My Next Big Thing

A big ‘Thank You’ to both Daniel Grubb of Fantastic Books Publishing and to Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn for tagging me in the My Next Big Thing meme. If you don’t know what this is, it’s an opportunity to tell the world about your current writing project. When you’ve finished answering the ten questions below you get to tag other people, who do the same, thus spreading writerly joy all over the place.

Let me tell you something about these two amazingly talented people. Daniel and his wife Gabi nominated two of my short stories for their recent publication Fusion, it was great to see their professionalism in editing the stories and to see my work appear with other excellent short stories. Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn is the author of Unravelling and her second novel The Piano Player’s Son will be out next year. I met Lindsay at Parole Parlate, a monthly spoken word event in Worcester organised by The Worcestershire Literary Festival.

So, Polly, what’s your Next Big Thing?

Like many writers, I’ve got a number of different things on the go. I’ve just published my first poetry collection Girl’s Got Rhythm available from Lulu and on Kindle. I’ve recently published A Flash of Fiction on behalf of The Worcestershire Literary Festival – a selection of the flash fiction stories from Worcestershire’s first-ever flash fiction competition. The anthology will be launched on Sunday 9th December in Worcester. I recently completed a Flash Fiction course with ‘King of Flash Fiction’ Calum Kerr and am studying a short story writing course with Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn (she is a superb writing teacher but don’t say I said so, head / doorway etc!)  I’m also on the A215 Creative Writing course with The Open University. So much to learn, so little time!

However, for this post, there’s one burning issue – the novel I’m writing with my husband, Geoff (otherwise known as ‘G’ or ‘the hub’).

1) What is the working title of your book?

The working title of the book is The Citadel. There are already books with that title, so we know we must find something different (suggestions welcomed!)

2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

We started writing the book a while ago ~ then life got in the way. We picked it up again and reviewed the story this year. We both have a leaning towards sci-fi / fantasy and other ‘dark’ genres. Josh’s story was born from this shared interest

3) What genre does your book fall under?

Fantasy

4) Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Josh ~ Dakota Goyo

Candlehop ~ elf ~ Josh Feldman

King Zorn ~ Bernard Hill

Felina ~ Uma Thurman

Skitt ~ goblin chief ~ Rowan Atkinson

Quassier ~ Keith Allen

Shadowblade ~ Johnny Depp

Aunt Sandy ~ Alex Kingston

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Josh lives with Aunt Sandy ~ he finds a dragon egg and Candlehop comes to help Josh return the egg to Invista

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

An agency would be good ~ it will be published ~ I self-published my first poetry collection Girl’s Got Rhythm

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

Several years. Still working on it!

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

His Dark Materials ~ Chronicles of Narnia ~ Lord of the Rings ~ Treasure Island

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

This story was inspired by shared imagination ~ the pleasure of inventing an ‘other’ world ~ and seeing the ways in which the main character grows

10) What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Our approach to tracking Josh’s growth and the experiences he shares along the way

It’s tag time:

I think, since two lovely people tagged me, that I can tag five ~ oops, seven ~ of my writing / performing chums to pick up the baton. I am blessed to know so many wonderfully talented people, so those who are not mentioned here, just know I thought of you too, but time / space precludes me mentioning everyone (bugger!) Do check out the work of the following: Gary Longden, who writes brilliant reviews and the best poetry. Carrie Rubin who had her debut novel The Seneca Scourge published this year. Holly Magill, who accompanied me on a five day Arvon ‘Form in Poetry’ workshop ~ dying to know what your ‘next big thing’ is, my friend. Catherine Crosswell, one of the most talented writers and performers I have the pleasure to know, her work with Four Tart Harmony needs to be seen! This year’s Worcestershire Poet Laureate, Maggie Doyle, who has entertained us exceedingly well with her fabulous poetry. Calum Kerr, the ‘King of Flash Fiction.’ I had the pleasure of working with Calum at the Flash Fiction Competition and on one of his online courses, and Andrew Owens, writer and fab MC of 42

Over to you, my friends – have fun!

