#FridayFlash - Broken Bracelet

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In the days following The End, a lot of people learned the value of what they'd lost. Law, order, social niceties, even electricity - all gone. Those disenfranchised by the old system turned feral, and formed the Riot Boys. The police, overrun and overworked, just gave up. It got worse. Even death offered no eternal peace, as the dead began to rise. It wasn't radiation, or a virus, just some quirk of reality that reversed some of the natural laws. Some of the revenants retained their previous selves, and went home. Some of them...well, they copied whatever behaviour they saw, and a lot of them saw nothing but Riot Boys. Humanity was beset on all sides - for the first time in my life, I was glad not to be human.

Oh I looked human. Most of the time. For three days out of the month, we were something else entirely. My family were Wulfen, and given there haven't been wolves in England for centuries, we'd become adept at avoiding detection. Being smaller and lighter than my brothers, I trained as a Tracker, and I was good at it. Very good. My brothers could have been jealous, but they had no other sisters, and protected me as the Warriors they were.

So it was that I came to be skirting the remains of an old village, late one spring evening. Some of those places avoided much trouble, being so far out of the way, and the inhabitants continued on much as they did before, growing their own food and bartering goods. They were always happy to see me, bringing with me news of the 'outside world'. Not all villages escaped, and the burnt out buildings of Woldendale put me on my guard. Riot Boys had been here - and might still be around.

I found myself in a pub car park on the edge of the village. The pub wasn't gutted by fire, but the windows were full of broken glass, the walls coated by thick graffiti. The Riot Boys probably drank it dry before they moved on. I lifted my head and let the scents of the air wash over me. Nothing - human or undead. I didn't think there was anything worth salvaging in Woldendale but I had to check.

I picked my way across the car park, and something shiny caught my eye. I padded closer, and saw the remains of a bracelet lying on the ground. Several cracked beads still clung to the nylon thread, although most of them had scattered across the tarmac. I picked up the fragile remains and sniffed, but heavy rain had washed away any traces of its owner. Now the bracelet just smelled of bad weather and petrol. I didn't have to be clairvoyant to see how it ended up here. Some hapless girl, perhaps eager to meet a boyfriend, ignored curfew and crossed the car park. With both revenants and Riot Boys in the area, she stood no chance. She encountered one or the other - or in a worst case scenario, both - and in the ensuing scuffle, the bracelet broke, and spilled its beads on the ground. I sighed. Nothing I could do for her now.

A scent caught my nose. Rotting flesh and hair gel – particularly cheap hair gel, considering its pungent aroma. I froze, trying to gauge the direction. Someone shambled out of an ancient lean-to at the back of the pub. He cut a strange figure, with his disintegrating skin, bloodshot eyes, and hair thick with styling product. He sported the typical spiky crop favoured by the Riot Boys, and was even clad in their tracksuit and trainers uniform. I could see acne scars among the patches of rot on his face – he couldn’t have been more than fifteen when he died.

He uttered a single moan and lurched towards me. I cursed myself for not keeping a weapon to hand, and scrabbled at the buckles on my bag. I backed away across the car park as the revenant ambled closer – not quite hurrying, but not taking his time either. I fumbled with the strap and the buckle finally gave. My foot caught on a pothole in the tarmac, sending me sprawling backwards. The flap of my satchel opened and scattered the contents of my bag across the car park.

The revenant smiled, a horrifying sight of missing teeth and misshapen lips, and bore down on me. I scrambled backwards, and my hand found smooth wood. My fingers curled around a handle and I swung upwards with all my strength as the revenant pounced. The head of my hammer collided with the revenant’s skull in an explosion of bone and blood. My would-be attacker keeled over, the hammer still buried in his brain.

I pulled the hammer free and wiped it clean on the revenant’s tracksuit top. I gathered the rest of my things and dumped them back in the satchel, ever mindful that where there was one revenant, there would no doubt be more.

A low moaning erupted within the lean-to. I recognised the sound – humans might think it a sound of mourning, but the moan, interrupted by snarls, was a revenant argument. They likely didn’t know I was there, but if they came outside, they would. My brothers would storm the building, slaughtering all the revenants they found, and they’d celebrate later with a feast of venison and ale.

But that was my brothers. I was on my own. I may be Wulfen but I wasn’t stupid. The revenants of Woldendale could wait. So I did the only thing I could. I ran.

* * *

Bracelet by L1l1th, tarmac by Blackcatm, edits by me. Concept of a broken bracelet in a car park from Nerine Dorman.

