Microfiction challenge Rainbow: the entries

A more peaceful, hopeful painting would be hard to find, but thankfully, we didn’t all see the scene as utter boring heaven.

I’m almost certain Sarah sent an entry but posted it in the wrong place and I can’t find it. Maybe if she looks in she can point me in the right direction.

Thanks to you all for the wonderful pieces of prose you send in. There’ll be another prompt tomorrow, so see you then.

I’m adding Merril’s at the top as I missed it out when I prepared the post yesterday. I could have sworn it wasn’t there then…But I’d commented on it and very much enjoyed it. The Sound of Music again…

From Rainbows: Microfiction | Yesterday and today: Merril’s historical musings

 

Louise’s story might be less dark and tragic than usual, but it’s just as dramatic.

Immortal Rainbow – Fantasy Raconteur

 

Ken’s story is an example of what I was hinting at in the intro—since when have rainbows been associated only with joy and happiness?

A Thing of the Past | rivrvlogr

 

Phylor with the ghost of Maria from The Sound of Music? She’s been cropping up everywhere 🙂

Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction #9: the rainbow – Phylor’s Blog

 

Michael’s story, while light-hearted, is I suspect one of his cherished dreams 🙂

Microfiction challenge #9: Rainbow | Morpethroad

 

Geoff’s story wouldn’t be allowed under many regimes, but this is my blog so I’ll take the risk, and in case of legal problems, yes, I’ll happily pass on his address.

Clash of Egos #microfiction #shortstory | TanGental

 

Leara’s story like Michael’s is a retelling of a timeless myth.

The Treasure At The End Of The Rainbow – LearaWrites

 

Freya is a first-time participant with a dramatic story that packs a punch with a surprising twist in the tail.

Look up! Microfiction Challenge #9 – Rainbow | Freya Writes…

 

Kat’s story is going strong, and with the skill of a true storyteller she slips in the prompt image as a sideline and gets back to the meat of what she had in mind for this episode.

Seasoning – Part 6 | like mercury colliding…

 

Kerfe’s mini story this week is the introduction to a gallery of thoughts and images with a mysterious common theme.

https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/2016/08/17/junk-mail-art-rainbow/

 

Bill—last in so the eerie white space doesn’t matter. I think he should really get a dog.

Bonnie

 

 

 

Shameless publicity

Since I said the weekend was going to be for promotions, and I haven’t done any because nobody asked, here’s a spammy reminder that although I am a blogger, an aspiring poet, and a writer of short fiction, I am first and foremost a novelist.

I have an author website here that you might like to visit. If only for the pictures of the wild geese.

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The Burnt Man

This is a scene from Abomination which just about fits Sacha Black’s writing prompt: Burnt Edges.

AboAmazon

The man with the single, raging red eye and half his face burned away pointed, and the ramshackle barrier of upturned sofas and bed frames burst into flame. Maria Dolores screamed and covered her face, as tribesmen leapt into action, whooping with the pent up excitement of years of captivity, imprisoned by the biting cold and the devastation beyond the fragile walls of the mall.

Knives and bludgeons flailed, cutting down anyone stupid or slow enough to be hanging around in their path—stray children, the last of the old folks. Maria Dolores ripped the holy medal from around her neck and flung it with a stream of high-pitched invective into the flames. There was no hope now. Humanity had fled and He had come to take its place.

Cover reveal: Devastation

You probably already know that writing poetry and pieces of short fiction is not the be all and end all of my existence as a writer. I write novels too. They are unashamedly escapist, with elements of magic, fantasy and mythology, romance and humour, probably because that is how I would like life to be. The characters are young, full of energy, not little plaster saints, opinionated and courageous. I’ve come to like them as if they were not just my spiritual children, but flesh and blood.

The first series, The Green Woman, starts in a miserable, grey dystopia, violent and oppressive. You’d hardly expect it to be like Disney World, would you? It’s the story of Deborah’s journey to find herself, her mother and save the bit of the world that actually wants to be saved from itself. It ends in…well, you have to read the story to find out where it ends. Or if it even does.

