Saturday, 25 July 2015

It's A Kinda Magic

Cast the circle and come with me into the world of my magicks, of my stories, poetry, flash fiction… my wistful and wild characters from within my mind of imagination where I have often gotten lost in the forest of one world only to get twisted around without a compass in the whirlwind of another and spat out the other side somehow fully intact and wishing it had never ended.

Yes… I love writing worlds, wishes, poetry of my life and how much I have lived and yet painting these worlds hither or thither and have you – the reader – come along for the ride, no matter which time it’s set in.

It’s been a great learning experience for me – being a writer; and I’ve loved every minute of it.

You see, to write the things I’ve written, I’ve found I have had to live a few horror stories in the real world, enjoyed the fantasies of seeing my world from a completely different point of view, daydreamed at the most inappropriate times and wished my afternoons away when I should have been paying attention to where I was, who I was with and the situation of life.
Sure I’ve lost out on quite a few relationships – but then, you gotta realise something, sometimes it’s them who have lost out on being around a writer and seeing how we operate. When in a relationship, we are very selfish and do need that space to be on our own for long periods of time… something which is of an acquired taste; and isn’t for everyone.

I live alone, enjoy horror shows, hate reality shows and have the entire series of ‘Supernatural’ on dvd just so I can watch it over and over to see if my Muse can pick up on anything it may have missed out on in the background of the creator’s imagery or ideas… after all, there’s always loopholes in everything in movies and television shows; that’s how they all keep on going.

And that’s how I write my stories and books – loopholes. I used to go to see movies on the big screen just to see if I could pick up on the loopholes the screenwriters missed out on. When I did, I’d sit down after the movie – while it was fresh in my head – and start writing down in longhand a story about what happened after the movie, or a spin-off from that particular part of the movie that nobody thought of. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

My writing was something I never really though much of until I was in high school, though. This was when I seriously took on some major study at the State Library and looked into working on a book – my first titled ‘Angie’. It never went anywhere and has never been published, but sometimes I do look at it from time to time just to see where I’ve come from – and to remind myself to never slip back into those bad habits.

And I don’t.

Now, when I write, I don’t just jump in and write. I research my subject fully, while I jot down my ideas on the computer in little bits and pieces… I watch as many related movies and television shows as I can and see what information I can pull from those shows and the books I have about the subject – then I start seriously writing.
Last year, I wrote an Angelic Romance… this was difficult to do, seeing that I’m not a religious person (in the way that I don’t believe in God) and that I don’t normally write romantic novels. However, it worked out pretty well… there was just enough violence, sex and the biggest pissing match between Heaven and Hell to keep my proof-readers interested and laughing as well. They couldn’t believe that I usually wrote horror and sci-fi… and some of them had read my sci-fi and found that this romantic side of me quite nice.
But then, one of my friends read some of my Flash Fiction and she said that she loved how good it was; and all that was wrong was the grammar, some spelling mistakes and a little more tightening here and there, and that was it… she loved it more than my Angelic Romance.

But for me, writing is writing. It doesn’t matter what you write, so long you’re happy with what you do with it.

I enjoy the written word – reading it, writing it, collecting it – and yet I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t or wasn’t allowed to have it in my life in some way. The written word is like oxygen – without it, I’d suffocate in some way and my world of colour, of adventure, of fantasy, sex, fun and joy would turn grey and stand still… I would stop and the world within me would seize to exist… and the world surrounding me would leave me behind. 

Friday, 17 July 2015

The Bereaved Sneaker

Chuck's back with our Flash Fictions!  And the prompts this week to go onto a site and look up a phrase generator and use it in our most current Flash Fiction... mine is in the title... 'Bereaved Sneaker'. 


It’s time…

It’s time for her to go running!


Riley’s home and it’s time we went running! I heard her come through the front door, have something to eat, text on the phone to her friends – her fingers moving at lightning speed across that screen – and then, it’s time to go running.

Riley loves to run around the streets with us on her feet.