What writers can take from Django Unchained

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I finally got to see Django Unchained at the weekend, a film I'd been looking forward to for a long time since a) I love Westerns, b) I like Tarantino and c) I love Leo DiCaprio. My review is over on my film blog, but I had a few thoughts about what writers could take away from the movie.

1) Do your research.

The world of Django Unchained felt very plausible, and very real. At no point did I look at anything and think it was anachronistic, although while checking things for this post, I discovered that Tarantino has included dynamite some eight years before it was invented. Still, fiction is allowed to take some liberties, as long as they're within the bounds of possibility. The costumes were fabulous, the set design had a real attention to detail that period pieces always need, and Tarantino had clearly researched the social situation of 1858. No matter whether you're setting your story in 2087 or 1887, it needs to feel real to a reader. Even futuristic pieces need research to extrapolate the likelihood of possible inventions becoming reality.

2) Don't be afraid of controversy.

Don't feel you have to court controversy - for every person who reads your work out of genuine interest, you'll have another who reads it for its reputation, and that's a Pandora's box you don't want to open as you scrabble to top each controversial outing. Having said that, don't shy away from a topic because you feel it is, or might be, controversial. Fiction will always need brave authors willing to talk about things that no one else will discuss, and if you have an original, fair, or unique take on a subject, why not try it out? Tarantino certainly did. Whether he was right or wrong to do tackle the subject of slavery using the generic conventions of both the Western and the Revenge film so is not for me to decide, but kudos to him for having the balls to raise the topic in the first place.

3) Know when to end a scene.

There were more than a few scenes where I found myself mentally screaming "CUT! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, CUUUUUUT!" Tarantino's often had the tendency to ramble, letting scenes go on far longer than they need to, while the additional running time does nothing to further the story (although it may increase your need to duck out to the bathroom). As a reader, if you feel that a scene is going on too long you might just skip to the next one - or worse, you might put the book down altogether. Writers need to know when to stop a scene, or cut it entirely. If it doesn't further the plot or illuminate something important, lose it. If it feels like it's running out of steam, cut and get on with it.

4) Using up your big finish too early.

It wasn't one of his biggest hits but Death Proof got it just right when the climactic set piece, that epic car chase, was at the very end of the film. Likewise the fight sequence between the Bride and O-Ren Ishii in Kill Bill Pt I. Trouble is, I felt like Django Unchained's big shoot-out was the big set piece, as opposed to the actual climactic ending...meaning that the film after said shoot-out sagged a little. That would be like Luke destroying the Death Star and spending another forty five minutes wandering around. Keep your big finish for the end.

5) Give your hero flaws...but don't make him easy to dislike.

I think my biggest problem with Django Unchained is that I warmed to King Schultz very easily, and I really liked the character, but I found it nigh on impossible to root for Django himself. If your sole presented reason for me rooting for someone is how badly they've been treated by someone else then you're not exactly presenting a rounded character. Likewise, making the guy a natural shot so he's a better gunslinger than Wyatt Earp without any practice just makes me too incredulous. His motivations were understandable, and possibly even commendable, but as a character, I just didn't like Django. I know that, in places, Django himself was playing a character in order to further his own ends, but it didn't feel like Django was stretching himself too much to play a bastard. Schultz had flaws, but they were there to make him human. By contrast, Django's flaws just made him into a cartoon character. So by all means give your protagonist flaws - after all, we don't want yet another Mary Sue - but don't make them unlikeable in the process. Even anti-heroes like Snake Plisskin are likeable.

What do you think?

National Novel Reading Month

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John Wiswell has reminded me that National Novel Reading Month begins on February 1st. It's quite simple - you choose a classic you've never read, read it in February, and then talk about it.

As I'm looking at the Gothic as part of my PhD thesis, I think it only right that I choose a book related to my topic. I've chosen Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto. I've been meaning to read it for months now, but this has given me a very good excuse!

The Castle of Otranto is largely considered the first Gothic text, and was originally published in 1764 as an alleged translation of an ancient text. Walpole eventually acknowledged authorship by the time the second edition came out. It's available for the Kindle for free through Project Gutenberg but I'll be reading the paperback version, a book I bought at an art exhibition about his rather stunning house at Strawberry Hill.