The second series, The Pathfinders, is very different. Carla and Tully are caught in the Apocalypse. The story isn’t post-apocalyptic—the world is teetering on the brink waiting for the final act. Wormholes that loop through time and space run through the story like garlands on a Christmas tree but without the joyful connotations. Things travel through the wormholes, and most of them you wouldn’t want to meet, not even if you had a few anti-tank missiles handy.

The first volume, Abomination, was published in March by Finch Books. If you haven’t read it yet, you should. You’ll see why you should be preparing your plan B for the apocalypse right now.

AboAmazon

I have just received the cover art for the second volume, so I’ll post it here. If you thought things couldn’t get any worse than the Abomination, I’m afraid you’re in for a shock. Or maybe just a pleasant surprise. There are people like you, I know.

Devastation

Devastation will be available on early download from June 22. That gives you plenty of time to read Abomination first. If you like having the bejaysus scared out of you, of course. I’ve been told I write good horror stories. If you can stand the pace, you should look into this series.

You can find links, blurbs and extracts from all the novels here, or sign up for news about further publications here.

End of NaNoWriMo

And beginning of WordPress’s spray a blizzard across your blog posts campaign. Thanks WP—I love it really.

Although I didn’t sign up officially, I was a fellow traveler this year, setting my own goal. It was far short of the 50k words that most people were aiming for. Knowing my capacity for wandering off subject and fiddling around with poems and bits of short fiction, my more modest goal was just to finish the first draught of In Paradisio, the third volume of the Wormholes series. I say modest advisedly, as I was aiming for an estimated total word count of 65k, and I’d already written 45k. Idling along at 5000 words a week, I reckoned a month should do it.

In the end, I reached The End first time around with over a week to spare and 74000 words on the clock. Yesterday evening, end of NaNo, the total after another run through stood at 78000. I’m pleased with what’s come out. I have a nice bunch of characters, a world that is (I hope) original, and a plot that explores love and relationships more than superpowers and good versus evil. Nor are there nearly as many plot holes as I expected. Maybe I just haven’t noticed them yet.

Volume three???? I hear you ask. What happened to volumes one and two? I’m pleased to say that I have release dates for Wormholes #1: The Abomination:

January 26 for retail pre-order and purchase through the Finch Books website.

March 22 for general retail release.

The covers are being finalised so I’ll post when I get the final version. In the meantime, here’s a wormhole.

Clifford-torus

200 word story: Blood-red tree

1178px-Tom_Thomson_-_The_West_Wind_-_Google_Art_Project

Out of the blood-red ground a tree rose and bowed to the ocean. Beneath its bark, blood-red sap surged, each cell a memory. Ocean waves tinged with red picked up the message and carried it to the shore, where it hissed in the foam, the scuttling rattle of crabs, and the sighing of kelp drying in the sun. The great golden fish breathed it in and out through lacy gills, sending it trembling through the currents of the deeps.

On a distant shore, the waves found a peaceful river, rolled landwards, between green banks where kingcups climbed and tall rushes whispered. There the message seeped into the rich earth, following the burrows and galleries of water rats and earthworms. And the fruits of this earth nourished the spirits of the people who lived there, and they understood. They let in the souls of all the dead, those mown down in war and starved in famine, drowned in their frail boats, gunned down in the street, and they said.

We will not let this happen here.

I will search until I find this place where the message of the bloody tree is heeded. Perhaps a lifetime will not be long enough.

