In this episode we cover: 

• Lessons learned from writing short stories
• Mistakes to avoid
• Submission tips
• Anthology marketing tips
• How to organise and run an anthology

This week’s question is: Have you ever applied to or participated in an anthology? OR do you read them?

Recommendation of the week is: The Rebel Diaries Anthology Edited by Sacha Black

Available at all good stores!

Kobo

Apple

Amazon UK

Amazon US

***this show uses affiliate links

Find out more about Mark at:

Author Website

Twitter

Instagram

YouTube

Find out more about Helen at:

Author Website

Blog

Twitter

Instagram

Rebel of the Week is: Leighann Rust

If you’d like to be a Rebel of the week please do send in your story, it can be any kind of rebellion. You can email your rebel story to rebelauthorpodcast@gmail.com or instagram me @sachablackauthor

No new patrons this week, but a big thank you to my existing patrons. If you’d like to support the show, and get early access to all the episodes as well as bonus content you can from as little as $2 a month by visiting: www.patreon.com/sachablack

The post 131 How to Write and Market an Anthology with Mark Leslie Lefebvre and Helen Glynn Jones appeared first on Sacha Black.

In this episode we cover: 

• Defining short fiction
• How much story do you need for short fiction?
• How to do more with your short fiction
• Mistakes writers make with short fiction
• Quirky ideas for your short fiction

This week’s question is: how do you use short fiction in your writing business?

Recommendation of the week is:

The Anatomy of Prose: The Senses Course: Discount Code: rebelvacay15

Matty’s The Short Tack Book

Links I mentioned are:

The Senses Course

Find out more about Matty on:

Website

Facebook

Twitter

The Indy Author YouTube channel

​LinkedIn

Episode I did with Matty on Side Characters

Example of Short Fiction Promotion:  Ann Kinnear Suspense Short ALL DEATHS ENDURE

Rebel of the Week is: Shirish Deshpande

If you’d like to be a Rebel of the week please do send in your story, it can be any kind of rebellion. You can email your rebel story to rebelauthorpodcast@gmail.com or instagram me @sachablackauthor

Huge thank you and welcome to: Kirstin Bussey, Maggie Menane, L.K. Latham, Paisleykaat, and Claire L. Fishback. A big thank you to my existing patrons. If you’d like to support the show, and get early access to all the episodes as well as bonus content you can from as little as $2 a month by visiting: www.patreon.com/sachablack

The post 099 How to Write and Sell Short Fiction with Matty Dalrymple appeared first on Sacha Black.

Hello Rebels, welcome to The Rebel Author Podcast episode 39. I’m talking to an extra special guest this week, my very first writing tutor, Esther Chilton. We’re talking all about how to earn money with short stories, fillers, reader letters and competitions.

Episode Show Notes

This week’s questions is:

Do you write short stories or flash fiction?

Find out more about our guest Esther Newton on her:

Blog

Twitter

Her book A Walk in the Woods

Don’t forget The Anatomy of Prose is now live, you can get it in ebook, paperback or hardback now.

Click the link here.

Order the Workbook here. 

Book recommendation: Publication Guaranteed by Esther Newton

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/3gtIVdj 

Amazon USA: https://amzn.to/2AyEkr3

Listener Rebel of the Week is Katrina Hood

If you’d like to be a Rebel of the week please do send in your story, it can be any kind of rebellion. You can email your rebel story to rebelauthorpodcast@gmail.com or tweet me @rebelauthorpod

Thank you to all patrons for the support. If you’d like to support the show, and get access to all the bonus essays, posts and content, you can from as little as $2 a month by visiting: www.patreon.com/sachablack

The post 039 How to Make Money with Short Fiction with Esther Chilton appeared first on Sacha Black.

This year there will be 52 challenges over 52 weeks and your challenge is to write your story using the theme/prompt and write it in just 52 words…. EXACTLY, no more, no less.

The art of being concise is nothing if not a muscle flexing ‘write’ bicep curling device. But I wanted to add to that challenge which is why, you have to be exact too. Because there are 52 challenges over the year, THAT’s I want you to write your entries in EXACTLY 52 words.

Each week I will give you a prompt of some variety and then you submit your entries and I post them the following week with the new prompt. You’ll have until Sunday to enter each week.