Flash Fiction ~ Journey

Today, I’m trying my hand at Flash Fiction. This is called Journey and is a mere 246 words long.

Just look at her, you’d think she was going to a privately owned island rather than on a week’s package to Tenerife. Bound to have excess baggage. High maintenance, that’s what they say. She’s got the lot, long glossy hair, painted face and nails. Humph, they’re those new fangled nail extensions, can’t even grow her own. Wonder how much else of her is fake … some of that hair could be for sure. And the eyelashes, she wasn’t blessed with those at birth. Flat stomach … lipo? And the boobs – ha! Bet they’re heavy on such a petite frame. Poor thing.

Ooh, hark now, she speaks.

‘Wot number’s our seats Wayne?’

Just as well models, even unknown ones, don’t need to have their voices heard.

*****

‘Lie still love,’ the model is speaking to me. She’s bending over me. Why is she bending over me? I try to get up. Head feels weird. She’s stroking my brow. She says, ‘The doc’s coming, you’ve had a heart attack, just lie still.’

‘Janie, you’re not at work now,’ says Wayne, ‘you’ve got her heart going again, let someone else look after her.’

‘I won’t leave her, Wayne,’ she says.

I can’t speak for some reason. This girl’s not a model, though she could be, she’s so pretty. I must thank her one day soon. How wrong could I be? They always say appearances are deceptive.

Dust to Dust

A story re-written to the theme: Sandstorm (Genre Sci-fi) for Worcestershire Writers’ Circle – ‘a challenge for me, not a genre I’m particularly familiar with’ I wrote these words some time ago, now, in September 2012, this story has been selected to appear in an anthology by Fantastic Books Publishing International ~ it was shortlisted for the Fantastic Books Publishing International Short Story Competition.

Tansy sat watching the dusty, scabby eccentric guy tinkering with a dirty old computer.

He kept muttering, ‘ All that’s left.’

Tansy, through the mists of a headache, thought he must be mad.  How could he know what was left?  He was old.  Very, very old.  She focused her fading eyes on him; concentrating until the image solidified.  He looked at least 200, his puckered, peeling skin like burnt paper at the edges, his smell reminding her unpleasantly of spent matches.  Her lungs tingled and her mouth was parched; every breath scorched her throat; her head hurt.

‘Garam,’ she croaked, oblivious that she had been repeating the name periodically for more than 48 hours.  Nothing.

The ventowave said Europe and America had declared peace, its pocket-sized chassis pitted and scored by acidic dust that blew across the River Thames from time to time as if some great god were sighing over remnants.  Nothing left of the Eastern Bloc.  All desert, they said, little water.  The world now half the size … She’d fought for the ventowave, clawing beneath rubble a foot deep, breaking fingernails, grazing knuckles, she’d even poked someone in the eye to get at the grey plastic radio first – they’d disappeared into thin air, there one minute gone the next.

‘Garam,’ she croaked again.

‘Stop bawling, girl,’ said the eccentric, ‘can’t you see I’m busy?  Why don’t you help or go and look for your Garam?’

She glared at him, seeing that the tool he used on the computer wreck was a metal nail file.

‘Have you no proper tools?’ she asked, feeling her lips crack and bleed with the effort.

‘I have this,’ he said holding the file up, ‘And this,’ he gestured toward the computer.

‘What’s happening?’ Tansy asked.  ‘D’you think it’s stopped or will it get worse, the dust and ..?’

‘It’s stopped for now,’ he said, quite more kindly given that he had other things on his mind than she expected, ‘I just need to make one small connection and then we can find out what’s ha …’ he was interrupted by the crackle of the ventowave.

‘Turn it up, girl,’ he said, taking a step towards her.  She shrank back. ‘Turn it up so I can hear it.’

The disembodied voice proclaimed, ‘This is the World Service, 11 August 2389.   Reports are coming in … shsssshsssh ..,’ crackling, nothing.

‘We’ll have to wait for the next one,’ she whispered, ‘I’m Tansy.  Who are you?’

