Angels Of The Silences – flash fiction

They have been following me for ages, these angels.

This week:

I am in a cafe, chewing on a bagel, tapping disconsolately on my netbook as I find something to read on the New York Times’ website, when I look up and see one. She stands outside, studying me with a mournful gaze while the rain falls and the lunchtime crowd flows and bumps around her.

I am in the dentist, nervously perched on a chair in the waiting room, and there is another one, dressed in the same dirty while linen, who stands behind the reception desk. He looks at me, saying nothing, face a blank canvas of emotion. The receptionist works and flows around him without any indication her personal space has been invaded.

I am in the cinema, alone, and waiting for the trailers to kick in. I see three of them rise from seats on the front row and make their way in front of the screen, where they stand awkwardly, as though they are waiting for questions from the audience. The angel on the right flaps his wings and coughs nervously.
Nobody yells at them to get out of the way.

I am now in a bar, nursing a glass of bourbon, and in the reflection of the Budweiser mirror I see another one, sobbing into his hands amidst a small crowd of thirty-somethings who laugh, joke and drink without a single care in the world. Before my eyes can slip away he releases himself from his own personal cataclysm to meet my gaze in the mirror. Hooked in his stare, I can do nothing except witness him shaking his head at me. Slowly. Firmly.

Enough. I slam the drink down on the bar, loudly enough to draw confused frowns from those around me. Ignoring unheard comments thrown my way, I take myself out into the winter night, where they begin to gather, and to flock,

and to watch.

Still no title for Stand-Of

Here’s what I have so far:

• Stand-Off (fairly nonsensical)
• City Of Lost Light (too familiar to the film City Of Lost Children)
• Lost Light  - this one I quite like.
• Low Light – a bit nonsensical, but I like this is some nonspecific way

No others yet.

A fantastic writing tool – Moleskine Folio Ruled Notebook

For all of us who choose to hand write our little pieces of non-fiction, I’d like to suggest you take a look at the link below.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/8862931913/ref=ox_ya_oh_product

I picked up one of these this week, and by the gods it’s a pleasure to use. Not only that but I can’t browse the web on it. Which means one thing: no distractions – apart from posting this, naturally.

Stand-Off – Chapter 3 begins

Firstly, I have no idea why this novelette is still called Stand-Off.

I can’t even remember why I decided to give it that name in the first instance. Was it something to do with a Mexican stand-off I imagined would take part in the third act? God know how that fits into this version of story. Still, quite an intriguing idea…

Anyway, enough babble. Chapter 3 is cooking as we speak, albeit it in written form. There’s something pure and artistic about ditching a keyboard and reverting to a brand new empty notebook and my fountain pen, and just crashing out on the bed, the act of ‘making stuff up’ rendered into its simplest form. The progress is slower, but only to the degree I can type about four to five times my writing speed. Factor in the umpteen distractions and shiny things my MacBook wants to show me, and I find that speed is relative.

Of course, what this means is that I won’t be posting any of my writing until either the Novelette or a Chapter is finished. This decision will be based almost entirely on my whim.

Review of Joe Abercrombie’s Best Served Cold

Best Served Cold by Joe Abercrombie

Best Served Cold is a standalone novel set in the same fantasy universe Abercrombie created in the much applauded‘The Blade Itself’ trilogy, and although the world events mean there are interactions between the series of books, in terms of characters who make cameo appearances, large and small, Best Served Cold is very much a different type of story.

The gritty and Tarantino-esque plot of revenge, murder and violence will appeal to fans of Richard Morgan (who is name checked at the end of the novel) while I quickly tired of the repetition and sheer bludgeonous nature of one savagely described death after another, descending into fare at some points. In one scene a character beheads another by throwing a knife at him. I’m not kidding. Mix this in with characters who are fundamentally unlikeable, bereft of any charm and who all appear to talk like they are auditioning for a Guy Ritchie movie, and I found myself losing interest half-way through the book, and completely indifferent for the last third.

Most frustrating is the lack of humour and playfulness I enjoyed so much in The Blade Itself. Abercrombie has elected to play this particular story straight – too straight, relentless as it is in the pornography of its violence without a counterbalance, leaving us with a one-note novel that runs out of steam half-way through and can only attempt to up the ante by multiplying what has previous gone on before by a factor of n.

It is a shame, because for the first third the book had me in the palm of its hand, but as a novel the idea outlives itself. This would be a more satisfying read as a shortened, tightened novella, a segue into the world he has created. Instead we are left with an overlong, disappointing, arduous and grim effort that makes me sincerely hope his next novel avoids the pitfalls of this one.

Still here

Updates ‘coming soon’

Like we haven’t heard that before…

End of Chapter 2 – finally.

