I listened to the advice you gave on what I should do next, which was… Nothing – Lock the manuscript in a dark cupboard and throw away the key for months. I did. Sort of. I may have peaked at the first few chapters.

That was a mistake.

It was of course, total shit. More than shit, I wouldn’t have wiped my butt cheeks with it. Seriously. I may have cried, ok, I didn’t cry. But I did shed some tears on the inside. All those months of sweat and tapping, for what? A massive steaming pile of turd. A twitch formed on my eyelid as a heady mix of panic and fear set in. How was I ever going to rectify this mess? I hated editing. I can’t do detail and didn’t know a comma from a bloody apostrophe. So how I was ever going to be a writer? I was blocked. Big Time.

Then, I had a realisation.

Editing, isn’t just editing.

I read an interesting (and well-timed) article this week from a woman called Joan Dempsey, in it she described two types of writers.

The – vomit on the page must get the story out on paper at all costs even if it’s a pile of shit – writers

AND

The – I can’t possibly write past a missing comma in this sentence, everything needs to be perfect in my first draft – writers.

I am most definitely the former. I spew out word vomit faster than the speed of light, without a care in the world for grammar, spellings or beauty. It’s ugly, but its out of my head.

The point is, whichever camp you fall into, you will approach editing in a different way. The latter – the edit as you go types – will have less of a task when it comes to their first revision. They may find things that still don’t work, chapters that need to move,  but what they have is probably more fluent with less mistakes than the first group of writers who might have a draft completed quickly but its choc full of problems.

So what do you do?

Well, you don’t edit that’s for sure.

You revise.

I know, I know, it sounds the same. Apparently it’s not. The first step of editing isn’t actually editing at all. It’s revising. Especially if you fall into the first camp.

What’s the difference? Quite a lot so I’ve learnt.

Revising is sorting out the big picture, it’s:

• Making sure your story flows
• The pace and structure are right
• The characters are perfected with the right depth
• You have a hook
• Ensuring all the subplots are story lines are rounded off at the end

Editing is sorting out the detail, it’s:

• Checking grammar
• Punctuation and typos
• Checking for consistencies and continuity
• Its correcting formatting errors

I’m a visual person, so I made a visual – Clearly there are things that overlap, they are in essence part and parcel of one process.

If you’re intending on working with a professional editor, then there will be dozens of types of edits you could have, from developmental edits, to line edits, and everything in between. If you are paying for it, choose carefully. But I am only at the beginning of this process, and despite what I thought, I’m not even at the editing stage yet! I’m revising.

Changing the way I saw editing, completely removed the block I had.

It meant I was no longer terrified to pick up my manuscript. I could attack the second draft with the same force I attacked the first one; hacking it to pieces and this time crafting something that looked more like a story instead of a turd.

Are you afraid of editing? Which kind of writer are you? The vomit crap on the page kind, or the snails pace perfectionist? Let me know in the comments below.

If you liked this post, subscribe here to get writing tips, tools and inspiration as well as information on the release of my books.

The post Everything You Need To Know BEFORE You Start To Edit appeared first on Sacha Black.

So I decided to continue the trend and review Conor Kelly and The Four Treasures of Eirean (The Tir Na Nog Trilogy Book 1) by Ali Isaac in the same way.

This time I learnt how to translate research into fiction, and because Isaac translates so well, I learnt what to do, and what mistakes to avoid.

I picked up Ali’s book because she’s my friend, so I wanted to read it. But, I’ll be honest. It’s Irish mythology, something, up to the point I peeled open the front cover, I knew nothing about. I was more than a little daunted by the prospect of sinking my teeth into a few hundred pages of what I perceived to be hard core mythology.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. Isaac blew me away. She painted a tapestry of mythological research into a masterpiece of fiction. I unwittingly got educated on every aspect of Irish mythology there is, and to my surprise and delight, I loved every minute of it.

When I read books, I do so consciously now, so that I can absorb every ounce of skill each author leaves on the page. I rave about collecting words and sentences constantly. With Isaac, there was no question, I had dozens by the time I finished reading. She truly is the queen of interlacing accurate historical detail with beautiful descriptions and a heart wrenching story. Here’s what I learnt about translating research into fiction:

First, I want to caveat this post – Although I have mentioned the fact Ali is my friend, she did not ask me to read her book. I chose to do so. In fact, she frequently told me to put it down and get on with writing. I ignored her and read on. All the views expressed my me in this post are my own personal ones.