This year, I am trying to cut back the time I spend blogging to make sure I give as much time as I can to writing books. So I wanted to let y’all know, that I will read every single entry, but I may not comment on each one.

So without further ado, the first writespiration of 2017, 52 words exactly and you need to include the phrase…

The timer started

Somewhere in your 52 words.

Good luck.

The post Writespiration #97 52 Weeks in 52 Words – Week 1 appeared first on Sacha Black.

This week your task is to write a fairytale, or a part of one, or a fairytale poem set in the photo. Maybe it’s a nightmare tale, or perhaps a happily ever after ending, or maybe a prince’s love monologue. Write a fairytale in less than 200 words. Leave it in the comments or use a pingback so I find it. Due by 23rd October.

Last week, you’re task was to include the prompt Kaledioscope in your entries.

First in was Ladylee Manila 

Sing me a song that will give me craft
A fair amount of good-natured chaff
Day or night – chicken done right
Lightning that flashes called sprite
A fiery one that will repair my frame
Ladyleemanila – that’s my nickname
Call me back and add a billow of hope
Write a letter and put it in an envelope
Anything nice and sweet so I can cope
Vibrant colours in a range of kaleidoscope
Another chance to say that I still exist
So that I know that I’m being missed

intone me a song
a vibrant kaleidoscope
pondering my thoughts

Next up Gordon

I re-read the passage and wondered, I was pretty sure that the building work had been done in 1808. But this diary claimed it had been done several years later. Which was true? Could both be correct? Or had I made a mistake in my interpretation?
I flicked through the book and then gasped, it couldn’t be true. In an entry for 1810 the author mentioned a Kaleidoscope, but I knew that was impossible.
I looked at the introduction again, the diary had been ‘copied’ in the 1940s, the original had been ‘mislaid’.
I smiled now, the diary was fiction.

This is exactly what happened when I was shown a book called ‘Old Portland’. It had been published as the diary of a young woman living in the early nineteenth century. I couldn’t make out why the dates in the book didn’t match what was I knew from other sources, until I saw the mention of a Kaleidoscope in 1810. The device, and the name, were invented in 1816, so the diary was clearly fiction.

Allie P up next

The room spun. A kaleidoscope of faces assaulted my eyes, and all of them laughing, as I fought to maintain my bearings. My plate crashed to the ground, sending bits of uneaten sloppy joe in every direction. I could now see bits of whatever had been used to spike my meal. Too late now. Laughter turned to gasps as my legs gave out, granting me only a moment’s satisfaction that at least a few now regretted their prank before my face landed in a puddle of my own making.

Next in Ritu, with a story I can relate to

“Quick Cap’n! They be gaining on us!”

Captain John Bird hurriedly fished his spyglass out of his pocket to see what this vessel was that chasing them.

“It looks like they’re preparing the cannon, and, that be a pirate flag on their mast!”

Focussing the glass, Captain Bird looked out, but all he could see was a rainbow of colours, no ship.

“Damn this thing!” he thought, pulling his handkerchief out to clean the lens.

It was only then that he realised, in the hurry to board his ship, he’d picked up his son’s kaleidoscope instead of his spyglass…

Annette in next,

Look But Don’t Touch

The “boys” could look at but not touch the kaleidoscope collection without her supervision. Nancy had been collecting the tubes of wonder for decades. So naturally, when she wasn’t looking, they’d take sneak-a -peak at the forbidden worlds a few twists and turns revealed.
After she died, the girls were busy packing up antiques for the dealer to sell. They kept asking the “boys” if there was anything they wanted and all they could do was to shrug their shoulders. They had taken what they wanted, when no one was looking.

Next in Prajakty:

Like a kaleidoscope, the images flashed through my eyes.

Where memory plucked a piece of time to cherish,

From past travels and adventures and journeys.

An autumn leaf, a blooming cherry blossom and a fresh snowflake,

Shaded with hues left behind by a piece of myself.

.

Slowly chipped away to nothing as I meandered far and wide,

But shaped back whole by the memory capsules I carried back home.

Fixed with mementos, an imperfect solved jigsaw was I.

Ever resolving. Ever evolving.

Ever travelling.

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The post Write a Fairytale Set Here – Writespiration #96 appeared first on Sacha Black.

Every author knows they should be able to write a short, but not everyone can.

I can’t.