But there is a slight problem… Right isn’t around.
You see I’m Left… and Right is usually where I am – as we’re together in this. We came in our box at the store together… we were made side by side at the factory, our eyelets never leaving each other on the conveyer belt.
But today, I’ve lost sight of Right, and she’s going to be upset because we need Right to go running – because you Humans needs pairs on your feet to go anywhere, or you’ll look weird with odd ones on your feet and it’ll feel weird too.

Anyway, Riley’s come into the room, dumped her school port next to her desk and has pulled out her running gear.

Oh dear!

She’s going to be looking for Right really soon.

She’s pulled on her sweats and attached her mobile to her arm in another band (with her music ready to go). Now, she’s pulled on her socks, grabbed me and pulled me over her foot.

It smells like leather – her school shoes are made of that – and bi-carb powder. Yep, she’s got really bad food odour.

Ties me up and then… she starts looking around, moving things around near the wardrobe.

Right isn’t there… I’d know. We’re always together; I’d tell her, but I can’t do that, she’d freak out that her shoes are talking to her.
“Dad! Have you seen my right sneaker?” she screams with her head still inside the wardrobe, my God, she’s loud!
“What’s that?” he pokes his head inside her bedroom door, “Jeez, Riley, it’s a wonder you find anything in this room… let alone your left sneaker… you did find that one, right?”
She shakes me in front of him, “Yeah… I’m asking if you’ve seen my right one.”
“Oh… um… clean up, you’re sure to find it.”
“But my run… I’ll miss it.”
“Hey, we’ve been tellin’ ya to clean up your room for weeks, and now this has happened.” He turns around and walks out, “Hey, honey! Have you seen Riley’s right sneaker?”
“Last I saw it was in her rubbish bin.” We both hear her step-Mum answer faintly from the kitchen, and she races to it, only to find it empty, “But I emptied that this morning… and the rubbish truck’s been.”
“What!?” Riley’s voice breaks as we both realise we’ve lost something and someone really important to us, “I need that sneaker!”
Kat walks into her room holding up Right by the laces, “But I thought you might need it, so I pulled it out before tossing it out…” she smiles, “How it got out into the lounge is beyond me… but it does have dog slobber all over it.”
Riley takes Right off Kat as she grabs a handful of tissues and begins to wipes the slobber off it, “Yesh, wish the dog would stop eating my shoes. Well, at least I run through worse things than what his mouth slobber does to my shoes.” She pulls it onto her right foot, ties it up and we’re ready.

Three weeks later, Riley comes home to go on her run, pulls on Right and me and finds her toes are too tight in us. The next day, she goes out with her Dad and step-Mum to the store, returning with a new bag with a box inside it big enough for a shoe box…

Our time with Riley is done.

My laces are worn through, as my tread isn’t as good as it used to be… and we’re too small for her anymore – yep, Riley is a growing teenager.
Right and me… we weren’t a permanent thing in her life; and she probably won’t remember us in years to come, just that her shoes for running were comfortable… nothing to write home about; and that she lost a few pairs once in a while.

And oh yes, that I nearly lost my partner in crime… I nearly lost Right to the horrible Rubbish Truck.  Now, she’s happily packing us away in the shoe box where her new running shoes came from. It smells nice, new and fresh inside here. The paper is pushed in all around the sides of our oldness and we’re made as comfortable as possible to be put into the wheelie bin.

The lid is closed and we’re carried out to the place where we will end our lives…

…the sun shines through the holes in the sides for a stark moments as the birds sing their lost and lonely songs to us…

…as we hear the lid of the large plastic bin open...

...and …

…darkness engulfs our world …

Friday, 10 July 2015

The Ride

This week, Chuck isn't going to be around... so I thought to do my own flash fiction.  This one is a weird and wonderful one I'm making from a strange dream I had last night.


The markets were closing and people were packing up their gear just as the sun was setting. This is a noisy thing to do – almost as noisy as setting up. I should know as I am a retailer at the weekend markets.

But not today – at least not this time.

This time, I’m just here to watch it all close up as the lights have been turned down a little and everyone is packing up their gear, folding their table cloths and putting away their tables into their cars and vans to drive home.
Being a retailer at the markets is exhausting… especially if you don’t make any money… but I love doing what I do. However today, as I said, I’m not a retailer.

