The Clean White Page

Cascade

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 16:27:00 +0000

‘...An earthquake with a magnitude of 6.5 struck in the ocean fifty miles off the pacific northwest yesterday. There have been no reports of casualties or damage, although witnesses said that people ran from their homes in fear on Vancouver Island.
The quake was originally registered with a magnitude of 7.7 but that figure was later revised down slightly to 6.5, the USGS said in a statement. The Cascadia Subduction zone is a 680-mile fault that runs from Cape Mendocino in California to Vancouver Island in southern British Columbia. Early reports are of a major split in the fault resulting in a trench in the ocean floor that may rival the depth of the Mariana Trench in the northwest Pacific....’

I grew up in the middle of a lot of land. The views everywhere were of grass or crops with a distant haze of mountains to fence it all in. There was a shallow fast river and a well behind the house, but that was as much as I saw of water. I didn’t look in the well. It made me think of an unblinking black eye.

The roots of the land wanted to wrap themselves around my feet and keep me from ever leaving but I found a way of pulling myself out. The trouble I got into was minor at first, just a way to have some fun. It just got serious real quick.

I can’t say I didn’t mean to do it. I held the shotgun to his head and sighted down the long barrel. It made me feel bad, small somehow, like the barrel was a highway stretching out for miles with only his skull at the end. I lost my perspective and the world shrank into that stretch of metal. The voices of the others grew distant and I had to do something to drag myself back to seeing things as normal. The only thing I could control was the trigger. So I shot him and a shrapnel piece of his skull got stuck in my forehead. I still have a scar. The psychologist in the prison told me I rub it when I get stressed out. I know I’m rubbing it now, but I can’t stop.

It’s so dark outside. I try to convince myself that I’m floating, but I know I’m dropping. No one knows where the bottom is.

Mustn’t think about that or I won’t be able to stand it.

So I got away from the infinity of grass and ended up in a 6 x 9 cell waiting for the day the warden and the preacher would come for me. Except the day the warden came, he had some government stiff with him. Regulation suit, regulation face and a terrible idea. It seemed like a good idea at the time, like most bad ideas. He didn’t even have to convince me. I just said yes straight away. It was a way out of the box I was living in.

A way into a different box in the sinking dark.

I saw fish at the start. Then, when the dark came, I watched a whale go by. It took a long time to pass and it didn’t seem to even notice me. Other things showed up. Things with lights and bones where they weren’t supposed to be.

They didn’t tell me much, the scientists. An underwater earthquake made the bottom fall out of a trench. Their sound surveillance system started to pick up sounds that they hadn’t heard before. They just wanted to find out what was making the sounds. Not a big deal. Someone had to go down to see. Only no one wanted to go down. Maybe they thought the hull wouldn’t hold on their little tub. Maybe they were just plain scared. I didn’t have anything to lose except maybe a couple of months of life not worth living.

I didn’t know I’d be so afraid of the long dark under me and the lengthening dark above. The world was all black but for a lightning flash from a creature that didn’t look like anything. After a while, even those flashing creatures were gone and there was nothing but the empty dark.

My ears started to feel funny and when I put my hands either side of the window to peer into the black velvet, I felt the alloy and titanium walls vibrate. I could almost feel the weight of the darkness pressing against the walls.

The vibration was in my ears too, not a sound that I could hear, but a sub sound that made my fillings tremble and the hairs on my arms raise. I tried opening my eyes wide to make out something outside the lights of the sub but there was nothing. The world ended beyond the lights.

Kane, you’re almost at the limit of the sub. Can you see anything?

Broderick on the radio. He had given me a few talks that amounted to training before they closed me in here.

Can’t see anything. There’s nothing out there.

There was a silence and then Broderick’s breathing.

I’m bringing you back up. You can’t get to the bottom anyway.

Broderick was okay. He seemed like an ordinary grunt just following orders. I wiped sweat off my face and sat back to wait for the world I knew. Then something hit the sub.

The nudge was almost gentle. The sub spun sideways and my teeth chunked down on my tongue.

Kane, what the hell was that? You ok?

I saw the eye pass the window, followed by an enormous plated body. I sat still, afraid movement would draw it to me. Broderick’s voice squawked on the radio again and I wished he would shut up in case it could hear him.

They told me that there couldn’t be anything down here. They thought there might be a source of natural gas or an underwater volcano bubbling and making the sounds that the hydrophones could pick up. They never said that there would be something with an eye bigger than me. Then I heard Broderick’s voice and it made me more afraid than anything else ever had.

We’ve lost control of the sub, Kane. You’re sinking.

Then the long deep dark below opened up and took me in.

I didn’t sleep or pass out, though there were times I thought I would and wished for it. Instead, a sort of craziness came over me. I smashed up some of the stuff in the sub and cracked my skull against the wall, once by accident and once on purpose. I was hoping that would end it, but I couldn’t do it right. I just got a bad headache and a blurriness in my left eye.

Now, I’m sitting here, still drifting down, getting further away from the light with no hope of ever getting back. The sub will crack, or fail me some other way. No one can come for me. There are things outside and I reckon they’re curious to see what I taste like. It seems like the middle of the prairie would be a fine place to be right now. All I can do is close my eyes and imagine it.

I wonder if the sensors above will pick up the sound. I wonder if Broderick will hear me die. I want someone to know. Anyone, so that it’s not just me in the dark.

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 21:14:00 +0000

Dear Friends,

My story The Deepest Hour is now on http://www.wilywriters.com/blog/ as a podcast, read beautifully by Mr. Nathan Crowder. If you can, please pop along for a visit to a great site and have a listen to my story.

Thank you Angel Leigh McCoy and Wily Writers!

Idle Hands

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 12:48:00 +0000

I'm posting this as #fridayflash, joining a great community of writers.

Idle Hands

The new graveyard was built to provide a final resting place for the people of the new housing developments that had rashed outwards from the town. All the new young people would need somewhere to lie when they finished going from their doppelganger houses to work and back again. The fresh field was nicely mowed and surrounded by a pretty wall. The children liked to chase each other in there and play football. For a long time, it was empty. Then men dug a hole in the middle of it, six feet deep, put something in it and filled it up again. Once the muffin dough of clay settled, they put a stone up with a name on it. My name, of course.

In the beginning, I just lay there. I had never liked doing nothing. Someone who knew me put a book in there as a symbol of my life. Books had meant so much to me. People not so much, although I always liked an audience. I supposed I should have regretted that. The only thing I really regretted was that it was dark and I couldn’t read. Although I did like to smell the pages of the book buried with me. Part of the joy of books for me was the scent of the paper, the ink, the binding. And I missed talking about them.

So I lay there and listened to the sound of the children racing around the nearly empty graveyard, with just me in the middle with nothing to do. I got bored. And I got ideas. You know what they say. The devil makes work for idle hands. I got to thinking about the emptiness all around me and I started picking at the side of the coffin. It took time, but I was rich in that, if nothing else.

When I broke through, a shower of dirt fell into the hole. I panicked for a second, feeling like I was going to suffocate. Then I laughed at myself for being stupid. I wonder if the sound of it echoed up to the surface.

I dug then. Dug right through the timber and into the ground, working my way sideways at first, worming my way easily through the soft soil. They had chosen a good place for the graveyard. The land was good and not too stony. After a while, I got bored again and went up.