Mistake 1 – Dumping Information 

If you are writing about anything, it requires research. But that means you acquire a shit ton of Information. If you learn a lot, you can’t help but know a lot. When you know a lot, it spills out without meaning too. Look at your stereotypical professor, they can jabber on for hours about their chosen topic.

The skill here is the age old, less is more.

Just because you know a lot, doesn’t mean we need to.

The other

Of course, Ali is my friend, so I took advantage of that fact, and demanded she answer my questions on this topic.

Ali, you are an author that is prolific in your quest for research. It oozes from you, and you’re your blog where you freely share your knowledge. But your knowledge is SO vast, how do you avoid information dumping when you translate that knowledge into your book?

The trick is to use only what you need to set the scene for your story. I LOVE researching, I can get lost in it for hours! But putting it all into a fictional story would make for a very dull, dry read. What I dont use (about 75% of it) goes on my blog… it seems such a shame to waste it, and if I find it interesting, there must be others who find it interesting too.

Mistake 2 Forgetting Details Matter 

Details come in all shapes and sizes. The one thing they share in common, is that they really matter. If you don’t know your rapier from your samurai you probably shouldn’t be writing about swords or battles.

As long as you don’t make mistake number one – dumping too much information, then you can sprinkle details to your hearts content.

Isaac, does this in bucket loads. She starts with character names, all Irish, all mythical. Something I did struggle with at the start because they were alien to me. But, once I got my head around the pronunciation, it actually made it easier to read as all the characters were so different, I always knew exactly who was who.

But she doesn’t stop with names. Isaac has a gift for scattering gorgeous details in everywhere. From  the weapons they use, the clothing they wear, to the mythical creatures bone structure. There is nothing, and I do mean nothing, that Isaac hasn’t researched.

But my favourite example of how she weaves details into her story is through the environment. Isaac is lucky enough to live in Ireland and has visited every site she writes about. You can tell. Every atom of her setting is portrayed beautifully, from the way the water ripples in the wind, to the smell of woodsmoke during certain festivals.

“All the entrances faced the centre, almost as if they were worshipping the larger mound. Their open doorways gaped like toothless mouths.”

There’s no way, if you hadn’t visited that site, you could have known the doorway looked like a gummy mouth. What I find most daunting about this – is I write about made up settings… *gulp*

Ali, you are the queen of detail, never failing to capture the minutest of details about your stories world. As writers, we know we can’t information dump, and you have already told me you use a fraction of what you learn. So, how do you determine what details to use, and what to leave out?

It has to be very relevant to your protagonists experiences. If it’s nice to have, but doesn’t actually move the story on, you just have to cut it, you don’t need it. The dreaded info dump slows the pace of a story so much and bores the reader to tears, or even worse, closing the book and falling asleep. You can be sure they won’t pick it up when they wake. Info dumps show you know a lot of stuff, but it doesn’t make for a good story. Decide what you absolutely need to set the scene, give your hero their incentive to act, and drip feed it throughout the story as you need it, not all at once.

Mistake 3 Mistaking accuracy for beauty

Isaac is notorious for being a field agent and getting out to the places where her myths actually happened. She frequently blogs about her travels and discoveries, and I didn’t appreciate the extent to which she assimilates her knowledge.

I’d assumed accuracy meant getting names and places correct, with a pinch of dates and bobs your  uncle. But actually, it’s much more than that, including painting an ugly picture when one is needed. Almost like torture your protagonist, you need to torture your history and world building.

Often one can get swept up in the magnificence of architecture and the richness of history. But actually that isn’t what accuracy is, and a reflection of my (or your) starstruck face on the front of an historical site shouldn’t end up in your work of fiction.

For example, Isaac sets her story in two worlds, today, and the fairy world of the Sidhe. Both are linked by the treasures and magical architecture now found in Ireland.

What struck me, is that just because something is supposed to be a work of architectural beauty, doesn’t mean it is. But that is something you would only know if you researched the location.