#FridayFlash - The Dreamcatcher

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Theophilius Hopgood sat at his desk, the quill in his hand poised above a parchment strip. He peered through his glasses at the small glass bottle on the shelf of the desk. Tiny blue particles drifted to and fro, disturbing the pale green mist inside the vial. Hopgood dipped the quill into the ink and scrawled ‘Eternium’ on the parchment. When the ink dried, he’d stick the label onto the bottle, and it would leave his workshop, destined for sale in one of the emporia far below his attic.


Three ornate cages stood near the open window. Two of the cages were empty, their occupants out working in the City Above. The third cage contained a large grey bird that slept with its head tucked beneath one wing.

A fluttering of wings at the window announced the return of one of the birds. Midway between a vulture and an owl, it squeezed through the narrow opening and landed on Hopgood’s vast work surface. Its ruby talons gripped a net of woven cobweb and silk thread. Clouds of coloured mist clung to the net, sparkling in the gloom of the workshop.

“Ah, Medusa, you have been busy!”

Hopgood petted the bird, and she raised one leg to allow him to remove the net. He picked up his tweezers and teased each of the clouds free, depositing them into small glass bottles. He counted six in total. He shook out the net and hung it from a peg on the wall to dry.

Hopgood examined the bottles. Two of them contained pale green clouds studded with floating blue particles. Hopgood smiled – he’d need to write more Eternium labels, and dreams of immortality always sold well.

The bird fluttered up to one of the empty cages and clambered inside, far less graceful on foot than she was in the air. Her ruby talons gripped the bar of the cage and she settled down to sleep, tucking her head beneath her wing to mirror the pose of her avian neighbour. Hopgood marvelled at those talons; right now, they kept the bird upright through sleep, but those same talons could also prise free the dreams of slumbering Citizens.

Hopgood settled down in the chair to write more labels for the bottles. He counted two dreams of immortality, one of love, one of success, and two of enduring friendship. Ettamora would be pleased; her dreams emporium was the favoured destination of slum-dwellers hoping to share the dreams of the rich Citizens in the City Above.

The third bird clattered through the window, landing on the desk in a heap. Its talons were tangled in the silken net, and Hopgood spent ten minutes working the bird free. The net held a single cloud, heavy and black, studded with red beads that glowered like baleful eyes.

“Sandor, how often must I tell you? You must harvest only good dreams, not bad ones!” Hopgood admonished the bird as it flew up to the cage, hiding in its shadows.

Hopgood wrung out the net, squeezing the black cloud into a larger jar, its glass thicker than that of the other bottles. He forced in the stopper before the cloud could escape, but the particles hammered against the cork for several moments.

“You see, Sandor? That’s why bad dreams are dangerous. They’re always trying to get out and affect everything they touch. I’ll have to send it down to the forge so they can melt it down for nightmare parts.”

A loud knock echoed around the workshop. Hopgood shuffled across the room, squeezing between desks and display cases. He opened the door to a thin girl carrying a basket. She wore a threadbare shawl around her narrow shoulders, and her pinched features bore an expression of wearied resignation.

“Good evening, Pola. I have some new product for you.”

“Why do you ‘ave to live right up ‘ere? Takes me ages to climb them stairs,” said Pola, stepping into the workshop.

“The birds need to be above the smog to find their way out.”

Hopgood’s stomach roiled to think of the smog that clung to the Underground City. What he wouldn’t give to escape, to find a small attic in the City Above where he could enjoy fresh air and open skies. Not once had his birds brought home that dream. That was his own dream – definitely not for sale.

Pola grimaced, and moved no further into the workshop. Hopgood rolled his eyes and returned to his desk to fetch the finished bottles from their shelf. He wrapped them into a large handkerchief so he could carry them back to Pola. She tucked them into her basket, and handed him fourteen small copper pieces, one for each bottle. Ettamora would sell them on for three coppers each.

“Be seein’ you, Theo.”

Pola turned and left, her wheezing filling the stairwell as she descended into darkness. Hopgood closed the door and returned to his desk. Sandor still didn’t sleep, instead peering out of his cage at his master. Hopgood held out his arm and Sandor clambered free, fluttering down to rest on Hopgood’s forearm.

“I want fresh air, Sandor, and I’m sure you do too. But I can’t afford a workshop Above.”

Sandor pecked at Hopgood’s chest and stared up at him, an idea burning in his grey eyes. Hopgood smiled.

“Sandor, you’re a genius. Why don’t I just sell the dreams myself?”