It was night when the last grassy sod fell and I saw the sky again. The stars were blinding to my dark accustomed eyes. I dragged myself out and lay for a while on the dewy grass. I didn’t trust my legs so I crawled to my gravestone and used it to pull myself up. I leaned my dirty arms on it while considering my next move.

I hadn’t lived in the new development for long when my heart gave up the ghost while jogging. Ridiculous way to go, such a cliché. I had got lost while avoiding the dead ends of all the little drives and avenues, named for trees and poets. Was it Beech Avenue or Wordsworth Close where I died? Hardly matters, but I’d prefer the poet.

I walked to the gate in the pretty wall and couldn’t go through it. Something was blocking me. So I went down again, under the soil. Still couldn’t make it past the boundary of the graveyard. Topside again, I stood wondering what to do. I had no intention of being left with no one to talk to. So, in the end, I just waited until someone came along. A woman, late middle age, carrying a shopping bag. Leaning on the wall, I was able to extend a hand enough to brush her sleeve. She seemed to feel it and glanced at me or through me, before hurrying on. I saw the change in her face first though. Her lips and cheeks turned grey. It wasn’t long before another hole was being dug, six feet deep. And that wasn’t the last. You know what they say about idle hands.

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 21:27:00 +0000

Great news! One of my stories was chosen as the runner-up in the Masters of Horror/Wily Writers Short Story Contest. The story is not up yet, but I'll post when it is. http://www.wilywriters.com/blog/ Also check out Editor Angel Leigh McCoy's website http://www.angelmccoy.com/

F.G. Cottam

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 30 May 2011 19:27:00 +0000

Isn't it a great joy to discover a new writer? The pleasure of the connection when the music of the story telling resonates in the bones, is one of the most wonderful things about reading.

I stumbled across a novel called The Waiting Room by F.G. Cottam last week. It is a chiller in a gothic style that pays homage to Chesterton, Wells and Conan Doyle. My favourite war poet Wilfred Owen is in here, and Francis gives us a little taste of Yeat's The Second Coming for good measure. The book's atmosphere is one of creeping dread and gave me my first nightmare in years brought on by something other than cheese before bed or an overheated room. I love a spooky story that doesn't rely on gore and blood letting for its chills. I am not a fan of splatterpunk. Unnerving tales that make the hair rise on the back of one's neck are much more interesting to me.

I've moved on to Cottam's The House of Lost Souls and the chills work right from the start. He mentions the Green Man, Hieronymous Bosch and The Old Grey Whistle Test in chapter three. I love this man! As well as the one that I'm reading now, I've ordered three more of his from my favourite genre bookshop Alien8, Dark Echo, The Magdalena Curse and Brodmaw Bay. I recommend his work highly. Fans of a chill, seek him out!

Story is king. Reading it and writing it. That's so important to me. I have my mother to thank for that and everything else, as always. Thank you Francis Cottam for the nightmare that lingered. I'll put that chill into a story.

Black is the Colour

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 20:56:00 +0000

His brand of magic was quiet and close up. He didn’t want to impress with flash and fire. He liked to tell a story, keeping his voice low so that his audience had to still themselves to hear. He told stories of the world at its birth and the pain of growing while his clever hands told stories of their own. Sometimes when the magic was done, there was a moment of silence as the people came out of the spell he had woven and realised what they had seen. Those were the best moments for him; seeing them light up like children, with delight. Magic was about finding the miracle in the mundane. He used string and candles, cards and handkerchiefs to seize a dulled imagination and make it fly. For a long time, it was his only joy.

He knew he was a plain man. He was 5 foot 8, with thinning hair and boring clothes. When he tried to change his clothes or comb his hair differently, he felt, and looked, he was sure, foolish. He knew what he was. He also knew who he was. He was a magician. That was more than enough.

He gained moderate success and travelled alone. His little show made people laugh and clap their hands. When each trip was finished, he thumbed through his pocket diary, torn and grubby from his travels, to find the next place. Santa Monica appeared on the 1^st of June. After, he remembered it standing out as though embossed. At the time, he went there, expecting nothing but the simple pleasures of a new place and a new audience.

When he called for a volunteer, Lorena came up. The lights played in her black hair and he was so entranced by her that he almost made a mistake. He pulled his attention back and was rewarded by her delight.

He didn’t know how to be with women, but Lorena didn’t care. He saw her coming towards him backstage and tried to think of something to say. She just took his hand and everything else went away, just like when he was telling his stories.

They made love in the sand. The magic of it made his act seem like a feather in a storm. He felt like a true magician then and thereafter when they were together. He loved her voice and her slender body, often naked under simple dresses. She laughed when his clever hands made magic of her. He listened to the rhythm of her speech and to her stories about her mountain home in West Virginia. He learned the Scots-Irish song Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair and sang it to her while he was practicing his magic.

When she wanted to go home to visit her folks, he tried to stop her. She thought at first that he was jealous and possessive. Before she left, he made her see that he had a bad feeling. She forgave him for it and kissed him, but went all the same, with promises to always love him.

She called him from the airport when she arrived, just before she boarded the small plane that would take her into the mountains. The Appalachian woods swallowed the plane so deep that no one could find it. He waited all through the searching, waited in her home town, met her family and waited. When the world confessed that it couldn’t find her, he stopped waiting.

He knew nothing about the woods. Lorena’s mother showed him poison ivy so that he could avoid it. Her brother gave him a gun and taught him how to use it so that he could feed himself when his supplies ran out. They equipped him and said goodbye. Their eyes were like hers and he knew he would never see them again.

In the beginning, the black flies bothered him but the deeper he got into the woods, the less he cared. All he could see was Lorena’s shining hair and the brightness of her face when she looked at him. The first night he camped out, something heavy lumbered through the woods near his tent, cracking branches and pausing to lap water from a stream. He held still until it passed and then he slipped into exhausted sleep, dreaming of her.

He walked and the days blended into each other. He seldom looked up at the canopy of trees but watched his boots tread after each other. When his food got low, he tried to watch for a deer to shoot, but couldn’t face even the thought of firing upon one. He ate less and walked on.

He knew he would find her. It was no surprise to him when he raised his eyes to study the track the plane had made through the trees. It had shed pieces of itself as it crashed. He followed the broken trail until he came to the wreckage. The plane had skimmed the earth and come to its devastating rest under the heavy canopy. He walked around it and saw Lorena lying on the ground, her black hair spread about her head like a pool. She had either been thrown clear or managed to get herself out. He got on his knees beside her and looked at her perfect face. It was close to sunset and the black flies were swarming around him, trying to fill his nostrils and the corners of his eyes, but they didn’t touch her. Nothing touched her. She was perfect, her skin smooth, her body unharmed. He took her hand and the flies left him. She looked so unhurt that he felt for a pulse. Nothing. He looked around in some useless instinct, seeking help before he realised that he was the only one. No one else would ever come.

He leaned over and kissed her lips and then stood to shed his pack. He spread his arms to the sky and let the feeling of magic fill his heart the way it had when he had made love to her. He gathered it around him and breathed it in. It smelled like the forest; moist life quivering under the canopy out of sight of human eyes. He pulled it in to him and with everything he had ever learned about magic, thrust it out again, thinking only of her. In the half-light under the trees, he saw it spark out of him and fly towards her. Her body jerked and he felt like she was helping, sucking the light and the life into her. He started to tire and the light began to dim. When he fell on his knees, she sat up and looked at him, her eyes full of glittering gold and green lights, like the forest in dappled sunshine.