This quote illustrates this brilliantly:

“The Lia Fail stood proudly before them, approximately four feet high, and made from a lump of rough grey granular limestone. It looked disappointingly like a concrete bollard to Conor.”

Question – It’s easy to get swept up in the rich beauty and emotional power of historical sites. I recall Conor’s reaction to Lia Fail as disappointment. What do you do to ensure you accurately capture the essence of a location for your novel?

Conor’s reaction to the Lia Fail was actually mine. In my second book, I describe how I believe such an important monument would have originally appeared. Often, I visit a site first before researching it, as there are no preconceived ideas or expectations about it that way. I take lots of pictures, and videos too. The most important thing of all is you HAVE to go to a site you are going to write about. You just have to. You can’t rely on Google or other people’s interpretations. To write authentically you have to go there, and that’s the bottom line. Unfortunately, you can always tell in a book if an author knows the place he/ she is writing about. It shines off the page and leaves you in no doubt.

Mistake 4 Not Connecting The Dots

Isaac’s story isn’t just predicated on one myth. It’s based on them ALL. I honestly don’t know how she amassed so many myths and amalgamated them into something that is not only coherent, but translatable and understandable to someone like me, who has zero knowledge of Irish myths.

But we don’t all write mythology. So what’s my point? And how can connecting a dozen myths together help writers from other genres?

My point is this:

Look outside the box. Sure, you don’t want to spend the rest of your life researching, but actually sometimes drifting off in a tangent can help.

Let me give you an example:

Say you’re writing a steampunk novel, and you need to know about trains. So you search for images and see a picture of a woman with a floor length gown with a funny sticky out bum. You find out it’s called a bustle, but then as you scroll on, you start to read about woman in the Victorian era, the suppression and later, Emily Pankhurst’s fight for the vote. All of a sudden, you have an idea. You wanted to know about train chimneys, but instead, you are weaving in deeper societal conflict into your steampunk novel. Your story is thicker, richer and grittier, all because you connected the dots.

Your books link dozens of myths, and entwine them into something coherent. When connecting all these individual myths together, how do you cope with such a mass of information, and what tricks do you use to smooth it into something that makes sense?

Irish mythology is not logical, and it’s very hard to make sense of. The names of the characters are all tongue-twisters, and there’s so many of them. But some stories just click. Something about them resonates, and won’t let go. Those are the ones I tell in my stories, and honestly, they just fall into place. Its as if they want their stories to be remembered, that’s how it feels to me, anyway.

You can buy Isaac’s book from Amazon UK or Amazon USA

Ali Isaac lives in rural Ireland and is the author of two books in a trilogy based on Irish mythology and a disabled hero; a book of love stories based on tales from Irish mythology co-authored with Jane Dougherty, and most recently, a book re-telling some of her favourite Irish myths. She regularly writes for Irish Central and Brigid’s Fire magazine. Ali is currently working on the third and final book of The Tir na Nog Trilogy, and a YA shapeshifter novella, also based on Irish mythology.

You will find Ali pottering about most days on her blog, Facebook author page, or tweeting. Her books are available on Smashwords, Amazon.com, and Amazon.co.uk.

Amazon Description:

Conor Kelly is not your average hero. He can’t walk. He can’t talk, but his mind is as active and alert as that of any teenage boy. On the outside, however, he’s about as interactive as a lump of wood.

Then he meets Annalee. She claims to be a Sidhe Princess, some kind of fairy royalty, apparently. She offers to take him into the magical realm, where her people wield the power to help him.

But is she just some child-snatching lunatic psychopath, or can she be trusted? On the other hand, what’s he got to lose?

He soon discovers that Tir na Nog is not the benign, dreamy land of legend. Nor are its inhabitants, the Sidhe, the benevolent fairy folk of Irish mythology. To accept their help has a cost, but for someone who doesn’t value his life, death is a risk worth taking.

With the blood of Lugh, God of Lightning, tingling in his veins, the boy in the wheelchair must dig deep, if he is to unlock the inherited powers dormant within him. Only he can defy disgraced Sidhe-King, Bres, who seeks to avenge himself on his brethren, and subject all mankind to his tyranny.