Looking at one lady, she sees me as I watch her put her table cloth away and leans on her table, then looks up at me: “He’s coming for you.” Her whisper reaches my ears.
“No he’s not.” I don’t know who ‘he’ is and don’t wish to as I turned and walk away, through the maze of collapsing marquees and market tables, of the beauty of the weekend markets closing up shop for the night.

There’s a certain beauty about it I can’t explain.

I almost get out of the park when I find myself back at the lady’s table and she’s just folded her table cloth and put it away, leaned on the table, looked up at me, exhausted, “He’s looking for you.” Her voice is louder – closer – to me now.
“Who?” I ask, but she goes about her work putting away her things ignoring me.
I walk away again. This time, I start looking around to see who it is. Off in the distance, I see a man in a cloak talking to people, looking around, asking for somebody.

He turns. 

He sees me… my gut turns cool!

He’s dressed like Dracula!

It’s time to leave… I turn to run and find people in my way. They’re packing up and walking across the aisle to go to their cars as I dodge around them and still I can’t get away from him!

Suddenly, I’m out of the park, away from the market and running, when a hand touches my shoulder and turns me around.
A young man with long shaggy hair has stopped me, “Hey, where you going in such a hurry?”
“Away from him.” I say to him backing away from him – I don’t know this guy. I don’t owe him any explanation, “Leave me alone.”
“He’s looking for you… and he’ll find you.” The shaggy-haired guy said, “He always does.”
Turning, I ignore him. I know my way through the park. I’ve been here before and know my way back to the caravan park as this is a place I know well.

The lady at the market place is packing up her table. She’s just folded up her table cloth and put it away and leaned on the table, exhausted, looking at me, “He’ll find you soon.”
“We’ve been here before.” I whisper.
“Yes, and you keep on running.” She answered me, “He’s not far now.”
I turned and run. But it feels as though I can’t get anywhere as the aisle chocks up with so many people moving things and walking in my way – more than before!

Then a hand grabs my shoulder.

I know it’s him!

I shout as I turn and I’m confronted by him – the Dracula man in the cloak! – and he stands there smiling at me, “Hi. I’ve been looking for you.”
“What do you want?” My voice is shaking.
“Now, you should know me… we’re friends.” A friendly smile spreads across his face as the shaggy-haired man shows at his shoulder, “We know each other so well – inside out.”
“No, I don’t know you.”
“We go for rides, you and me… through the imagination. We write stories and scared the crap out of people and enjoy it.” He grins, “And I’ve been here the whole time with you, in that room where you type on the computer, the typewriter, making sure you get it right!”
“My muse?”
He laughs, “Oh Lordy no! I’m your imagination!”
“Well, what’s with the get-up?”
“You write horror… I wanted to impress you.” He smiles as he steps forward, “And…” he put out and open-palmed hand towards me, “I want to take a little ride.”
Before I could protest, his hand connected with my chest, electrifying me with all kinds of charges, making me almost stop breathing, causing me to feel as though my life was coming to an end.
Just as quickly, he let go. He seemed unimpressed, “Oh… I see.”
I stepped back, catching my breath, “What?”
“You’re walking your true path.” He said.
“Which is?”
“It doesn’t matter…” he said.
“It does if you’re not impressed.” I said.
He produced a mirror and showed it to me. As I looked into the reflection of myself, I saw me inside it with him behind me, “What is my true path?” I looked up at him, but he was no longer there. Instead, he was next to me.
“Your true path is already being written. We’re going on the ride now.” He put out his hand, offering it to me, “Shall we go on the best ride possible?”
“Which ride is that?”

“The ride inside the imagination – of course!” 

Saturday, 4 July 2015

The Seventh Stone

This week, Chuck had us going to a link where we clicked on a title generator. It gave us a choice of 6 titles, but we got pick only one.  I chose 'The Seventh Stone'.


Thunder grumbled in the distance, and yet she felt it through the ground as she ran across the decimated city centre where the nuclear blast had almost leveled the place over a century ago.

This was the place Star had lived… the place she had played as a child… the only place she knew.

