#FridayFlash - Phantom of the Opera

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By Gary Bembridge

Wishing I could hear your voice again, knowing that I never would, dreaming of you won't help me to do, all that you dreamed I could...

Edith sat in the box, gazing down at the stage. A young woman in taffeta stood near the footlights, her throat straining as she sought the higher notes of the piece. Edith searched her memory for the singer's name, but the amnesia of the passing years robbed her of the answer.

She folded her hands in her lap and risked a wan smile, although she knew no one could see her in the shadows of box five. The Phantom's box. Even after all these years, she could still appreciate irony. Henry kept the box free as a gimmick, but she knew it was because he still considered it to be "her" box, the place she'd sit to watch any performances in which she had no role.

Her mind flitted away from the empassioned singer on the stage, and skipped across thirty years. Her last performance on those very boards, her soul wrapped up in the tender arms of Mozart, her voice occupied by Voi che sapete. Henry, then just the son of the theatre's manager, watched from the wings. The success of Marriage of Figaro seemed to herald their own impending wedding.

Edith frowned at the memory - only days later, the illness had set in. Weeks later, a white-faced young woman with black hair and eyes of midnight arrived with promises of a better tomorrow, but Edith refused to leave. She returned to the theatre, reliving her romance as Henry mourned. Months turned into years, and even the rumour the theatre was haunted couldn't improve its fortunes. Henry became the manager, and took the difficult decision to forsake opera in favour of musicals.

"We need to bring in patrons, Edie. No one wants opera any more," Henry had told her as they sat in her box. The Phantom of the Opera was his compromise with the owners.

A high C several shades too flat brought Edith back to the present. The young singer continued to strangle the life out of the song, and Edith shook her head. She would have given her eye teeth for such a role, but instead the managers now cast teenage television stars instead of seasoned singers. Henry called them "attention seeking brats".

Edith looked down into the stalls, watching the audience below. Most were wrapped up in the drama unfolding onstage, but some hunched over their strange glowing tablets that they operated with their fingers. So rude, she thought.

The song ended to rapturous applause. Edith rose, allowing her outline to flicker in the shadows of box five. Several heads in the grand circle swivelled in her direction, and furious whispers broke out among the patrons, with fingers jabbed towards her.

Edith smiled; the rumours would live a little longer yet. She passed through the door and drifted down the stairs. The Phantom of the Opera would find her Henry, her maestro.

[Book Review] Blood Skies

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When I first saw a tweet about Blood Skies, it was something to do with vampires. Oh yay...MORE vampires. Just what the world needed, I thought. Well, I'd been talking to writer Steven Montano on Twitter and as I got on with him, I thought I'd ignore the vampire thing and read the synopsis anyway. Luckily, my attention was caught by talk of arcane storms, warlocks and a necropolis - all things that there just aren't enough of in the fiction I've read, and I can honestly say I am very glad I gave it a go!

Blood Skies tells the story of Eric Cross, a warlock seemingly out of his depth within a military squad, dedicated to protecting what is left of humanity by pursuing a traitor through a series of evil lands, each more treacherous than the last. Earth, ruined by a mysterious cataclysm known only as "The Black", comes across as a nightmarish blend of Azeroth, Middle Earth and all of those twisted places your mind goes when it's dark outside and you're all alone. The stakes are raised dramatically when Cross' younger sister, a witch named Snow, becomes involved, and the tension ratchets up to an almost unbearable level.

I'll admit, the first couple of chapters seemed a little tough going, but I liked the style of writing, so I persevered, and within a few pages I was hooked. This is a story with balls, and a story in which there is always something going on - and something to be resolved. Everything from the beginning becomes important by the end, and nothing is wasted.

What impressed me was both the vast scale of the world building on display, with lush, vivid description bringing the locations to life in all their horrific splendour, and the quality of the prose. This is a real page-turner that had me clicking like mad through the Kindle edition, genuinely worried for Cross as he stumbles further into the middle of a truly heinous plot. Montano blends his epic description with staccato action scenes that seem almost cinematic in their execution, and there's a dark poetry to the whole thing that made me deeply envious that I hadn't come up with this first.

I'd classify Blood Skies as dark fantasy, and I'll definitely be downloading the rest of the series!

You can buy Blood Skies for the Kindle, or in paperback.