‘Eric.  Eric Hawsley.  Pleased to meet you Tansy,’ he held out a burned, crazed hand.  She looked at it for a moment before taking it in her own.

‘Have you seen Garam?’ she asked.

‘What’s he like?’ Eric returned to his computer.  She wanted to say: tall and dark, but that would be as good as no description and who was to say what he’d look like now?  She was different; she looked at her hands, crazed, like a crackle glaze, just like a raku crackle glaze, just like Eric’s.

‘Have you spoken to any of the Reptilators?’ Eric asked.

‘You’re the first being I’ve spoken to since …’

‘You know they’re claiming power?’ he interrupted.

‘The Reptilators?’

‘They’re saying …’ he cursed as the metal file snapped, the sharp end flying up and gouging his cheek. ‘Damn,’ he brushed slimy pink blood from his face.  ‘They’re saying they planned the whole thing, that they made peace with America.  If we support them we live, if we don’t ..,’ he continued to fidget with valves and coax.

‘But it’s not them on the airwaves,’ protested Tansy, ‘people in power always take control of the airwaves first.’

‘How many ventowaves do you think there are, Tansy?’ asked Eric, his cynical grin emphasising the grotesque mask of a face.  ‘The only information comes from others before they ..,’ he didn’t finish the sentence as the computer buzzed into life.  ‘Ah-ha!’ scales of skin fell from his face.  He tapped commands on the keyboard.  The wound on his face continued to drip pink viscous pus-like fluid.  Tansy couldn’t help herself, she moved further away, pain shooting through her legs as she rose.

‘Are you going for food?’ Eric asked, intent on the screen.

‘I will.  There’s plenty about.’

‘Look out for Reptilators,’ he warned, ‘they move so quietly they’ll be on you before you know, and those fire-guns are lethal, burn you to a crisp before you even hear them.’

She left the ventowave with him – more as a guarantee she’d be back than anything – turned and slowly picked her way through the rubble away from Trafalgar Square.  It was a gentle irony, she grimaced, that Napoleon, having usurped Nelson for the past two centuries peering over the French colony of London, should now be lying, tricorne smashed, as much a broken man as he was after Waterloo.

The boulevard seemed deserted.  Whirling, searing dust-ridden air clogged her failing vision.  Tansy could sense rather than see movements in the shadows.  Makeshift tents were formed from chequered blankets thrown over upturned bins and dissected lampposts.  There were no dead.  Where were the dead?  A hint of suspicion nudged at her. She pushed it to the back of her mind. The dust was cloying, making each breath painful, the ash biting and cold, nipping, pinching at her face and arms. She coughed. It got everywhere, eyes, ears, skin, mouth, throat, lungs.  She shuffled past the colonial buildings and the windows peered back at her blindly, no movement within.

Inside a store a scraping alerted her to another presence.  Fear stopped her.  One of the Reptilators?  She flattened against a half-raided container.

‘Come out of there!  Whoever you are!’ growled a ratchety voice.  She didn’t move.  ‘Come out or get incinerated.’

She couldn’t see, tried to focus, made out the nozzle of a fire-gun edging toward her.  Moving excruciatingly slowly, arms painfully raised, she eased around the corner to confront the holder of the fire-gun.

‘Garam!’ A finger of steel strapped itself around her head and squeezed.  She was almost horrified to see him alive.  With her nerves at screaming point she sobbed ‘Oh, Garam, you’re alive.’

‘Tansy!’ He looked as bad as she’d feared, even so she moved slowly into his outstretched arms and covered his flaking face with a multitude of kisses, ignoring the stench off his flesh and the weakness in her legs.

‘What are you doing with a fire-gun?’ she asked, ‘Where have you been?  Where were you when it happened?’

‘Hey, hey, one at a time,’ he smiled and, as with Eric, the movement caused great wadges of skin to break free.  ‘Come on.  Let’s get out of here before …’

‘I’ve got to take food to Eric,’ Tansy explained about Eric and the computer he’d got working.  Garam watched her collect what she needed, saw the agony in her face as she struggled to carry the bag, and took it from her.  They set off back to Eric.  Garam slowed his pace so that she could keep up with him.

