I took a break from writingforums.org, because I thought I was spending too much time reading about writing and not enough time doing it. Turns out it wasn't the forum's fault (duh!). I didn't write very much in the three month I was away (I did read a fair amount though). Then KaTrian wrote a review of one of my stories. It was a good review and made me come back to the fold. One of the things that I learnt about myself in the last few months is I can't write if I plan the story. That is why I can write short stories, because they are new: they surprise me. To return the favour I read and reviewed KaTrian and K.Trian's work. It inspired me. It made me think of a science fiction project I had planned three years ago. I started it and abandoned it. It sucked, to be honest with you. I went back to this project with a new angle, and started writing. I set myself a target of 1000 words a day. I have averaged more (nearer 1300). The only rule is I don't plan. I just react to the last thing I wrote. I learnt a lot from the RPG section of this forum - thanks! Writing, for me, is a hobby, not a career. So, I am going to serialise my new work on the web (for free).. Here is a summary of my new project: The Starviator: a massive space vessel, carrying the human debris of Colony 4 (some two million civilians), following the destruction of Myon City and the subsequent Purge. Kyle Graham has got his hands full. People are going missing, violent acts and murders are on the increase. The people he works for might be running the gangs, the pimps and the drugs. But Kyle has his own dark secret, a secret that is tearing apart his marriage and ruining his relationship with his young son. Against Kyle’s wishes, a new detective sergeant, Matilde Bousseol, recently decommissioned from the Military, is assigned to the team. And while we’re on the subject: what is with the Military? Are they there to protect the Ship and it’s people? Or is their mission a more sinister one?
This was written in response to a blog post by Em_Anders, in which she described a dream. ________ Emily looked outside. The window was streaked with green algae, that dripped from the leaking guttering, above. The view beyond wasn't exactly enticing. But sometimes it helped to look. To remember there was something out there. Even if it was only a “corpse motel”, as Andy called it. The cemetery stretched out, below her. It seemed to go on forever. Brambles covered half-broken gravestones. She'd never seen anyone lay flowers, never seen anyone visit the graves. Andy, when he was in one of his black moods, would sometimes push her face up against the glass. “Don't think of ever leaving me, doll,” he would say. “'Cos that's where you'd be sleeping, six feet down, just the worms for company. And don't think I'd come visit, neither.” Emily didn't know what was on the other side of the house. The windows were boarded. There was a crack in one of the boards, but she had never tried to look through it. She wasn't allowed in those rooms: not alone, anyway. Andy never let her go outside. Sometimes she tried to imagine what was out there. But all she ever came up with was the graveyard. She'd asked Andy, once. When he was in a good mood. “What's on the other side of the house, Andy?” He had looked at her. For a full minute he stared at her. He didn't say a word, and he didn't move. She had begun to think she must have imagined asking him. Perhaps, she'd just thought it. And then he got up. He moved quickly. Emily felt the air leave her lungs, before she felt the pain of his fist in her stomach. He didn't often hit her. And never on the face. The clients didn't like it. A punch in the stomach left no bruise. Well, not unless you looked real hard. Emily turned away from the window. On the bed were the clothes Andy had left her. Underwear, and a dress. No shoes. Some of the clients wanted her to wear heals, but Andy always shook his head. “No shoes.” Emily removed her night robe and began to wash herself. Andy had brought the bowl of water and the soap, fifteen minutes ago. The water was cold, but not from the wait. It was always ice cold. She dried herself with the towel. It was rough. Andy said, “soft towels don't dry, they just move the water around”. She didn't mind: the friction helped warm her skin. She dressed quickly. She brushed her hair, and let it fall over her shoulders. She had no mirror, so the makeup would have to wait. Andy liked her to do that in the Work Room. He liked to watch. “I need to make sure you do it right,” he said. Emily sat down on the bed and waited. Andy would come and fetch her when he was ready for her. He hadn't always been like this. Thinks had been different, once. She was certain of that. She had no clear memories. She knew they had had parents once. She could not remember what they looked like. Or, what happened to them. There were no memories of them in this house. They had never