In the race to recover the legendary lost talismans of power, the Four Treasures of Eirean, before Bres gets his hands on them and becomes invincible, Conor begins to wonder just whose side Annalee is on, as her chequered past comes to light.

There are other obstacles, too; Ruairi, the Chieftain’s son, and worse, his own crippling self-doubt. Not that anything’s going to stop him. For the first time in his life, Conor finds he is not restricted by his physical limitations. Still, it’s not going to be easy.

Nothing worth fighting for ever is.

Book One of The Tir na Nog Trilogy begins an epic fantasy adventure which takes us back in time to the shadowy past of Ireland’s long lost legend, where fairy Kings and Gods walked amongst mortals, and where feats of magic, swordsmanship and courage were customary.

Here amidst the ancient stones of Newgrange and Tara, Conor discovers that anyone, no matter how unlikely, can still be a hero.

If you liked this post, subscribe here to get writing tips, tools and inspiration as well as information on the release of my books.

The post 4 Mistakes to Avoid When Translating Research into Fiction appeared first on Sacha Black.

Have you ever done a presentation in front of a projector screen? You know, the ones with a pull down plasticky screens that shoot up into its roll if you don’t secure it properly, then sending an endless ripple across your carefully crafted powerpoint presentation. Well hold on to that thought whilst you read and watch this:

It appears that during key times, any lay person with a camera and telescope can capture what looks like waves rippling across the moon, as if someone prodded a holographic screen and a ripple washed over the moons surface.

These events only seem to be happening at key times, like full moons. The suggestion is that what we see as the moon is actually just a projection of the moon. There are two parts to this.

The first, which would support the flat Earth theory that suggests there is a dome or firmament (as genesis says) sealing us into a flat Earth. The theory suggests projections are displayed on to the dome (ceiling) producing what we see as the moon and stars.

The second theory is what Crrow777 the original filmer of these mysterious waves thinks. He says the moon actually is up there. But what we are seeing is a projection of the moon, on to the moon in order to stop us seeing something else that’s going on.

Richard C Hoagland an ex science advisor to CBS News has discussed what’s on the moon on multiple occasions and maybe it’s this they are trying to hide. But one discussion I recall seeing recently was after the Chinese moon landing (Jade Rabbit). Hoagland analysed the footage which the Chinese released publicly and demonstrated that there was a dome (yeah I know… another mention of a dome) on the moon. It’s two hours long, so you would be in for the long haul, but it is fascinating to watch, check it out here.

Is the moon a hologram? I have no idea. What’s odd, is that this footage is no longer an isolated occurrence, there are plenty more videos spreading on YouTube showing the same thing. This makes it harder to swallow a ‘camera’ fault or whatever.

Of all the theories, I really hope this one isn’t true. I have been obsessed with the stars since childhood, I love nothing better than staring at a clear night sky in awe and wonderment.

I don’t often thank baby black for waking me up in the middle of the night. But a couple of months ago he woke up at precisely the moment of the super blood moon eclipse. It was breath taking, and the thought that what I saw might not be real, pains me.

I suppose the hologram theory would explain why we see an illusion of the moon not rotating. That is something no matter how many times I try and read explanations I don’t understand. Here, is another explanation.

“The moon orbits the Earth once every 27.322 days. It also takes approximately 27 days for the moon to rotate once on its axis. As a result, the moon does not seem to be spinning but appears to observers from Earth to be keeping almost perfectly still. Scientists call this sychronous rotation.” www.space.com

Effectively they are saying they spin at the same rate proportionately which is why it appears still. Seriously what? I don’t understand that at all. Not one bit. Maybe I’m just spatially inept.

There are examples of holograms littered in films and literature. I don’t however recall a story suggesting everything we see is a hologram – other than perhaps the loosely connected Matrix. So perhaps one of you could write the story. What’s going on behind the moon? Is it for our own good? Maybe an alien invasion?

Either way, it’s a cool theory that got my brain thinking of yet more stories, and an awesome way to start the New Year. Hope this year is the best one you have ever had.

What do you think? Did it inspire you? What do you make of the video and the theory?

The post Lunar Waves and the Mystery of the Holographic Moon appeared first on Sacha Black.

Remember, find a timer, set it for 120 seconds, write hard and fast till the timer ends. AND, don’t peek inside this post until you are ready to play.

