a whipping if they spoke to one another, the offenders tried in vain to nourish themselves on the thin gruel and dried bread.

But they had no need of words. There plans were made and while the three guards and their dogs feasted on cold chicken and fresh bread, they made their move.

They had no fear in their hearts or minds because what was there for them to fear? One way or another they would die before the year was out.

Before the guards could cock their pistols they had risen as one and knocked them to the ground.

The dogs went berserk and tore at the bare flesh of the chain gang. Muscle and sinew swam in pools of blood as the nine men pinned their captors to the ground.

No cries penetrated the air. They were determined to see this through and they knew they were suffering nothing other than what they had bestowed on others.

And when finally a shot rang out from the lookout tower they rolled, those that could, from the bodies of the guards, savaged by their own dogs in the confusion.

The six that remained, half alive, waited and said silent prayers for their friends who lay with their throats torn out and flies already coming in for the feast.

The guards were not dead but they would most likely never work again. The dogs could not distinguish one from another when the smell of blood had started to fill the air.

When the Jeep finally arrived with back-up, the remaining prisoners were executed on the spot. A bullet to each brain ended their lives and they lay on the hard earth, united with their cell mates in death.

The guards were the first priority of the back-up team. Getting them out of the sun and off to a hospital was top most in their minds.

And so it was a while before they noticed that there were only nine bodies rotting slowly at the edge of the woods.

Jeremiah had been given instructions and had run like the wind when the prisoners had pounced.

His child like legs had carried him far and he only vaguely heard the shots ring out as his saviours had died.

He cried for them and prayed to God for their deliverance. He owed it to them to grasp this chance of freedom and he would.

They would not have died in vain.

REMEMBER YESTERDAY

Sorry for slightly prolonged absence, been having a bit of a struggle with the black dog.

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REMEMBER YESTERDAY

They arrived before daybreak. Settling their little Fiesta tight up against the fence. She was asleep on arrival and continues to be so, in ignorance of how the day will unfold. Of how she wants it to unfold.

The silence becomes too much for him and as he watches her trouble-free relaxation he tucks the cover more tightly around her and gently strokes the old skin of her face

”I don’t think I can do this Leyla. I really, really don’t.” Marcus Delaney whispers. His eyes are full of tears.

She stirs, wrapped in an old blanket she stares out at the lake and the mist starting to rise from it as the day takes hold.

”Yes you can Marcus. You have to. I will do it myself somehow if I must. But it will be done.”

Leyla turns and smiles at him. She is so beautiful. Despite everything there is still an inner glow that radiates and fills the car with warmth.

”We came here to remember my darling. Let us talk of the happy times when the children swam and we picnicked over there by the big old oak. I wonder if our initials are still visible. You should go and look. Will you?”

”I don’t want to see them Leyla, not without you by my side.” He sounds like a bad tempered child but she smiles and reaches for his hand.

”Please darling. I want to know.”

Pushing the blanket from his knees Marcus does as his wife of forty years bids him and reaches for the door handle.

The grass is damp beneath him and his feet leave a trail as he walks towards the tree.

Suddenly the mist lifts and he sees a red and white chequered cloth laden with sandwiches and fruit drinks. Leyla is sitting, legs crossed with a small child, Alex he thinks, balanced in the middle.

Susie and Adam are chasing each other round and round the tree and the air is full of laughter.

This is a time before Lucy came to them, and then was so suddenly gone. There is no pain etched on Leyla’s face. No notion of the terrible turmoil destined to come into her life.

The vision vanishes and Marcus has reached the tree. He reaches out to the rough bark and trails his hand gently around the trunk. There, suddenly is what he is looking for. Very faint and worn with age but quite clear if you know it is there. MD loves LD.

He sees them three days after their marriage, so many years ago. Leyla laughs in delight as he makes their inscription with his father’s old penknife. The memory brings a rare smile to his old face and he recalls that this was the day, most likely, that Adam was conceived. So very long ago.

Leyla watches him, this man, the love of her life, her Marcus, and feels her heart shift with the knowledge of his pain. He has tried so hard to be strong for her at this time, and before, all those years ago when Lucy was first lost, he held them all together.

She sends up a silent prayer to a God she doesn’t believe in and asks that he will help the children to understand. That Adam, Susie and Alex will take care of their father and know that he did what was right for all of them. Right for her.

The sun is rising in the sky as Marcus slips back inside the car. He rearranges the blanket on his knees and turns to Leyla.

”It’s always been the not knowing, hasn’t it? Do you think if we had known we would have coped better, understood even?”

”No Marcus. The not knowing is what gave us hope and the will to carry on believing. And you must continue to believe that she is out there somewhere. Our Lucy. Alive and happy.”

There is silence now in the car and Marcus knows that the time has come. His beautiful Leyla chose this day, the day Lucy was taken, as the day to end her pain.

She reaches for his hand and smiles at him. The illness is clear to see in her tiny, tortured face.

”I’d like to drink that coffee now” she says.