The post 287 Aristotle for Novelists – Principles on the Art of Story with Douglas Vigliotti appeared first on Sacha Black.

Often, heroes are the odd ones out because they think outside the box and solve mysteries or problem. But this challenge isn’t confined to heroes. You could write about inanimate objects, or kids or animals, maybe the black sheep in a family. You could write about any number of things that are odd or unusual.

This week there are two parts to the challenge. 1. write a story or poem about the odd one out. 2. do it in 200 words or less.

Here’s mine:

Three buttons stared at me. One, black and dented, another rusted and the last shiny. He said if I chose wrong, the contents would be destroyed and I’d never know what he wanted to give me. His face was sharp and stern as he watched me. What the hell was it?

I took a deep breathe, my stomach churned. The shiny silver one was too obvious and he hated black. I hovered over the rusted button. But he knew me. Knew I’d reason my way into choosing the rusty one. I switched to black. Bubbles of my garlicky dinner stabbed the back of my throat. What if I got it wrong?

“Go with your gut,” he said, standing in the doorway.

I hadn’t realised he was there. The tips of my fingers tingled. I couldn’t take the anticipation I needed to know what was in there. I switched to the rusted button. Back to black. Rusted.

“Go with your gut, Liz.”

I closed my eyes. Pushed the pad of finger onto the rusted button.

A whirring, whooshing of air and cogs filled the room.

“Oh god, have I destroyed it?” I said, turning to him. But he was knelt on the floor staring up at me.

The lid popped open, and beneath the lid sat a beautiful silver ring, with a solitary diamond in the centre.

I just checked my word count, 226 – I am clearly incapable of adhering to any rules. Tut.

***

Now to last weeks writespiration and 60 second stories.

Jane created a gorgeous piece about equally gorgeous children. It makes you want to squish their cheeks and love them to death! You can find it here.

The apple dropped. We didn’t hear the whoosh as it fell, just the thud as it hit the ground and rolled into the long grass. It was a beauty, green streaked with russet. And it had only one worm hole. Baby picked it up and gazed at it in awe.
“Round,” she said.
We beamed. Such a bright child.
She toddled to the path, apple clutched in chubby hand, and slung it to the ground.
She looked up at us, eyes full of reproach and shook her head.
“Doesn’t bounce.”

***

The post Writespiration #68 The Odd One Out appeared first on Sacha Black.

This week, your challenge is to write a piece about death row. It can be from any perspective, and about anything, as long as it is linked to death row.

Here’s mine:I lingered in the doorway, the darkness of my cell calling me back home. But I wanted to cling to the last rays of warmth from the sun. I shut my eyes, letting the tingle of heat settle on my neck and breathed in the dry desert air. It tasted of sand: gritty, but satisfying.

“Move, convict.”

The guard’s baton dug into my back as he shoved me through the door and into my cell.  My throat was like sandpaper. It ached. But not as much as knowing it was the last fresh breath I’d take.

My skin hummed from the tension rippling through the cells of the other lifers. We could always smell death. Every convict’s execution smelt the same: home cooked food. Our precious last meal was really just a beacon of futility. It spread the stench of lost hope through our prison cells like a rabid dog attack.

“Grub’s up. Hope you picked a good’un.” The guard smirked, tipped his hat at me and disappeared.

“Not even a goodbye,” I snorted.

“He was always an arsehole, John. I’ll knife him later if you like,” Mike said, twirling his toothbrush in the cell next to me. Why they let him have a tooth brush was a mystery to me; he didn’t have any teeth.

“Ha. Thanks, but no need to give them a reason to reject your appeal too.”

He shrugged, already resigned to his fate. My heart clenched. I knew his pain. We all knew our day would come. It only took a few years before we all accepted the only certainty there was in here: the monotonous pacing; the tick tock countdown as our feet padded eleven steps one way, eleven steps back until, eventually, we reached the chair and sat – forever.

The smell of dinner wafted down the row, thick and sweet. My meal was ready.

Straight jacket suffocation gripped my chest. I couldn’t breathe. Pins and needles stabbed at my torso. I dropped to my knees and gasped for air.

“Please,” I choked.

I’d do anything for a heart attack. For Karma to bestow a kindness on me; an honorable death from fate instead of a villain’s crucifixion. Sweat ran down my neck and arms. I tore off my shirt and slumped against the bars, the cool relief of metal massaging calm into my chest.

My breathing, although still labored, stabilized.

“The guilty ain’t meant to panic, John. We did wot we did. We deserve the needle, don’t we?”

His filthy face pressed against the bars of his cell, distorting his weathered skin. I closed my eyes. The only place I’d admitted innocence was in the court room. In here there was a pecking order and the innocent got eaten. I kept my lids shut and inhaled the juicy scent of roast beef drifting into my cell. I sucked my saliva back down savoring every morsel of flavor.

“You know I didn’t do it, Mike.”

“I know lad. I know. But you might as well play the part. It’s your fate now, innit?”

But I didn’t want to play the part. I didn’t want any part. I wanted the life I deserved.

“Fuck fate.”

I looked at my shirt and saw the length of rope it could make if I ripped it in half. The needle couldn’t have me. Not while I had a choice.

“Don’t do it, boy.” Mike’s arm stretched into my cell like a wraith grabbing for its body, but it was too late. I’d already stood up and torn my shirt.

“DON’T lad… John, please. Stays come in all the time. You still have a chance.”

His words faded into the rumble of other prisoners. I was numb. Heavy with the weight of hopelessness. I tied the fabric to the light, looped it round my neck and stepped off my bed.

***

Now to last weeks writespiration, where we were writing about the list.

First up Geoffle, with a truly random list, that reminds me of Mr. Adams guide to the galaxy!