Flash fiction: A jar of honey

Photo ©Pedro Ribeiro Simões

1280px-Old_woman_-_Lisbon,_Portugal

She plods back and forth to the market, the little old lady, as she has done for decades. First it was to feed husband and children, then just husband, and for the last lonely years, herself alone. The daily routine—three potatoes, two carrots one leek. Occasionally she braves the expense of the butcher for a chop, a slice or two of ham, and on Fridays there’ll be a bit of fish.
Back and forth, day after day, she treads the same path to the same market stall. She has always gone to the Pollo’s stall. Remembers Luciano Pollo when he was an eager immigrant, keen to get on and make his mark. Now his two sons run the stall, stepping back in their turn, to hand over the reins to their own children. She knows where she is with Pollo. The prices written in big chalk figures, and they never change much anyway.
The supermarket is another thing entirely. The isles crammed tight, crammed full of things she doesn’t recognise. Prices written so small she can’t read them, shelves too high, too full, too close. And at the checkout, the hollow fear that the bill will be more than she can afford, and no one to ask with a smile to just give her a half a bunch instead.
I often see her on the library steps on her way home from her shopping. They get the full sun and she sits, face raised to the sky, eyes closed, letting her parchment skin absorb the gentle warmth. I always assumed she sat because she was tired. I know better now.
This morning she was there, her stick at her side, basket on the ground by her feet. She’d been on an expedition to the supermarket, had the plastic bag to prove it, and she’d bought a jar of honey. She held the jar up to the light, turned it round and round, inspecting every centimetre of the label, the smooth glass, the rough stippling around the edge. Her face was alight with pleasure, her lips slightly parted, her old, watery eyes shining. She held the jar up to the sun, ran a trembling finger around the shiny gold lid. Then her attention changed, her head tilted to one side as she listened. Above, in the guttering, a robin began his song.
I waved, she smiled, and nodded her head, unable to find even the familiar few words of greeting. She still held the jar to catch the sun, raised her eyes to the bird, smile broadened in complicity, too full of joy to speak.
I slowed my steps and thanked the ancestors who made me, that I too had the eyes to see the little things, the ears to hear music on a city street, and a heart to love every feather of a robin’s wing.

In Paradisio

Yesterday, despite a migraine that made me feel sick as a pig, I got on like a house on fire with In Paradisio, the third volume of the Wormholes series. In the cold light of a post-migraine morning, I can see that this story is not exactly a seamless web—we seem to have gone from William Blake to Bladerunner. Migraines do have an effect on the writing style and content! See what you think.

AbasElAkaad_Night

He turned back to the path, a pale, sandy line in the darkness, and in a few moments, the ash, the yew, and the star were lost among the forest shadows. Within a few more minutes, the ‘forest’ petered out. Carla recognised the signs of an industrial wasteland, with dilapidated hangars, oil drums, plastic bags spilling their vile-smelling contents across the scrubby grass, and the quick scurry of rats. Memories of the mall and the hordes of rats that infested the rubbish heaps came back with a sharp shock and she stepped backwards. Harut held her firmly.

“You said you wanted to see other worlds.”

“But nice ones! This is too much like what Earth became.”

Harut’s teeth glittered in the wan moonlight. “Your Earth became like this, at the end. Some worlds have been like this for centuries.”

Carla shivered, dreading what the shadows of the crumbling warehouses concealed.

“Now keep quite.” Harut whispered in her ear. “We don’t want to attract too much attention. Even if we are armed.”

“Are we?”

“Of course. Remember the first exercises you ever did? What do you think you were supposed to do with the energy you transformed?”

“Self-defence, I suppose.”

Harut snorted. “Yeah. You’d better be prepared to defend yourself, then. And definitively.”

Carla looked about nervously

“There’s never much action here,” Harut whispered. “Let’s go into town.”

The pale moonlit sheds disappeared, replaced by the oppressive mass of tall buildings, some in complete darkness, others lit up like Christmas trees. A six-lane highway cut a wide gash between the buildings, joined by tiny dark alleys, not wide enough to walk two abreast. Vehicles whizzed past silently, and a skytrain flicked by on a rail that ran down the median strip. Apart from the muted sounds of rubber tyres on asphalt, there was little noise.

“Where is everybody?”

“Everywhere,” Harut replied. “Watching.”

“What?”