He held out his hands to her, crying and struggling for breath. She was sucking all the oxygen out of the little grove. The leaves around the broken perimeter began to turn brown as she pulled the vitality from them. She stood and whirled and he touched her leg as she came close to him. His fingers scorched at the touch and he jerked back. She leaned over him and he saw that she was something more than the woman he loved. Lorena was there, but there was something in her, made of the woods and the dark and his own magic. He was afraid of her and when she smiled at him, the green forest light that shot from her like static made him scream. She laughed and he scrambled up and ran.

He could hear her coming after him, a woods beast intent only on drawing in what life it could. He threw a look over his shoulder and saw her, clawed and furred and eager for him.

He ran, remembering the simple magic of quiet movements and delighted faces. He drew the last of his magic to him, concentrated it and then sent it out again. It tore free with a sudden pain, ripped from its hidden roots. The ground dropped from beneath him and he turned as he fell. He saw the magic wrap around her and transform her. She spread wings and soared over the cliff edge, crying out in the thrill of flight. The sky was hers. He fell toward the white water below and watched her joy, her freedom, and knew it was enough.

I love my love and well she knows,
I love the ground, whereon she goes,
I wish the day, it soon would come,
When she & I could be as one.

Black is the colour of my true love's hair,
Her lips are like some roses fair,
She's the sweetest smile, And the gentlest hands,
I love the ground, Whereon she stands.

Traditional love song.

A Drop of the Hard Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 23:00:00 +0000

Lawrence Block. Matt Scudder. Two names that have meant a lot to me over many years of reading great characters and great writing. Lawrence Block’s Matt Scudder is one of the deepest, most fascinating characters in fiction. On his website , Block describes Scudder as follows: ‘In the early books, he’s an angst-ridden hard-drinking ex-cop and unlicensed private eye. In later books he’s sober.’ Both of these states make for great stories and a brilliant anti-hero who is as flawed as any of us. He changes over the years and that made each novel a must read. I thought that Block was finished with Matt when he published All the Flowers Are Dying, but he surprised me and perhaps himself with another outing for the unlicensed P.I.

In the nature of full disclosure, I was thrilled when I read that there was another Scudder book on the way. I was fortunate to receive an advance reading copy from netGalley which I read on my Kindle (more about this later, particularly as I said I would never have one...) and I consumed the novel.

A Drop of the Hard Stuff is set a year into Matt’s sobriety, in a world without Google or iPhones or anything of the sort. It’s the younger Matt, struggling and dour, often solitary and always flawed. The story fits into Matt’s slow journey which began with The Sins of the Fathers in 1976. Although his journey and recovery have been slow, the stories have been anything but. Peopled with diverse and brilliantly written characters, including New York itself, the stories feature human frailty, dreadful crime, knotty problems and satisfying endings.

Block has a huge catalogue featuring other fine lead characters and I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve read (a lot). I particularly recommend the Scudder novels if you have a serious interest in crime fiction populated with real people.

A Drop of the Hard Stuff is classic Block and classic Scudder, about the man as much as the crime; about life as much as entertainment. I can’t recommend Lawrence Block enough. If you love good writing, you will love the Matt Scudder series. You will love Lawrence Block.

A Drop of the Hard Stuff is not available until May 2011, but you can get started on the earlier books of the series. I'm sure they'll give you pleasure.

The Perfect Gift

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sat, 04 Dec 2010 12:17:00 +0000

George found the perfect gift at a Christmas fair held in the park. He got there early while the traders were still setting up. Most of their stuff was in boxes but they didn’t mind him rooting. They were used to dealers trying to find the good stuff before the ordinary Joes came to buy the rest.

George had been going to antique fairs and jumble sales since they bought the house. Its age seemed to cry out for old stuff to decorate it with. He had modernised the place while making it look more Victorian than it had done for years. He had sconces, lots of lampshades, a love seat in the conservatory. A style magazine had done a feature on the renovation. His father used to tell him that pride was a sin, but George couldn’t help it. He had swept time aside and made his Victorian home in a place between Then and Now.

All he had to do now was make Adrianna love it the way he did. If he could, she might not be unhappy all the time. Maybe she would love him again too. Oh, he knew that she loved him in her way, but it wasn’t like at the start. They used to do everything and nothing and laugh all the way through. He knew that the excitement couldn’t last forever, but he saw other couples holding hands still after years of being together. Adrianna always found a reason to let go. She brought him things when he was sick and always thought of getting him something he’d like for his birthday. But she didn’t hold his hand anymore. She looked like she was gazing at something beyond him when he talked, even though she made sensible comments in response.

And it wasn’t just him. She had stopped being passionate about everything in her life. Nothing seemed to sieze her. Her happiness was elsewhere, out of reach.

So this year George’s project had been to make Adrianna happy. He started by doing little things in the house without her asking him. Then he brought her small thoughtful presents. He spent time with her friends and family. He watched for the habits that might irritate her. He lost weight and was more toned than he had been when he left school. He worked hard and got a promotion.

But she still looked through him. Nothing was enough to make her see him again.

When he found the artefact, he knew it was something special. He grabbed it almost before he saw it, his seeking hand drawn to it. Its body fit well in his hand and his first thought was of a weapon. When he pulled it clear of the bric-a-brac in the box, the winter dawn made it red. It looked like a small totem pole. He couldn’t tell what culture had made it. It was shaped like a woman but looked like a tree. It felt almost pliable under his hand.

He stood on the grass with a background of noises; traders calling to each other, cars crunching the gravel, a dog yapping. But he only saw Adrianna. He saw her the way she had been. Tall, slender, fair, like a sylph, drawing the light into her and throwing it back in glorious prisms. A smile was playing on her lips and she threw back her head and opened her arms to the world. The image was distant but made sharp and clear by the cold winter air. George looked at the figure in his hand and felt it shift under his touch. The swirls and knots in the wood changed to look like Adrianna’s beautiful face. She looked at him with that same welcoming smile, the smile that made him feel like he was really here, simply because someone like her saw him. It made him so happy.

He didn’t bargain. The old woman glanced at the object in his hand and called out a price. She didn’t speak again, but George felt her watching him as he walked away. He drove straight home. It was too early for his wife to be up, so he made her breakfast and set the tray. He couldn’t wait until Christmas morning to give his perfect gift. He set it on the tray beside her freshly squeezed orange juice and went carefully upstairs. The warm feeling of the figure felt imprinted on his hand.

He paused at the door, smiling. He knew this was it. He had found something that would make her smile and see him again.

He opened the door with his elbow and went in. He put the tray on the bed and opened the curtains. Adrianna stirred behind him. He turned slowly and saw her reach for the object.

Adrianna took it in her hand. Warmth flooded through her cold fingers and raced up her arm and into her heart. She saw George at the window with the light behind him. She loved him so. She only just knew it this instant. She was seventeen and had met the man of her dreams. He was out of school, a bit older than her. He was so handsome and sweet and his kisses made her feel like liquid. She was seventeen and immortal and she wished this moment would never end.