When King Zog the Uncertain ascended to the throne (having been assured he could descend just as quickly if he didn’t like it) he found on the seat a box of papers with a list on the top. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘You father’s royal list,’ the Court answered.
‘What’s a royal list?’
‘Every king has to have a list. It defines his monarchy.’
Zog was Uncertain what that meant but he took it on board. He asked for a private audience with his Chancellor. ‘Lomp, apparently my father had a list and I need one. It will define my monarchy.’
‘Yes, your Majesty and what do you want on your list?’
Zog might have been Uncertain but he wasn’t stupid.’Ah ha! I’ll only know that when I have my list.’
Lomp, who, long before the Ascension/Descension/Ascension debacle knew how this sort of conversation could go in circles with never a decision, nodded. ‘Leave it to me.’
He organised the Royal Cobbler to attend his Majesty.
‘Are you sure?’ said the Cobbler?
‘As sure as my name is Lomp,’ answered the Chancellor.
‘You’re called Lomp?’
‘Believe it, sonny. Now can you make his Majesty his Royal Shoes?’
‘I can, but…’
‘But?’
‘He won’t like it.’
A week passed; the old king’s list sat unregarded. The Court became restless, unsure what to do and fearing their new king might be living up to his title. They awaited the weekly audience with the king at which they expected to receive instructions and directions Meanwhile in the Royal Robing Room, Zog sat with Lomp and the Royal Cobbler. ‘Are you sure, Lomp?’
”Quite sure.’
‘Ok, but I don’t like it.’
‘I told…’
‘Button it, boot boy. This way your majesty.’
The Court held its collective breath as King Zog emerged, leaning at an uncomfortable 30 degrees to the vertical due to the presence of one flat shoe and one with a five inch heel. There was a collective intake of breath. Zog began to feel embarrassed, the Court began to murmur when a your courtier rushed forward. ‘You seen to have a pronounced list your majesty. May I help you?’
Zog smiled and nodded at Lomp and took the young man’s arm. ‘Splendid.’

***

Next the lovely Dwayne is back with this sporty little number, with a cliff hanger ending.

One brown, dilapidated piece of paper. One piece of paper that was the difference between William knowing whether destiny was still in his control or not. This was not just any old piece of paper though, it was one of great value because on it were the names of the lucky ones, the ones whose blood, sweat and tears would not fall in vain, the ones who would be able to take the next steps without having to take steps backwards. “That damn list, if only I had it now so I could see if my name was on it” said an impatient William, his mind fixated on knowing whether he had made the grade, whether he’d made the cut, whether he’d made the team. It was so close, William could see the piece of paper clearly on the table and yet it was so far as the table was in the head coach’s office which was locked. “I really want to know whether I did enough”, William thought to himself as he pressed his face against the door window, he could not help himself, he just had to know if he’d made the cut.
Ever since he was a young boy, William had dreamed of playing for his local football team and now his dream was almost about to happen. But for that dream to come true, he had to impress the head coach and his backroom staff, to show to them that he had what it took to play for such a big club. “Ever tried. Ever failed. No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.” The words William said to himself before every trial, before every hurdle put in his way, he knew that he had to work hard, work harder still, fail hard, fail harder still and try again in order for him to reach the top. The hours in the gym and on the pitch, all the tackles, the close misses, all the niggles and injuries, all of that was worth going through so as long as he made the grade, for all of that effort to go to waste would bring crippling devastation but William knew that with every failure life brought, he had to get up and try again, fail again and fail better.

***

The post #Writespiration 61 Death Row appeared first on Sacha Black.

I am not great at descriptive writing, drawing images and creating flowery writing, so I decided to have a go on part of the latest bit of Adultland. It’s at 14K and 8 chapters in, although I suspect by the time this goes live, it will be 9 or 10 chapters in. Below is an excerpt from the end of chapter 8. I have tried to tweak it to fit Ali’s challenge of ‘purple prose’ she did say no dialogue….I cheated, but then I never was one to follow the rules!

Chapter 8 Excerpt

I ran to the window, desperate to see an obvious clue, a sign, anything to explain what Hawk meant when he said ‘look down at the edge of the city.’

I slumped against the glass and peered at the crippled world below. The city looked like a broken solider, exhausted and weary after war. My chest tightened like a vice, tears clawed at my throat. I couldn’t believe that a single year of neglect could create such a mass of crumbling houses. Plant life ravaged entire sections of the city. Green spread like bacteria until it consumed its host.

I glanced at the wall; a merciless guard, towering above us, watching, just like the Hunters did. Silent, certain, infinite.

I squinted. I could see over the wall. The morning sun was high enough that I could see for several miles. Two more spheres bordered distant cities. I frowned, unsure of what I was seeing. I pressed my face against the glass straining, they weren’t spheres, they were walls. Walls that trapped other cities. Other children.

“Oh my god,” I gasped and took a step back. I stumbled into the office desk, the corner of the table dug into my thigh. I stepped back, tripped over a shoe box. A hand caught me, enveloped my body and stopped me hitting the deck. The sweet scent of a woody perfume wrapped around me. I knew that smell. Another hand slipped over my mouth.

“Don’t scream,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes. Fire ignited in my chest.

“Hawk.”

***

© Copyright 2015 Sacha Black

The post Adultland Excerpt appeared first on Sacha Black.

A few weeks ago I wrote a piece of flash fiction which I called Adultland, the story continued in Part II, but today, I bring part III. You can catch up on all the past instalments here.

We left Lou, pacing outside her parents flat building, waiting for the mist and Hunters to come and kidnap her parents. Can she save them? Read on to find out.PART III 

The mist really did sparkle, it was like a cave filled with glow worms, popping and twinkling so brightly I was mesmerised. I gravitated towards it.

