Friday Flash - Fold

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Becky and Karl sit opposite one another. A naked bulb hangs above the table, casting a harsh circle of light across the game. Becky reaches forward and tosses another handful of poker chips onto the pile. Karl displays his cards - three of a kind. Becky groans and drops her cards facedown onto the table.

March 23 1997. Becky and Karl walk down the street, discussing ways to celebrate their six month anniversary. They pause at the cinema, scanning the posted list of film times. Becky wants to see Liar Liar, having seen all of Jim Carrey's films so far. Karl insists they see the special edition of Return of the Jedi - he doesn't much care for Jim Carrey. Becky points out she hasn't seen Star Wars or The Empire Strikes Back. Karl replies that he is paying for the tickets, so it should be his choice. Becky spends the duration of the film counting the number of times Karl uses money to get his way.

Karl looks at the hand he has been dealt and scowls. He swaps out two of his cards with the third player, a silent figure who sits in the shadows. Karl's expression morphs from annoyance to hope. Becky ups the ante and calls it. Her Royal Flush beats his two pair.

August 13 2004. Becky and Karl discuss their wedding plans. Karl wants a small civil ceremony at the local registry office; Becky wants a big church wedding, followed by a lavish reception. Karl argues about the guest list - he doesn't want to make a fuss. Becky sulks, asking if she isn't worth that much to him. Karl relents, not wanting to start married life under a cloud. They are married at St Martin's, with the reception for two hundred people at the local country club.

Karl pushes his stack of chips around the table as stares at the cards in his hand. He glances at the silent figure. Becky adds more chips to the pile in the centre of the table. A bead of sweat bursts forth on Karl's forehead, and trickles down the clammy skin to be lost in the foliage of his eyebrows. Becky calls it. Karl knows his lowly pair will be beaten; Becky rakes the chips across to her side of the table.

November 30 2008. Becky asks Karl why he spends so much time at the office. He claims he needs to put in the overtime - if he doesn't do the work, they'll find someone else who will. He thinks of Sara, the receptionist with the short skirts and see-through blouses. Becky threatens to leave if he doesn't change jobs. Karl thinks of the expensive dinners and lavish holidays, paid for by Becky's trust fund. He calls a recruitment consultant.

Karl takes two new cards from the silent dealer, slotting them into the fan in his hand. He struggles to suppress a grin - the new King and Queen fit in well with his existing cards. Becky notices the flicker at the corners of his mouth and bites her lip. She calls it, choking back a sob to see Karl's Full House.

May 18 2009. Becky goes to see her sister's new baby, and realises she is broody. After spending the afternoon with her niece, she goes home and tells Karl she wants to start a family. Karl doesn't want children - he feels that they're too much of a commitment. Becky insists that they try anyway. After six months, she visits the doctor, and discovers she can't have children. Karl commiserates with her, and celebrates with his friends.

The third player drops a handful of cards onto the table. A Full House. Becky looks at her mismatched hand, and Karl frowns at his lowly pair. An equal pile of chips sits on either side of the table. Becky and Karl fold, stand up from the table, and walk away.

September 12 2011. Becky and Karl sign their divorce papers.

Mid-January Update

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Yesterday I introduced myself again over on Write Anything - albeit myself as a writer, not as a person. It's part of their project to get the readers of the blog to get to know the contributors. I like to think that the two are actually fairly closely linked, but it got me thinking again about how little I actually include of myself on my blog. I read other blogs in which people discuss their lives and let their readers get to know them, but unless you're a subscriber to the theory that a person's soul is laid bare in their fiction, or you 'read' the images I use as photo prompts, then I guess I'm a bit of a shadow of myself online.

Maybe I should use 2012 as the time to change that? Well we're halfway through month one, so how has the year been treating me so far?

As well as my introductory post I've already mentioned, I've also had a post on Write Anything about why writing needn't be a chore, and posts on Fuel Your Writing suggesting ways to get back into your writing routine after Christmas, and also why writing what you know shouldn't be taken so literally.

I've posted two Friday Flashes in 2012 - Spot the Mistake, a slice of silliness, and The Bell, a Gothic tale set on a lonely moor. If that weren't enough, Metro Fiction were also kind enough to publish my short story, The Hen Night. It's not my usual genre but then again, considering I've posted fantasy, horror, steampunk, historical and even science fiction, who's to say what "my genre" actually is? The Guns of Retribution is a pulp Western, after all!! I'm just not a writer who wants to get hung up on what genre I should, or shouldn't, write. I understand the marketing implications but sorry, I'm not going to quit writing what I enjoy just to satisfy a few hardcore genre fiends.