George saw Adrianna slip down in the bed, grasping the figure to her chest. Her eyes watched him and he felt the love in them again at last. Her lips curved into her old smile. George moved the tray and sat beside her. He touched her hand but she didn’t move. He called her name. She didn’t answer. When he moved out of her line of sight, she stared at nothing but the smile stayed on her face, the love in her eyes. He moved back and her eyes told him again how much she loved him and how very happy she was.

Although they tried, nobody could take the figure away. When George visited her, he made sure to always sit where she could see him. She always looked so happy. It was the perfect gift.

The Long Barrows

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 21:49:00 +0000

The children hid in the trees when the first earth movers rolled onto the plain. They watched from the woods, hands and faces pressed to the cold bark of the oak.

They came from the village over the hill, a drove of wild children, born to run along the edge of the long barrows, daring each other to call the ancient buried to life. They played at warriors, clashing devil’s blades together with the horizon behind them. Their swords were sticks but sharp enough in the game for them to see sparks from the blades.

Sean stood closest to the edge of the woods. He was the oldest and kept the others back. He felt them crowded behind him. He put his arm around the rough waist of the tree and scraped some of its good dirt under his fingernails. He felt the twitch of almost doing something in his legs. He saw himself rush forward and stand in front of the earth movers. He bounced on his toes and felt the energy build up in his muscles. A small hand touched his arm and he looked down. She was years younger than him, his sister, and she just looked at him, her eyes dark. He subsided and leaned his shoulder against the tree.

All the protests were finished. Nothing more could be done. The people who had lived in the trees were gone and there was no one left to watch except the children.

The yellow machine ground its way towards the long barrows, dragging the shape of the new road in its wake. It tore a piece from the edge of the barrow and earth tumbled into the space. Sean felt the others breathe out and let his own held breath go. Nothing happened and the machine tore further into the mound. Sean didn’t look behind him but he felt the others drift away. When no one was left, he turned away from the long barrows himself and made his way home in the early winter dark.

When everyone else was in bed, he crept out into the night. He liked the village in the winter when it seemed to belong to him. He was the oldest child left. The older ones had all gone away to different lives and the young ones were all tucked into their beds. Sean walked alone through the village, smelling the smoke of dying fires and something else. The cold air smelled of a storm coming. It crackled like lightning was trying to break through. Sean sat on a fence and looked at the sky.

Something cracked away over the hill. It cracked like lightning and he saw sparks rise into the sky. He froze on the fence, his hands clutching the rail. The air was cold in his mouth. The village seemed to grow even more still and he stared westward, waiting for more.

When the next crash came, he leapt from the fence and ran for the hill. From the top he could see a glow like fire from the long barrows. He felt again the surge of adrenalin telling him to run one way or the other and this time he let it flood through him. He ran faster than he had ever done before, finding his way through the dark woods by experience rather than sight.

He skidded on the hard ground and threw his arms around a tree to stop himself. He saw the silver flash of heavy blades leaving streaks in the darkness and in his vision. The thin moon shed enough light on the scene for a boy to understand what was happening.

A man leapt from the top of the long barrow, his legs drawn up and his heavy shoulders thick with muscle, his red hair flying. He screamed as he fell, a battle cry that made Sean cry out like a string plucked in sympathy.
The warrior brought a blade from behind his back, splitting the bucket of one of the earth movers and sending sparks flying into the night. There were others like him, destroying the machines, battle rage making them ugly. Sean couldn’t stay still any longer. He ran into the field, racing for the long barrow as he had done all his life.

The man with the red hair turned and Sean felt the air of the blade passing over his head. The warrior stared at him, his wide eyes glinting in the dim light. He took a long knife from his belt and held it out to Sean. The blade gleamed and the bone handle was white. He took it, feeling the warmth of the warrior’s hand still on it.
The warrior turned away and climbed onto one of the machines. He stood on the top of smashed cab, the moon behind him. He drove his blade into the engine block and left it there. Sean watched it vibrate into stillness and when he looked up, he was alone.

When the men came in the morning, he was sitting on top of the long barrow that had been scarred by the earth mover. The destruction made the men silent at first, before all the noise started. Sean sat where he was until someone brought his parents. He held the bone handle of the knife and wouldn’t let anyone take it.
When he was asked where he had got it, he pointed at the long barrow. Someone got very excited about the knife and the word spread. The broken machines were taken away.

He had to give up the knife that was important enough to save the long barrows. He went with his parents to see it in the museum, where it rested inside a glass case. Sean knew that it was his by right and at night, when he sat out there on the long barrows, he remembered the weight and warmth of the knife in his hand, saw again the sparks of the blades striking steel and heard the cry of an ancient warrior.

A Review

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 18:13:00 +0000

Jack Kilborn (aka J.A. Konrath), F. Paul Wilson, Jeff Strand and Blake Crouch have together written an ebook of terror entitled Draculas (A Novel of Terror). The book will be available on http://www.amazon.com/DRACULAS-Novel-Terror-ebook/dp/B0042AMD2M from 19th of October 2010. I have read an advance copy and I’d like to tell you about it.

Firstly, as a writer, I’ve been studying epublishing for some time. I’ve even experimented by publishing Infinite Variety, one of my own spooky little tales on Feedbooks and Smashwords for free. I still don’t own a Kindle or Sony Reader and I think I may never own one. I’m an old fashioned girl when it comes to books. I want and need a real book in my hands. I love libraries and bookstores. I like to look at the stack of books waiting to be read.

But epublishing is a valid and for some, very lucrative method of getting one’s writing to readers, which is what it’s all about. J.A. Konrath is possibly the most famous name in this brave new world and perhaps the most successful. His new experiment Draculas is an example of what can be done with epublishing.

Vampires are eternally fascinating, as evidenced by their abiding popularity in fiction and film all the way from Polidori’s Ruthven, to Stephanie Meyer’s beautiful vegetarians. I’ve recently read and loved Justin Cronin’s The Passage and The Strain and The Fall, the first and second books in a trilogy of vampire novels from Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan, novels which go a long way towards making vampires frightening monsters again (although somewhere in Cronin’s novel, there is room for pathos under the horror).

Draculas is a different animal. Without the space of a print novel, there isn’t time for pathos or leisurely character development. There is however, time for blood, and a lot of it, liberally laced with humour. The book belts along at tremendous speed from the introduction of the crisis and its dramatic escalation until its explosive climax (with room for a sequel). It is a gore-filled roller coaster car and you better keep your hands inside the vehicle. It reads like a screenplay and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was adapted for the screen, as it is all about the visual.

Draculas is not the kind of horror that I normally choose, but if you like a ripping read (pardon the pun) then this one may be for you. It’ll be selling for less than four dollars, so how can you go wrong, right?

Draculas begins with an apology to Bram Stoker. I don’t know what Stoker would have thought of this or any of the other twists on his tale (including my own Velvet) but I’ll leave it to you to decide whether the tongue-in-cheek apology is warranted. After all, fiction cannot stagnate and there is room for everything the imagination can dream up.

And if epublishing interests you, then this book is a good place to start your investigation.

The Long Line

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 19:39:00 +0000

My friends, I've been submitting stories to magazines of late and gathering a harvest of rejections. My novel is being considered by a wonderful agent and I seem to be plodding along nicely with the second novel.