I wanted to touch it. Needed to touch it. I reached out, a stampede in my chest made my fingers tingle as they edged towards it. I wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline from Kirsty’s serum kicking in or the thrill of getting close to the mist, but my fingers kept stretching. Closer. Almost there. I just wanted. One. Touch.

My arm twitched.  My eyes snapped to the microchip. A furnace of heat exploded from the chip and up my arm. I yelped and yanked my hand away. Was the chip failing already? I shook my head, I had to get as far away from the mist as possible.

I took a step back. And another. My heart kicked harder, stomach dancing. Rustles and twig snaps echoed intermittently from the wooded cops at the end of the car park.

I wasn’t alone, I was being watched. I’d felt it for weeks; the light prod of a single pair of eyes. Of someone watching me.

A hand clasped my mouth. I stiffened, muscles instantly charged, ready to lash out.

“Don’t scream,” a voice said, “I want to help and we don’t have long.”

He kept his hand across my mouth and stepped into view. He was dressed head to toe in black. His head was covered by a hood and a strange mask with cogs and tubes that protected his mouth. All I could see of him were enormous hazel eyes that had a perfect black ring round the iris.

He was a Hunter.

I had to think fast. He was a lot taller than me. If I attacked and didn’t knock him to the ground he would catch me and probably kill me. If I stayed put he could still kill me.

“I’m going to take my hand away. If you scream I won’t be able to save your parents.”

I relaxed just a fraction. Why would a Hunter want to save my parents? I opened my mouth to hurl questions at him but, he put his hand over my mouth again. I glared at him.

He smirked. “Knew I’d picked the right Orphi,”

“Orphi?” I mumbled under his hand.

“Yeah, orphan.”

My heart clenched at the inevitability of his word. I  shoved my shoulder into his chest hard enough for him to know I meant business.

“Calm down, Orphi.”

I yanked his hand away from my mouth. “Thought you wanted to help?”

“I do, but I don’t have time to explain everything so none of this is going to make sense,” he said.

Wood cracked to our left. His eyes snapped across and examined the mist covering the wood.

“They’re near the edge of the woods, we need to hurry up.”

“Wait. Tell me who you are.”

“My name’s Hawk.”

“Hawk? What sort of a name is that?”

“Look, we don’t have time. I have to do this quickly or it won’t look convincing.”

“Convincing?”

“You ask too many questions, Orphi,” he said, pursing his lips.

“Well, you don’t give enough information, Hawk.”

Boots struck rhythmically against the tarmac. They were in the car park. If the mist wasn’t so thick I was sure they would see us. Hawk moved closer to me, pressing his body against mine until he backed us against the flat wall. I only came up to his neck and I could smell the faint trace of a woody perfume on his skin. The tiniest flicker of heat flared behind my cheeks.

“Listen, when you reach the end of the city, look down. I’ll be waiting.”

“Look down?”

The clap, clap of boots stopped.

“HAWK? Where are you?”

His hand clamped across my mouth. My jaw flexed against the palm of his hand. I didn’t care if he was a Hunter, or if we were going to get caught. If he did that again, I was going to knock him out.

He leant into my neck, his lip brushing against my ear. My stomach tightened. 

“Ready?” he whispered.

His hand slipped into mine and he gave it a soft squeeze, “I’m sorry, this is going to hurt because you took the anti-sleeper.”

He let go of my hand, yanked a needle out of his pocket stabbed me in the neck.

Pain erupted through me, blood solidfing like ice in my veins. I screamed clutching my throat and collapsed on the floor.

“GOT HER SARGE,” Hawk shouted and disappeared.

Frozen crystals flooded my system as I writhed on the concrete outside the flats. Black spotted my vision and my throat finally clamped shut. I couldn’t breathe, even the faint trace of heat from the suns first rays was too much.

Black dots turned to grey static; I was passing out. Poison poured into my limbs, stiffening my hands and feet. Palpations ricocheted through me feeble attempts at fighting the cold warrior trying to control me.

I blinked.

My vision dimmed. The patch on my arm where the microchip was embedded blistered. Shooting pains burrowed deep into my wrists.

I blinked again.

Dozens of heavily booted feet stormed through the flat building’s door. I rolled over trying to crawl towards them. Muscles defied me, pinching and convulsing instead of moving forward.

“Nooo.”

I reached out clutching at grass, trying anything to stop them getting my parents.

I blinked again.

I was surrounded by darkness.

“I’ll be waiting at the end of the city…”

Hawk’s words rolled around my mind, each one poked and prodded at the recesses of my consciousness. Time slowed like the thick gloop of primordial sludge. Words merged and hopped about like soldiers in front of me.

My parents.

I blinked again.

Two enormous glowing orbs were floating out of the front door. Two Hunters pointed some kind of tube at the orbs like they controlled them. Inside the orbs were the limp bodies of my parents. They had wide eyed stares that darted across the chaos in front of them. They were still alive. For now.

“DAD,” I screamed, but only a silent breath escaped my mouth. I tried to force volume but I was paralysed. A gentle tug tempted me back to sleep, but I knew I needed to stay awake and witness the kidnap. My eyes were so heavy, maybe I could shut them for just a second?

I blinked.

The comfort of darkness consumed me. I swam through the emptiness. It was oddly comforting against the agonising paralysis. I searched my unconscious raking through memories, thoughts. I was meant to look for something, but what? Time oozed away, merging into the lake of memories playing out in front of me.

Two people drifted into view. They looked familiar. They floated into the air, heads hanging, eyes staring. I had to save them. I could do it, I just needed to move my legs.