This ones for Sarah, I wrote it as a sprint exercise with her a while ago.

Here’s Mine:

LOCKSMITH

His hands were wrinkled. I knew it meant he worked outside, weathered like an old oak tree, he was. But I liked it, made him look wise.

“It’s given me a lot of trouble this one,” he said, tapping the shiny new brass attached to my door. He packed up his belongings.

My stomach clenched. I didn’t want him to leave. I searched my head for something to make him stay.

“Do you um…”

“Yes?” he said, and picked up his bag.

A prickle of sweat beaded at the top of my neck.

“Um… Fancy a cuppa?”

A cup of tea? A CUP OF TEA?? Kate, you are so lame.

He checked his watch, rubbed his jaw, and said, “sod it. There’s always time for a cuppa.”

I turned to the kettle to hide my smile. I’d caught site of his ring finger. A solitary band of white skin lay around it.

***

Now to last weeks’ writespiration and the ‘thing that got cut down’

Kim was first to enter with a short story with a wicked twist at the end. Check it out here.

The Bay Tree – Kim Russell

When they moved in, the bay tree reached the top of the living-room window. Its leaves were dark and glossy, and it released a pungent aroma, reminiscent of Mediterranean holidays. Sam and Helen loved the way it arched over the little path at the side of the house. Its strong aroma mingled with the heady scent of roses and honeysuckle that climbed the trellis.

Sam trimmed the bay regularly. Helen used the dried leaves in casseroles and sauces. She hung the branches from the ceiling and stored the leaves in neatly labelled glass jars.

Over the years, the bay tree thrived and grew above the roof. When the wind was strong, Helen complained about the constant creaking and groaning, and the screech of branches against the windows. Its leaves blocked the gutter and caused rainwater to drip down the outer wall. Inside, damp and mould stained the wallpaper.

‘Can’t you do something about that tree?’ Helen asked.

‘I trim it regularly and it’s healthy,’ Sam replied.

‘Why can’t you lop the top off?’

‘It’s a laurus nobilis – the noble laurel!’ Sam stood up and leaned over Helen, who moved back a few inches. He wore his reluctance to cut the bay tree like a suit of armour; she could almost feel the cold steel.

‘Well, if you won’t trim it, I’ll have to call a tree surgeon,’ Helen said.

Sam grabbed his boots and jacket, ran out the back door and disappeared into the shed.  Helen watched from behind the curtain as he dragged a ladder and some long-handled pruning shears round the side of the house. She pulled the curtains shut.

Outside, Sam sat down beneath the bay tree.

‘I’m so sorry I have to do this,’ he said. ‘It’s Helen. She won’t shut up until you’ve been trimmed.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said a voice from above.

Sam looked up and saw a beautiful child, with sallow skin and almond eyes, sitting amongst the bay leaves.

‘How did you get up there?’

‘Easily,’ she said with a silvery, tinkling laugh.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Laurel.’

Sam spent the afternoon in the garden with Laurel. The ladder and shears lay on the path, untouched.  When Helen opened the back door to bring him a cup of tea, he was playing hide and seek amongst the curly willows.

‘How are you getting on?’ she asked.

Sam popped his head out from behind a shrub.

‘What with?’

‘Trimming the bay tree.’ Helen’s voice was sharp. The birds stopped singing and Sam felt a chill in the air.

‘I’ll do it next week,’ he said.

Helen had had enough. On Monday morning, while Sam was at work, she phoned the local tree surgeon and arranged for the bay to be trimmed that afternoon, into a neat, formal shape, leaving several feet between it and the house.

When Sam opened the side gate and saw the alien tree, he trembled. His shoulders heaved and from behind the window, Helen heard him sob. She returned to the kitchen, waiting for the sound of his footsteps outside the back door. But they didn’t come.

She waited several days before calling the police, in case he returned. His car was parked in front of the house; his briefcase stood under the bay tree, until it was taken away by forensics.

For the first time Helen felt threatened by silence in the house. She went into the garden and looked up at the bay tree. A sharp gust of wind rustled the branches and she was sure she heard silver giggling and the low tones of her husband’s laughter.