The bird nuzzled against his master, and Hopgood moved across the workshop to the grate to enjoy its meagre warmth. He settled in his old chair, Sandor roosting on his shoulder. Soon Hopgood’s eyes closed and his mind drifted, skipping through the open boulevards of a city whose sky stretched for eternity.

* * *

This story is set in the Underground City, part of the universe for my dark fantasy/horror novella, The Necromancer's Apprentice. Three of the other stories so far are The Supplicant, The Vault of Lost Voices, and The Fishwives.

#FridayFlash - Polaroids

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Angela hated having her photo taken. Will dated her for sixteen months, and didn't capture a single image. He'd tried taken them when she slept, and even then she'd turn at the last moment, leaving only a blurred shadow on the camera. Even her online profile photo was a caricature she'd drawn herself on rainy Tuesday afternoon.

Will stared out of the window, watching the last of the mourners depart, and for the first time since he'd met her, he found himself wishing he had just one photograph.

A pile of mementos lay on the table, assembled by her friends and family to celebrate the life cut short by a drug-encrusted driver. Will glanced at the assorted books and knick knacks, unsure what to do with them. He appreciated the gesture, but they'd hardly bring Angela back.

Agent Smith clambered up onto the table; the fuzzy Calico sent the pile of books sliding onto the floor in his quest to stick his head into Will's mug. Will grabbed the cat and pulled him onto his lap. Agent Smith looked up at him, that same questing expression on his face.

"Sorry, old man, she's not coming back. Just you and me now."

He scratched the cat's head. Agent Smith stood up on Will's chest and rubbed his head against Will's chin.

"I just wish I had one photo, you know? It sounds stupid...but I'm scared I'll forget what she looks like. Sorry...looked like."

Agent Smith mewed his support. He leapt down from Will's lap and skidded across the pile of fallen books. The largest, a huge tome compiled by Angela's wizened old aunt, fell open. Its heavy cover thudded against the carpet. A Polaroid flapped loose, and skated towards Will. He picked it up, and held it to the waning light.

A young woman filled the centre of the frame, one hand held up to block the camera. The palm covered her face but it was Angela - it had to be. Will recognised her top, and the choppy brown hairstyle. Her aunt must have sneaked in a photo while rampaging around a family event with that dratted Polaroid camera of hers.

Will smiled, and tears pricked his eyes. He still couldn't see her face, but he had a photo. He couldn't forget her now.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. He peered more closely at the photo, watching as the hand covering the face lowered out of the shot. Angela stared out at him. Will yelped and dropped the photo. Agent Smith ambled across the floor and sniffed it. Angela waved, and the cat yowled, streaking across the room to hide behind the sofa.

Will picked up the photo by its corners, careful not to touch the window containing Angela. She didn't return his smile - an unfamiliar scowl adorned her face.

"Hiya, love." Will felt stupid talking to a photo, but he also felt like he needed to say something.

Angela crossed her arms over her chest and the scowl deepened.

"Sorry, love, I don't know what to do."

Angela moved towards him, a glare in her eyes and a snarl on her lips, and Will stifled the urge to flinch. She reached the flimsy barrier of the Polaroid and hammered her fists against an invisible shield. The photo flapped from Will's fingers, swinging back and forth from the weight of her fury.

Will slipped the Polaroid back into the book and slammed it shut. The heavy cover didn't move, and Will risked a sigh of relief. He pushed the book under the sofa and left the room, followed by Agent Smith. He led the cat into the kitchen, and leaned back against the counter. The remains of the buffet lay on foil platters, covered in clingfilm, and Will crumpled into a heap in front of the washing machine.

He tried to think of his Angela as he remembered her, laughing at old movies and skipping through fresh snow. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was Angela's glare. He'd never seen that side of Angela before, possessed by anger, but he couldn't shake an old feeling, one he'd often wondered about whenever Angela refused to have her photo taken.

After all, the camera never lied.

Improving productivity

Tweet I'm quite a fan of the Brain Pickings blog, and last week they featured this animated video about the science of productivity, from AsapSCIENCE.


The main points raised by the video are;

• Willpower can be depleted, so simply convincing yourself to 'try harder' won't work;


• Starting a project is the biggest barrier to actually being productive;


• Successful people don't work more, they work better, putting in periods of intense work of around 90 minutes followed by breaks of 15-20 minutes to see more work done;


• Habit and discipline are key to establishing a productive routine;


• Deadlines focus the mind;


• A list of progress should be made so you can evaluate what you've actually done, helping you avoid mindless tasks;


• Avoid multi-tasking as you end up doing less; and


• Split big tasks into smaller tasks to make them more manageable.