“Anything that moves in this place is suspect. Look.”

The shadows moved in one of the dark alleys at the far side of the highway, and something slipped into the flickering light of a passing train. Something that ran on two legs, then dropped to four. Whatever it was darted down the next alley, dragging a bag of refuse behind it. Carla started to ask a question, but Harut hushed her with a tightened grip on her arm. A scream of agony followed by a long drawn out howl broke the expectant silence. Moments later, two more hunched shapes broke from the alley, bent over cumbersome bundles, and disappeared into the darkness.

“Let’s go see,” Harut said, leaning into a running pose.

“No!” Carla hung back. “I really don’t want to get close to whatever went on there.”

“C’mon! It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”

Reluctantly Carla was scooped up in Harut’s aura to the far side of the highway, to the dark entrance to the alleyway the first creature had entered. She wrinkled her nose. It stank of something rotting, the smell that lingers in the bottom of dustbins, and the smell of corruption, of things long dead. Harut strode forward, his hands working as he gathered energy from the light sources, the electricity humming in the train rails, the fear Carla felt in the air all around her.

“There. Behind those waste containers.”

Harut pointed. At first it looked like a bundle of plastic bin bags. Until it moved. A hand reached out and clawed the ground, trying to get a hold on something, maybe to stand up. An arm reached out, a shoulder lurched from the shadows, then a head. Carla gasped. The head jerked and eyes opened, fixed hers, dark and glittering. Blood poured from the head, the shoulder, running along the arm, dripping from the fingertips. The face was the face of an ape. It grinned in terror. Its teeth were as bloody as the gash in its forehead. It scrabbled in the dirt, grabbed a bag and clutched it to its chest.

“It’s been eating man flesh,” Harut said. His voice was cold, but Carla sensed his rising excitement. “In the bag. What the other two left.”

Carla turned her head, not wishing to see what spilled out of the bag when Harut threw a fistful of power at the creature. She heard the soft splat as the bolt hit home. She heard the beginnings of a scream of agony that stopped, strangled in the throat by death. She dragged on Harut’s hand, but he shrugged her away and strode into the alley to inspect the remains. There wasn’t much left to inspect.

“Let’s go get the others,” he said, as he strode past her back out towards the highway.

“Why?”

“Why not? They’re vermin. If we don’t get them, they’ll only jump somebody else.”

“You mean, in the bags, it was… it was…”

“Yup. It was person.”

“Harut, let’s go back. I don’t like it here.”

In the dark, in the intermittent flashes of passing cars, Harut’s face grew cold. “You said you don’t understand why Nisroc wants to keep out the hordes of dead souls. You seem to think all spirits are peaceable just because they’re dead. Well, it’s time to open your eyes. Come on!”

Carla tried to hang back, but Harut took her in his arms and she found herself at the end of another dark alley. The walls, black with filth rose so high the night sky was lost to view. The same stench caught at her throat, making her gag. Harut crept deeper into the sinister ginnel, listening for the movement. When she heard the furtive sound of whispering, Carla stiffened, getting ready to run, but Harut leapt forward with a cry, the twisted mesh of energy in his hand glowing, lighting the huddled forms cowering against the wall. The same ape-like faces, dark and malevolent, or was that dark and terrorized?

The energy leapt and the two creatures flew backwards in a sheet of flame. Skin sizzled, hair glittered like ruby light, and the screams of agony were brief. When the glare faded, Harut stepped up to the carbonized carcases and kicked one. His boot caved in the shrivelled ribs. He drew back his foot in disgust.

“That makes three more dead souls crying to get into Paradisio. That’s the kind of thing you want to have walking the green valleys with you? Filthy cannibals?”