I’m so inept at writing short stories, I wrote a piece of flash fiction last year and the fucking things turned into 30,000 words of what will be a novel. Apparently I didn’t get the ‘SHORT’ memo.

*shrug*

All I can do is write full length novels, or blink-of-the-eye flash fiction. Something about that smug middle man puts me in a catatonic state of ‘fuck-you-upitus-writersblock.’

However, Esther Newton, is a master of the short. I’ve just finished reading her collection of award-winning short stories: The Siege and like always, I figured I’d share some lessons.

I learnt many, but something I think Esther is spectacular at is a killer ending. Here’s how to master a killer ending for your short stories.

ONE – Diametric  stories

By diametric story, I mean that the start of the story is the exact opposite to the ending.

An example in a paragraph:

Let’s say your story starts with you, skirt ripped, hauling yourself out a ditch to do the walk of shame home. You’re still single, still heartbroken and just got used… again. So you promise to be a good girl, starting again…. tomorrow. You spend the majority of the short story not being a good girl and doing, well, everyonething. But, in the process you fall in love. Pinch of conflict, dash of romance and the end of the story has you climbing out of a ditch all over again, only this time a hand reaches out to grab you and pull you out. The hand of your new lover.

The start is the exact opposite to the end.

Opposing the beginning and end of a story is an essential tool for novels but it’s like Oxygen for shorts. The lack of words and depth keep the beginning more salient in a readers mind. Meaning a nice big bang for your ending.

Newton’s third story in the collection is the perfect example of this. Now, I don’t want to ruin all her stories so I will try not to spoil it, but this one is so poetic and emotional it’s the perfect example of this so I HAD no choice.

The story opens: ‘There would be no reading of the last will and testament of Joshua Needham.’

Now, without giving too much away, the story ends with a will of another kind, but the fact there is one makes the ending the exact opposite to the beginning and wonderfully satisfying for the reader.

I asked Esther what the most important factors are in setting up a killer short story ending, she said:

“When I open a story, I like to hook the reader’s interest straight away. The reader starts to think a certain way because of that opening, so I then like to take them elsewhere – often in a completely different direction to the one they first thought the story was going in. It makes the opening all the more effective and by the end the reader feels as if they have been on a real journey. So to answer the question, for me, a killer ending often works because of the opening.

Other important factors –

• Leaving your reader satisfied. Ultimately you want them to read that last line and think, ‘What a fantastic ending to a great story’.
• Not going beyond the story’s natural ending e.g. in a horror story, it’s more effective to finish with the girl thinking she’s got away only for the monster to appear right at the end, its jaws drooling, than it is to go into graphic detail about how the monster finished her off, the hours all her friends spent looking for her, how her beloved dog pined for her and so on.
• Twist endings are good, but many are obvious; think outside the box. What won’t the reader expect?”
  

  ---

TWO – The Set Up

Newton creates every circus performers wet dream; a tightrope so seamless it perfectly joins the beginning of the story to the end. That’s what makes her stories so satisfying: consistency of that thread/theme/phrasing/plot line, throughout the story.

But, if you want to give your readers that goggle eyed ‘I just opened an entire box of chocolates’ feeling, you need to make sure the build up to it is just as watertight.

I will continue to use Joshua’s Will, save spoilers for any of the other stories. In order to make the reading of his ‘alternate will’ so satisfying. Newton does several things:

1. Make a will or one more moment with Joshua the one thing the characters  want
2. Make it seem impossible for them to have one more moment, or for Joshua to have a will
3. Torture the characters 
4. Torture the characters some more

These factors: making it clear what the characters want, making it impossible for them to get and then torturing them before giving it to them are fundamental to the perfect set up.

I asked Esther what factors she considers when setting up her stories:

“I tend to plot my stories. I find the beginning and ending come to me pretty easily; I then have to work out how the story gets from the beginning to the end. This is when the set-up comes into play. If my ending is a twist, I need to think about how not to give it away, and how to lead the reader away from it. But then neither must I leave the reader feeling cheated and as if the ending has come from nowhere.  

When I write a short story, I always picture myself in the characters’ shoes; I imagine what it’s like to be them, to experience what they’re going through. I think this helps the storyline to work, as well as for the characters to come to life.”