***

Charli Mills, crazy talented Rough writer gives us a snippet of a book that is a twinkle in her eye

Built Strong by Charli Mills

Her mother’s thick arms had rolled and kneaded bread for a family of eight, and that was the surviving children. Add to the family’s meals all the sawyers in a single winter camp and Hilda pounded out lots of dough. She also scrubbed the wooden platform of the cook tent, churned Jersey butter, and pounded laundry on the rocks along whatever river they temporarily lived until every stick of virgin timber was down and floated to the mill. They cut her down for being stout and stocky, snickering at her round hips and staring at her beefy bosom as if no one could see their leers.

Not Jen. She was just as thick as her Ma but no one dared snicker at her the way she could saw a tree faster than any man on the crew. She was built strong. They reserved a special hatred for a woman like her.

***

Next up Hugh, with a rather savage story, love the ending.

As soon as the leaf from the strange looking plant was pulled off, it let out a huge scream. Not only that, but all the other plants and trees started to scream.

“You have broken the rules of the Planet Treelant” boomed a voice. “You are hereby sentenced to death.”

The party of humans could see no-one. Where had the voice come from?

Moments later the whole party was cut down, as plants and trees lashed out their branches and beat the strange creatures, known as humans, to death. Younger plants looked away in horror, whilst the parents of some of the younger plants and trees hid the view of what was happening from their siblings eyes.

***

Next up Jane, with this heart wrenching story with beautiful characterisation and language. You can find her story here.

I’d never much cared for what my mother did to the cottage she bought after our dad died. I didn’t like the way she’d stripped down the interior, opened it up and let in the light. Cottages are supposed to be dark and poky, low beams and paint the colour of pub ceilings. I didn’t like the way she’d brought only her favourite bits from the old family house. What about the rest of the stuff? All our memories were in that house. I couldn’t take it, not with our décor. Old, worn-out just wouldn’t fit in. Without Dad, surely she should have hung onto as much as possible. His old chair with the bottom that sagged on the floor, the wardrobe with the broken hinge he was always going to mend, the rubbish he collected because ‘it might come in useful.’

I resented what she’d done, what she’d let go, what she had made of her life after Dad died. Because she did make a life, let it take a new turning. It didn’t seem fair. She did new things, took up painting again, joined a choir, did voluntary work at the wildlife sanctuary. All things Dad would have pooh-poohed. She got rid of the car, Dad’s pride and joy. Said she didn’t need it, went everywhere on foot or took the bus. And she planted that blasted holly tree in the driveway, right in front of the kitchen window. It had just been a big bush when she put it in, but after ten years it was quite a size and it was impossible for us to get the car in when we visited. Dave grumbled every time when he had to leave it on the side of the road. He’d get up every fifteen minutes to check it hadn’t got a scratch.

Dad would never have let her do such a selfish thing. Even if she didn’t need the drive, couldn’t she see how inconvenient it was for the rest of us? Jim might say he quite understood that Mum preferred to look at a holly tree rather than his old car, but that’s because his car is old. Another scratch or dent wouldn’t make any difference.

When she went, we had to decide what to do with the cottage. Jim said he was attached to the place and wouldn’t mind living there. His Sharon liked it and it was convenient for her work. But he didn’t have the money to buy my share, and is never likely to either. We had to sell. There was no choice really.

I’ll give Mum that at least, she made tidying her stuff away easy. Not that there was much left of the ‘clutter’ as she called our memories. Getting rid of the tree blocking the driveway wasn’t an option either, whatever Jim said afterwards. Dave wouldn’t do it so we got a professional in. He got the stump out too. Jim threw a fit when he saw the tree lying on the ground. He bent over it, parted the branches, not caring that the leaves were scratching his arms bloody. When he found the nest, I swear he had tears in his eyes.

“Mum loved watching the birds in this tree,” he said. “She could see them when she was in the kitchen. Her eyes weren’t good enough to see much further than this.”

I looked at the woven tressed twigs, the downy feathers sticking to the inside, Jim wiping his eyes. I imagined Mum washing up, gazing out of the window, that dreamy smile on her face she always had when she was thinking her own thoughts. She would have shaken the tablecloth out of the door and watched the birds come down, stood so still they’d forget she was there.