Speaking of Westerns, I can now say that paperback copies of Guns are available from A Reader's Heaven in Lithgow, New South Wales, if you're in the area and want to pick one up. I'm thrilled to see the copies on an actual bookshelf! With any luck they'll appear in UK stores this year too but fingers crossed on that. Work is progressing on the sequel, and my beloved bounty hunter, Grey O'Donnell, is now giving me ideas for short stories as well as novellas, so hopefully 2012 will be a year in which he meets even more people! My current plan is to get book two written by May, in order to start work on book three in the summer.

But so far, all I've been talking about is writing. What else have I been doing? More of my spare time than I'd care to admit has gone into playing World of Warcraft (I know, I know, I got sucked in) but work is well underway on the infamous PhD, as I work my way through reading existing texts on the topic in order to compile a literature review. Best of all, I've booked a holiday in Venice! I last visited the Italian city in December 2006 and I've been itching to go back so I am very, very excited at the prospect of visiting again. My camera and I will be inseparable!

Photo Prompt 68

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If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The 68th prompt is Frost.


All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

Friday Flash - The Bell

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The road stretched away across the moor, disappearing and reappearing with every undulation of untamed land. Edward Fenwick peered into the distance in both directions. The view yielded only miles of lonely heather. He fished in his horse's saddlebag for the creased square of parchment.

"Well this is a fine business. Digby's map surely shows Cransland House, yet there is not even a cow shed to be seen!" Edward looked down at the horse. The mare whinnied, and bent her head to nibble at the grass verge.

Edward took his pocketwatch from his waistcoat. Only 3pm, and yet the shadowy fingers of dusk already felt their way across the moor. A cloud crossed the face of the low sun, and Edward shivered. The crammed dwellings and clamour of London could never prepare him for this.

"I am late! Thirty minutes, no less. I should have taken the cart that was offered," said Edward.

He gazed across the moor, as if expecting the dilapidated old hall to materialise before him. Nothing. Not even a sheep or cow to break the monotony of the view.

A gust of wind danced around Edward, carrying a faint ringing. The mare lifted her head and pricked up her ears; Edward leaned forward in the saddle, straining to make out the sound. Regular yet insistent, Edward recognised the call of a small bell. He flicked the mare's reins, but the horse refused the budge. Unable to urge her forward, but keen to discover the location of the bell, Edward clambered down out of the saddle and set off down the road.

Hidden by a swell of moorland, another road crossed the empty landscape. A wooden post gave directions where the two roads met, and a mound of earth lay heaped at the foot of the sign. Edward ignored the westward arm pointing toward Cransland House, focussed instead upon the mound. A narrow wooden contraption protruded from the ground, topped by a small copper bell. Sheltered from the sudden gusts of wind by the ground's swell, the bell continued to ring.

Edward snatched his hat from his head and turned it in his hands. He spun around, casting wild glances in all directions. As before, he was alone on the moor. He crossed to the loose mound, searching the ground for clues as to the grave's occupant. Stories tumbled through his mind unbidden, tales told by his old nanny about the witches and vampires buried at crossroads. Even at the age of 43, he found himself unable to pass through London's many crossroads without wondering about the ground beneath his feet.

Edward mopped his brow, his teeth chewing his lip in time to the bell's call. Leaping devils pranced before his mind's eye. His feet tried to direct him back to the mare. He shook his head, trying to dislodge his thoughts.

"Come along now, this will not do. You cannot believe in such superstitious nonsense," he chided himself. "You have heard the stories of premature burial - some fellow could be gasping his last down there while you dither up here."

The bell's ringing grew louder, as if in reply. Edward forced himself towards the mound. Nestling his gloves inside his hat, his fingers got to work on the soft earth. The soil broke apart and fell aside as he scooped handfuls to his left and right. His red face shone with a halo of sweat when his fingertips finally brushed the splinters of untreated wood.

"Hallo there, I am here! I shall have you free in a moment!" called Edward. He hauled the last of the clods behind him, laying bare a rough wooden box, some six feet tall and three feet wide. Edward worked his fingers into the crack between the lid and the box, pulling upwards with all the strength his accounts clerk arms possessed. His mare neighed somewhere in the deepening twilight behind him, a call filled with panic.

"I shall be back, dearest horse!" shouted Edward, looking back over his shoulder as his hands finally pulled the lid free.