Please note, I bought my copy myself, so this wasn't based on a complimentary review copy, and I'm giving him five blunt pencils out of five, not because I talk to Steven on Twitter, but because it's a damn good book.

#FridayFlash - Minuet

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The strains of a string quartet echoed among the icicles of the Palace. The violins soared above the muted refrain of the cello, and Lady Winter twirled and spun across the ballroom. Her heeled boots traced filigrees in the glittering crust of frost that coated the floor. The quartet stood on a raised dais near her throne of ice. Their skin glowed pale blue in the late afternoon light.

"M'lady?"

Lady Winter ceased her twirling and turned to face Adage, her faithful butler. He nodded once, and stood to attention in the doorway. Lady Winter snapped her fingers and the quartet ceased playing, musical notes hanging frozen in the air.

"Yes?"

"M'lady, my apologies for the interruption, but there is someone to see you."

"Is it someone interesting?"

"That is not for me to decide, m'lady. His name is Ulf Bauer, and he hails from the village of Pennendorff."

Lady Winter cocked her head on one side and thought for a moment. Pennendorff lay just five miles from the Palace - the closest any humans dared come to her home. The villagers were stalwart and sturdy, as proven by her quartet of musicians. Even without her enchantments, they'd pandered to her every whim for weeks.

"Very well, Adage. Send him in."

Adage stepped aside and bade the villager to enter. A very short man, pale of cheek and gaunt in build, stumbled into the ballroom. His fingers grasped the brim of a faded hat, and his hands shook with cold. His nose glowed red in an unremarkable face.

"Bauer, is it? What business have you at the Winter Palace?"

"Beggin' your pardon, m'lady, but I come on behalf of me village." Bauer fiddled with his hat, eyes darting around the room as he fought to avoid Lady Winter's gaze.

"I'm familiar with Pennendorff." She shot a sly grin at the string quartet, now motionless on their dais. Their faces froze in eternal grins, but their eyes screamed for help. Bauer started, recognising his neighbours among them.

"Well, er, well y'see, m'lady, winter came a bit early, and we din't have time to bring the 'ole 'arvest in. Food's runnin' a bit short, y'see, and, well, we was wonderin' if you could maybe end winter a week or two early so we can start foragin'." Bauer stared at the floor.

"Why would you ask me to do that? Why not visit Lord Spring and ask him to come early?"

"Oh, m'lady, we ask you because you're more powerful than he is. Oh yes, m'lady, we know that."

Bauer nodded several times, and Lady Winter pursed her lips. Annoyance and displeasure burned in the depths of her frosty eyes.

"Flattery. Bauer?"

"No, m'lady. It's the 'onest truth, yes it is."

Lady Winter glanced out of the window at the lawn. An idea struck her. She looked at the villager, a smirk hovering around her mouth.

"I'll make a deal with you. If you can win a game, then I'll end winter early." Her tone thawed, the ice replaced by a sheen of honey.

"Really, m'lady? Oh, you're ever so good - ever so good, indeed! What's the game?"

"Chess."

Bauer's face fell. He looked at the floor again.

"I'm afraid I don't know how to play, m'lady."

"That's alright, Bauer. You don't need to know the rules."

"I don't?"

"No. For I shall be playing for you. Or, should that be, I shall be playing with you."

Confusion clouded Bauer's face. Lady Winter snapped her fingers, and the villager's bewildered expression froze in place as thick frost clung to his entire body. Lady Winter skipped around him, examining her handiwork. She squealed and clapped her hands with delight. Adage appeared at the ballroom doors.

"Is everything alright, m'lady?"

"Perfect, Adage, perfect! Have this pawn taken outside. My chess set is finally complete! I think I might invite my sister to play tomorrow."

Adage disappeared to fetch help to move the pawn. Lady Winter twirled across the ballroom to the window to admire the chess set on the lawn outside. If she used a pawn to win the game tomorrow, then she would keep up her end of the bargain. Otherwise...

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The original image is of the ballroom at Peterhof Palace in St Petersburg, taken by Chilli Head. Wintry editing by me.

The Goings On of Icy

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I haven't really done many posts about myself for a while, I suppose in part because I can't think who'd be interested (well, that, and most people who read my blog follow me on Twitter so you get to hear my rants waffle on there). Still, I figured I should probably do some sort of update about what I'm getting up to at the moment.