I have always had an interest in history and since I started to write seriously, history is weaving itself into my long fiction of its own accord. Since my parents have gone, I feel responsible for remembering our family history. My mother was fascinated by the stories of history (along with many other things) and I want to be aware of where I am and who passed this way before me.

Laurence Block, one of my favourite writers, called one of his Matt Scudder books A Long Line of Dead Men, as in the expression 'we all come from a long line of dead men.' My sudden awareness of mortality makes me think about that long line of dead men and all of their lost stories. Of course, it always comes back to the stories for me.

In 1979, my brother was one of thousands of young people who welcomed Pope John Paul II to Ireland. I was nine. I remember the streets being empty.

My parents rode their motorcycle around sixties London. My mother wore capri pants and my dad had glasses like Michael Caine. My uncle was a rear gunner who died on his last mission, aged 19, shot down over Germany.

My grandfather looked after mules in the mud and blood of Verdun. He fought for his beliefs in his own country and saved the life of a man who is still living. My other grandfather was serenaded by a gangster's moll in a fur coat. My ancestors owned Kilkenny Castle and were kings of Cork.

Irish missionaries were scholars who carried their faith and their education around the world or who stayed at home to make the most beautiful books the world has ever seen. It seems possible that St. Brendan the Navigator reached America hundreds of years before Columbus.

The Romans, who conquered so much, never came to Ireland. Julius Caesar believed the Irish to be a barbaric race who ate their babies. He never came here to find out. We were druids, men of the oak, and Tuatha de Danann, the People, who became our fairy folk.

We built Newgrange which is older than the Great Pyramid of Giza.

When I was a little girl, we used to say this:

Slugs and snails,
And puppy dog tails,
That's what little boys are made of.

Sugar and spice,
And all things nice,
That's what little girls are made of.

What we are all made of is our history. Our stories.

We all come from a long line of dead men. It would be a shame to forget them.

Well, well..

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 10:03:00 +0000

So, since I last posted anything on my poor neglected blog, I’ve been working on the second novel and looking for an agent. The novel is going well and I’ve been submitting stories to magazines and anthologies. I haven’t had any word from the story submissions yet, but no rejections either.

I’ve learned a lot about grief in the last 11 weeks. I’ve learned that it’s different for everyone and no one can tell you when it will get easier. Someone sensible said to me that I would never get over it, but I would get used to it.

I’m surprised by the physical pain of it. It also seems worse because I’m just realising now that my father is gone as well, even though he’s been gone since 2002. Somehow when Mam was alive, it was like Dad was too. You know how it is, you ring your parents and when your dad answers he says ‘I’ll pass you over to your mother.’ So it seemed ok to have Mam there being both of them.

I do have faith that they are together and are probably trying to tell me that everything will be ok, the way they always did. It’s just still raw.

Naturally, the emotion is being filtered into the work and I hope that as with all experiences, it will enrich my writing.

So I need your help. I’m really working on my writing and I’m very keen to meet the requirements to join the Horror Writers Association. That means selling stories which means that I’m writing for pro markets now and can’t put the stories on the blog as it would constitute publication for most editors. So I need to find a new direction for the blog. Would you like to see it go a particular way? Will I write about my submissions and progress? Would you no longer be interested if I wasn’t posting stories?

Thank you for sticking with me.

Music

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Thu, 06 May 2010 15:41:00 +0000

I have to have my earphones in while writing. Some songs just feel right for the story or scene. I write in the sitting room with life going on all around me and music gives me my own little world.

I'm putting together a new playlist for listening to while writing and I've been wondering. Do you listen to music while reading or writing? Does it relax, inspire or annoy you? If you do listen, what do you listen to? Maybe you'll introduce me to something new that will make the next scene sing.

Hold on Tight

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 03 May 2010 23:08:00 +0000

‘Marie, Marie, hold on tight!’

The boy I loved screamed back over his shoulder as we hurtled downhill. My arms were wrapped around him, my face pressed against his shirt, feeling his bony shoulder blades and heat baking off him, though it was a cool day. He smelled of dirt and sweat and the apples we had stolen.

We hit a bump on the hill and the bike took off. It wobbled like crazy when we landed but as a reflex we both stuck out a foot and scraped the bottom of our shoes steadying the bike. Luke started pedalling, his body jerking and straining under my clinging hands. When he had us going again, he laughed and I laughed too. Everyone always laughed when Luke did.

I met him when I was three. He doesn’t remember. He sometimes forgets what happened this morning never mind thirteen years ago. He pushed me over when I wouldn’t give him a toy. I started to cry so he gave it back. I don’t remember what toy it was but I remember him sitting beside me. He dropped it and laughed, so I laughed too, the first time of many. I remember the smell of him; cookies and the same blue stuff my mother put in the bath to make bubbles.

We did everything together, including the stuff that teenagers do, but it wasn’t the most important thing. We did something that we shouldn’t have done. It started with the accident.

Luke was out by himself when I was at the dentist. He rode his bike out of town and was picking blackberries for me when he heard the pup. Someone had put it in a hole in the ground with a couple of planks over the top weighted down by bricks so it couldn’t get out. He threw the bricks aside and pulled the puppy up. It was thin and dirty but it licked his face and wriggled with excitement. He put it inside his jacket and buttoned it so that only the pup’s face stuck out. He forgot the blackberry can but came straight to my house. I was sitting on the step poking my numb chin when he skidded into the drive and threw the bike on the ground. He handed me the puppy like it was the spoils of war. That pup was a wriggler and he jumped out of Luke’s arms into mine. We fed him everything we could find in the kitchen, including a chunk of banana.

The pup lived with Luke but he belonged to both of us. We never gave him a name. He was always just the pup. When he got stronger, he chased the bike and followed us around town and out into the fields. He lay with his head on his paws watching us while we smoked and kissed. He was always waiting for the next adventure to begin. Just like Luke.

It wasn’t really the pup’s fault. He was chasing the bike as we zoomed down towards my house at the bottom of the big hill. As Luke braked for the cross street, the pup just kept on going. He raced into the street and when the thump came, I turned my face to Luke’s shirt and heard his heart beat. We went down there holding hands not like a couple but like children.

The man behind the wheel got out and came over to us. His face was white. He started to speak but bent over instead. I thought for a second that he was leaning over to kiss me and I jumped back, pulling Luke with me. The man fell like a tree, stiff and flat. I saw his face twist and he seemed to look at me as he went down.

His wife came around the side of the car, knocking someone out of the way to get at him. She was ugly with grief. She rolled him over and thumped his chest but he was as dead as the pup. Luke and I stood there, watching everything, holding hands. After a while, the woman looked at Luke and me and made some sign with her hand. I thought she was deaf but Luke’s hand tightened on mine till it hurt.

Things went wrong from then. Luke started getting black eyes and bruises. I finally got it out of him that his dad was hitting him. One day, he came to school with two broken and splinted fingers. He looked at me like a trapped animal. The other boys seemed to pick up the scent of it and started in on him as well.

He got into trouble and I got sick. It started with migraines that only darkness could fix. Then stomach cramps and kidney stones. I had a continuous cold. I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t breathe.

I dragged myself between school and home with no energy for anything else. Then Luke, his eyebrow cut and starting to bleed again, made me get on the bike and go with him to the pup’s grave. We sat on the grass and said nothing for a while. Luke said the woman had cursed us and he had to make it stop. He didn’t say how exactly but we said goodbye to the pup, got on the bike and rode to her house. Luke threw the bike in a bush and we snuck around the back and climbed in through the kitchen window.