“In the winter, they liked the berries. That’s why she planted a holly tree.”

But sentiment doesn’t sell houses. We’d never have sold the cottage so quickly with that tree stuck in the way.

Jim hasn’t spoken to me since.

The post #Writespiration 72 A Story in 120 seconds appeared first on Sacha Black.

To the writespiration: The challenge this week is to write about something being cut down. Maybe it’s a person being cut down in their prime, or perhaps something more physical.

The reason I chose it this week is because…(and this ‘half-story’ counts as my entry!):

I was walking my son into town the other day and there were some tree surgeons milling around our area. One was half way up, helmet and ear defenders on with his legs wrapped firmly round the tree. He let the chainsaw rip and cut a branch down in front of me.

It was weird. I had an urge to cover my sons eyes, like it was something bad or sordid. But I have no idea why. It was just a tree being cut down, yet, it felt so wrong. I’m not a tree hugger or anything but, I do like trees. This one in particular was huge, and stunning. Maybe that was why. I ushered us away and we walked into town to complete our errands.

On the way back the tree surgeons were still there. Except now the tarmac was littered with chopped logs. Each one looked like a severed limb. The tree didn’t bleed red like you or I would. Instead it scattered a blanket of shavings that looked like brown snow. It made me queasy. Thankfully my son had fallen asleep. But they were cutting the main trunk. The methodical grinding of the chainsaw ripped through my ears as it sliced further and further through the trunk.

A hand signal went up – a truck moved forward. A crack echoed round the car park as the last bit of wood connecting trunk to root, severed. Then it fell. Slow, like a movie freeze frame. The thud reverberated through the ground, I expected it to echo. It didn’t. Instead it was almost hollow, like the ground swallowed the thud, desperate to cling to any bit of the tree it could. I felt desperately sad, something so beautiful had been cut down in its prime. It seemed pointless. A random act of violence. There’s so much violence in the world at the moment and we nature isn’t immune.

I’d still don’t know why I was so affected. I’ve seen far worst things in life than a tree being cut down, but this felt like I’d witnessed a murder. So today, I feel compassion, sympathy, sadness, regret for that tree and the lonely stump that now sits in its place.

***

Now to last weeks Writespiration where we were writing about being trapped.

Kim M. Russell was first in this week, with an awesome poem which you can see here.

The post #Writespiration 71 The Thing That Got Cut Down #1000speak appeared first on Sacha Black.

Maybe it’s a metaphorical prison, or a real life one. Perhaps a mental prison of your own doing. Whatever the cause, your challenge is to write about being trapped.

Here’s mine:

Rapid breaths lifted the silk cloth off my face. Up and down. Up and Down. Up and Down. I was freezing, it was cold like the back of a refrigerator. Tingles stuck to my spine and spread into my limbs like poisoned tentacles. I wriggled but straps around my hands and feet tightened. Where the fuck was I?

Muffled voices filtered into my jail.

“Jenna Roberts died at 8:51am from a pulmonary embolism. I am so sorry for your loss. Would you like to see the body?”

Jenna Roberts? I’m Jenna Roberts.

I screamed, convulsed and pounded the cold hard surface I was lying on.

Silence.

“Ok. I understand this is a difficult time. She will be cremated this morning.”

I screamed again. Louder. My heart thudded like a hammer banging desperately against my ribs. I had to get out. I wasn’t dead. They’d made a mistake.

The click of a switch echoed around the metal container. My cold bed moved, and the heat from a thousand furnaces filled my prison.

***

Now to last week

Judy from Edwina Episodes has written this

The reflection in the mirror

Told her that she looked just great

The look she had put together

Was just perfect for a date.

The hair so sleek and stylish

The skirt above the knee

The sassy high-heeled sling backs

And the skimpy little tee

She had waited for this moment

For far too many years

Hiding her true feelings

Giving in to all her fears.

Finally she took the plunge

To make her dreams come true

She felt as though she was reborn

And her life could start anew

She sprayed a little perfume

As she walked outside the door

This time as a woman

Not the man she had been before.

***

Allie writes an awesome entry that reminds me of my own life!

In the wee hours of the morning, I carefully tiptoed to our bedroom door. My wife shifted as I opened the door, exposing a bare shoulder. In that moment, she was once again my beautiful princess.