---

THREE – Last line

I’ve written about the last lines of YA dystopian fiction before. I looked at the differences in last lines between first and last books in trilogies. There are obvious differences like, the last line of a first book leaves a little something open, final books don’t.  There are other things novel endings do, like foreshadow when there’s another book coming, but they also resolve conflict.

Shorts don’t allow a continuation of the story. They’re one offs, so everything needs to be resolved with a shit-the-dog-up firework of a last line.

In Newton’s story ‘Joshua’s Will’ the ending is symbolic with another will being read but the actual last line is the emotional reaction to it depicting the bittersweet satisfaction of being given the will and giving the reader the same feeling. I cried harder than the terror tot does when I tell him he can’t have a third cookie.

Newton has another wicked cool trick up her sleeve, she creates poetry through the opposing flow of diametric start and end sentences. Newton also uses repetition and symbolism to give her last line some TNT.

I asked Esther how she makes sure her last line counts:

“When I set it up, I have the beginning and ending in mind. I’ll loosely plan the middle, but often it’ll change once I start and sometimes the ending does as well. But I don’t worry about it; I let my mind work at it and sometimes – when I’m doing something mundane like cleaning the loo – the perfect last line comes to mind. For me, a cracking last line is essential. It’s the last thing that’s read and so you want it to stay with your reader.”

---

FOUR  – No loose ends

Loose plot ends are a no, no, it’s as bad as walking out the work toilets with your dress hooked in your kacks and toilet roll superglued to your stiletto.

I asked Esther how she ties up her loose ends:

“I always think about ensuring the ending is clear to the reader. Does everything make sense? Yes, as the writer, you know exactly what’s going on, but will a reader? So I always look at it from the reader’s viewpoint.

That isn’t to say you have to tie your story up in a nice little bow. Many readers like a story with an open ending so they can finish it for themselves. But it must be clear e.g. it’s no good having a character who’s killed off earlier on in the story suddenly turning up at the end alive and well without any explanation.”

---

FIVE – Make Use of Your Titles

The title is often forgotten. It’s a hover over the submit button, ‘fuck-it’ realisation. But it shouldn’t be. Short stories are compact, you have a limited amount of words, and usually, the title isn’t included. So use it wisely.

How?

Use it to foreshadow, Give a secret away, or, like Newton, in her last story ‘ A New Beginning’ use it as a repeating line – in title and again as the last line of the story.

I asked Esther how you can make best use of your titles:

“Titles work well in intriguing the reader. Your title could be a play on words; the reader won’t know til they read your story. Or a title can set the mood and atmosphere for a story. So by the time the reader has read the first line, they’re already into the story, and feeling part of it.”

Amazon says this about the book

“After launching her short story collection, ‘The Siege and Other Award Winning Stories’, as an ebook, freelance writer and The Writers Bureau tutor, Esther Newton, has received numerous requests to bring out a paperback edition. ‘The Siege and Other Award Winning Stories’ paperback features a further six short stories, as well as the original twelve from the ebook, offering more drama, more tension, more laughs and even more emotion. From the heart-rending story of a young girl who’s never had a friend, to some special letters to Father Christmas, and a woman running away from a violent man, each story will keep you reading on straight into the next. The collection includes prize winning short stories from Writing Magazine, Writers’ News, The Global Short Story and Ouse Valley Writers competitions, amongst others.” 

Esther’s Author Biography

I have been working as a freelance writer for sixteen years, regularly writing articles and short stories for magazines and newspapers such as Freelance Market News, Writers’ Forum, The Guardian, The Cat, and The People’s Friend to name a few.

Winner of Writing Magazine, Writers’ News and several other prestigious writing competitions and awards, I have also had the privilege of judging writing competitions. A collection of some of my prize winning stories has been put together in a book, The Siege and Other Award Winning Stories, which is available in e-book format and paperback from Amazon and all other on-line stores.

My children’s series of fiction books for 5-7 year olds, Sophie’s Secret Quest, has been taken on by a publisher and the first in the series is due for launch later this year, you can find out more here.

I volunteer for my local Cats Protection and was delighted when they asked me if I’d take over as editor for their magazine, The Cat Flap. It’s been a bit of a learning curve, but I’m relishing my new role.

As well as working as a freelance writer, I have branched out into the exciting world of copywriting, providing copy for sales letters, brochures, leaflets, slogans and webpages.