I blinked again.

The car park was empty. I knew the sun was high because my skin throbbed from the heat blazing into the car park. The Hunters, orbs, mist, Hawk and my parents had vanished.

“He lied,” I mumbled staring at the place the orbs had been.

 “you’re a dead man, Hawk.” How dare he lie to me and kidnap my parents.

The numbness in my limbs was subsiding.

“Lou?”

“Harry,” I said sitting up, “where did you come from?”

He shifted on the spot, peering at anything but me. My gut lurched. I scoured my memories of last night, desperate to filter through the gunk and scan faces to see if I recognised Harry’s strangely large eyes through the Hunters masks. But my brain was fossilised, like ten thousand years of sediment was weighing down any coherent thought. I didn’t recall seeing him, so I decided to give him another chance and look after him like dad had said.

“It’s lunch time, we expected you to surface first thing this morning,” Harry said, and offered me a hand up.

His face was drawn, hungry black bags consumed his entire face.

“You look like shit, Harry.”

“Thanks,” he snorted. “Well, somethings, umm… we have a problem. I need to show you. The others are waiting. Are you ok to walk?”

“Think so. Where are we going?”

“Edge of the city.”

We walked for an hour, the closer we got to the edge of the city the more abandoned it appeared. Children needed to be together like pack animals. Parents were meant to be our alphas. But now we found solace huddled together in the centre of the city in flats and large office buildings where we desperately clung to any sense of belonging we could.

“So where were you living when they took your parents?” I asked.

“Falst…” he stopped dead, coughed and then continued, “just a suburb to the west of the city.”

I frowned, a seed of unease sprouted in my stomach. Falston was the next city but one. It was also the first city the Hunters attacked. My dad’s request to look after Harry filtered through my mind, and I did know of a westerly borough called Falstingbury. That must be where he came from. But what was he trying to hide?

“So what happened to you? You were the first in Daxley City, right? So you must have a story.”

He glanced at me, his face tight, A trace of sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure.”

But we didn’t because I’d run out of things to ask and the seed sprouting in my stomach was rapidly growing. Instead I stared at our surroundings as we walked.

Since more people had disappeared we weren’t able to look after massive parts of Daxely but I hadn’t realised how quickly rust and decay had taken over. Bricks were crumbling everywhere I looked, our beautiful city had become a desolate waste land. But amongst the dying buildings and months of neglect, new life was thriving. A plethora of plants ravaged the sides of buildings. Growing like viruses up walls and into the cracks of houses.

“We’re here,” he said, drawing us to a stop, “when you round that corner, you’ll see…the, erm. You just need to look.”

Harry had said virtually nothing about what was wrong. Just that we needed to get to the edge of Daxley so he could show me. We were right by the border of Daxley and the suburbs which started at the end of the next street. My parents were going to move to the suburbs right before the Hunters started taking the adults, but they got caught up trying to protect their friends, and eventually thoughts of a move were forgotten.

I rounded the corner and froze. My heart squeezed to a halt making my breath catch in my throat. There were no suburbs. No ’end’ of the street. There was no street at all.

“What the hell?”

A grey concrete wall as tall as three houses towered above us. It stretched across the street and smashed straight through houses, paths and front lawns. It loomed angry and dark like a giant preparing for war.

“It’s surrounding the entire city, Lou. There’s no way in or out.”

“No. NO. It can’t.”

I stepped off the path and ran to the next street expecting the concrete monstrosity to vanish. My heart fired into life and pounded so hard I could feel the pulsing of blood in my ears. All I could think about was my parents. I had to save them. I had to be able to get out of the city.

The wall covered the next street. And the next. I ran harder. Skipped across pavements, gardens and alleys. Three more streets passed. But still the wall loomed as colossal and firm as it had on the first street.

Harry stumbled after me.

“Wait, Lou,” he said, panting.

“How do we get out, Harry?” I screamed throwing myself at the wall, “I need to get out, I have to save my parents.”

I slapped at the wall. It was cold and gritted like sandpaper but, I punched and kicked at it anyway. Pain sliced through my hands as the gnarled surface cut into my knuckles. I revelled in the hurt, it eased the panic.

“LOU,” Harry said, touching my back, “stop.”

I slumped to the floor, exhausted, blood seeping out of several knuckles and tears spilling onto my cheeks.

“We’re trapped aren’t we?”

His face was ashen and clammy. He looked as I felt.

“Harry?” I snapped, “are we trapped?”

He nodded once. A heavy, but resolute nod. We really were trapped.

The post Adultland Part 3 appeared first on Sacha Black.

Last week, I wrote a piece of flash fiction in Writespiration #55, about a city in which the adults were kidnapped by Hunters. Several of you asked me to finish the story, something which blew me away I was so shocked. But I’ve written on. I decided to name the story Adultland. If you would like to read Part I, it’s only short and you can do so here. Or here, where I will collate everything I write. I can only apologise that part II is so long, I’m currently a plotter writing in a panster world…So I don’t know where this story will end up, or how long it will be I have never ‘just written’ without a plan or a synopsis so if this ends badly, be kind! Here goes an adventure into the unknown… Hope you enjoy the ride.

The flat door was open, just a crack. Like someone forgot to shut it in a rush. I froze. Doors were never left open, not now. It was careless; an open invitation to Hunters.

Blood hammered in my ears like the thud of a pneumatic drill. My heart raced against my rib cage and the twist, twist, twinge of adrenaline kicked round my stomach. They couldn’t have been taken. Not yet. There was still the best part of a week before the Hunters were due to come back. I refused to believe they were gone, they just couldn’t be, I hadn’t said goodbye. This must be what the other children had felt like over the last year. A constant fever pitch of anxiety and paranoia, never knowing when their last kiss goodnight would be.