First off, where the heck has the year gone? Can't quite believe it's October already. It just seems like yesterday that I was getting excited to go to Venice in July, and the whole summer stretched ahead of me like a season of promise and potential. Now it's nearly Halloween...

I finally bought a Kindle! I also got it a very cool Frankenstein cover. I'm currently reading Helen Howell's Jumping at Shadows on it, and it's so much easier reading off the e-ink screen that it is the screen on my Android. That'll make it so much easier taking books to and from work - plus it's lighter, so hopefully it'll make my bag lighter, and thus less stressful on my back. But isn't the cover cool?!

The second year of my teacher training course kicked off in a big way on Friday so I'll be devoting a lot of time to that between now and May. Between that, my day job, my PhD and editing on The Necromancer's Apprentice, I won't be taking on any new commitments until at least Easter or so! I expect to be rather busy over the coming months.

Speaking of my PhD, I'm currently working on my second 'big' chapter (my first being my literature review, in which I summed up which texts I'm planning to use in my discussion). This chapter is an overview of the horror genre within cinema, ranging from around 1910-1978. That's a lot of horror and I've only got about 8000 words in which to do it, so I'm finding keeping to the word limit to be a whole lot harder than the actual work. I'm reading some fascinating books so it's all very interesting, and I get to watch horror films and claim it's research. I've just finished writing the section on German Expressionism, which special emphasis on The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, Nosferatu and Der Golem, and I'm moving on to horror's "classic" age, in the 1930s. Many critics seem to think that one neatly leads on to the other, pointing to the move of Paul Leni to Hollywood in the 1920s, but to do so completely ignores the horror production within silent Hollywood, namely films such as Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde starring John Barrymore in 1923, or Lon Chaney's starring roles in The Hunchback of Notre Dame in 1923 and Phantom of the Opera in 1925. Madness, I tell you.

Anyway. Watching all of these classic horror films has me staring at the exceptionally beautiful leading ladies, and it's got me experimenting with my own image a tad. Behold! Me with curly hair, retro makeup, and a suitably vintage Photoshop treatment. I actually went out like this last night, my look complete with fake beauty spot, false eyelashes and suitably slinky black dress, but I can't help thinking it makes me stick out like a sore thumb in Newcastle. Still, it's a look I'm fascinated by, so I'll probably spend the rest of the year working on variations of it. In case you're interested, the makeup I used is a combination of Max Factor, No.7 and Soap & Glory.

I think that's enough waffle from me. What have you all been up to?

#FridayFlash - The Bus Stop at the End of Forever

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The truck driver pulled over to the kerb. Lancaster climbed out of the truck into a raging storm. The wind whipped along the desolate stretch of road, driving cold rain into her face. The ancient truck heaved itself away, its blinking rear lights soon swallowed up by darkness.

She turned and looked at the decrepit bus shelter, its sole light still shining like a safety beacon behind broken glass. The only bright spot in either direction for at least a mile. I’m surprised the electricity is still on out here.

Lancaster pulled up her hood and forced her way forward into the rain. A fork of lightning tore open the sky, its white flare illuminating a large advertising hoarding across the road. It announced the arrival of a new housing estate, a supposed oasis of executive homes and manicured lawns on the edge of town. Flag poles lined the road into the estate, and gusts of wind snatched at the flags. The canvas snapped and whined.

Lancaster ran across the road toward the estate. The expanse of empty buildings unfurled before her as she hurried along the entry lane and down the slope. The edge of town development now lay on the edge of the exclusion zone – after the Outbreak, no one much cared about executive homes. Palatial as the properties were, they were too far away from the safety of civilisation – or what now passed for it.

Lancaster cursed the weather, the water already soaking through the canvas of her shoes. She squelched along the main street, heading for a cluster of homes squatting in a cul-de-sac near the edge of the estate.

A figure crouched beneath a makeshift lean-to at the top of the nearest driveway. Water flowed down the back of the tarpaulin, and the glow of a homemade cigarette burned within its shadows.

“Password?” The voice within the lean-to was gruff but not unfriendly.

“Hadron collider.”

The figure stretched a hand out of the shadows and waved her past. Lancaster nodded and hurried down the driveway towards the house. Its empty windows regarded the street with a mixture of apathy and boredom.

