Friday Flash - Spell Check

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Hetty Rae stacked the black leather bound volumes in the centre of the chalk-drawn circle. The candlelight glinted on their gold leaf titles. Advanced Spellcasting for Witchlings. Earth, Wind & Fire - A Musical Guide to Magic. 101 Essential Money $pells. Hex Appeal - A Guide to Love & Curses. They were just the volumes she could see. She pushed her hands through her tangled mass of curls and sighed. The black cat on the dresser tutted.

"It's no good, Ripley. There's no way I can learn all of this by tomorrow," said Hetty. She gestured to the small mountain of books.

The cat twitched its tail and wrinkled its nose.

"Don't look at me like that! I did try, but I just had too many distractions. Do you know how many Spellville game requests I get every day?"

Ripley jumped off the dresser and stalked out of the room. Hetty scowled at the retreating cat and returned her attention to the print out in her hand. The circle now drawn, she just needed to light the quarter candles.

“Iridio!” She flicked her wand at the Earth candle at the north point of the circle. Sparks sputtered and fizzed from the tip of the wand, spraying the floor with a shower of iridescent specks.

“Grotbags!”

Hetty threw her wand onto her bed and dropped to her hands and knees. She crawled around the circle, lighting each candle with a match. She glared at the wand, cursing the sticky tape holding both ends together.

“Good job I don’t need that useless thing for this spell,” she muttered.

The candles lit, Hetty snapped off the overhead light and stepped into the circle. She consulted the print-out once more and drew a symbol in the air above the books, careful to follow the design on the paper. Hetty cleared her throat and read the words.

“Avicus, avirum, libri gruder,

Toeticus, toetivum, libri ruber!”

The candles flared red, and went out. Hetty felt her way across the room, her foot connecting with both the pile of books and a candle. She fumbled on the wall for the switch. Light flooded the room.

Hetty gasped. One candle was on its side in a pool of rapidly hardening wax. The books lay in a tumble in the circle, their leather bound covers now scarlet. Hetty snatched up the top volume to find all of the pages were now crimson, their barely discernible text now maroon.

The door opened and Hetty’s roommate walked in. Sassy Fae cradled Ripley in her arms. Hetty pulled a face at the cat’s smug expression.

“Harriet! You’re supposed to be revising! What on earth happened?” asked Sassy. She surveyed the toppled pile of bright red books.

“I did a spell...it went a bit wrong.”

“Show me?”

Hetty handed over the print out. Sassy raised an eyebrow.

"Where did you get this spell?" she asked.

"Witchipedia." Hetty dropped her gaze to the floor.

"Oh you little idiot - I'm guessing you didn't run it through the spell checker?"

“No.”

“Ruder means red as in colour, not read as in ‘read the book and learned every word because she didn’t revise’!”

Hetty sighed and sat on the floor at the foot of her bed. She hauled the nearest book into her lap and flipped it open. She squinted to read the dark red text against the bright red page.

“What are you doing?” asked Sassy.

“I’ve got an exam tomorrow, don’t I? Seems these books aren’t going to be read by themselves.”

The Guns of Retribution as historical fiction

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I hate the concept of self-promotion about as much as I dislike the idea of using sulphuric acid instead of sun cream. It just doesn't sit well with the English sensibility unless you're an attention-seeking contestant on Big Brother. However, as Blackadder would say, needs must when the Devil vomits into your kettle, and here I am, trying to think of ways to promote my new book without jumping out at you, waving a placard in your face.

The hard sell is that The Guns of Retribution is now available for the Kindle through the very excellent Pulp Press (here for the UK, and here for the US). I know a lot of people look down on so-called pulp fiction but it offers a damn good read, as I think I mentioned when I reviewed Danny Hogan's Pulp Press novella Jailbait Justice earlier in the year. I've been trying to think of things to say about pulp fiction to hopefully pique people's interest in it (go on, check out PP's other books, you know you want to), as well as my own book. Besides, publishing blogs are always telling us that no one is buying Westerns, so aside from citing the success of HBO's Deadwood series, or highlighting the change in Hollywood mindset that led to Jon Favreau's Cowboys & Aliens, how do I change your mind?

I did what any self-respecting journalist would do and asked on Twitter if anyone had anything specific they wanted to know about it. After reading the questions, I'm going to run a short series of posts in an attempt to answer them. Hopefully you'll find the processes I describe useful if you're a writer yourself, and if you're not, then hopefully all the talk of gun fights and femmes fatale might make you want to buy the book! Yes, there are guns. There are gallows. There's a bad guy you'll want to punch in the face. What's not to like?