I pushed open the door. They were sat in silence on opposite sofas, staring into space. I shut my eyes let my head drop and expelled the breath I’d been holding. The tension oozed out of my shoulders leaving the smallest trace of an ache; reminding me that although they hadn’t been taken tonight, they would be eventually.

Mum was first to speak, “Rita, and John…” was all she could muster before tears spilled onto her cheeks.

I nodded, “I know, mum. I know.”

I wished more than anything it hadn’t happened, that this time we’d managed to stop them. But we hadn’t. There was nothing I could say to make their pain disappear. That’s what parents were meant to do, make your pain disappear. I wondered when the roles had reversed.

The air in the living room was heavy. Like an awful truth lingered making it taste like the bitter after bite of coffee. Tears stung the backs of my eyes. I shook them away. I wouldn’t let my parents see me cry. I had to be strong. I pushed the window open and let the cool breeze of early winter in. It worked, my tears retreated.

I sat on her sofa next to mum, “I’m so sor…” she held her hand up to stop me. Being sorry was a waste of time. She knew we had tried to save them. We’d tried to save all of them.

“Kirsty and Liam are science geniuses, Mum. They are still working in the school lab on an anti-sleeper drug to counteract the pink fog. Last I heard they were real close too.”

Dad sat up straight, an almost smile skirted the corner of his eyes. No body actually smiled any more. There had been so little success, so few break-throughs there never seemed to be much to smile about.

“That’s good, Jan, isn’t it?” he nodded, urging her to speak, “we just need one kid to witness the attack. Then we will have some clues, a direction. You know?”

Mum stiffened, her lip wrinkled into a pout.

“Bit late for that, Graham.”

I winced. I hated to admit it but, mum had a point. It was too late to save them. Even if they had found an anti-sleeper drug there was no guarantee it would even work. And who were we going to test it on? My jaw hardened. We’d formed a Council of Children to fight the Hunters and save our parents. But we were failing. Too young, too naïve and too afraid to save anyone. I sunk into the back of the sofa and pawed at my temples.

Mum’s bony spine curved dragging her shoulders into a hunch. I’d always thought it would be dad that lost hope, not mum. But she looked like a shell. She was a young mother and I’d been lucky enough to inherit her supple skin and sparkling eyes. But her body was limp now. Her beauty drowned by haggard skin and dull eyes.

I remembered exactly when she lost hope. It was the morning Sarah, my childhood friend, ran into our flat and flung herself into mum’s arms. Sarah’s mother was mum’s best friend.

“They’re gone, Jan,” she shrieked clawing her chest, “they took mummy.”

Sarah crumpled into mum’s embrace. I had to watch as my mother and oldest friend fell to the floor broken and sobbing. I remember the feeling, the testing in my heart as I stood helpless. That was the moment the sparkle was snuffed out of mum. Extinguished, like the destruction of a species.

She was just a ghost of hope once felt now. My heart ached because even though she was still here, it felt like she’d already died. I wanted to be angry, to feel the burn of resentment because she’d given up, but instead I just longed for a cuddle from my mummy.

“It’s a positive, Jan. I’m telling you. I just know we’re close to something,” dad said, reaching for her. She pulled away.

“Don’t.”

Dad surprised me. Mum had always been in charge. I’d always thought that made him weak. But maybe he just wanted a peaceful life. Because in the face of terror it was dad who was painting himself with the colours of valour. He was becoming the unlikely hero. I smiled. He was becoming my hero.

***

The days blurred into a haze of broken sleep and hours in the science lab with Kirsty and Liam. Mum just sat in the same position on the sofa. Silent. Lost.

“I think if we add a little more adrenaline, a pinch more caffeine and perhaps some synthesised endorphins we might just have a strong enough solution to counteract the gas.” Kirsty beamed as she mixed the final components Liam was passing her. She held up the solution and grinned.

“We did it.”

Dad clapped and bowed at her achievement, she giggled and curtsied. It was sweet, and for the first time in weeks I cracked a smile. Kirsty danced around the lab desks. Liam rolled his eyes and then smirked shuffling his feet behind Kirsty and pushing her into a conga. Dad joined in.

I’d forgotten the sound of laughter. All I’d heard for weeks was nervous ‘ha-ha’s’ and broken sobs.

“Corr, it is a bit weird though,” Liam said, breaking up the conga.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The anti-sleeper’s started to shimmer.”

“So?”

“Well, and I know a couple of others that saw this too but, before I fell asleep the night my parents were taken, I remember seeing a pink mist, it sort of shimmered. Just like that,” he said, pointing at the vial.

***

On the morning of the last day The Council of Children called my parents to a meeting. Mum refused to leave the flat so dad went alone.

We entered the disused city council building. Despite several taking ownership a couple months ago For the Council of Children, the best part of a years neglect made it looked like a war survivor. Bits of paper were strewn across the floor, doors crooked and snapped off hinges. Bricks and plaster crumbled and left abandoned in the middle of the floor. But, it was the faint hint of mold that traced the corridors that worried me. That was the scent of decay. It convinced me we weren’t going to be able to survive alone.

“Graham,” the child sitting in the chairman’s seat began, “we of course, hope that Kirsty’s serum works and that you will be saved from the fate of the Hunters…” he paused and shifted in his seat at the top of the table. He gulped at the air as if tasting sour words, “But, should the serum fail, and you are taken, we need to ensure counter measures are in place.”

