Read 2020 - 32 - Missing Monarchs

Another wee Fox Pocket Anthology landed on my lap - okay the number generator picked it for me, and it could only have landed on my lap if the Bestwick threw it at me. He doesn't throw books at me. Intentionally.

Lou Morgan has a story in this titled 'Oliver Cromwell's Other Head'. Thanks to Caitlin Doughty of Order of the Good Death, I am a little obsessed with heads that go astray after death. You should check her videos on Jeremy Bentham's head and Joseph Haydn's head, and I'm still waiting for her to do a video on Cromwell's. Please, pretty please. Actually, here's one of her videos (nabbed from You Tube).

These Foolish & Harmful Delights

Behold the beauty that is the cover art for my collection 'These Foolish & Harmful Delights'. Cover artist is the immensely talented Daniele Serra, and the publisher is the wonderful Fox Spirit.

More news to follow.

I'm on Fire

Flame Tree Publications have announced several new submission opportunities including After Sundown, an anthology of horror stories edited by Mark Morris and following on from his excellent New Fears series. As the anthology is mostly invite-only, there are just four spaces up for grabs. The submission period is 21st October to 3rd November. Ideal submission length is about 4000 words.

Well I know what I'll be doing this Halloween... Okay, maybe before, during and freaking-out just after.

Hopefully.

You can also submit to Adventures in Space, an anthology of Chinese and English Science Fiction stories. Pro-rate. 6,000 to 8,000 words. Submission period: 7th October to 20th October. Fire up those space ships.

In Retrospect

"This year did not fail me, I failed it."

                                                                                                                ...quote by me 

Okay, the above may sound like I'm seriously kicking my own ass but truthfully, that quote made me pick up my pens, my laptop, a wealth of notes and put my butt in the chair. Last month I'd been bemoaning how 2011 had sucked and that hopefully 2012 would be much better. (You know the whole 'woe is me' deal - two fingers to that.) Well it will because 2011 didn't suck because of some weird cosmic force, it sucked because of me. I let 2011 down and not the other way around. 

Sorry 2011. 

Still, when I realise I'm in the wrong I do try to sort things. To make amends I've written two short stories -  The Familiar Buzz of Gone and Where Lost Words Gather, the Comic Strip Boys Fall - and blown lots of kisses at the calendar. The calendar is now shaking but I don't think that's from fear, it must be the photo of the little girl with wings who's lying beneath. She's eager to escape. And I am so about to throw away the cakes we bought from Asda (come on willpower). 

Plus 2011 gave me lots of pretty gifts: it gave me two books so far - don't count your chickens and all that especially as my next book doesn't hatch until December 21st and that's dangerously close to the end of the year, I met awesome writer folk, I lost 16lbs (and then put them back on again - oops!), my little niece and nephew came more into their own and are growing into awesome little dudes and my office transformed into the most delightful writing space ever (I will fight you for that title).

2011 we are so going to rock these last days together. 

Spark Point

My life in your hands, Amelia Pond

My Easter weekend was/is complete with the above, the rest is just fanciful trimmings.

We've lost our heatwave, so the reading has wandered a little and I've been hiding out in my study again pretending to get work done and at times actually getting work done. I'm rewriting a few short stories, pulling them apart and making something brand new. I've also been scratching plans for something other, but hush, we don't tempt the fates for fear they'll scratch out our eyes, pierce our brain and remove such delightful wonderings.

Assuming they're delightful at all, we are at *spark point* and everything is amazing, brilliant, 'OMG! Why didn't I think of that before' there.

Beware, the monsters are coming.

A Kaleidoscope of Stories

My story 'Dead Green Glow' - an odd tale of Icarus and radiation - is available in print and e-book format from Kaleidotrope.

And, another tale 'The Quiet of the Hour Glass' - about the Hourglass Girl and Old Father Time - is available in ebook format in In Space No One Can Hear You Scream.

And thus, we conclude our public service broadcast.

Welcome to the Fantastical Fifty

Welcome to the Fantastical Fifty* (you could also make other use of the FF and rename its slave the Faffing Fool (that would be me).