‘Where are the bodies?’ she asked.  He didn’t reply, so she asked him again.

‘There are none,’ he finally said.  They were almost back at Trafalgar Square.  Tansy heard the computer.  She placed a delicate, peeling hand on Garam’s arm, stopping him in his tracks.

‘Where are they?’ she said and the suspicion she’d had earlier took shape. ‘Are they the dust?  The ash and dust?’  Tears caught in her face.

‘They are, Tansy,’ Garam said gently, ‘They’re blowing over the Thames.’  She turned away sickened; the dull sulphurous dust, all that was left, dust to dust.  Another gust of searing wind brought with it a hail of acidic burning particles.  Tansy held her head as more pain gripped her.  Garam, his arm around her heaving shoulders, guided her to where Eric was staring fixedly at the screen.

‘There are Eurobod’s left in hiding,’ said Eric without preamble, ‘they have the airwaves.  They’re saved but stuck miles away in the country.  They’ve no hope of running the continent from there.  There aren’t enough ventowaves working to let people know they’re alive and the Reptilators have seized power with help from …’ Eric looked upwards.

‘If some ministers are left, someone to oppose them,’ Garam said hopefully.

‘Too late my boy,’ said Eric shaking his head, hair and scales floating from him like petals from a cherry tree.  ‘Too late.  The Reptilators have got to the city first.  They have control because they’ve taken it.  They’re here.’  He sat down heavily no longer staring at the screen.  Drawn to the screen, Garam and Tansy could make the word ‘DELETE’ stamped across it in huge green capital letters.  Garam stiffened, Tansy fluttered down beside Eric, weeping silently.

‘All’s lost,’ her frail voice tremored fading to an echo, ‘ost … ost … ost …’ as she dustily drifted across the River Thames.

Polly Robinson © 2012

42: Nosferatu (Dracula) at The Lunar Bar

From the organisers of 42 – an invitation to join in the fun at their first birthday bash

Join us for a Monster Mash at our Birthday Bash, as 42 turns one this month. It has been a fantastic year & it seems fitting that we get to celebrate the 1st anniversary of 42 at the same time as the 90th anniversary of the premiere of “Nosferatu,” by F. W. Murnau. What a great theme for our Birthday bash!

If you would be interested in performing at this &/or other events contact the 42 Worcester Team at 42worcester@42openmicnight.co.uk. Slots will be between 10-15 minutes long.

PRICE: £3.00

PERFORMERS: To be confirmed

INFO ON 42 OPEN MIC NIGHT:

‘42’ is Worcester’s first & only Gothic, Horror, Sci-Fi & Fantasy Open Mic Night for all those who love the genres & everything in between. Let your voice be heard!

Calling all writers, poets, musicians, performance artists, actors and comedians, if you have an interest in these areas we want you to get involved!

‘42’ takes its name from Douglas Adams’ great answer to Life, the Universe and Everything. We thought that was pretty all encompassing and a really snappy name which people would embrace. This is THE genre fans open mic night, and we want them to get in touch and make their voice heard!

INFO FOR PERFORMERS:

There are a few provisos which we must outline at the outset, such as the fact that although we embrace darker works we don’t encourage superfluous gore or scenes of lingering torture for the sake of celebrating cruelty. We do not encourage the humiliation, or attack of anyone due to their ethnic origin, religious beliefs, or the fact that their great grandfather six times removed was kidnapped by aliens. Although a degree of swearing could be part of an artist’s dramatic flow in a given horror story, we ask you to keep any such sequences within a reasonable dramatic format which will sound plausible!

So please respect these guidelines and we will welcome your contribution warmly.

Each performer will be allotted a 10-15 minutes span for their set, and we ask contributors to respect this timeframe! Please get in touch well in advance of the advertised evening if you wish to take part and have specific requirements for sound, etc.

We are always looking for new writers and performers to get involved in the event, so if you would like to become involved we would be chuffed to bits to hear from you! So get in touch!