The house was silent but it was a waiting silence like someone holding their breath. Luke walked deeper into it with me hanging onto a fistful of his shirt.

She was standing at the top of the stairs, just looking at us. We had broken in but it was me who felt like screaming.

‘Can I talk to you?’ Luke said. His voice sounded adult.

The woman didn’t move. Luke turned to me.

‘Marie, wait in the kitchen.’

I almost laughed at the absurdity of us separating, but I saw his face harden.

‘I know what I’m doing. Please.’

I went into her kitchen and stood in the middle of the floor afraid to touch anything. I heard Luke go upstairs to her and then the murmur of their voices. He came back looking pale and took my hand. We went back to the bike and he pedalled towards my house.

At the top of the last hill, I wrapped his waist tighter in my arms and took the scent of him into my lungs.

He said the old words, the talisman against danger; said them in a whisper.

‘ Marie, hold on tight.’

The bike leapt off the top of the hill and raced down. The wind tore the scream from my lips. I felt him begin to fade under my arms. His lanky frame turned to smoke and I couldn’t get him. I heard him cry out again to hold on tight but I lost him. My hands scrabbled for the handlebars but the bike tipped sideways and threw me into the road. I lost a hunk of skin off my forearm but was otherwise unhurt. I haven’t been sick since either.

Luke made a bargain. A life for a life. He did it for me. I think he hoped that I could hold on to him but I wasn’t strong enough. When I ride the bike, I can feel him, smell him. I ride it often, downhill. Maybe the next time, I’ll be able to pull him back to me.

I’ll hear his cry and hold on tight.

A New Day

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 03 May 2010 16:45:00 +0000

It's a new day, a new week, a new month. It's been hard and is still hard, but the sun is shining. I did 1200 words yesterday and 1100 so far today. I'll write you guys a story now. I'm sorry I haven't been around, either with a new story or to visit your wonderful blogs, but I have to come back to life now. It's what my mother would want. Thank you for your support and friendship.

Now, I'll go drag a monster into the daylight for you. In the meantime, here's a joyful little thing for no reason other than to make your foot tap. Let your smile do its thing.

#Fiction on Twitter

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 20:27:00 +0000

If any of you horror fans are on Twitter, why not take up the challenge to write a little piece of horror. Just type #horrortweets before your scary micro fiction. As an example...

#horrortweets The spider had squeezed between her open lips and I was in time to see its trailing leg disappear.

While we're on the subject of micro fiction, try #crimetweets #romancetweets #humortweets #literarytweets and let the #genretweets flow!

The Clean White Page on Twitter

Flowers in Darkness

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 15:33:00 +0000

The seed fell into the pool of blood and was carried in the reaching finger of red to the gutter. It tipped on the edge of the grate and see-sawed before the last pulse sent it down into the wet dark. It came to rest on warm tangled matter. When it rained, the main flow of water streamed past it, with enough drops soaking into where it nestled to keep the blood wet. Yellow light fell through the grate onto its resting place. Soon, a green finger broke through its skin and found its way into the tangle below. When its roots formed, they raced across the sewer floor, splitting cracks open. A stubby limb broke free and rose up towards the grate. White flowers formed. At their heart, they hid a pulpy fruit with rich red flesh. Rats were drawn to the scent but retreated into the darkness when the fruit began to pulse with a weak light. The petals fell away and the strength of the pulse grew.

Gerry put together Lucy’s breakfast tray. Porridge, orange juice, tea. He added the usual tiny vase and flower. The vase had belonged to her mother and its white and blue delicacy made her happy. The flower was a daisy he had found growing in the sidewalk on the way home. He sat with her and watched while she ate two spoonfuls before the spoon clattered back onto the tray. He took the tray away and washed her, biting his cheeks against the stifled sounds of her pain. After he changed her nightgown, she went to sleep, exhausted by the morning ritual. He kissed her forehead and went to his own room to get dressed for work. Pippa was at the door when he was ready to leave. She smiled and nodded without him asking her anything. He knew Lucy was safe but he still hesitated at the door. He waited until he heard Pippa's soft voice talking to his wife and the faint reply. As always, shutting the door was the hardest part of his day.

He got in and checked his work sheet. The crew had a blockage in one of the collection sites, something large swept against the grate by the storm water runoff. He and Bobo would go down and clear it away, letting the brown sewage flow to the treatment plant. Bobo crushed his helmet down over the tufts of hair that gave him his nickname and gave Gerry a thumbs up.

When they got to the right access point, Gerry checked his hip waders and climbed down the ladder. He pursed his lips when he stepped into the water at the bottom of the tunnel in case it splashed on his mouth. The water was shallow and thick. He walked to the grate and saw the roots tangled through the metal. Bobo grabbed one of the thick tendrils in his glove and yanked it free. Dark mush burst from the strange fruit sprouting from it. He dropped it and wiped his glove on his waders, making a face at Gerry.

They cut away at the roots, throwing the wet pieces into the water behind them. As they cleared the blockage, the water started to flow through again. Gerry felt something on his boot and saw the dark shapes of eels squirming over his foot in the stream of water. He shifted away from them and grabbed the last of the branches poking through. A fat flower dropped off and he automatically cupped his hands to catch it.

It didn’t break but lay heavy on his palm. He felt dizzy as he stared at it. He raised his hand to throw it at the wall, but as his fingers curled around it he changed his mind and slipped it into his pocket instead. He and Bobo finished up and walked back to the ladder in water that was knee deep and full of lumps and debris. Bobo talked all the way. Gerry nodded every time Bobo looked at him but all he could think about was the feel of the flower in his pocket. He could almost hear its petals rustling against each other as he walked.
Back at base, he wrapped the flower in a tissue and put it in his locker. He got through the rest of the day, joking with the others as normal. He was used to pretending that everything was okay. Since Lucy got sick, he had pulled on a mask that looked like him and could smile. Inside he was different.

He got home as Pippa was leaving. She patted his arm before shutting the door behind her. He wished she wouldn’t do that. She was great with Lucy but he hated the routine pat on the arm. It meant that there was no hope.

He dropped his clothes in the laundry room and showered in the small cubicle next to it before pulling on sweats and getting the flower. He made Lucy’s dinner tray and put the flower in the vase. Its heavy head fell forward and he shuddered. He poked it deeper into the vase and wiped his finger on his pants. He felt odd and outside himself but he picked up the tray and went into Lucy’s room.

She opened her eyes when he came in and smiled at him, her lips trembling with the effort. He put the tray on her bed table and swung it in over her legs. He left the room and stood outside her door, listening to himself breathe. After a while, he went back in. She was asleep. The petals had fallen off the flower onto the tray and its red fruit was visible, sitting on the mouth of the vase. A piece was missing and Lucy’s lips were dark with its juice. Gerry backed away to the wall and he slid down to sit on the floor.

When he woke, the room was full of grey pre-dawn light. He scrubbed his hands over his face and got up, stiff and cold. Lucy smiled at him, her eyes bright, her cheeks full of warmth and colour. He kissed her lips and thought about light from darkness and hope from despair.