“Moommm!” howled the toddler down the hall.

My shoulder’s slumped as I turned from our bed and walked down the hall. His majesty beckoned.

***

The post #writespiration 70 Trapped appeared first on Sacha Black.

I’ve talked a lot about LGBT characters in the last couple of weeks. This is the last post, promise. But I figured, given the amount of moaning I have done, I had to use this as a writespiration.

So here goes, this week your challenge, should you choose to accept it, and I really hope you do… is to write a story, poem or piece of flash using an LGBT character as the protagonist.

I’m not playing this week because I am writing a competition story, plus, my bounce piece from last week kind of, sort of, covers this.

Allie P was first in this week, with a short, but sad story that will make you feel for that little egg.

When grandma tested them in the water, the others rose to the surface. He sank to the bottom. He was,… the bad egg.

***

Geoffle next with a sense of going back to school.

‘…Iain Robinson Independent 21,412. I declare Iain Robinson is duly elected to be Member of Parliament for Rushworth North.’

Iain looked at his new shoes. First day of the new term – worse than first day at school. And as lonely too, the only Independent member in this intake.
‘Mr Robinson? If you have a minute the Prime Minister would like a word?’

Iain blinked. Well that was unexpected, the flattery still ringing in his ears. ‘You can help your constituents – that bypass, for instance – if you support our plans.’ Iain smiled. He’d replace ‘support our plans’ with ‘prop up our minority government.’ Still nice to be wanted.
‘Mr Robinson? If you have a minute the Leader of the Opposition would like a word?’
Iain straightened his tie. This time he was prepared, this time he had a shopping list in his head. Maybe he wasn’t going to be so lonely after all.

***

Jane is next with a hilarious twist to end her flash. Make sure you check out her post here.

Museum, cathedral, botanical gardens… car park. It should be here but it isn’t.
I turn the map upside down, face back the way I’ve just come and try again. The spire’s on the left, the cedar of the botanical gardens is poking up over the wall on the right, car park should be…
Where the fuck has it gone?
I’m swearing in my head which is a bad sign. Why do they even need a car park in this god-forsaken hole? It’s dead! Museum’s closed, cathedral’s falling down, and the botanical gardens have gone wild. Not surprising there are no tourists. Just the ugliest housing estate I’ve ever seen, and this awful smell.

Funny. One of those terrible houses, one like a pile of boxes, the roof, I’m sure, it sort of lifted. Another one, other side of the street. Christ! Rumbling! Is it an earthquake, or what?
Where did that fucking car park go?
There, more roofs flipping up, and there’s something inside, big green eyes staring. The boxes, they’re full of… Not rumbling. Growling. I recognize the smell now—cat shit.
I start to run.
A catnip mouse the size of a pony hits me in the back.

The post #Writespiration 69 – I dare you to try this one 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.

Tears splashed onto the lily’s as I knelt to place them on mum’s grave, the last thing she’d said was to be free and live my life again, I’d spent too long caring for her instead of me. 

“I buried my mum today too. Do you need a drink as much as I do? there’s a pub round the corner.” said a smooth voice from behind me. I smiled. Mum was forcing me to live.

“Sure.” 

***

What is it with me and cheating? I can’t seem to follow my own rules. But meh, close enough. Besides you never know how inspiration strikes.

***

Now to the last writespiration entrants

Ali up first this time with a lengthy sentence for us:

I didn’t mean to hurt her; it’s just that I couldn’t imagine how anything I had to say or do would be of any help to anyone, so of course, I immediately said “No,” and, in so doing, that one small word was enough to destroy all her carefully tended hopes and dreams.

***

Geoff excelled himself with the most complex sentence I’ve ever attempted to read, I’m not sure it even makes sense! :p

Conjugating Grammar
If A is a gerundive exclamation and B is a homonymical verbosity where the root of B is a function of the indicative modal verb, then using as an example CD from the participle conjunction, can you extrapolate the subjunctive relative pronoun to prove that this sentence is complex?

***

Finally I had a submission from Victoria from theicarusproject.net on twitter.

***

The post #Writespiration 63 Two Sentence Romance Stories 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.