Given I have to divide my time between PhD work, study for a teacher training qualification, preparatory work I need for teaching, writing, and having a life, I thought I might share my top three tips for being productive.

1) Make lists
I make two types of lists. The first is the things I need to do - I split this list into two columns, listing what needs to be done against when I'm going to do it, and I list things according to when they need to be done (naturally the things due for Tuesday will be higher up the list than those due on Thursday). I can cross things off as I've done them which gives me a natural sense of achievement as I end up with more crossed out tasks than uncrossed out tasks.

2) Set deadlines
If something doesn't actually have a deadline, I find that I'll procrastinate and find all sorts of reasons not to work on it...so I set myself a deadline to ensure that I will. I also do more work the less time I have in which to do it because I'm very much aware of the clock ticking. Even self-imposed deadlines get me working faster.

3) Take breaks
I have the attention span of a particularly hyperactive spaniel so I find my attention wanders very easily, no matter how engrossing the task at hand may be. The only way for me to get through it is to promise myself a break. Rather than making myself sit and focus on something for several hours, I work for an hour or so, take a break, then come back to whatever I was doing. Even when I'm writing something like a blog post, there are usually mini breaks, during which I check Twitter or read other blogs. It breaks up my work and gives me something to come back to.

What about you? What do you do to remain productive?

#FridayFlash - Pipers Piping

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A piper sits in the square, huddled on the corner of a monument to a forgotten City Father. Passersby see his threadbare stockings through the holes in his battered boots, and they shake their well-coiffed heads. They tut at his moth-eaten tunic, and mutter among themselves about his lifeless cap and torn mittens. He ignores them, focussing only on the pipes in his lap. His frozen fingers fly up and down the chanter, and he stares at the cold paving stones to avoid their stares.

Minutes turn into hours, and still the piper plays. He slides into a sea shanty; a group of passing navvies dance and jig in the square, and toss a few brass coins into the pot before his seat. He turns the shanty into a doleful funeral march that plucks at the strings of all but the hardest heart, and a small child drops a penny into the pot before her highborn mother can scold her. Soon the piper picks up the tempo and plunges into a frenetic polka. A couple that mirror the piper in their poverty laugh and clap their hands, and they throw a ha'penny into his pot. For each of the givers, the piper spares a short smile, and their lives.

The piper plays all day, yet he never misses a note, and never skips a beat. He weaves music so beautiful it could almost be the faint shimmer that seems to light his corner of the piazza. The well-to-do among the citizenry continue to complain about his appearance, considering his ragtag clothes a disgrace to the fine square, yet they stand long enough to listen, long enough to enjoy. The piper ignores them all, but he has discerned tapping feet, and suppressed smiles.

By the day's end, the city's workers have retired to their homes, or the taverns. Only those with fewer concerns can spare the time to listen to the piper. A handful of officials gather nearby, keen not to be seen listening to such vulgar music, but equally intent on enjoying it. None of them have added to his collection, nor have they offered to buy him supper, or pay to have his boots mended. The piper sweeps his gaze around the square, and contents himself that only those who have spent the day deploring his existence are present.

His music shifts again, this time cutting into a gentle waltz. The onlookers find themselves clasping hands with strangers, forced into pairs by the rhythm surrounding them. The dancers follow in each other's footsteps as they glide around the square, compelled by the music to join the waltz. The piper continues to play, increasing the tempo. The waltzers must dance faster, and the embarrassed smiles and ill-concealed amusement begin to wane. As the waltz gains speed, the dancers struggle, and try to break free. Grins turn to grimaces, and panic rises to replace pleasure. Still the piper plays his song, and soon the dancers are running around the square. They roll their eyes and froth at their mouths in their efforts to leave, but still the waltz holds them in its grasp.

The first to expire is a corpulent bureaucrat, red and perspiring as he huffs his last. His partner, to her eternal dismay, continues to waltz, albeit on her own. Others do not fare better - they drop, one by one, landing in heaps on the stones as their partners keep the waltz going. A socialite is the last to go, who collapses in the square, a single word on her lips as her heart gives out.

"Why?"

The piper stops, and his pipes continue his melody for a few moments until they, too, fall silent. He looks down at the amassed corpses and scowls. No answer will be given now.

He packs up his things and walks out of the square. He hums a tune as he turns into a side alley. A nice foxtrot should enliven his mood as he heads to the next town.