The chairman, Harry, was twelve. Twelve. A baby, it wasn’t right that he sounded so grown up. He shouldn’t have to use words like ‘counter measures’ or be the chair of a committee of orphaned children. If his falter, or the incongruence of his age to words showed the pressure he felt, then tomorrow would be so much worst. He wouldn’t just be the chair of a committee, he would be the leader of an entire city of Orphans.

“How can I help?” dad said.

Harry blinked and nodded to the boy on his left who  was holding a needle. I studied Harry for little longer. He was odd looking for a young boy. Mostly, it was his eyes that made me uneasy. His irises were too big for the whites of his eyes. He sort of ogled at everything like he knew too much. I felt like he  could see right through me. I shuddered.

“Er…what are you doing?” I said, barging in front of my dad as the boy brandished the needle.

“It’s ok, Lou.” Dad put an arm across my chest stopping me from standing in front of him.

“This is a microchip,” the boy with the needle said, handing it to dad, “it activates as soon as it’s embedded in the skin.”

The boy turned to face me, cocking his eyebrow, and pulling his lips tight, “we will be able to trace the location of your parents.”

“Oh. Ok. Fine. Good idea.”

I retreated and glanced at Harry. He pulled his hands through his hair, and rubbed his neck. He really was odd for a twelve year old. My eyes narrowed as I stared at him. I couldn’t quite place what it was about him that felt wrong. I shrugged it off. He was probably just messed up like the rest of the orphaned kids.

“We should have thought of this sooner,” I said to needle boy.

“What if the Hunters find it and remove it before they even get dad out of the city for godsake? We only get one shot at this now.”

The boy glared at me but stayed silent. A worm wriggled in my stomach. I shouldn’t have snapped. It wasn’t his fault he’d only just thought of it. I should just be grateful.

He took dads arm and pushed his sleeve up, “there is one other benefit, but…” he looked at me and pulled out a second needle.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m not certain it will work. And I don’t know what impact Kirsty’s anti-sleeper will have on the effectiveness either.”

I rubbed hard at my forehead I wanted to pull at my face and shout. But it wouldn’t do any good. Why couldn’t anything ever be simple? My face felt wrinkled. Sixteen was far too young to have wrinkles and I didn’t want to end up like mum.

“Go on…” I said, through gritted teeth.

“It’s a second chip, which we implant into your arm. I found the pair of them in the security firm building on Tower Street. I think it will enable one way communication.”

“Only one way?” I snorted.

“Only one way,” the boy nodded, “it’s the best we can do. I’m putting the communications transistor into your dads arm. So he will be able to get messages to you,” he turned to my dad, “Graham, we want as much information about where you are, how you got there, any security and the Hunters. Anything you can give us that will help us get you back.”

“Assuming they’re still alive you mean,” Harry mumbled.

Dad winced, his face fell. Another piece of hope stripped from him. My head snapped in Harry’s direction. How dare he. His eyes were wide, he cupped his hand to his mouth. My chest tightened I wanted to fly across the table and punch him.

“They’re still alive, Lou…Of course they are…. They all are.” His stuttered words were too late. Even if he removed the knife from dad’s back, the wound was still there.

Harry’s brow was strained, furrowed and lined like mine. Only, I wasn’t convinced it was for the same reasons.

“Ok,” I nodded, to the boy, “do it.” And I held out my arm.

***

Gracey-Mae came to say goodbye. It was sweet. But she wasn’t really there for my parents. It was an act of solidarity for me and I was grateful. She told me she was there when I needed her and that she would find me first thing tomorrow.

There were no goodbye tears. We had all run dry through months of crying. Weeping for stolen friends and loved ones and for our inability to defend ourselves. Mostly, I cried in fear of losing hope.

But tonight there was a plan. A tiny flame of opportunity ignited… a renewed purpose. I could feel the change in air as the news spread through the city. The anticipation buzzed and popped on my skin. This evening, in the tiny vial of anti-sleeper that pressed against my thigh in my pocket, there was hope; a possibility of rescue and the potential to reunite an entire city of families.

The chip had slipped through the needle and embedded in my arm like it had always been a part of my muscle. The only evidence of its existence a tiny red dot that looked more like an unimposing bug bite.

I kissed my parents. Dad placed a soft peck on my forehead and held me tight. My throat was thick with grief. Even if I’d wanted to say good bye I couldn’t.

“I’m so proud of you LouLou, whatever happens, you protect this city. If you don’t find us in a couple of weeks, get the kids out. Move to a different city, find the authorities. Do whatever you have to, but Harry…” he paused.

Adrenaline flickered in my stomach. I wanted him to say something to confirm my suspicions. To tell me my gut was right. That he felt it too.

“He’s not old enough to lead a city of children.”

My stomach wilted, I must be wrong. Paranoia from the constant anxiety of being watched, of waiting for my parents’ to be taken must have been taking its toll. I decided to give Harry another chance. If my dad trusted him, he must be ok.

I nodded into dad’s chest, clinging on to him with desperate fingers. I wanted to stay there. Embraced in his arms. I wanted him to tell me it was all going to be ok. But I couldn’t stay there. And it wasn’t going to be ok.

My chest was so heavy I could barely catch a breath. He let me hang on for a few minutes longer. I needed to be strong, but I wanted let out the gut wrenching hysteria that was crawling through my insides like a virus. I wanted to stamp my foot and throw a childish tantrum. I couldn’t be alone or an orphan. I wasn’t ready to be responsible for an entire city of children. I needed my parents. I needed him, my hero.

“It’s time, Lou.”

He peeled my hands off him. We both stood staring at each other. I wouldn’t say it. I couldn’t. Part of me still desperate it wasn’t really goodbye.

“I love you, Lou.”

The lump in my throat was so hard it was agonising, I managed to choke an “I love you too, dad,” before sprinting from the flat. If I’d stayed a minute longer the Hunters would have had to prize my leeched like body off my parents.