been here, she was sure of that. They did not belong in this house. Emily could not remember how long they had been here. Or, how long her brother had kept her a prisoner. She thought it may have been a few weeks, or maybe a year. She did remember the day he came to her with the first man. “We need the money, doll,” he said. He stood in the doorway of her room. It was the last time he knocked before entering. She remembered thinking he was dressed strangely. Now, there was nothing unusual in him wearing a tight fitting suit, a skinny tie knotted at his throat, and a fedora on his head. But she was sure he hadn't worn anything like that before- “It's time you contributed to the household, sweetheart. But you ain't qualified to do nothing. 'Cept this one thing.” He had shown her to a room. She couldn't remember seeing it before, she certainly had never been inside. It was a large room, bigger than her room. At the other side of the room a large mirror hung on the wall. Underneath, was a sofa. A man, Emily had never seen before, sat there, a drink in his hand. He looked up as they entered. He smiled and nodded at Andy. “Jeez,” he said. He whistled. “You wasn't joking, Andy. She's a good looking broad. Come over here, sugar lips.” He patted the cushion, next to him. “I don't understand,” Emily said, looking at Andy. He had made her understand. There was a knock at her door. She perked up. It wasn't Andy: he would've walked right in. Which meant it had to be Jimmy, Andy's driver and bodyguard. “Come in.” “Good morning Miss Emily, how are you today? Andy's got a meeting. He told me to let you know you won't be needed 'til after lunch.” Jimmy filled the doorway. He had a powerful upper torso. It was quite something to behold. The body of a bull, the heart of a lamb. He always treated her well. Respectfully, even. Last nights dream suddenly came to her. She was a matador. The stadium was crowded. She would see Andy looking down from one of the boxes. “You're gonna get what's coming to you, this time, doll!” she heard him call. And the the doors opened wide. Jimmy stood there, more animal than man. And then he was charging towards her. She caught him in her cape, and after a struggle she over powered him. Then they kissed. The crowd cheered, but when she looked up Andy had vanished. Emily felt her face heat up. She looked away, and pretended to look out the window. “You seen the circus, Miss Emily?” “The circus, Jimmy?” Jimmy walked over to the window and peered through. “Oh, that's right, you can't see it from this side of the house. They got acrobats, and clowns. And animals: tigers, lions, and elephants too. I hear it's quite a show.” Emily smiled. As a child she remembered being taken to the circus by her mum and dad. Andy had come too. He had liked the clowns best – he laughed until tears came to his eyes. She didn't like the clowns, she remembered sitting on her daddy's lap, peeking through his fingers. She did love the elephants though. She loved their big floppy ears and the way they swung their trunks when they trumpeted. After the show, her daddy had taken her round the back of the circus to see the elephants. Emily cried when she saw the cages. Her daddy had scooped her up and held her. She had cried so much the tears stung like sand. The memory from before this house hit her like one of Andy's fists. It took her breath away. She felt nauseous, and elated simultaneously. “You alright, Miss Emily?” Jimmy looked worried. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket , and held it out. Emily took it, realising tears were flowing down her cheeks. Jimmy looked uncertain of what to do. He suddenly sat down on the bed, next to her and held her. She felt just like she did all those years ago, crying in her daddy's arms. “I'm sorry, Jimmy,” she said. “I just don't know why I'm here. In this house, living this life. How has this happened? How have I become this person? Andy never used to be like this.” “He doesn't treat you good, Miss Emily.” “No, he doesn't. And it stops here.” Emily blew her nose. She looked Jimmy in the eyes. “You gonna stop me, Jimmy. If I run away, I mean?” Jimmy stood up, blocking the door once more. She had misjudged him. He was just like the others. “Stop you, Miss Emily?” he said. “I'm here to help you.” Taking Emily's hand, Jimmy lead her down the grand staircase. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling. They were in the entrance hall. Emily had no memory of every having seen been there. Ignoring the front door, Jimmy opened a door to the left of the staircase. He fumbled with switch, and a light flickered on revealing a staircase. “The basement,” he said. He held up his hand as Emily started towards the door. “Hold on a second.” Jimmy left her standing at the door, and walked across the hall. He opened another door, and disappeared inside. Emily waited. Jimmy reappeared with a pair of shoes. “Your size, I think. I had to hide them from Mr Andy. What is his problem with you, and shoes?” “I have no idea.” Emily took the shoes and put them on her feet. It felt odd. She couldn't remember the last time she had worn anything on her feet, other than stockings. Jimmy led the way down the stairs. The basement was not empty. There was some kind of vehicle. A car, but it looked like nothing Emily had ever seen before. It was cherry red. “A Pontiac convertible,” Jimmy said. “Mr Andy's pride and joy. Built and registered in Nineteen Seventy.” “Nineteen seventy?” Emily said. “How can that be, Jimmy?” “I know, amazing. He found it on Ebay. It needed a lot of work, I did most of it myself.” “Nineteen Seventy,” Emily said, again. Just how long had she been in that house? The last time Andy had let her read a newspaper it had been dated Seventeenth May Nineteen Fifty Two. Emily rubbed the skin of her face. It felt soft, no obvious flaps of old skin. She grabbed hold of Jimmy's hands. “How old am I, Jimmy?” “Don't ask me, questions like that, Miss Emily. I hate it when ladies ask me questions like that.” Emily let go of Jimmy's hands. She ran to the car. An anxious face stared back at her from the side-view mirror. But a face she knew to be her own. She hadn't aged. Still mid-twenties, still pretty. Nineteen seventy? None of this made any sense. “What month of Nineteen Seventy, is it now, Jimmy?” Jimmy laughed. But stopped when he saw Emily wasn't laughing with him. “It's January, Miss Emily,” he said, “Two thousand and thirteen.” Emily felt light headed. She stumbled and Jimmy caught her, before she hit the floor. She leaned against him as he opened the passenger door. She fell gratefully into the seat. “Never mind,” she said. “Let's get out of here, shall we?” Jimmy pressed a button on the wall. Emily was surprised...
The Diary of Samuel Pepys 1st September 1666 It is almost eleven o’clock as I write these words, with a shaking hand, by the light of a single candle. They surround us. We are trapped. I can see no way out. I do not know if I will finish this account of this terrible night. Nor, if there will be anyone left alive to read it. But write it, I must. The bells of St Magnus-the-Martyr announced six o’clock in the evening, as I hurried through the church yard. I was late. I quickened my pace and reached the doors, just as the church warden began to close them. He handed me a hymn sheet and showed me to a pew, where I was greeted by the Lord Mayor of London, Sir Thomas Bloodworth. He shook my hand. He looked weary, older than when I last saw him. “What are your thoughts on these reports of the plague, Mister Pepys? Of the dead rising from their graves?” “I am sure you are better informed than I, Sir Thomas. I assumed they were stories, designed to scare people away from the plague pits. To stop people stealing from the dead.” “One would think The Black Death frightening enough,” he said, shivering, despite the warmth of the evening. “Whatever their source, the rumours have certainly caught the imagination of the average man.” He looked around him. “The church is almost empty.” The rector climbed up to the pulpit and began the service. As the light began to fade, the congregation dwindled further. The church warden lit lamps and candles to ward off the encroaching darkness. There was a crash. “Help us!” I looked to the back of the church. A woman stood in the doorway. She began to scream. She held a small bundle in her arms: a boy. Before I could reach them, the boy fell to the floor. His mother dropped to her knees, beside him. I pushed her aside to examine the child. With horror I saw he was missing an arm. Blood was weeping gently from the wound, together with a strange, stinking, yellow puss. The flow began to ease, and then stopped. The boy was dead. Sir Thomas was at my side. He pulled the weeping woman towards him, away from the child’s body. She began to hit out, screaming into Sir Thomas’ face. The church warden came to help him. I stood up. Taking a lantern I went outside. I could see nothing in the twilight. There was a noise. A shuffling sound. I could not locate it’s source. I heard a cry that could have come from a dying, or tormented, beast. Out of the shadows a man came. He moved like a drunkard. I watched as he stumbled into a gravestone. I almost called out, but something stopped me. There was something very wrong about how this man moved: he was not merely drunk. There was a terrible odour. A smell of death, the stench of the plague pits. He came nearer. In his hand he held something. As I watched he brought it to his mouth. In the still of the evening I could hear teeth ripping into flesh, and with horror I realized it was a child’s arm. I gagged, and vomit splashed onto the ground in front of me. The man-shape turned slowly towards me. It paused for a moment, as though sniffing the air. Pale of face , it looked more dead than alive. Yet, it