One question I received is one that did play on my mind when I first made the decision to write a Western. Now, my reasons for choosing the genre were quite straightforward. I was offered a range of genres in which to write and the Western was the one that grabbed my attention. I'd already written adventure fiction in the form of my steampunk serial, The First Tale, and the larger-than-life characters of the Old West aren't a million miles away from the pirates of the Caribbean, as exemplified in my Parrots and Piracy stories. The iconography and history are different but the basic idea is the same.

But it wasn't just that. I know what you're thinking, how can a female writer from the cold North East of England possibly write a Western about a male bounty hunter in Arizona? Easy. Research.

Anyone who's been reading my flash fiction for a while will know I have a bit of a thing about writing historical fiction. Grave robbers, the inmates of Bedlam, ships lost at sea, bullies at the Charterhouse School - I just love setting stories in the past. I've had a deep passion for history since I was little and I enjoy the research just as much as I enjoy the actual writing part. I did study the history of the American West at school as part of the GCSE syllabus, and I found it absolutely fascinating - and here was my chance to use it as a backdrop to a story.

I'll be honest, I never much cared for Westerns as films, with the notable exception of Back to the Future III (though I do admit the entire film is stolen by Thomas F. Wilson as Buford "Mad Dog" Tannen). A very good friend of mine recommended Tombstone, and my entire opinion changed. It's an awful film in terms of acting and structure, but it's just so damned enjoyable. While many of the early Westerns are far from historically accurate, choosing to paint a mythologised picture of the Old West, they're a good way to get a feel for a period. Naturally, later Westerns (such as the 3:10 to Yuma remake in which Russell Crowe acts Christian Bale off the screen) are much more adept at historical accuracy.

Clearly, when dealing with a period so far outside one's own lifetime, one of the best research tools is still a library. I read extensively before starting my novella, including general histories of the Old West, histories more specific to Arizona and the Apaches, and other Western novels. I can't stress enough how important it is to read, both primary and secondary sources. Primary sources for the Old West are a little limited in the UK, since we don't have the same level of access to contemporary newspapers, diaries or letters etc., but many of these are reproduced in secondary sources such as history books and biographies. Indeed, the Old West has an added advantage of having been a popular choice for TV documentaries, allowing the information to be presented in a visual way. Yes, there is always the possibility for the bias of the researchers to colour the information, but helps contextualise the period.

All that remains of Aztec, AZ

My final mode of research would have been to visit places in Arizona but seeing as how my budget didn't stretch far enough, I had to rely on Google Maps. Obviously the locations I discovered are contemporary, although many of the ghost towns can still be found using the aerial mode, but Google Maps is good for getting a feel for the landscape. It would be no good me setting a novel in Arizona and then describing lush green fields or subtropical paradises, only to find scrubland and canyons when double-checking the facts. Retribution and Sandwater, the two towns featured in The Guns of Retribution, are entirely made up, but they're loosely based on actual towns. It might be a pulp novella but I didn't want people to read it and say it was factually inaccurate!

I really enjoyed writing the book and I hope people enjoy reading it. The Guns of Retribution is currently 99p/99c, but the price will be going up next week! For those who prefer hard copies, it comes out in paperback on September 24, and you can pre-order it here.

Photo Prompt 50

Tweet Can you believe I've done fifty prompts already? Click here if you want to see previous ones. However, the latest prompt is ready and waiting! It's vaguely inspired by the Old West in honour of my book, The Guns of Retribution, which came out for the Kindle on Saturday (see here for details)

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 50th prompt is Train.


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!

E-Book Release!

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It's finally here!!!!! My pulp Western, The Guns of Retribution, comes out in paperback on September 24 but if you can't wait that long, click here to purchase your Kindle copy in the UK, or here for the US. It's 99p for a limited period (it says it's £1.14 due to the fact that e-books are subject to VAT), and then it'll go up to £1.99. I would love to know what everyone thinks!

Here's the Amazon blurb.

The search for a murderous outlaw has brought the long roving Gray O’Donnell near to his hometown of Retribution, Arizona. Bounty hunters ain’t popular but old fashioned manners, kindness to regular folk and a face for the ladies make Gray an exception round these parts; and a six gun’ll take care of the rest. Anyway, Gray has a job to do elsewhere. But the odious Jasper Roberts has made himself Sheriff of Retribution and he has a score to settle with Gray. Jasper ain’t gonna let morals or the law get in the way of a good hanging and the townsfolk are cowed by their villainous lawman. Can you really mess with a man’s momma and get away with it?