I love writing but I also enjoy helping others, which I achieve in my role as tutor for The Writers Bureau. In addition to tutoring I have a blog, designed to provide writers with support, market information and advice here. I also have my own guidance and advice service, which I set up to offer writers support in any way I can, find out more here.

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The post 5 Tactics to Master Killer Short Story Endings appeared first on Sacha Black.

Finally, I can see straight enough to write this. So, this week, the challenge is to write about your happy place (or a character’s happy place).

I needed my happy place this week. I had to drift off in order to ignore the pain. I have a couple of happy places, one in my head, and several actual locations. New York for one, a cafe by myself, coffee in hand laptop open is another. The summit of Kala Phattar a mountain in the Himalayas with the best views of Everest.

In your challenge, make sure we know what sent you to your happy place, was it a fight? a traumatic experience? Or maybe love drove you there. So, that’s it. Happy places in less than 200 words.

First in from last weeks entries about a struggle is Geoffle, with a rather odd little tale from two kitties.

For the love of a good cat by Geoff Le Pard

Even at the start Sheila knew Martin was going to be a problem. Indifferent to her affection he spent most days outdoors. He moaned for food and then disappeared. It was different with visitors – mother especially. He was on her lap and purring before she’d taken off her initial disappointment.
His death was quick – a moment’s inattention and the paper boy’s bicycle. Sheila had no plans for a replacement until Marjory begged her to take one from a large litter.
At first Sheila was delighted. Affectionate, Mabel was all Martin was not. But gradually delight turned to despair. Mabel had a conscience. Every crippled mouse, battered vole and screwed up shrew was dragged, mostly reluctantly, through the cat flap and nurtured by the fire. The patients mostly died of fright, what with two green eyes staring at them constantly but Mabel kept trying.
When the house began to smell of rot Sheila understood her problem. Mabel buried her dead indoors with the same care as she sought to save them. While Sheila hunted, Mabel nurtured, each aware that their own struggle was futile and doomed to fail but no less compelling for that.

Next in Judy, with this hilarious poem full of naughty words and girl power.

When it’s time to’ man up’

We are told to ‘grow to a pair’

Balls will make us stronger

But that’s not very fair!

Why are they so special?

To make us act so tough

In those awful moments

When life gets really rough.

Gonads are quite tender

And one kick in the jewels

Can render someone helpless

Plus make them look such fools!

Women are much stronger

There are no ifs and buts.

We have to push a child out

Despite the rips and cuts

You don’t find women fretting

On having to wear a box

Scared that being sporty

Will break their precious cocks!

If you want to show some strength

Balls are pretty minor

I suggest you ‘woman up’

Grow yourself a  vagina!

Next Jane, with a heartbreaking tale that sent me right back to my own childhood and having to say goodbye.  jane also gave us a little teaser of her up coming book… check it out here.

Ginger was dead. Betty wasn’t allowed to touch the broken body. She wanted to wipe away the blood smears but she was afraid of hurting the cat even more. Her father had scraped him onto an old towel and they were going to bury him in the garden. Betty watched as her father dug the hole, but more than her father, she watched the towel and the paw sticking out with the delicate pink pads. They looked so perfect and alive. She crouched down and reached out a finger to touch them, one after the other. Still soft and a bit spongy. But cold.

Mr Ritchie across the road had run over Ginger while he was backing out of his garage. He’d said sorry. He’d gone now, off to the supermarket as if nothing had happened. But he’d said sorry. Betty ought to have forgiven him because that’s what you did when people said they were sorry. But if he was sorry, why didn’t he cry like she had done? Why had he gone off to Tesco thinking about cornflakes and soap powder?

She must have been glowering because her father stopped digging and came over to give her a hug.

“It wasn’t his fault, you know. He just didn’t see Ginger in the driveway. He was very sorry about it.”

Betty said nothing. Mr Ritchie was sorry, but not sorry enough. People who are sorry enough don’t do the things that would make them sorry. She looked at the towel and the very slight hump that the squashed cat made inside it. She looked at the beautiful pink pads and she sobbed. Mr Ritchie was sorry. But Ginger was still dead.

***

Jane Entered another piece this week, a struggle reunited from her upcoming book. Check out the cover, its WELL COOL

Footsteps rang out on the walkway, echoing in the caverns of the empty boutiques. Carla stiffened and grabbed Kat’s arm.