Edward looked down into the coffin, expecting to see a grateful face gasping for air. The box was empty, lined with rough sackcloth. He looked up to see if the trapped victim had hauled themselves to freedom when he called to his mare. Nothing but shadows surrounded him. He turned back to the coffin.

Something hit Edward square between the shoulderblades and he tumbled forwards. The last thing he felt was sackcloth against his face.

Photo Prompt 67

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If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The 67th prompt is Church.


All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

Friday Flash - Spot the Mistake

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The Duke of Finchall sat on the wide stone steps, his chin resting in his palm. A handbill advertising the Ninth Brazenaar Companion Competition dangled from his other hand. The Duke watched his faithful companion scamper around the courtyard, claws scraping against worn stone.

“My lord, may I offer you a drink?”

The Duke looked up. His squire, Rivar, stood behind him, caught in a low bow. A serving girl stood behind the squire, bearing a steaming flagon on a silver tray. The Duke looked at the flagon, and back at Spot. Visions of the trophy, once again out of the Duke's grasp, danced before his eyes.

“I'm not thirsty,” he replied.

“Very well, my lord. Can I interest you in something else?”

“Have you got the competition trophy lying around somewhere?” asked the Duke. He thought of his neighbour, Baron Darkrown. The Baron didn't need yet another piece of silverware to add to his impressive collection. I don’t even have a collection, thought the Duke.

“Alas, I do not.”

The Duke turned around in time to see the squire dismiss the serving girl.

“I thought we might win this year, Rivar,” said the Duke when the girl was out of earshot.

“As did we all, my lord. But I am quite sure that Spot did not intend to urinate on the Chief Judge.”

“No, I'm sure he didn't. But he did it all the same,” replied the Duke.

“And I am sure he did not mean to start a fight with the other competitors. He was merely full of excitement at leaving the castle." The squire stole a glance at Spot, now pouncing at dancing shadows in the corner.

“You are probably correct, yet do it he did.”

“And if I am honest, I would venture that Spot also did not mean to devour the Adjudicator.”

The Duke shrugged in reply, and gazed across the courtyard. Spot snapped at a butterfly that veered too close to his head. A kitchen boy inched around the edge of the yard, eager to avoid Spot's lashing tail.

“Spot? Here, boy.”

The Duke whistled and snapped his fingers. The rare Gudmundian Spotted Dragon whipped around and lumbered across the courtyard towards his master. Spot lowered his massive head and allowed the Duke to scratch behind his horns. The dragon thumped his hind leg in appreciation. The Duke sighed.

As much as he loved his companion, he couldn’t help but wish his mother had given him a puppy.

[Book Review] The Little Stranger

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I picked up The Little Stranger by chance, since it was only £2 in HMV. The fact it's a ghost story naturally caught my eye, and the fact it's set in a crumbling old house in the 1940s was a bonus. Written by Sarah Waters, The Little Stranger was published in 2009, and shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize.

The story is narrated by Dr Faraday, a Warwickshire doctor called to attend a sick maid at Hundreds Hall, the dilapidated country seat of the Ayres family. The family are almost destitute, ruined by the social changes wrought by the Second World War, and Dr Faraday soon finds himself becoming a family friend. We're given an inkling that all is not well early on, when the sick maid complains of how creepy she finds the house.

Dr Faraday reminds me a lot of Stevens, the uptight butler narrator of The Remains of the Day. He's caught in his own internal class struggle, fighting against his working class upbringing as he seeks to ingratiate himself with the failing aristocratic Ayres family. He also reveals a lot about himself through his careless asides, and most of the time it becomes blatantly obvious what is going on, without Faraday being at all aware of it. I lost count of the number of times I cringed on his behalf.

It's a strange book in that things don't really get going until page 141 or so, and it was more a vague sense of interest in the mundane activities of the family that kept me reading. By page 141, the famous pacing finally kicked in and I found it truly gripping reading. I'd speed through whole chapters at a time, squeezing in reading time wherever I found five minutes. Waters builds up the tension surrounding the haunting, all the while keeping Faraday as the voice of reason, making the reader decide for themselves whether the house is haunted or not.

I wouldn't necessarily label The Little Stranger as a ghost story per se, but I would label it as a supernatural thriller, or perhaps a psychological chiller. Waters captures 1940s speech patterns, and while some of her descriptive passages border on unnecessary, when she really hits her stride, they paint the picture of an old house caught between its glory days and decay, inhabited by shades of their former selves. Perhaps the house is haunted after all - if only by its owners.

The opening section aside, it's well-written and a truly enjoyable read.

Four blunt pencils out of five!