Sometime last month I read this interview with Kelly Link and in it she suggested the following story generating idea (via Stephen Dobyns). In an hour (or more - I took about two) write down 50 first sentences, the first things that come out of that delightful noggin of yours (I have a book of keywords and weaved my sentences around the first 50 words I stumbled across). Then pick 25 of those sentences and write 25 first paragraphs, and out of those you should be able to conjure up half a dozen short stories.

Now, I'm a greedy gal and I'm currently trying to weave 50 stories out of 50 first sentences (because they are all undeniably...partway to...almost...well I thought they were wonderful for at least 50 minutes). I do expect the number to drop by at least half before the year is out, but at the moment I'm having fun and it feels like a weird mix of procrastinating and writing at the same time.

*This is what happens when you realise you have almost no stories 'out there'.

The Story Collector

I'm 13,000 words into the Theatre rewrite and taking a break for the weekend. I've had an idea for a short story for a couple of months now, it kept nudging at me, but I didn't know where to go with it. Now I do, and I'm hoping three ugly sisters will accompany it. I feel as if I haven't written a short in forever - rolls desk over to diary and discovers I haven't written a new short since early March. Gulp!

I'm going to try and outline these stories rather than throwing madness at the page and seeing where it leads me. Maybe the result will be better, maybe it'll be worse. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the gathering of ideas.

Onward, my little Shoe Crow Collector, onward...

Shall we call them The Cates

At the beginning of the year, I intended to keep a list of all the short stories I read online and in magazines over the year so that I could list my favourites in December. I fell off the wagon in early March. So here are my nine favourite stories from Jan-March 2009* in award order (noting that if its on the list - even at the bottom - I loved it):

Facing Myself by Marshall Payne (Fear & Trembling)
Fish Balls & Mushrooms by Natalie L Sin (Tainted anthology)
The Tethering by WD Prescott (Tainted anthology)
Post-Procedural Care on the Bloom Memorial Line by Jeremy Kelly (Malpractice anthology)
The Camping Wainwrights by Ian R MacLeod (Postscripts 17)
The Adventures of Petal, the Paperdoll Pirate by Paul Jessup (Fantasy Magazine Feb '09)
Keepity Keep by Carole Lanham - Fantasy Magazine Dec 29th '08)
Going to Pieces by GW Thomas (Every Day Weirdness)
Gary Sump's Hidden City by Aaron Polson (Every Day Weirdness)

Other stories that I can remember loving in 2009 that feature in no-particular order:

The Container of Sorrows by Mercedes M Yardley (Pedestal Magazine)
The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable by Aaron Polson (A Fly in Amber)
The Music Box by TL Morganfield (Shock Totem #1)
Complexity by Don D'Ammassa (Shock Totem #1)
Slider by David Niall Wilson (Shock Totem #1)
Shades of White and Road by Camille Alexa (Fantasy Magazine, April)
White Paper by Rachel Green (52 Stitches)
The Unkindness of Ravens by Stephanie Gunn (Grants Pass anthology)
Boudha by KV Taylor (Grants Pass anthology)
Hells Bells by Cherie Priest (Grants Pass anthology)
Animal Husbandry by Seanan McGuire (Grants Pass anthology)
Ink Blots by Amanda Pillar (Grants Pass anthology)
Lime Green Closet by KV Taylor
Mi Casa Es Su Casa by Barry Napier (Every Day Weirdness)
End of Our World as We Know It by Robert Swartwood (Space & Time #109)
Small Motel by Dennis Danvers (Space & Time #109)

Next year, I resolve to keep a more complete list as I'm certain I've missed a really important story (oh and yes, it's by you). I'm so far behind with my short story reading it's insane... I have a few issues of M-Brane SF to read, ditto Murky Depths and Postscripts. I also have my free issue of Black Static, the October issue of Necrotic Tissue, Space and Time, and several anthologies to devour.

Oh, and an extra note. My top three anthologies of 2009 are...

1. Malpractice edited by Nathaniel Lambert
2. Tainted edited by Aaron Polson
3. Grants Pass edited by Jennifer Brozek and Amanda Pillar

*Note to members of the Academy Awards - never put me in charge.

And that was April...

I'm a day late with this but I don't suppose it really matters. If you've read my post of two days ago then you will know I have come up with a plan of how to spend my writing time during the fabulous month of May. I've already fallen off the wagon a wee bit (more about that further down).

Okay, so what did I achieve last month.