What November has in store

First Monday of November, the notorious NaNoWriMo, and I have made a decision. I’m going to finish this novel in the month. It’s no big deal, I reckon another 20k words will finish the first draught and since I’ve set myself a lazy 5000 words a week goal, there should be no problem. I like setting myself challenges, as long as they’re easy ones.
This novel is the third volume of a duology. Yup, when I signed the contract for the first Wormholes book, I was persuaded that three is better than two, and as stories go on as long as they’re allowed, I accepted the challenge to write a third volume. I won’t go into the plot details—I’m still making them up as I go along—suffice it to say it’s a rather strange story.
Wormholes begins at the end of the world, with standard apocalyptic elements, plus some of my own invention, characters strictly my own and now personal friends, and an extremely unpleasant demise for our poor Earth. The second volume takes Carla and Tully to a parallel world, closely followed by the unpleasant elements of the first volume. What happens and how it happens is best left a closely guarded secret for the time being.
I had intended the story to end there, but of course, where there’s life there’s hope and another story. This third volume is on a different plane altogether and focuses more on relationships than exploding universes. Which doesn’t mean there isn’t a fair amount of action, it’s just that some of the action is of a more ‘adult’ nature, while keeping strictly within the decorous bounds of YA.

Here’s an unedited snippet.

Once they had passed through the second wall, Carla and Tully soared skyward, passing through the realm of the waking world and into the dark, velvet world of starlight. They walked for a while high above the glitter and ghostly glimmer of Paradisio that stretched as far as the eye could see.
“Where’s Between the Walls?” Tully asked, peering in all directions.
“We can’t see it. The walls around it send images of Paradisio back to us.”
“It really is like a box then. With a lid,” Tully mused.
“There’s something behind this, Tully. And I think we ought to find out what it is.”
“Why us?”
Carla chewed the inside of her lip thoughtfully. “Because we’re not exactly like the Grigori. I know they keep telling us we are, that we’ve come home blah blah blah. But I don’t feel as though I belong here. Not the way it is. Maybe the way it used to be…”
“Speculation, sweetheart. This place is the best. The dog’s bollix, as Dad would say. We’ll settle in, and when we do, we might find we were worrying about nothing at all.”
Tully smiled and hummed a tune, and Carla wondered if he even understood what made her feel uneasy. Tully’s singing made the stars gleam brighter, and meteorites danced like synchronised fireworks around their heads. Either she and Tully had developed powers they could never have imagined even in Lutecia, or Paradisio itself was full of magic. Tully stopped humming and held his head on one side, listening. His eyes glittered with amazement.
“Can you hear?” he whispered.
Carla stood quite still and held her breath. The silence of the night sky was broken. Like ripples on a stream, faint music made by unearthly voices came to her over the waves of darkness. She looked at Tully, her eyes wide.
“It’s the stars,” he breathed, “the planets. They’re singing.”
“What does it mean?”
Tully beamed at her. “It means we’re in heaven.”
Carla grinned. “Seriously.”
“The possibilities here are endless. Nothing is beyond us if we try hard enough. You can see why Nisroc wants to protect his world.”
Carla frowned slightly as if a cloud had passed over the moon, and the music faded. “Yeah. I s’ppose.”
Tully took her hand and led her into a fiery nest of stardust. “You worry too much,” he said gently and pulled her down beside him. “Time for dreaming.”
Carla snuggled into his arms, loosening his shirt from his trousers, letting his unmistakeable Tully smell fill her senses.
“I wonder if the Grigori dream too,” she said.
“Erelah said they all do.”
“Erelah? You mean we might bump into her up here?”
“What have you got against Erelah, anyway? She’s a good laugh, when you get to know her.”
“And you have?”
“Yeah, a bit.”
Carla fought to keep her ground in what felt like shifting sands. She held Tully tighter, finding the buckle on his belt. She bit his ear and whispered, “Like this?”
Tully kissed her hard on the mouth. “You ask the silliest questions.”
“Indulge me.”
Tully kissed her again. And again. “Of course not.”
His hands were on her skin beneath her shirt. His mouth was on hers. The stars were singing. Carla let the unpleasant thoughts slip into the gentle darkness between the planets and returned Tully’s kiss with the same passion as in the old days.