A man stood up from his position in the shadows beside the front door. His parka hood was drawn up, and a scarf hid the lower portion of his face. Lancaster fought the urge to roll her eyes – they took things too seriously out here. She wanted to shake them, to tell them that few would risk leaving the city, and that the rumours of gangs roaming the virus lands were just rumours, but she knew they wouldn’t listen. I reckon they’re enjoying getting to play at being soldiers.

“You’re Lancaster Black, ain’t you?” The scarf muffled his words.

“Yes.”

“What kind of a stupid name is Lancaster?”

She growled. She agreed the name was stupid – she hated that her parents named her for the town of her conception, but now she’d never actually visit, she’d almost grown attached to her peculiar monicker.

The rude guard waved her through and she made her way inside. She always shivered inside No. 43. The unfinished house seemed to echo with the unrealised plans of the architects. Her eyes followed the curve of the staircase, where more hooded people lurked on the landing. Lancaster ignored them and walked through the house to the kitchen.

The kitchen was a hive of activity, as people in camouflage clothing bustled around with foolscap folders and maps. A woman sat at the kitchen table, marking locations on a tattered road map with a wax crayon. Wavy brown hair hung over one shoulder.

“Hi.”

“Lancaster! You made it!” The woman looked up, a smile spreading across her lined face. Lancaster stared. My mother had that same smile.

“I can’t stay long, Auntie Em. They’ve moved curfew and I can’t guarantee getting transport back into the zone. But I had to deliver these myself.”

Lancaster reached into her bag and pulled out a set of keys. Everyone in the kitchen stopped to stare as she dropped them onto the table with a clatter.

“You actually got them?” The woman stared at them.

“Yep. I know everyone thought I was useless but yeah, I got them. They’re also copies so the First Minister doesn’t even know that his were ever missing.”

“You’re a genius, Lan.”

“I just wanted to help.” The way you never helped my mother.

Lancaster turned and left the kitchen. Auntie Em called after her but Lancaster ignored her. She’d done what was asked of her, and now it was time to sever her last family tie. If Auntie Em and her new family wanted to ransack the First Minister’s home as a protest about the lack of interventions in the virus lands, then that was their business.

Thoughts of her mother, dying alone in an isolation ward while Auntie Em’s cronies stifled the supply chain of the vaccine that could have saved her, occupied Lancaster all the way back to the bus stop. She looked up at its flickering light through a haze of tears and hard rain.

Lancaster glanced at her watch – still another three hours before curfew, and it was only an hour and a half walk to the city. She stepped under the protection of the bus shelter and pushed back her sodden hood. She sat on the hard plastic bench, angled to prevent the homeless sleeping on it, and closed her eyes. The pattering of rain on the roof made her sleepy.

I’ll just wait here for a bit. Maybe the rain will ease off. 

She thought of her mother, buried in a mass grave.

Or maybe I’ll wait here forever.

#GuestPost - The Challenge of Marketing Westerns

Tweet Anyone who read this blog with any regularity will know I have a thing about Westerns. Thankfully, I am not the only one, and it's my pleasure to hand the Blunt Pencil over to Matthew Pizzolato, whose new novel Outlaw is now out! Matthew's here to talk about the challenges of marketing a Western, something about which I know far too much, so pull up a chair and get yourself comfy...

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Now that I have published two Western books, The Wanted Man and Outlaw, I am discovering something that I realized a few years ago when I started looking for markets to submit my short stories. Back then, there really weren't many places that published Western fiction. Likewise, there are not a lot of places to market a Western novel today. There are a couple of book listing sites but those places don't promote your work for you.

Writers who work in the Western genre are faced with the task of not only finding marketing opportunities for their fiction, but fighting against what seems to be a stigma against Westerns.

Sometimes in talking to new people, it always shocks me that they seem interested in my work until they find out I write Westerns. Some have bluntly told me they don't like them or don't read them and it always leaves me wondering why. Have they actually read one or are they judging them by assumption?

People could be jumping to conclusions about modern Western writing. Perhaps they think of the genre as outdated. Yet nothing could be further from the truth.

Early classic Westerns are tales of black and white, of moral absolutes of right and wrong, and there is nothing wrong with those kinds of stories. However, a lot of today's Westerns explore the gray area.