1. I finally wrote the synopsis for The Poisoned Apple. Does that mean I've sent it out? Erm, no. Okay, that is a must for this month.

2. Two short stories completed this month.

The Graveyard of Dead Vehicles - sent to the Wolfsong Anthology (closing date was yesterday so plenty of nail-biting due).

PlasticineCoffins.com - sent to the 'Ghosts in the Machine' anthology. Hoping it's not too surreal.

3. Four flash stories this month.

Flying Dutchmen - sent to the 'From the Asylum' anthology. Closing date is around the 15th of this month.

Vicious Vanity - This wee thing has had an eventful month. Two rejections so far. From 'Bits of the Dead' - too cheeky for this anthology. From 'Necrotic Tissue' - thought the gore a bit too gratuitous. Currently out with Ballista.

Burying Sam - my second zombie story of the month and again this was rejected by Bits.

Rats - sent to The First Line Literary Journal. I don't know if you've stumbled across this magazine (I only found out about it thanks to the weekly Duotrope newsletter), but they basically give you the first line (in this case: Nick had considered himself a lucky guy, until now) and you write the rest.

4. Two partly completed short stories this month (see sidebar for current word counts).

The Sulphurous Clouds of Lucifer Matches - Originally intended for the 'Sword & Sorceress' anthology, the story has gone off track and developed into something I really, really like. Excited some.

Treading the Regolith - The working title (and possibly the final title) for the story I am working on for the Return to Luna anthology. I'm hoping this one doesn't go off track, but as it has to be straight sci-fi with no hint of horror or fantasy (is humour allowed - gulp!) the chances are I will go way off track.

And that was it - pretty paltry, I am sure you would agree, and so to the reason for the plan for May which includes work on short stories (the above two in particular), my novella, and planning (perhaps starting) two novels - one the follow up to my children's novel The Poisoned Apple, and the second, my attempt at a dark sci-fi.

So how and why have I already fallen off the wagon - I mean it's only day two right. Mid working on Regolith, I decided I should send out my horror novel 'Scar Tissue' as it is a few years old and has never left the comforts of this study. Well okay then, I thought, get the synopsis done girl. Oh did I struggle - that is putting it very, very mildly and removing all swear words. So wimp that I am, I decided, hey my novel 'Breaking Cassandra' hasn't been very far either so let's send her out. So I began the synopsis for that novel instead. I hate myself. :)

Listing Ships & Leaking Radiators

Ah, inspiration. That magical, sometimes unexplainable thing.

So I started off today with the aim of working on my short story for the Graveside Tales anthology set in the fictional town of Harvest Hill. And perhaps to spend a little time working on my novella, which is stuck at the red light. Damn you Eurydice.

And then came the title for today's blog post ie Listing Ships (in that I woke up this morning and headed in the opposite direction to my alarm clock, having lost control of my legs, head and well, everything. I looked like a drunk. What happened? Heck if I know) and Leaking Radiators (yep, the radiator in my hallway leaked green stuff overnight). Next up, I figured that as work was quiet I'd try to write something for Permuted Press' Robots Beyond anthology, so I started work on Bob's Spares & Repairs. And then, oh yes there is always an, and then... I figured why write one robot story when you can write two, and so Listing Ships was born. And it's two characters - Leaking & Radiator.

When I go off track, I do it big style.

The Battleship & The Emporium

There's a poll up on Neil Gaiman's blog, where you can vote for one of his novels to be made available free online for a month. Though I couldn't personally read a whole book online, it is a reminder that I need to go out and pick up some of his books. I've only read Coraline so far. Correction, and 'The Wolves in the Walls', which has to be one of the all-time best picture books. Apologies to anyone whose pb is just as good, but quite frankly, I haven't read it.

All nine (was it 8 or 9, jeez I can't remember how many I sent out now) of my submissions for Lucy B and The Evil Emporium have been rejected, with the final one a personal rather than the typical form letter. I need to formulate a new plan of attack, just haven't figured out the logistics of it yet. I also need to work on changing the title, more on that in a future post.

