Some rejections

Ok, I’ve had New York Story, Grand Station and The Man Who Met Himself bounce back.

Fortunately John at One Of Us liked New York Story (but ultimately rejected it) but asked me to send something else. Step up The Man Who Met Himself.

Bit more of Bullet

Bit more of ‘Bullet’. This whole section is really clunky. I’m hoping it’s because I’m writing this in small blocks at a time as opposed to a major failing in pace and structure. Shut up back there…

Theibert, sat in a squeaky chair in his little elevated porta-cabin, rocked back and forth, looked out from his smoky window down onto the small courtyard. The weak orange lights outside highlighted the lazily drifting dust, rising and falling in their own eddies and currents.
Squeak squeak squeak went the chair.
Beyond the courtyard (as it were; basically a space area of flat rock that the semi-circle of cabins and portable homes encircled) lay a thick, obscure darkness, like a heavy black veil drawn by a particularly depressive renaissance artist. Somewhere, down there, the bugs lived in the cavern below. The lights kept away the creatures and protected the camp from any threats, although there had been the occasional excursion by one of the insects that had over time resulted in an opportunistic capture, followed by experimentation, succeeded by electronic capping and finally, remote control. They were like small radio controlled buggies, except with many feet, mandibles and disconcerting clucking noises. While Thiebert never concerned himself over the zombification of the indigenous species in this dank, grim hole, certain, select members of the camp railed heavily against the decision. This was despite the fact her brother invented, then implemented the device and then she decides to complain about it.
The majority of the recruits will blindly follow – as they have done so far without question – but Jane’s dissent has been growing louder as the visible faith she has in her own beliefs distinguish and one thing Thiebert knew with any certainty is that she will absolutely, positively not approve. Not to worry. Dabe knows what to do when the time is right. A cold fellow, that.
Speak for yourself.
Squeak squeak squeak. He glanced up at the clock. Time to make the call. Thiebert grabbed the receiver and dialled the number.

*
“Shit.”
“As disarming as that is you can’t help but be impressed by the strength and reliability of technology on this planet.”
Al approached the package gingerly [1] and minced around it.
“Fuck. What do we do? As soon as he twigs he’ll blow the package and then kill Mav and Alex.
“Then, “ Steve replied with meaning, “We shall ramp up the bullshite. Pass me the radio.”
Al fished out the radio from the gloopy, gore drenched high grade explosives and handed it across to Steve with a grimace. “Keep him talking, “ Al said. “I’ll ditch the explosives. Somehow.”
“We’re in space. You can’t just open a window and chuck it out. “
Steve paused. Caught Al’s gaze. “Can you?…”

[1] use your imagination

All quiet on the Submission Front

Wow. No immediate rejection emails to last week’s submission vomit-outburst. This means either: -

1. They’re slow
2. They love my stuff

Let’s assume number 1, shall we?

I lie: there has been some response from Murky Depths and Andromeda Spaceways (for Dead Angels and  The Man Who Met Himself respectively), both of which indicate I’ve passed the slush. Getting past the slush is the easy part: it’s getting the damn things published that’s the bastard.

Argh finish the damn story already

Bullet is killing me.

I can’t finish the damn thing. I know exactly what happens next but getting all the bloody characters in the same place at the same time without contravening the integrity(1) of the plot is driving me mad. Not only that but I’m getting bored. Dangerously bored. I’ve sat on it too long and the enthusiasm is beginning to drain away. In my head it’s already written, so it’s onto new things (it keeps muttering about my Hong Kong zombie story in a dreamy, wistful voice) meanwhile I’m left to stagger over the last few miles. And for those who have read The Longest Walk we all know the punishment for not finishing…

(1) Ha!