Six Sentence Sunday: Con-Eire

Thanks, Linda Parsons.

The blog has moved: this is the last post that will be here apart from a housekeeping kind of post tomorrow. Everything's been moved over to the website for your ease and comfort. We'll play over there from now on.

It's Six Sentence Sunday again: they're going to be wrapping things up come January. It's a lot of work to coordinate something that keeps growing in leaps and bounds. I'm grateful for the new readers it brought me.

This week I offer a few sentences from my play Con-Eire which gives a behind-the-scenes glimpse at the workings of a spec fic convention. Having helped with quite a few of them, I have seen the enormous effort that goes into running them and the often capricious behaviour of 'big names' who have forgotten the fact that the people who run these are not paid and work only for the love of the stories, art, programmes and films that they love.

We catch up with the various members of the Con Com after news that their guest of honour, Very Famous Writer, has threatened to pull out because he discovered that the artist GoH is Very Famous Artist, with whom he has "history" as they say. But the complications multiply: we had a staged reading of this at Trinoc*coN which was a hoot, if I do say so myself. It was helped mightily by a very game cast and a whole lot of giggles.

 

MAEVE

Well, everything’s very hush hush—which is to say, nobody is too sure—but Minor Writer claimed that Very Famous Artist may be delving into her past for the next romance.

CONNOR

I feel like we need a scorecard.

DECLAN

Artists have to be free!

CONNOR

They always say that, but none of them gets anything done unless somebody else is taking care of the bills.

DEIRDRE

ANYway—

MAEVE

Well, that’s all I know: Someone from the past...

If you think you might like it, you can pick it up as an ebook at Amazon:

Six Sentence Sunday: Rook Chant

All right, it's Sunday again -- and Father's Day! Happy Father's Day all -- so here's my six. A little change of pace: not fiction, but non-fiction. A little taste from my latest publication, Rook Chant, which offers a compendium of essays, translations and reviews on one of my favourite topics: magic. I write about it from many different angles, often bringing fairly obscure things to a general audience. My way of saying, "look at this cool stuff I found!"

Here's my six from a presentation I gave at the Harry Potter Symposium in Salem, MA. What a fun event that was! Charles de Lint and MaryAnn Harris were there (and singing!) and many other luminaries. My presentation tried to give the basics of Anglo-Saxon magic to an audience that included all ages. This  will give you a taste of the charms:

By the time these charms are being written down, England is a mostly Germanic-speaking land with a healthy population of Celtic folks, fighting off Vikings and often one another. The one constant was magic. The charms of Anglo-Saxon England  consisted of words, herbs and actions. The Anglo-Saxons believed that words had a magic of their own especially when spoken aloud, but that the application of the right herbs would help the healing processes along, too. Sometimes other actions were required to create the right atmosphere or to move bad luck along to someone else. Used in conjunction the result was simply magic.

I've already got a lovely review and several requests for review copies. I also will be announcing another exciting piece of news soon that's a direct result of Rook Chant. It just goes to show, the real magic is making your dreams manifest. Audaces fortuna iuvat!

Check out the other Six Sentence Sunday entries and find yourself a few new authors!

Six Sentence Sunday: Just Waiting

Happy birthday, QoE! :-)

Another Sunday rolls around, another chance to sample new writers from a wee snippet of prose. Here's my six and yes it is inspired by a Fall song, so just deal with that, all right. Not everything comes from the words of Mark E. Smith: this week I wrote a story based on a song by one of the Rat Pack, just for a change of pace. The whole of this story is up at Near to the Knuckle, so if you like it you can read the whole thing and not just this snippet. They found just the right picture for this story, too -- love it!

He was just waiting, standing in the park, staring up at the window he knew so well and waiting–for what?  A light, her face, a sign from the heavens? Everybody’s waiting for something: chips and pie, pie in the sky, a windfall from their uncle dying, a lottery win, fame and fortune and oh, honey, if you just put your head out the window and saw me standing here, you would know I’m the one.

But she never looked even though he stood here too many nights and someone was bound to report him as a perv or potential kiddie fiddler, but her presence drew him here like a junkie to his fix. He just needed a sign.

“Well, what have we got here?”

If you want more, head over to Near to the Knuckle and check out the many fine stories they have there. Enjoy your Sunday, hope it's relaxing.

Drop by Six Sentence Sunday.

Six Sentence Sunday: Biscuits

A little treat for this round of Six Sentence Sunday, the weekly banquet of words to help you sample new writers or savour old favourites. Here's the beginning of my postcard-sized story "Biscuits" which you can read in its entirety over at Postcard Fiction.

"You should have been nicer to me," Carlotta said as she stood over me with the tire iron.

"I see that now." I tried to get up, but my leg kept making that crunching sound. "It's not too late. I could mend my ways."

A feeble attempt; one she wasn't buying.

"I'm taking the cash..."

You can also read it over at Short Humour, which has another little bon mot from moi especially for British people in hot weather and anyone with an interest in geography. Enjoy! And be sure to check out the other Sunday Six folks.

Six Sentence Sunday: Kiss Like a Fist

The lovely Monica Vitti for no reason at all

That time again: Six Sentence Sunday. I figured you might like a song-inspired story that isn't inspired by The Fall.

Yes, they do exist.