Sometimes there is more than one bullet with your name on it.

I'll be starting a series of blog posts about the book in the run up to the release of the paperback but if you have any questions, fire away!

Friday Flash - Crossroads

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Patrick Gates shook hands with the surveyor through the car window. He stepped back onto the grass verge and waved until the Audi disappeared around a bend. He turned back to the narrow stretch of tarmac that was more pothole than road. A shadow fell across his path. Patrick looked up to see a short woman appear out of the twilight beside him.

“You’re the council man. You’re here about the crossroads, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m the local councillor for the village. Patrick Gates.” Patrick held out his hand.

“You’re going to build over the crossroads.” She ignored his outstretched hand, twisting a floral scarf between her gnarled fingers.

“Well, yes. We’re bringing this road up to date to improve the local area,” replied Patrick. He gestured to the road running north-south and flashed the mega watt smile he usually reserved for the press.

“But the crossroads–”

“No one uses the east-west road any more. We’ll close it off and then we can widen this one to two lanes. You won’t have the same problems with finding passing places on a single lane road.”

“You can’t do that! You can’t destroy the crossroads!” The short woman seized his arm and stared up into his face. Patrick fought to break the gaze of her wild eyes.

“We’re not destroying anything. We’re enhancing the driving experience on this road.” Patrick struggled to keep the dazzling grin intact.

“Don’t you realise there are people buried there?” asked the woman. “That’s witches, vampires, executed criminals and demons!”

“Our archaeologists have ascertained that any remains buried will be too far down to be disturbed.” Patrick glanced at the car. How far away was it? Maybe twenty paces? Fifteen, if he hurried.

“You don’t get it! They’re bound to the crossroads so they can’t cause harm, but if you destroy it–”

“Excuse me, madam, but I need to be getting back to my office. I promise I’ll get someone to come and talk to you about your worries, but if you want to discuss it further tomorrow with me, then you can,” said Patrick. He unclamped the woman’s fingers from his arm and slipped a creased business card into her cold hand.

Patrick strode down the road to the car. He risked a look over his shoulder but the woman was nowhere to be seen. Patrick reached his BMW and climbed inside. He adjusted the rear view mirror and looked at his reflection.

“Stupid locals! How dense do you need to be to believe crap like that?” he asked.

Patrick started the car and drove into the encroaching night, keen to put as much distance between himself and the crossroads as possible.

* * *

Four days later, Patrick coaxed the BMW onto the grass bank beside the orange safety barriers. He climbed out of the car and surveyed the change in scene. A dotted white line divided the new tarmac road in two, following the curve of the bend. Machinery clustered around the entrance to the old eastern branch of the crossroads. The barriers blocked the western branch.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. 20:11. Gary Holt from the local newspaper should be here by now. Patrick checked his email in case his secretary had sent him Gary’s phone number, but the message simply said Gary wanted some atmospheric twilight shots for the paper.

A gust of wind skittered across the road. Something fluttered near the machinery.

“Gary?”

Patrick’s voice carried across the road. He looked both ways for the signs of an approaching car. Another gust of wind danced along the old east-west road, raising a mournful moan. Patrick shuddered. More movement beside the machinery caught his eye. He swallowed his growing unease and crossed the road.

A scrap of material rippled along the ground, caught between two stones. Patrick pulled it free. A familiar floral pattern covered the delicate chiffon. He turned it over in his hands. His fingers found a dark sticky patch. Dusk bleached colours from his vision, and Patrick lifted the scarf to his nose. An acrid metallic smell filled his nostrils. Patrick gagged and tossed the scarf away. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his fingers.

A growl came from the bushes to his left. Patrick lurched forward and hurried back to the BMW. He clambered inside and locked the door. The clock glowed in the dashboard. 20:13.

The sound of horses’ hooves made Patrick look out of the window. A tall black horse stood in the centre of the road behind the car. Patrick followed the body of the rider upward to the neck, and then empty sky. Bile burned his throat. The headless horseman pointed an index finger in Patrick’s direction. Shadows flitted across the road and cackling filled the cool evening air.

Patrick fumbled with the keys. The BMW sputtered, its engine turning over but refusing to start. He looked out of the side window to see a pair of yellow eyes glaring at him from the hedge. A heavy thump on the roof rocked the car and he winced at the sound of claws on metal.

Something hissed on the back seat. Patrick glanced at the rear view mirror, but the car was empty. Patrick only saw the headless horseman patrolling back and forth across the road.