There was a fabulous Royal Navy battleship docked outside the office on Friday. I took some photos on my phone and a wee video but have no idea how to get them onto my computer. Grr Argh! for the seven-hundreth time, I so need a digital camera. Apparently a group of sailors also came into the office... I'm sure it's a vicious rumour as none came past reception (unless they were very, very small and concealed behind my are-they-trying-to-hide-me counter) and I so, no-way-jose, moved from my desk. They were giving out tickets to go on board. Damn!

Two short stories completed this week - The Collectors (2200 words) and Yee-Haw! (a flash at 736 words), and I am now two-thirds into The Poisoned Apple, which also may be undergoing a change of name...

Oh, and there's something else I want to tell you, but as I don't want to tempt fate (who has so got it in for me), I'm not going to...

Black Sheep - Short Story

A vicious wind bit through the thin cotton jacket that had seemed substantial enough beneath the midday heat. Anna huddled beneath it, while her curly brown hair whipped with violence across her face, blinding. Traffic tore past at competitive speeds. Lauren grinned against the bite of the wind, her arms spread thick with goosebumps. They were trapped on the central reservation of the want-to-be motorway, the pedestrian lights defunct and the traffic offering no leeway.

“We’ll have to run for it,” Lauren screamed against the wind.

Anna shook her head. She couldn’t, she… Breath knocked out of her as scream perched on her lips, stolen by the howl of the wind. A body lay splattered in the centre of the road, the road kill evident in the sporadic gaps between tyres. She clutched onto the railing for support.

“The traffic’s thinning out,” Lauren urged.

Anna tried to point, to indicate the crush of bones and muscle and blood that… That… A blink between tyres and the body was gone; no trace evidence, no hurling of body across the lanes. Bile rushed up her throat, and she gagged. Her jacket had been on the body, and the hair had matched hers and…

A glint in Lauren’s eye as she nodded towards the road. “We’ll be blown out there anyway, even if we don’t make a move.”

Lauren’s straightened brown hair had regained its natural kink beneath the force of the wind, making it seem almost as curly as Anna’s. It could have been Lauren splattered if it were not for the damn jacket. A cold hand scratched at the inside of her belly as if a demon had made its home there.

“Okay,” Anna said. “But here, take my jacket, you look freezing.”

“What about you?” Lauren asked, slipping the jacket over her shoulders. “Look, the traffic’s stopping.”

The green man flicked on and the beep, beep, beep urged them out into the road. Anna’s hand trembled, gripped tight to the railing, her feet felt concreted to the ground. Lauren dashed across the road, pushed forward by the force of the wind. Horns hooted as the wind whipped her skirt up revealing pale thighs. And then, there Lauren was, on the opposite side of the road waving and grinning and pointing…

The deafening wind fell silent beneath the screech of the juggernaut as it twisted and turned and hurtled out of control. Anna’s hand felt the full weight of the truck first, fingers crushed between vehicle and railing and then it knocked her down like the last pin in a bowling alley and its wheels spat her out into the centre of the road.

***

Anna watched as the jacket was placed over her corpse by a tearful Lauren. A zephyr brushed against the scene while a tornado swirled about Anna's disembodied soul.


copyright Catherine J Gardner 2007

Out of Focus

Scream awakened the tiny hamlet of Little Crampton, followed by a phone call at midnight. In four separate houses on the same short lane, three sets of hall lights flickered on. A triumvirate of voices answered calls placed by the same individual. The fourth subject, whose house remained in darkness, continued his snoring.

Robert Rimmer was dead, the caller informed the men. Robert Rimmer had been sliced and diced.

The caller then instructed each man to unlatch and open their front doors. Three out of four doors on the row opened. Fingers plucked up manila envelopes and opened them in view of the other. They did not communicate by look or word.

The envelopes contained out of focus photographs, the first of which betrayed tufts of ginger hair on a pale scalp, the second a single bloodshot eye stretched wide as axe kissed skin.

Ouch. Three faces winced, one hand dropped photographs.

The race was on. Somewhere in their oh-so-small village sat a carrot topped severed head and whoever found it first would survive. According to their mystery caller, the others would welcome the axe that had severed Rimmer’s head.