A little ray of sunshine

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 23:30:00 +0000

Dear Friends, thank you for your support and love. The last few months have been difficult and I am especially grateful for kindness, which makes all the difference. There were times when unexpected kindnesses were treasures found in the dark.

Furthermore, there have been five blog awards for The Clean White Page. Look at these marvellous people!

David Barber

Dorraine
Anabel

x 2!

Patrick Tillett

Momma Fargo

Just this once, I'll have to ignore the rules of the awards, except to exhort my readers to visit the blogs of the lovely people who gave them to me. If you like, you can ask questions instead, writing or personal, in the comments. If you ask a good question and I answer it, you can take whichever award you'd like, although you should visit the blogs above to check out the proper rules.

I think I'll write a story for you tomorrow. I'll see what grows in the night.

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 18:13:00 +0000

My mother passed away peacefully this morning. My prayers were answered because she had no pain and I was with her, holding her hand.

She always had a song on her lips and in her heart. I will miss her beyond measure.

Yellow Fog

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 21:43:00 +0000

The yellow fog slinked against the quay wall and rolled onto the path that led under the bridge. It smelled of long dead and ages lost. It sucked the city lights in and breathed out blanketing dampness. He sat on the ground, a newspaper under him, watching the fog play around his ankles. A young couple hurried by, laughing at something. He watched them disappear into the fog and listened to their voices, amplified by the water and the roof of the bridge.

He had found the place in the half-light and got settled before the dark came, before the fog. It was busy to start with but the couple had been the only ones he had seen since the night fell. When their echoes faded, he sat still and listened to the stealthy slither of the river. A rat ran from a hole in the wall opposite, stiffened and fell onto its side. He pushed it back towards the hole with his foot, sliding it slid easily on the greasy cobbles. A hand came through the hole, grasped the rat and pulled it back out.

He stared at the hole, black against the wall. An eye appeared, glinting in the meagre light spilling from above the bridge. It focussed on him, unblinking. His body tensed but he couldn’t move. The eye disappeared and a hand gripped the top of the wall. He heard something big suck free from the river mud and he rolled onto his knees and scrambled up.

He started to run, but the cold made him stiff and slow. He followed the path of the couple under the bridge where the fog lingered.

His foot hit the first step to the street before it leapt on him. The weight knocked him onto the steps and he struck his chin on the stone, crunching his teeth together on his tongue. He screamed and scrabbled at the thing on his back. His fingers sank into its wet flesh and he recoiled. He craned his neck around and saw its open mouth falling towards him.

‘Did you hear something?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I think it was that old man under the bridge.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘But he sounds like he’s in trouble.’

‘Yeah and we don’t want to join him.’

‘We can’t just ignore it. Let’s go back. Please.’

‘Oh, all right. I’ll go. You wait here.’

She watched him go back and start down the steps leading under the bridge. When the screaming started, she ran for the steps. The yellow fog closed in behind her.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

T. S. Eliot

Theme Thursday - Yellow

Dear Friends

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 17:53:00 +0000

I love writing stories and the more people who read them, the better I like it. I want to ask you, my dear friends, for your help in spreading the word to increase my readership.

I'd like to ask you all to suggest The Clean White Page to just one friend who is not already familiar with the site. I'm looking for like-minded individuals who enjoy a story.

(By the way, if you happen to know a publisher or an agent, point them in this direction! First novel available for publication and second on the way..)

Seven Tenths

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 23:00:00 +0000

Thank you all for your kind wishes. They mean a great deal to me.

I had a little time today so here's a story.

I am seven tenths water and the sea is doing everything it can to take it back. I can feel it pressing on my chest, squeezing the air out to make room for itself. At the same time, it’s sucking at me, pulling at my heat and my energy, absorbing it into its own vast reserves. I’m aware of the distance below me as though I am afloat in the atmosphere with a long way to fall. I can feel the cold sink of darkness reaching for my feet. When something brushes against my ankles, it feels like stretched and clammy fingers.

It’s harder to float now and my hands are numb. I know the oxygen finding its way to my muscles is decreasing. I’m treading water and my legs feel like they don’t belong to me, even though they are still obeying the message from my brain.

It’s been hours since I last touched the boat as it swept past me. It’s been hours since I saw her looking back at me. She stood at the stern with her arms folded. After a while, she raised a hand in farewell. I watched her become indistinguishable from the boat and the boat from the sea. In the end, there was just the grey of water and sky with no horizon between.

It’s dark now and I don’t feel cold anymore. I’m sleepy and I know the danger of it but I can’t help myself. The darkness is the same inside my eyelids and it’s hard to tell the difference.

‘If you loved me, you would.’

Her voice wakes me and my muscles jerk, making me surge up briefly before the airless weight of my body drags my face under water. I struggle up and try to keep calm but it’s getting harder. I don’t know what I’m fighting for. That isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

She always said it. ‘If you loved me..’

If I loved her. She knows how much I do. I gave her everything when I had it to give. The boat was a present for her birthday. It was the last big thing I was able to give her before everything went wrong.

The heavy shoes I wore when I plunged into the water are gone. I kicked them off. I didn’t mean to, but the shock of hitting the water made me react with instinct. It was supposed to be a quick and a pleasant way to go. We picked the co-ordinates carefully. Not shipping lanes as we couldn’t afford for me to be found too soon, but not so remote as to never be found. Just remote enough for the ocean to finish things before she alerted anyone.

‘It was my idea.’ The sound of my voice is taken by the lap of the sea against itself, like a cat cleaning its fur. The words scatter on the black silky waves. I can see them. It was my idea until I hit the water. Now, I’m not so sure. I remember her crying when the money started to run out. She was desperate not to return to the despair of her early years in the city and I was desperate to save her from it. Always so desperate to keep her happy. There was a way she could be safe, a source of money she could access with only one obstacle in the way.

I tilt back and look at the featureless sky. The idea grew from the desperation. A mistake.

I feel like the salt water has cleaned a wound in my mind. I feel stripped bare, reduced to something basic and raw. I can see her face, cameo perfect. At this strange remove, I can see that her mouth is so often downturned. I remember the spark of interest in her eyes when I came up with the idea. She cried and tried to talk me out of it. It was the first argument I won in ten years of marriage. The pall that settled on me after I lost the business lifted. I had a plan and lots of work to do. The slap of cold water made nonsense of it all.

She stood watching me and raised her hand, her face impassive. I kick around to face the direction I think the boat took. There’s no way of knowing but I kick that way anyway.

I don’t know if I can make it but I want to try. I have a new idea. I don’t think she’ll like this one.

Dear Friends

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 11:59:00 +0000

My mother is very ill. I may not be here properly for a few days. Will you keep watch for me?

Velvet 7

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 21:10:00 +0000

For earlier episodes of Velvet, see the Story So Far page above.

Velvet lunged forward, grasped the girl’s arm and flung himself at the window. He crashed out through the glass and turned as he was falling. The girl screamed and through her flying hair, he saw Jones standing at the window, shouting over his shoulder.

Velvet twisted, holding the girl against him with one arm. Her eyes were tight shut. He aimed his boots at the side of the building and grabbed a ledge. The girl screamed again as they came to a hard stop. Velvet looked down and saw Jones’ men swarming up the side of the building.

‘If you want to get out of this, get on my back and hold on.’