“Ratmen?” she whispered.

Kat listened. The footsteps continued, lots of feet, stealthy almost, nervous.

“Maybe.”

They moved away from the yawning gap of the hall below, where pieces of safety rail swung free, into the squealing scuffling shadows… Carla shuddered at the memory, the long twitching nose, sloping forehead, the big ears and bristle-covered face. She shuddered at the terror in those mad eyes. Kat had killed it and it had screamed like a child.

The footsteps stopped. Ahead in the shadows, deeper shadows waited. Carla held her breath. A single shadow moved forward.

“Carla?”

Tully.

She forced herself not to run to him.

“Carla?”

She could see him now, his face, his eyes.

No! You don’t care!

She clenched her fists, clenched her eyes tight closed. But she still saw him, the gentle eyes full of…sorrow.

“Carla,” he whispered and she could feel his breath on her skin. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears squeezed from behind her lids. She sobbed as her clenched fists beat his chest then opened, pulling him towards her, his face, as damp as hers.

Next up, Ali, with this beautiful achievement thats a true story. Love a happy ending

The phone is ringing. The new girl sits at her desk looking at it, face scarlet. I pause, half hidden behind a tall shelf unit, and watch; her third day, and she still hasn’t answered the phone.

Suzie, her mentor, turns to me questioningly, but I shake my head. She says something to the girl and smiles, but her eyes are glued to the phone in terror, and she doesn’t see.

It’s only a phone, I murmur, willing her to pick up. The phone rings and rings. Its persistent tone is starting to irritate; more than a few annoyed faces glance her way across the office.

Was I wrong about her, I wonder.

Slowly, her hand reaches out and hovers above the receiver, as if she half expects it will leap up and bite. Then she lunges forward and answers. She speaks self-consciously into the mouthpiece, frowning in concentration, presses a button, and her voice floats loud and clear over the tannoy.

“Ph-ph-ph-phonecall on line one for Miss Isaac.”

Her colleagues erupt in applause, and I go forward to congratulate her. She is beaming with pride. Such a small achievement, you might think, but for someone with a stutter, it is Everest.

The post Writespiration #77 Going To Your Happy Place appeared first on Sacha Black.

Here’s Mine:

They say the worst bit of drowning is the ‘knowing’. The panic that grips your ribcage, the penetrating fear that slices through every cell in your body as you realise you’re trapped underwater and this time there’s no escape.

Bill said I’d never find the cave, “This is one step too far, Marty. I know you’re good lad but, you ain’t that good. That’s almost 600m down. Even if you make it, which you won’t, You’ll never get back up without running out of air. Think of the pressure on your body, Son,” he shook his head, “you’d have to be a merman to swim like that.”

He explained that once I opened my mouth and sucked in ice cold water I’d be fine. It was a fast death by all accounts. My eyes would bulge under the weight of water and lack of oxygen, but because I’d already be out of air I’d die real quick.

Bill lied.

The water was ice cold against my skin but when I swallowed, it burnt like the blazing roar of a fire pit. It coursed down my throat and into my lungs, but my water-strangled scream only made the icy flames lick into my mouth faster.

My eyes blew up, just like he said they would, only I wasn’t dead. I felt every second of the squeezing that threatened to explode my sight. I kicked and slashed at the ropes I was caught in one last time. But it was too late.

Grey glittered across my vision and time trickled away into a slow, infinite expanse. If it hadn’t been for the heat in my lung it would have been calming. Maybe this wasn’t it. Maybe there was life after.

I don’t know how long I was there, seconds stretched as fish skittered past lazily, barely paying me attention, like there was nothing new about a person thrashing in ropes this deep in the ocean. As if a thousand men before me had been caught in these same ropes. All I could think was that it was almost like a trap, which was ridiculous.

My legs slowed and eventually stopped. The heat in my chest disappeared and blackness drifted over me. I glanced at the dark hollow of the cave opening once last time. I’d die knowing Bill was wrong, this was a hideous death, but I’d made it to the cave at least.

Something slithered past my side, as the grey dotting my vision turned black my leg was yanked, hard. My body freed, too late. A flash of an enormous green tail filled my splintered vision. Then I passed out, feeling the impossible sensation of a hand gripping mine. And then, there was nothing.