The Hon. James Figtree checked out the courthouse - from office, to the arena, to the cells below, all proved empty. Cell doors swung open as if the occupants had just fled. Traces of blood in them, but no severed head. Peter Plumpton searched the school, found the Grayson twins locked in the detention room, and with stern denouncement of their acts (of which he had no recollection), he sent them home. Found plenty of blood in the classrooms, none of it fresh. The Rev. Raymond Clayton headed straight to the tiny chapel that would take only moments to check. With a gulp of holy wine to steady nerves he checked in the vestry and under each pew; the only ginger to be found, discarded cans of ginger wine.

The three men reached the statue of Archibold Crampton within seconds of each other.

“Prank,” they said in unison.

“The photograph?” the Reverend questioned.

“Rimmer’s in on it,” Peter Plumpton replied. “We haven’t had a day without rain, and the wife said she saw him hacking at his garden yesterday. Told him he needed a petrol mower in this climate. Guy’s gone loop-the-loop.”

Feeling foolish and angry, they traipsed back to their little row. The only blood present, that which rushed to their faces and painted their cheeks crimson. Three doors opened; hushed steps as they sneaked back into their houses and hoped not to disturb wives that would mark them for the fools they were. Scream broke their cover as the fourth cottage on the row lit up.

Window screeched open and out flew Robert Rimmer’s severed head, spattering the onlookers with blood. Cyril Forsythe at the window, ashen faced, shaken, blubbering about finding a head in his bed and a Mafioso warning before crumbling from view as he fainted.

Three phones out of four on the row pierced pre-lit hallways. The voice at the other end spoke mechanical as if pre-recorded message.

“On your marks, get set,” it started. “Whoever finds the, wait for it, next head first is the loser – okay boys, go find the Reverend Clayton.”

A scream and for one a visual shower of blood as head toppled from shoulders.

“And the Reverend is the loser. Now, are we ready to play some more…”


copyright Catherine J Gardner 2007

Exchanging Ivory for White

Jumping off the balcony had seemed the only thing to do. It drew attention, as had been her aim. To draw away from the ivory dress and the crimson stain on satin. Oh, but the stain had spread further, and the attention had been all hers.

"My god," her mother's cry, torn and broken above.

The tiled floor cold beneath, cold and unrelenting, as above a mosaic danced. She was certain the broken figures moved in unison with her swimming thoughts, dashing back and forth. Perhaps not painted figures, but the stricken faces of her wedding guests. There was laughter, somehwere, and maybe a tear. There should be pain, but that sensation was eerily silent.

Within her hands she felt the satin, soaked thick with blood. Imagined its gore staining her fingers. She couldn't raise her head to look, and even if she could, wasn't certain she wanted to. Eyes closed against the scene.

"Take me away from here," she willed, allowing the dark behind her eyelids to ebb into piercing glare.

The voices of her guests remained, hovered still in the foreground, yet she felt physically removed from them. Above, yet amidst.

"Somebody call an ambulance," pain screamed.

No... Don't... She tried to cry out. Don't. She didn't want to be saved. Would she have jumped if she did?

Blood was cold now, both spilt and internal, crusted beneath fingernails. The voices faded. Beneath her, the marble floor soft, warm... And a different voice sang, carrying with it long forgotten tune. Cocooned in warmth now. Yes, this was how the world should feel. No need to think here. Drifting in undefined space. Where had the voices gone? Did she care?

"Jessie," a voice soothed. "Can you hear me, Jessie?"

She wouldn't reply.

"We love you Jessie," the voice droned on.

The dry, caked blood seemed washed from her fingers as the world about her burst. The throb that encased and soothed now suffocated. Pushed. Forced. She didn't want to open her eyes. Too much pain. The air became cold, and she felt the sensation of arms lifting her. The antisceptic scent of a hospital clouded, an internal scream shattered lungs, wanted it to be the morgue.

Limbs felt weak, brain had vanquished control, no rigor mortis. Voices deafened, none of them known. Rush of activity. Warmth that drew flush to her skin. Voice re-whispered her name, "Jessie."

Leave me be... Cry stolen. Words drifted off, and she felt caught in dream. Carried along until she found she couldn't shake it.

It seemed she was no longer who she thought she was. Jessie, but no longer Jessie who jumped from the balcony to save herself from a marriage all but herself wanted. She was Jessie in the lace christening gown, and above her head a technicolour mosaic of strangers gawped as a fountain of water caressed her temples.



Copyright Catherine J Gardner - Published in Voyage Magazine, 1999