moved. A shiver ran through my body. The creature was within ten paces. Now I could see it was not alone. I wanted to run. I was paralysed. A hand gripped my shoulder. I cried out in terror. I turned. Sir Thomas Bloodworth stood beside me, his face white with shock. Attracted by my cry the creatures advanced towards us: I counted five, no seven. Their white watery eyes bulged horribly in their pale, scarred faces. If they had once been men, there was no humanity left in their gaze now. Sir Thomas pulled me inside. We slammed the heavy doors shut, and leaned against them. For a moment we simply looked at each other, unable to understand what we had seen. It was Sir Thomas who regained his composure first as the doors began to shake. “We need to barricade this door,” he said. The church warden bolted the door with a thick piece of oak. I helped Sir Thomas drag a pew over to the doors. We began to construct a rudimentary barrier. The door continued to shudder. Amongst the pounding on the door we could hear the unnatural, guttural moans of the creatures on the other side. As we moved the pews, I counted nine of us: the rector, Sir Thomas, the church warden, two women, three children and I. The body of the dead child had been moved to the side of the church and covered by a cloak. We lifted the last piece of the barrier into place. “What in Heaven’s name do you think they are Mister Pepys?” Sir Thomas whispered in my ear. An image of the creatures came into my mind, and I shivered. Those creatures had nothing to do with Heaven, of that I was sure. Before I could formulate a response, the rector, Robert Ivory joined us. He took the arm of the Lord Mayor. “I think the time of the apocalypse is upon us,” the rector Ivory said. He spoke softly, glancing at the women and children, huddled together on the floor. “We need to gather together and pray.” As he spoke, I heard glass breaking. Sir Thomas looked at me. We ran towards the sound. Past the tower, at the back of the chancel we saw a window, with shards of stained glass at the base of it. A shape climbed through the aperture. Sir Thomas grabbed a long pole which leaned against an oak wardrobe. He held it like a spear, and advanced towards the intruder. “Sir Thomas!” I shouted, as the man stood up. “I think he is human.” The man bore none of the characteristics of the creatures I had seen earlier. He moved fluidly and had colour in his face. He wore the clothes of a night watchman, although these were torn and stained, with blood and other substances, I could not identify. He bent down and retrieved a mace, from the floor: the evil spikes dripped gruesome matter onto the stone floor. “Help me,” he said. He turned back to window and took a swipe at a white arm as it clawed through the window. The mace crushed it against the wall of the church. Undeterred, the creature continued to advance. It was missing half its face, and had but one milky eye. Its teeth were visible through a hole in its cheek. I could smell its putrid breath from where I stood riveted to the ground. The watchman swung the club, smashing the head into a sticky mess. The creature was not alone. Two or three others were behind, clawing and biting its body. I could not tell if they were feeding on it, or tearing it apart to get to us. Sir Thomas ran to the watchman’s side, jabbing at one of the creatures with his staff as the watchman swung his mace at another. I searched for a weapon, but in the pale lamp light, I could see nothing other than a walking cane. An idea came to me. I opened the wardrobe, and pulled from it some robes. I ripped them into shreds and began wrapping them around the end of the cane. I blew out the flame from a lamp and poured the oil onto the cloth. The church warden arrived. He began to push the heavy wardrobe towards the window. Sir Thomas stood back, now weapon-less. His staff was stuck, protruding from the eye socket of a monster climbing through the window. The watchman swung his club at it’s head and it fell back. The pole clattered to the floor. Sir Thomas grabbed it and returned to the side of the watchman. I took another lantern from the wall. I advanced towards the window and called to the others to move. I lit the end of my makeshift torch, and threw the lantern through the window. Oil spilled over the creatures. I thrust the torch at them, driving it into their evil faces. My stomach turned at the abhorrent smell of cooking, rancid, meat, as their heads burned. “Enough Mister Pepys!” Sir Thomas pushed me away from the window The watchman and the warden pushed the wardrobe to block the window. We leaned against the wardrobe, exhausted, panting hard. It continued to move, as it was battered by the creatures behind it, but it held its position. “Thomas Farynor,” the church warden said, offering his hand to the Watchman. “Welcome to our church.” “Sorry about the visitors.” the watchman said, between breaths. “London