She had heard stories of how the big cities ran the world, how big industry made big money and wars were run by the big industries. She was also told it was all political bullshit and handed a rifle and a Beretta with an extra clip and told never to trust anyone.

Yep, this was how the post-apocalyptic world was like when your whole family was dead and you lived with people you weren’t related to.

Then the dreams started… at first Star thought they were nothing but some bad tacos (because she had found some tins of refried beans in a store and they were a few weeks over their used-by date) besides, everyone got food poisoning that week from those beans… it was a really bad time.
Then, the dreams didn’t stop, so she started writing them down to see if they formed a pattern – and they did. Tas – her camp brother – told her to keep that shit to herself or people would start looking at her funny or they’d think she was the next Oracle (the last one was shot for giving out the wrong information by the leader of their group). And so, Star did. In her pack, she had her A5 two-inch thick journal which she kept at the bottom and wrote in a few notes about each day. She wrote what she remembered from her lessons, poetry and how she’d like the world to be.
And each night the dream would be the same: a huge thunderstorm approaching, looking like a new apocalypse, shaking the ground like an earthquake as she ran through the middle of an abandoned city alone with her pack on, her Berretta in one hand, a smooth, large, oval stone in the other with a Moon Stone imbedded in one end and a flat base. Her rifle strapped across her right shoulder, fully loaded and ready to be used.  Her footsteps would echo as she raced up a large set of steps and found herself at a place called ‘The Rockafeller Centre’ where six others had gathered with similar stones in their hands.
She had never seen them before, but she knew they weren’t there to hurt her. They all stood at the edge of the empty fountain which she’d only seen pictures of frozen and people ice skating on it. Right in the middle – at the fountain – they all walked up to the mound, finding the places to fit their particular stones. As each one fitted in, a loud click echoed and a humming started up – as though something was switched on. As she knelt down to place her stone in its holder – to click it into place - the rain began to pour from the darkened skies and she felt herself smile, because she knew this was a good thing, Star knew this was…
Her eyes snapped open and daylight streamed through the muddy windows of the bus she called home. But today, it was humid… today, there was a storm brewing – a big one – and she knew today was the day she’d find that stone and start her journey into the city.
“I don’t understand what this thing is.” Tas said, turning it over in his hand, “But I found it in the Hudson.” He handed it to her smiling, “You have described that dream to me so many times to me, sister, I thought you’d be the one to hand it to.”
The moment the stone weighed into her hands, Star knew immediately what to do, “Thank you Tas. I appreciate what you’ve done for me… and …” she looked at it intensely, spotting the Moon Stone, the flat bottom, “I ready to take my leave now… it’s time to take it to its place.”
He handed her a new clip for her gun, “Here, you’ll need this. And I’ll take care of your home.”
Smiling, she touched his grimy cheek as she took the clip, “You can have it… I have a feeling I won’t be coming back.”

He had walked her as far as he dared to see her off before hugging her, kissing her, telling her he loved her… and knowing that what she had said was most probably true. Life here wasn’t valuable, it was what you made it.

Star jogged along the empty city street nervously looking around as the storm clouds gathered around the sentinel buildings, making the shadows surrounding her seem more imposing than they already were. Then she saw it… the large set of stairs. They were broken and chipped, but they were there.
She quickly picked her way up them to the top where she stopped and looked up at the Rockafeller Centre and its empty fountain where the people ice skated at Christmas…
Lightning flashed and she noticed a movement to her right, spinning, raising her gun to see who it was, only to be greeted with another pointing a gun at her holding a stone as well, “Oh… hi… you as well.”
“Yeah.” The boy’s voice shook, “I keep having these weird-ass dreams about this place but…”
“There’s gotta be others.” She said looking around.
“But there are…” he said lowering his weapon as she did.
“Okay… let’s see if this works out.” She smiled at him.
They all – as one – climbed into the large fountain, walked to the centre and found the placements for their individual stones.

As each one was placed, a humming commenced…

…the storm started overhead.

As Star’s last one clicked into place, they all stepped back as far as they could and watched as lightning lit up the fountain and the world renewed itself once more.