I leaned against the flats wall outside, breathing heavily. I shook away the thoughts of my parents alone upstairs just waiting for their fate. I felt for the vial and stared at the contents.

It still was shimmering.

I necked it. It tasted sweet in my mouth but, as it slipped down my throat it burnt. My arm where the microchip sat tingled. I wondered which would fail; the chip, or the anti-sleeper.

I lost count of the circuits of the flat I did. Minutes drifted into hours and as the first specks of sunlight kissed the horizon I thought the Hunters wouldn’t come. Butterflies danced on delicate bubbles around my stomach. Maybe the Hunters had changed their minds. They didn’t need my parents. They had taken enough.

A soft pink vapor drifted across the tarmac in front of the flat. It was beautiful. It acted like clouds, billowing and fluffy. It shimmered in the dawn light, just like they said it would. I found myself wandering towards it. I wanted to touch it. It was calling me, singing in time with the chirps of morning’s first birds.

I was wrong. My parents weren’t special and they hadn’t been forgotten. The hunters were here. And they had come to take them.

***

So what do you think? Should I carry on the story? Or forget it and go back to my plotter ways?!

The post Adultland Part II appeared first on Sacha Black.

I was nominated to take part in this photo challenge by Ali Isaac, who has a wonderful blog filled with fascinating tales of Irish mythology – check it out if you haven’t already, you learn something new with every post. I would like to nominate three of my blogging compadres to take up this photo challenge…

1. Ula because I think she’s fascinating and would love to see what she shoots

2. Keith – because he’s an awesome photographer already

See the rules below, never been much of a rule follower, so not only am I doing this over five weeks instead of five days, I highly doubt I’ll only post one story too! :p

The photo is of a common garden spiders nest of babies. Whilst they are growing as eggs they shed a skin. Once born they cling together usually in balls – but in trying to capture a macro shot I disturbed them – until they shed their second skin. 

***

I really hate spiders, mostly because I’m terrified. Not just a little squeak and run away scared. I’m the shove you out the way, jump on chairs, hyperventilate kind of scared. It’s those dark hairy legs. *shudder*. The thought of one crawling over me with those eight little legs dancing on my bear skin. Oh my god, I have to stop describing it my shoulders are twitching and I have goosebumps just thinking about it.

As part of the challenge I have to do a story – I’m going to do two (told you I couldn’t follow rules).

First up a personal one:

The wife and I had taken a jolly in her car – unusual at the time because I had just bought my new car and so understandably we were using mine a lot. The wife drove, she always does. I have no idea why because I constantly get car sickness unless I drive. But anyway, she was driving. If you know me – you know I have a thing about eyebrows – I could go out in crappy clothes covered in baby puke and without make up on. But I cannot leave the house unless my eyebrows are penciled in. Just can’t. Well I took my trusty artists pencil with me and needed to slap the paint on. So I pulled down the visor. I swear it was the size of a horse. Not a pony, but a fucking great big shire horse.

My wife says she can’t recall a time she has seen me move faster and she certainly can’t understand the physics of how I ended up still strapped into the front passenger seat whilst being physically located in the back. She also could not help unstrap me because she was in pieces laughing at my shrieks of horror. I was not laughing. I was cursing her for having a three door car. I was trapped in the back, with the tarantula about to advance on me and EAT ME. I was not laughing because I was too busy trying to climb through the boot to get out of the car. Here’s the little bastard:

***

My second story is in honour of my challenger, Ali. Ali is amazing at retelling mythological tales, so I thought I would do some research in her honour and look to see if their was a myth based on spiders, although I shan’t attempt a retelling – I’ll leave that to the expert :).

The symbology of spiders is an interesting one. I had wrongly (because I’m shit scared) assumed it would be all horror stories and pincers. But actually although spiders are predators they are commonly seen as the Great Mother. A weaver of destinies. Weaver coming from their web creating skills. In Cameroon they represent diligence and wisdom and in China a spider on a thread is a symbol of luck. Spiders weave webs like we do our lives, making choices that become the constructs of our lives, as they are the structures for their houses.

The Hopi (Native Americans) have a creation story with a spider woman as the goddess of the Earth. With the sun god Tawa, they created the first two beings.

In Greek mythology there was a girl called Arachne who was arrogant about her skills as a weaver. She refused to acknowledge that her gift came in part from the goddess Athena goddess of war and handicraft. Athena gave Arachne the chance to beg for forgiveness and be humble- when she refused Athena challenged her to a weaving contest. Arachne produced stunning woven work and Athena was angry at the high quality of her work so in a war like rage she destroyed it. Arachne became depressed that her masterpiece was destroyed and hung herself on a rope. Athena took pity and loosened the rope noose which became a web and she turned into a spider so she could weave forevermore. This is where we get the class name Arachnid from.

You can find out more about the myth here.

Below is the rest of the photos I took trying to get a good one. I have a macro lens for my iPhone, which means I had to get up close and personal with a ball of spiders – you can imagine my delight. Why I chose this as my first shot I have no idea!

***

***

The rules of the Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge are:

1) Post a photo each day for five consecutive days. (Sorry I’m cheating and going to do it once a week!)
2) Attach a story to the photo. It can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, or a short paragraph. It’s entirely up to the individual.
3) Nominate another blogger to carry on the challenge. Your nominee is free to accept or decline the invitation. This is fun, not a command performance!

The post Five Day Photo Challenge #1 – Spidermare appeared first on Sacha Black.

I came across Flipboard completely by chance. I was browsing my stats page and seemed to be getting an increasing number of referrals from this ‘thing’ called Flipboard. However, when I clicked through to the links they just failed so I thought it was spam.