Skeletal fingers wrapped in shreds of rotting flesh crept across the headrest of the driver’s seat. Ragged nails brushed Patrick’s ear. A yelp forced its way between his lips and he turned around. A figure sat on the back seat, skin peeling away from its yellowed skull. Red eyes burned in the deep sockets and decayed lips exposed the razor sharp canine teeth.

A clawed hand to the throat stole Patrick’s scream before he could unleash it.

* * *

The prompt for this piece came from Daniel Brown, AKA @FunkyScarecrow, whose blog you can find here. He asked, "What happens when a crossroads gets demolished? Where do the demons, black dogs, ghosts and spirits of the hanged go?"

Photo Prompt 49

Tweet Latest prompt, ready and waiting.

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 49th prompt is Obelisk.


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 Widow

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The worst part about a funeral is the endless stream of condolences. I sit on a hard wooden chair in the drawing room listening to an array of well-meant but deeply resented cliches. I would very much like a cup of tea, but I must keep my hands free in order to greet the many mourners at Nathaniel's funeral. I am most surprised that they cannot tell me they are sorry for my loss, that I must be brave, that I am not alone in my grief, and that I can count on their support in this difficult time, without clasping my hand in theirs. Twenty minutes of wet eyes and earnest sentiments are taking their toll.

Jacob Naseby and his wife move away, satisfied that their effusions of sorrow have absolved them of any further involvement, and I shift position on the chair. The wood does not yield and a dull ache throbs in my lower back. I stroke the black bombazine of my dress to distract me, fiddling with the crepe trimmings and adjusting the fabric. I like wearing black, but it will be two years before I will be allowed to wear grey again. You could say that I know the mourning etiquette inside out, having gone through it twice before. I smile to think I always meet my next husband at the funeral of the previous one.

Speaking of the next husband, a handsome young man approaches me. I take in the deep chestnut hair and green eyes without looking obvious. He clutches his top hat in one hand and offers me a firm handshake with the other.

"Mrs Bagshot, I am sorry for your loss," he says.

"Thank you," I reply.

"I am Daniel Tenrigg. I worked with your husband at the bank. I cannot stay long but I wished to pay my respects."

I bow my head in gratitude but take the opportunity to look at his hands. I do not see a wedding ring.

"It is such a shame about Nathaniel...do they know what caused the malady?" asks Mr Tenrigg.

"The doctor was unsure." I permit myself to look up. He starts; I do not think he expected direct eye contact from a widow. He must not realise I have had plenty of practice.

"Forgive my boldness, but I heard a rumour it was strychnine."

"What a vicious rumour! Where did you hear it?" A knot of unease settles in my stomach.

"A friend of mine, Thomas Shuggleworth. I believe he also knew your second husband, Percy Farrow." Mr Tenrigg stares down at me and I suppress the twitch in my lower jaw.

"Poor Percy," I reply.

"I believe he was a victim of arsenic poisoning, was he not?" A shadow flits across Mr Tenrigg's face, twisting his beautiful features into a detestably smug expression

"Indeed he was. Percy was a sickly fellow and he bought many medicines from less than reputable salesmen. The doctors believe one of the remedies must have contained arsenic."

"That is indeed unfortunate, Mrs Bagshot. Was Henry Tidmuth unfortunate as well?" asks Mr Tenrigg. The knot of unease blossoms into panic and I fight to control my nerves.

"He was. My first husband was an amateur horticulturalist but he mis-identified a plant in our garden. He ate the berries, thinking they were something else, and sadly passed away," I reply.

"Ah yes. The deadly nightshade incident."

"Mr Tenrigg, I am mourning the loss of my dear Nathaniel, and I have other people to receive, so please forgive my frankness if I ask you to state what exactly it is that you would like to say?" I look him in the eye but I fear the tremor in my voice may give me away.

"I have nothing to say, Mrs Bagshot. I am merely commenting on your poor run of luck regarding your husbands and their accidents. May I suggest that if you should choose to marry again, you select a more careful husband?"

Mr Tenrigg performs a stiff bow and walks away. He stops on the other side of the room and engages one of Nathaniel's cousins in conversation. The panic in my stomach dissolves into rage, and I excuse myself. My maid tells those wishing to pay their respects that I am overcome with sadness and will return soon.

Instead of retiring to my room to indulge in a histrionic wailing fit, I head for the cabinet concealed behind a false panel in the wall of Nathaniel's library. I caress the glass bottles and jars, the only belongings I have taken with me from marriage to marriage.

I am sure that one of my friends will be only too happy to take good care of Daniel Tenrigg and his suspicions.