is full of them. The Black Death has become something new, something worse: the dead have risen from the plague pits, thousands of them. And they are coming for the living.” “May God help us all,” I said. “The rector is right. The End of Days has come.” A scream, from the other side of the church, brought us to our feet. We arrived to see the rector Ivory holding his cross before him, the women and children sheltering behind him. The barricade was intact. It took me a few moments to work out what was wrong. The Rector Ivory was looking over to the side of the church where the covered body of the dead boy lay. The cloak – or rather what was beneath the cloak – moved. The warden, Farynor, took the pole from the hands of Sir Thomas. He walked slowly over to the body, accompanied by the watchman. Sir Thomas and I moved closer, blocking the view from the rector, the women and children. A stride away from the body, Farynor used his pole to flick the cloak off the body. The body was small, bloody and broken. It twitched. At first I assumed it was a vile trick of nature, like a hen that continues to move after its head is cut off. But to my horror the child – what had been a child – opened its eyes. Using its one remaining arm it raised itself up. The watchman lifted his mace, the cruel spikes still glistening with brain matter. There was an ear-piercing scream. One of the women pushed past me. Still screaming she grabbed hold of the watchman’s arm. Farynor grabbed the woman and pulled her away. The child-thing lurched towards the watchman. Its teeth closed around his leg. His grip loosened on the mace but he did not let go. With a cry he raised the mace high and swung it down onto the head. I looked away, but too late. The skull split in two and the watchman was splattered in red and...
I have just read an article (Guardian newspaper - A letter from a century ago) about a letter that was written on 12.12.1912 to be handed through the generations of his family. In it, the author wrote about his fears and predictions for the coming years, what the world would be like on 12.12.2012, as well as the world at the time. Unfortunately, whilst there are several quotes, the letter is not printed in its entirety. Although it reminds me a bit of a school exercise (I remember in the late 1970's having to write what I would be doing in the year 2000. Answer: having my 30th birthday party in a hotel on the moon - it seemed so possible, back then!) it struck me as a lovely thing to leave behind. Anyone out there thought about doing this? What would you write?
I joined the WritingForum just over a week ago, and it has already helped me immensely. Just before I joined I decided I needed to write something everyday. Anything really, just as long as I was writing. I set myself a daily target of 500 words. Not too much to be daunting, and unachievable. Not too little to be worthless. Joining this forum has helped me, not only focus on my current project (writing short stories based on some characters in a fictional English coastal town), but experiment as well. I have contributed a story to last weeks Short Story Writing Competition, I have joined an RPG (I have never done that before). I have been reading other peoples work, and posts, and contributing too. It is great to think that there are so many others out there motivated to write. Looking at some of the ages of other writers on the forum, I wonder if I would have written more if I had had access to something like this "back in the day". I keep holding on to the fact that the author PD James started writing in her forties (first book published at my age - 42). I am currently writing a story for this weeks Short Story Competition (Dystopian Fiction). This is more of a challenge for me than The Storm (last weeks competition). For The Storm I thought about different meanings of the word. I had an idea about storms and anger and then was able to write the first draft in around 2 hours. I revised it twice the same day and then posted it. Dystopian Fiction is a different animal. I have had an idea for a story, which I have been batting around for three years, but haven't been able to find the right way of getting it on paper. This competition made me think about that story from a different angle. I started it on Tuesday, and on Wednesday started again from a different view point. I have still not finished, and am not entirely happy with it. For one thing the length (currently around 2000 words), and also I am not sure how it will end. But, yet again WritersForum has come to help. In thinking about this blog post I was going to state that I didn't think it was possible to write a short story in under 1000 words on this topic. And then I thought... unless... and suddenly I thought of a new angle to write the story. It will still be longer than I would like, but already I feel happier about how the story may look, and feel.