The following day, I had over 100 referrals just from that site, so I decided to actually Google Flipboard, and low and behold its pretty awesome.

Anyway, if you’re anything like me, you might spend hours reading other blogs or trawling the internet for story research, but where do you put it all? I never really know what to do with all the things I want to read again, it’s not like the old days when you shove crap from magazines a in a folder or scrap book – I miss getting my fingers smeared with pritt stick and having a physical project book that never quite looked right!

These days I clog my laptop up with dozens of open tabs in my browser, (which stay open for weeks) and then I get mighty irritated when my laptop does an automatic update and closes everything. LOST FOREVER PEOPLE.

Sure, I could bookmark pages but isn’t that so last decade?! Plus I must have at least a thousand bookmarks none of which are particularly well organised.

Sigh.

Flipboard is a kind of Pinterest but for word oriented people rather than visual people. It works on the basis of you creating ‘Magazines’ which are effectively a storage folder. You can ‘flip’ articles, blog posts or pictures into your magazines. You can title, rearrange and organise your magazines and articles however you like.

It’s basically the ideal solution to storing those interesting blogs, pictures, research or articles you want to keep. It’s minimal effort, sleek, neat and can be visual for those who want it.  But more than anything, its tidy and doesn’t require hundreds of bytes of data to store.

They also have a ‘flip it’ button you can install onto your browser so that you can flip things from anywhere. They have apps for your devices and all the mod cons of a normal social media site, like the ability to follow other peoples’ magazines or general ‘topics’, of which there are thousands.

I am only just getting to grips with this little discovery, but it appears to be a bit of an (undiscovered to me) gem.

Have you heard of Flipboard? Do you use it? Like it? Let me know in the comments.

If you liked this post, why not get even more awesome writing tips in the book 13 Steps To Evil – How to Craft Superbad Villains. Click this link and just tap the logo of your device or regular bookshop and it will take you to the right page. 

You can also get a FREE villains cheatsheet and a villain’s short course by joining my mailing list just click here.

Read Keepers, the first book in my Young Adult fantasy series now. Or to hear more about the release of the sequels as well as get regular CogMail updates you can do so here.

You can also find me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, Goodreads

The post The Minimalists Guide to Storing Interesting Articles appeared first on Sacha Black.

If this Writespiration inspired you then jot a few words, a poem or a story and post below and I will post them with a link to your blog in next weeks post.

Here’s mine:

What is Love? By Sacha Black

“What does it feel like, Mama?”

“What does what feel like, Joseph?”

“Love.”

“Well,” I said picking him up and drawing him into my chest, “It’s warm and squidgy, and filled with cuddles and warmth. It sounds like glorious sunshine, and birds chirping in spring and sometimes like waves crashing on the sand.”

“Oh,” he said wriggling out of my arms. He frowned at me, and puckered his lips into a pout.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“But, if love sounds like all of those things, then what does it taste of?”

I smiled to myself and planted a kiss on his forehead.

“What’s your favourite food?”

“Mama don’t be silly, you know it’s ice cream and marshmallows.”

“Then honey, I strongly suspect that love tastes of ice cream and marshmallows.”

***

Last weeks writespiration had three fantastic submissions:

The first a moving tale of innocence by Geoff Le Pard

Dust

No pavement this
A line of dust
Trod hard by toil.
Sifting grains held
Till the rains come.
Or tears and sweat.
Or blood.

Only children now touch
With curiosity,
Wiggling toes,
Questioning fingers,
Filtering grit,
Sizing each piece,
Testing for abrasion
On soft untroubled skin.

Only children have time
To explore.
Lives not yet
Trammelled by toil
And sweat
And blood.

Soon enough the rains will come.

***

The second a wonderfully emotional Haiku by Rachel

The dog sat, waiting.
He looked at his surroundings.
His family was gone.

***

The third submission was a beautiful tale of childhood memories by Charli Mills

Little Towns by Charli Mills

I lagged behind our guide, tugging at my daughter’s sleeve.

“Rose, this is like a scene from my childhood.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Mom, you grew up in North Dakota. This is Nepal.”

“Look—that little girl. Give her braids and that would be me, playing in the street while Pa loaded our wagon.”

“Seriously, Mom.”

“And that man in the doorway. He stands, arms folded, like Nels the shopkeeper. And that woman in the striking material. His wife I bet. Nels’s wife always dressed better than everyone else.”

“What is with you? We are in a foreign country.”

Nepal inspired me. I now knew that I would return home and write about my childhood. “Every place in the world has its little town on the prairie.”

The post Writespiration #32 appeared first on Sacha Black.

I’ve participated in two writing challenges this week. I find it hard to do one usually, but for some reason my muse was with me this week. I don’t usually share my challenge responses on my own blog, but I thought what the hey, this week I would.

The first challenge I participated in was Esther’s,who this time used a photo as inspiration here’s my entry:

Stargate

***

The second challenge I participated in was Charli Mills weekly 99 word challenge, she gives a prompt and the submission needs to include the prompt which was:  In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a river and a person (or people). So here is my entry:

I heard shrill ringing from sirens in the background.

“I haven’t got long, Ted.”

I stroked the lid of the cask and flashed a glance at the bright red sign on the edge of the bridge.

‘ASH DUMPING PROHIBITED’

I stifled a laugh as a tear spilled onto the bridge concrete.

“You old basterd, you knew I’d hate doing this.”

I longed for him. Ached. I wasn’t sure I could go on.

The sirens were close now.

I opened the lid and spilled the contents into the river.

And I ran like the wind his ashes were drifting into.

The post Writing Challenge Submissions appeared first on Sacha Black.