And now to last week’s Writespiration and the stories you had to write in 120 seconds.

First up Helen, with a dark story. Something tells me this is part of a longer story, and I for one, am desperate to read it:

Darkness fell.

It was always when the locksmith got more calls. After dark.

When people didn’t like to be outside so much. Not anymore. He remembered the summer nights of his youth, sitting outside, drinking and laughing with friends, then stumbling home in the light of streetlamps.

Then the council started turning the lights off at midnight, leaving the streets black. And things started to emerge.

Hidden things. They had always been here, building their strength, yet staying secret.

Until the dark came. And they knew the time was right.

***

Next up Kim, with an educative poem, click her name to have a look at an ancient Assyrian lock.

Locksmithery

is an ancient craft:

the first locks were found in Nineveh and Egypt;

Romans wore keys on their fingers,

showing off their wealth,

rich enough to keep their treasures

under lock and key.

Locksmithery

is a mysterious craft:

magical, when you think of thieves and burglars

skeleton keys and picking locks,

and the locksmith

a sorcerer’s apprentice.

***

Next, Dylan with some amazing dialogue and

“So let me get this straight. I put this pointy thing…”
“Key.”
“This key into that hole.”
“Yes.”
“And twist it?”
“Yes, until you hear a click.”
“and when I hear a click I can open the door?”
“Exactly.”
The big man looked from under his bushy white eyebrows, his ruddy face a mixture of concentration and disbelief.”
“Sounds too much bother. I think I’ll use the chimney as normal.”

***

Next up Judy, with her

My front door is mocking my fury
The windows are loving my pain
The curtains are twitching with laughter
I have locked myself out AGAIN!
I’ve called out a locksmith to help me
He’ll be coming soon with a key
I hope he makes it quite snappy
I’m busting to go for a wee!

***

Last but by no means least, Jane. who has written a sad but true story that so many have experienced.

That’s how they operate, bailiffs. They come with the police and a locksmith so you can’t keep them out. Your door swings open and a guy in a suit barges in with his clipboard and his writs, and the coppers stand either side so you can’t put your fist in his face. And the little bloke in the blue overalls packs up his tools and peers over their shoulders. His hard, beady eyes squint at you as if you’re something in a zoo. Then, as soon as he’s squared things about getting paid with the bailiff he’s off to his nice cozy place in the suburbs with a drive and a garage, and a bomb proof front door, and a wife and kids.

The bailiff goes round and notes down all the stuff he’s keeping back to put towards paying the arrears. The good stuff. The rest, most of it, his boys dump outside on the pavement. All I can do is watch. My fists clench and unclench, and I wonder if prison for assault would be worse than the street. But you get a record then, no hope of ever finding a job with a record. And there’s Jessie.

I stand outside, not watching, not feeling anything. The apartment’s a squalid place. I won’t shed any tears over it. But it kept the rain off and even without any heating it was warmer than outside. I had already put the important papers in a bag, with the photos of Mam and Dad, the kids when they were little. I tell myself the rest doesn’t matter. The things the bailiff wants, the TV, the stereo, they’re worth nothing. Not really.

He’s leaving with his little list. His boys are boarding up the apartment door. On the pavement, the breeze lifts the corner of a sheet, paper rustles, poverty stares at me from a dozen cardboard boxes. The neighbour from the floor above comes out, looks away when he sees all my bits and pieces lying there, spread out, like the innards of a butchered pig. He was about to light a fag but he catches sight of me and changes his mind. He’s off before I can touch him for the price of breakfast. Jessie whimpers and nudges my hand with her nose. I try to smile at her, but she knows, and licks my hand to cheer me up.

“Come on, old lass,” I say. “It’s finished here. This is the past now.”

Jessie pricks her ears and wags her tail uncertainly.

“Let’s go find us a future.”

I don’t know what Jessie says, but it sounds as though she’s up for it.

The post #Writespiration 73 Write About Drowning 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.

Get a timer, set it for sixty seconds, DON’T click through to this post until you are ready to write, the word is at the top of the post this time. Look at the word, write for 60 seconds…. Ready? GO!

BOUNCE

Her breasts curved into the perfect cleavage. Sumptuous. Deep. Tempting. My groin tingled. She was forbidden. I shouldn’t feel this way, it was wrong. Father said so, “girls marry boys. Not other girls, Lara.”