The closer they enter the city, the more the danger grows. The trick is to move slowly, smoothly, and garner no attention through loud noises, swift movements, and preferably without a donkey genetically geared towards intransigence and confusion in the form of loud, befuddled braying. Boone, hand permanently clutching his gun – big enough to punch a hole through anything horse-sized, but with only three remaining bullets – patrols ahead, moving swiftly, looking for the undead and snatches of any sense of recent humanity in the plethora of signs pointing them somewhere towards a set of high rise buildings shooting out from nearby the river.

They hit an intersection, and, amidst the cool wind and the sound of shuffling, moaning and utter silence, Boone, Milo, the Chinese Man and the donkey stand upon it, at the crossroads where nothing but dead neon lights stare sorrowfully down, sharing space and time, forever, with huge advertising hoardings for a movie Boone never watched, that does nothing but hammer home, most completely and utterly, that one era has ended and one has begun.

That, and moving across the intersection like a taxi who has patiently waited for the lights to change, is a zombie, yammering to itself, mouth working spastically, head twisting and turning, arms thrusting in and out, like a manic disco dancer.

Only in this case the creature is elevated ten feet in the air, floating of its own accord, uncontrolled, unknowable, unnatural.

They watch in silence as the thing passes, drifting lazily, arguing with itself in some unknown language, all grunts, gurns and ticks, flying through the air, arguing against everything natural, if they didn’t do such a thing already.

Milo turns to Boon. “It’s true, then, “ he says.
“Yup.” Boone signs, scratches his head. He looks across the city, the dead, now more alien than ever before, move before him, simply and utterly unknowable.

Rejection for Warp Factory.

This is the rejection I got from GUD Magazine for Warp Factory

“ending section is really weak (in concept and writing). and too long
getting there, for what it is. not to mention the lack of editing
(there’s even a section still in third person that obviously wasn’t
meant to be)… it’s definitely colorful and freaky and cleverly-put
and all that good stuff, but not enough payoff imo, especially to give
a quarter of an issue to. and…neurolinguistic programming?!? come
on, al, you can do better than that!”

One word.

Smug.

Last time I submit there.

Old piece of writing

Came across this text, which presumably I must have written at some point.
–
I found myself standing on that street corner for hours. I knew after the first twenty minutes she wasn’t going to turn up, and yet I stayed there, watching the traffic through the rain, trying to pick apart the chain of emails we shared over the last week, trying to identify the little hints and subtle nuances that ultimately led me to this point here, standing along and hating myself just a little more than an hour before. This is what happens, I thought with hollow fury, when you try and be part of the human race.

My phone buzzed. I was on it before it had finished, flicking open the clamshell. A million different responses flooded my vision and I found myself blinking furiously in order to read the text I had just been sent. From her.

Sorry. It said. I didn’t *feel* anything when we spoke on the phone. Thought this was the best way to break it to you.

She polished this line off with a little sad smiley. I thought maybe a picture of a naked man being kicked forcibly in the testicles would have been less painful.
I started to reply immediately, a hundred conciliatory phrases breaking furiously across the sharp rocks of derision and rejection, and then I stopped, and looked up.

Across the road, somebody was taking a picture of me.
–

I like the last line. Immediately raises a whole raft of questions in the reader’s mind. For the live of me I can’t remember what the answers exactly were…

Slow

It’s just slow.

There’s no beating around the bush.

Progress on Stand-off is currently at the kind of pace comparable to that of a slug, limpet, nudibranch or a mollusc i.e not very fast at all. This is mainly my fault as I am often distracted by the shiny pretty objects on the internet whilst writing, which has led me to turn Airport off on my MacBook on numerous occasions, so that perhaps I could maybe do some writing instead? Pretty please?

But no.

It is why I love Scrivener and its full screen mode. Green on black. It is a fantastic means to disconnect everything else and turn your brain into writing mode. Don’t get me wrong: it doesn’t always work, and anything involved research is a touch restrictive until you turn wireless back on and THEN suddenly you’re back on the forums on Eurogamer.net, wasting your life away reading mucho important posts such as:

‘Random rants that don’t warrant their own threads’ thread.

Sigh.

Tonight is a good example of me trying to write, and failing. Life’s distractions (good in the form of my lovely girlfriend, bad in the form of utterly random web browsing) insist on getting in the way of me and my story. I wish I were more determined, or more focused, or more attentive. All of these things elude me whilst I write, which makes completing a story all the more impressive and satisfying.

My last novelette, Warp Factory, took nearly 7 years, numerous re-writes, plottings, three abandonments, 2 years of denial before I finally tortured into a form I’m finally happy with. Whilst I love that story without condition, it definitely highlights a major weakness with how I write – with no solution at hand.