She didn’t react for a moment, then crawled around, eyes closed and fingers digging into him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he leapt sideways as the first of Jones’ men grabbed at his legs. He made the roof of the smaller building next door and ran. He heard the sound of the others hitting the roof behind him but didn’t look back. As he reached the edge of the roof, the girl’s arms jerked against his throat as someone grabbed her from behind. He gripped her hands and jumped to the next building.

He knew in a flat out foot race with a burden on his back that he had no hope. He swerved to the side and leaped into the street, causing car horns and screeching tyres. He ripped open the door of the closest car to him and threw the driver onto the road. The girl scrambled in behind him and he was driving before the door slammed shut.

He smashed a cab out of the way and accelerated hard to the next corner. As he turned, he looked back and saw two of them cutting across the sidewalk towards him. He swerved sideways and crushed one against a building. Blood washed over the side window and thirst bloomed in his throat. The girl tried to climb over him to get to it but he shoved her back into her seat. Her head cracked against the window. The other man leapt onto the trunk as he accelerated away. He kicked in the back window and came in feet first. Velvet jumped on the brake and the man flew forward, his legs shooting between the front seats. Velvet seized his belt and flung him through the windscreen before driving forward. The car rocked over his bulk and Velvet sped away, with the sound of sirens in his ears. He glanced at the girl. She was staring at him, eyes big in her dirty face.

‘Where is my daughter?’ Velvet said.

On the Storm

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 21:26:00 +0000

The radio said there was a killer on the road. People had been lost in the bends and dark curves. They had disappeared under the overhanging trees in the rain. They had been taken from the wet slide of storm polished blacktop. People couldn’t stay home, so they were careful instead. In the wet night, standing in a straight stretch between curves that whipped left and right like a fleeing snake, I knew I was in a bad place.

Cars passed me; flying, lashing water in my face. Blind metal cages and warm dry oblivion. I held my arm out as far as I dared, thumb raised in a plea for salvation. I watched the lives pass me by on their way to better things, or worse. I saw small faces pressed against the glass, watching the rain and the night blur by. Maybe they saw the white oval of my face as a pale flash of something unknown.

Despite experience, to spite it or myself, my heart filled with hope with each new car taking the first curve. Each dirty wake took hope with it, splashing in the red taillights as they braked for the next bend. I don’t know how long I stood there but my clothes lay cold and wet against my skin and my hair plastered in my face. My pack pulled down my shoulder and my outstretched arm drooped against its own weight. My chin was resting on my chest and I believe I was almost asleep when I heard the squeal of wet brakes. For a moment, I remained stiff, hand still out. The car had pulled in onto the gravel at the bottom of the rocky wall, its red eyes making stars in the downpour. I started to run towards it and my legs almost betrayed me. I ran stiff and old, though I am neither. I slipped as I went around the back of the car and grabbed at the rough roots of trees sticking out of the bank. A window came down a few inches and a woman’s voice shouted to me to get in the back.

I grabbed open the door, my fingers frozen and stubborn. A blast of heat and cigarette smoke hit me and I felt my chest close as I struggled in. The driver flicked a glance at me and pulled out as I was slamming the door shut. His face was pock marked, the pits thrown into stark relief by the dash lights. The woman beside him twisted in her seat to grin at me. Her hair was beautiful, shining smooth and falling in sheets like water on either side of her face. She wasn’t pretty but that hair redeemed her.

‘I’m Sally. That’s Tom. The baby is Alice.’

I looked at the child in the car seat beside me. She was beautiful. Something about her suggested her mother’s genes but she was lucky. She was peaches and cream. She smiled at me and I saw four perfect little teeth. When I smiled at her, the child laughed and it turned into a cough. The air felt yellow with smoke. I turned back to the woman.

‘Jim. Where you guys headed?’

‘Wherever the wind takes us, Jim. You coming along for the ride?’

She reached out and put her hand on my wet knee. I looked at it and then at her. She laughed and I heard the child in it.

‘Sure,’ I said. I had nowhere to be and no-one to be there with. Sally turned around in her seat and slapped the radio on. The Doors filled the car, some shock jock’s idea of a funny joke after the news about the killer. Tom’s eyes met mine in the mirror and I tried to smile to reassure him. His eyes were narrow and hard blue in the light of passing cars. Sally’s hand eased back between her seat and the door and scratched along the seam of my jeans. She pinched me and took her hand back. I saw the flare of her lighter in the windscreen.

We travelled in the enforced silence of the music and the rain for enough miles to dry my clothes a little. The child fell asleep, her soft mouth open, breathing her mother’s poison. I watched her and I guess she put me to sleep because I woke under the orange lights of a diner parking lot. Sally was looking in at me, the baby in her arms.

‘You hungry?’

I nodded and unstuck myself from the seat. Facing them across the splintering formica, I half listened to Sally talk and Tom eat. I ate a sloppy burger and drank a soda. In the harsh light, Sally’s face was ugly. A rash of pimples tracked across her forehead and her skin looked thick. Her mouth was large and mobile, twisting with each new story and emotion. Tom only looked up once and he kept his eyes on the child. His lips didn’t smile but the rest of his face softened.

Back at the car, Tom got behind the wheel and Sally made me hold her bag while she put Alice in her seat. She bent over to do it and pressed against me. I didn’t move. When she took the bag from me, she brushed her hand across the front of my jeans and smiled close to my face. She smelled of meat.

Half an hour down the road, she started to moan and clutch her stomach. She writhed in the seat and cried out to Tom to stop the car. He slewed it sideways and pulled up, his wheels close to a drop above a wash. Sally threw herself out of the car. He made no move to follow her. I got out and found her at the back of the car, getting sick over the edge into the wash. I took her hair back from her face and tightened my hand in it. Even feeling as bad as she did, she recognised my intent. She started to straighten up, but the knife was quicker. Her skin looked thick, but it parted at the throat like butter. I threw her into the wash. It was too dark to see her blood colour the fast water.

I tapped at Tom’s window and he put it down, the glass moving with exquisite slowness. His cold blue eye beckoned the knife. He screamed and the child screamed with him. When Tom was silent, I watched the child. She cried for a while and put herself to sleep with the tears. I wiped the steel and touched the side of her face with it. She stirred in her sleep and I cut a lock of her hair before she could wake.

There was a cell phone in Sally’s bag. I used it to call the emergency services for the child then threw it after its owner into the wash. I walked on into the night and when it seemed safe, I put out my thumb again.

The Clean White Page

Cascade

Idle Hands

Great news! One of my stories was chosen as the runner-up in the Masters of Horror/Wily Writers Short Story Contest. The story is not up yet, but I'll post when it is. http://www.wilywriters.com/blo​g/ Also check out Editor Angel Leigh McCoy's website http://www.angelmccoy.com/

F.G. Cottam

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A Drop of the Hard Stuff

The Perfect Gift

The Long Barrows

A Review

The Long Line

Well, well..

Music

Hold on Tight

A New Day

#Fiction on Twitter

Flowers in Darkness

A little ray of sunshine

Yellow Fog

Dear Friends

Seven Tenths

Dear Friends

Velvet 7

On the Storm

Great news! One of my stories was chosen as the runner-up in the Masters of Horror/Wily Writers Short Story Contest. The story is not up yet, but I'll post when it is. http://www.wilywriters.com/blog/ Also check out Editor Angel Leigh McCoy's website http://www.angelmccoy.com/