But as she walked past, brushed her hair behind her ear and parted her plump lips at me, I knew I had to have her.

***

Now to last weeks writespiration and the minds of the disturbed.

First in this week was Gordon with a spooky little rhyme

As I was going up the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish that man would go away.

***

Next Ali with this horror

It started with the little things; objects moved, disembodied shrieks of laughter, a lone chair balanced on one leg and wildly spinning, the menacing thud of an intruder’s slow steps in the next room, but that’s not where it ends.

In the dark of night, I am woken by the weight of a body settling in the bed beside me, although I live alone; my eyes snap open and I am confronted by a shadowy face on the pillow only inches from mine, so close our noses almost touch, his yellow eyes, so full of malice, staring deep into mine…

***

Next up Myriad Ways wrote something inspired by Edgar Allen Poe:

Persistent furtive tapping, echoing up from the eternally dark basement, drew me down into the abyssal dankness. Now I wander lost in this subterranean vault, haunted by the unceasing touch of a thousand spectral fingers searching for my soul.

or H. P Lovecraft, I guess. If you replace fingers with tentacles.

***

Marje slicing horror all over the page

The hilt of the knife moulded with the dark shadow’s skin, he thrust it, slicing an evil rip into the night sky, uncaring who or what it came in contact with. He had work to do, no one would dare encroach upon his approaching shadow.

***

Jane paralyses us with this terrifying story

In the dream, she lay in bed, facing the dimly-lit window, paralysed, feeling the displacement of cold air, the presence in the doorway behind. In terror, her eyes snapped open to the palely moonlit room, her pounding pulse accelerating as the presence stroked the back of her neck.

***

Jim found us through twitter and participated with this humorous horror

The switch at the top of the stair,
did not light washer’s basement lair.
My heart beating fast,
my whole life flashed past,
when the cat jumped into my hair.

***

Dylan grosses us out as well as terrifying us!

He felt her cold, dead lips press down on his own, stifling a moan as a maggot attempted to crawl into his mouth. So this was the true meaning of undying love.

***

Geoffle with a realistic and horrifying entry

Millie let the shop door close behind her, her smile hidden in the flowers. She bent to kiss Amy’s head but the pushchair stood empty, accusing.

***

Luccia gives us a terrifying twist

My chest ached from lack of oxygen, my legs trembled with exhaustion, and my hand shook as I pushed the key into the lock, kicked the door open, and threw myself onto the safety of my worn carpet.
Minutes later, I stopped panting and looked up, ‘Did you think there was only one of us?’ he asked.

***

Roger is an absolute pro at horror, I wasn’t sure if I could actually finish them! If you’re feint of heart – be warned these will give you nightmares.

There was a delicious morsel of bacon wedged between her back teeth. He prised open her dead mouth to taste it.

The Surgeon’s voice was hushed, as it always was when the moment came to call the Time of Death. ‘Tomorrow at noon.’ he said.

The body was battered and torn, open now, spilling its contents. The children all agreed it was the best Pinata ever …

He’d unglued his eyes on the way home. They stared at her, white as scar tissue, staying open as she kissed his sewn-up lips.

“How about some scrambled embryos?” She made the same awful joke every day, but when I saw my plate I knew she’d taken it too far.

“Lucy lost my yoyo, but she helped me make a new one.” The boy smiled, unspooling the wet thread of ganglia and the bloodshot blue eye.

She joked that she’d turn into a pumpkin at 12. She didn’t, but I still carved her a new smile and filled her eyes with candlelight.

The twins asked to be Freddy Krueger & Pinhead for Halloween. Their mother blowtorched the girl’s face and hammered nails into the boy’s skull.

Some of the med students took notes about the exposed, bisected brain. The others just wished the patient would stop screaming.

I thought the little redhead girl had a spray of freckles upon her nose. Until I saw the empty crib and the fine blonde baby hair in her teeth.

***

Sarah makes your skin crawl with this one

A worm slithered from his cuff, then another, before he loosened his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt. “I guess it’s time to show you who I am, love.”

***

Last but by no means least, Erin entered via twitter with a young persons nightmare.

I don’t know the wifi password. Hey, isn’t that your mom over there?

***

The post Writespiration #67 – 60 Second Stories appeared first on Sacha Black.