I think the turning point in the genre came with Clint Eastwood's film, Unforgiven. That movie is my biggest inspiration, and I think it completely reinvented the Western.

Take for example the success of the AMC series, Hell on Wheels. It is by no means a classic Western. The main character is an antihero and is a far cry from the normal Western protagonist. The characters in Hell on Wheels are not perfect, they are flawed human beings who people can identify with and I think that is the key to the success of the show.

For me, the beauty of the genre is that any kind of story can be told as a Western. It is an unlimited tapestry and the potential is endless. There are a myriad of subgenres ranging from Western Historical Romance to the Weird Western and everything in between from Horror to Mystery. Anyone who likes to read can find a Western they will enjoy.

I think that the key to marketing Westerns in the future is to keep fighting against the stigma. Write stories that breathe fresh air into the genre instead of using the same old clichés, and most of all, never apologize for writing Westerns.

Outlaw is available from Amazon US and Amazon UK.

BIO

Matthew Pizzolato is a member of Western Fictioneers. His fiction has been published in various online and print magazines. He writes a weekly NASCAR column for Insider Racing News and can be contacted via his personal website: http://www.matthew-pizzolato.com

Contact Links

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/authormatthewpizzolato
Twitter: https://twitter.com/mattpizzolato
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5837035.Matthew_Pizzolato

OUTLAW Book Description

The outlaw Wesley Quaid wants to put the past behind him and start his life anew in another place where no one has ever heard of him. When a mysterious woman he once knew resurfaces, Wesley discovers that a man can't run from his past anymore than he can run from the kind of man he has become.

#FridayFlash - Weaving

Tweet Flames blazed in the wall braziers around the stone courtyard. Ornate clocks lined the columns of the cloister, though the hands never moved around their faces. Time hung suspended over the citadel of the Fates, its momentous occasions twinkling like stars in a false firmament.

The first sister sat on a stool, her eyes roving across the expanse above her. A large sack, its fabric the colour of midnight, lay on the ground at her feet. Every few moments, she reached into the sack, and drew forth a length of yarn. She wound it between and around her fingers, her eyes never leaving the celestial snapshot.

The second sister leaned over the loom, adjusting the shuttle before it rattled across the warp with its yarn cargo. She peered at the weave produced thus far, and frowned. Whole patches of muddy brown and rancid mustard marked the otherwise cheerful pattern. She wiggled her nail between the threads, but the yarn didn’t lie. It couldn’t lie.

The third sister roamed around the courtyard, staring into the darkness congealed in the corners. She was concerned by neither the wonders in the sky, nor the patterns of the loom. Images of solitude, and the eternal peace of oblivion, occupied her mind. She fashioned silence from the shadows, letting the gentle breeze catch her cobwebs of catatonic thoughts.

“I don’t like how this piece is turning out,” said the second sister.

“What’s wrong with it?” asked the first sister.

“Well it should be a cheerful pattern. It started out that way. But now all of these horrid colours are creeping in.” The second sister sat back, watching the shuttle do its work.

“So change the pattern,” replied the first sister.

The second sister got up and drifted across the courtyard. She disappeared into the cloister, and the rooms beyond.

“It’s so nice being outside for a change,” said the first sister.

“I notice it not,” replied the third.

“It’s such a pleasant evening.”

“It’s neither pleasant nor evening. It simply is.”

The first sister rolled her eyes and returned to her sack of yarn. A shooting star, a flare of stupendous endeavour, streaked across the blanket above. She smiled; it had been some time since anything positive echoed through Time.

The second sister returned empty-handed.

“Where are all the patterns, dear? I can’t find a single one for a happy ending. The whole cupboard is bare.”

“We’ve used them all up. There are no happy endings any more. There can simply be what will be.”

The third sister stopped roaming, and glided towards the loom.

“What?”

“I think what our dear little depressive means is that your patterns are going to get a whole lot muddier,” said the first sister.

The third sister peered down at the loom. She scowled.

“This pattern has gone on too long.”

She reached into the large pocket of her apron and pulled free a large pair of black shears. She severed the thread, and the snip of the shears reverberated around the courtyard.

A tiny ripple flickered in the firmament overhead. None of them noticed as a single light went out.