The song is Florence + The Machine's "Kiss With a Fist" which you'll notice is not quite the same as the title of my story. There has to be a word for it: someone who cannot get a quote right to save their life. Even when they're singing along with the words. Hopeless: maybe that's the word. I gave that characteristic to my character Ro in my novel Owl Stretching [oh and good news -- final edits accepted, so with luck I'll hear something soon about the release date and so forth].

So here's my six from "Kiss Like a Fist" and below it Flo's bouncy celebration of mutual assured destruction. I've bleeped one objectionable word so I don't have to add an adult content warning to the blog; you'll find my crime/noir stories a bit sweary (Chloë would approve). This one also contains gratuitous but minor Shakespeare swipage (you wouldn't even notice if I didn't tell you -- working these things in is just the kind of puzzle that entertains me and matters to no one else. Another habit I need to cure, I'm sure):

She had a mouth that could raise the dead. It had raised me plenty over the years, but I'd never been close enough to Rosaline's orbit to do anything about it.


Until tonight.


I brought her a third martini and her tongue had loosened enough to share some sage advice with me as she leaned back in the little snug. "Never f**k anyone crazier than yourself," she said, sucking an olive between those rose red lips.

I would have done well to listen to that advice, but it was already too late...

Check out the wealth of authors participating in Six Sentence Sunday and find some new gems. This story's been under submission for about two months; checking Duotrope, that doesn't seem to be an unusual length for this publication (alas), so I'll curtail my impatience and keep working on other things. You know me, I get itchy if I don't have a new publication coming out.

Six Sentence Sunday: Grotesque

Another Sunday has rolled around, giving you the opportunity to spot new writers you might like with the Six Sentence Sunday crew. A great, simple concept that seems to be very effective. My six this week come from a short that's been under submission for a bit now; I've become so good at the "submit & forget" that until a chance bump to the memory regurgitated it, I had forgotten the story existed and also where I had sent it, so I had to dig around to find it. Some detective work, eh? All I knew: it was named after a Fall reference.

Yeah, that narrows it down.

So here's a bit from "Grotesque" which is out there trying its luck (and now I know where). I picked a few lines describing the pub where most of the story takes place. Loosely based on a pub I know, but made much much worse, naturally; that's what fiction's all about. The scene begins with an explanation why no women have ever crossed its threshold:

Perhaps that could be blamed on the décor, which ranged from brown to more brown. Or the ambience that derived from unwashed and mostly middle aged men just off shift. The young lads all went to the shiny new sports pubs with their cacophonous screens and drinks with asinine names that they swilled back like candy. 

We had two kinds of lager here and one of ale, with Guinness on the side for the old men from the isle. In the summer you could also get cans of Budweiser to take out into the 'beer garden': a picnic table on a concrete square between the rubbish tip and the gray wall of the car park. The chief appeal seemed to be you were allowed to spit out there.

I'll let you know if/when something comes of it. I'm sure it will eventually.



       

Six Sentence Sunday: The Claddagh Icon

Another Sunday has rolled around; in the States it's Mother's Day, so happy Mother's Day to my mother and all the other mothers out there. It's also Six Sentence Sunday, so I've selected another story to tease you with. It's definitely a tease, because while I've sent the story off to my publisher in Italy, I don't know exactly when it's coming out or even if it will be available in English (I think so). It will be part of a series of sexy noirish tales set in different cities around the world -- yes, another publication venue that Mr B pointed me toward.

The story is named after a local landmark, this sculpture that appears on the Claddagh side of the bay, which is doubtless hardly surprising. Across Grattan Road there's another statue which really does look as I describe it in these opening lines. I enjoyed finding the voice of this character. As you might expect, I've spent a lot of my time here listening to the ways people talk:

I first saw her standing by the icon. I was saying hello to Father Burke's statue as he raised a glass to the offie across the street and thinking about indulging myself, it being a grey sort of day that calls for a smoky glass of the gold nectar. Under the halo of the icon, her golden hair glowed. The cormorant rose above her as if to proclaim her beauty to the world. I'm not sure what the boat represented: maybe it was my hopes sailing away...

This story won't be for everyone: steamy! And noirish, so not everything's going to go well for everyone. I'm enjoying the crime groove. My head's full of interesting ideas.

Don't forget -- you can sample a bunch of writers' sixes at the official site.

Six Sentence Sunday: Chickens

My latest publication is another crime story: yes, that seems to be my groove now. I'm even going to the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival in July the better to network and immerse myself in the crime writing world. Should be fun, eh?

My story "Chickens" takes place in 1968, when a couple of Bakersfield irregulars decide to leave the farm behind and go mess with some hippies, the phenomenon they've learned about from watching the nightly news with the elder statesman of television, Walter Cronkite. Bonus appearance by Cal Worthington and his dog Spot!

I killed all the chickens the day I left. I'd have preferred to kill Maw but I wasn't ready at the time for a crime of such proportions and besides, I was looking forward to saying to Bud with a laugh, "I spent the morning chokin' chickens!" because I knew he'd laugh like he always does in that hee-haw kind of way. Maw always said he was half ass anyway (the only funny thing she ever said in her miserable life that I can recall) but I forgot to tell him because he was so excited about buggin' out to the smoggy wonderland.

"We're gonna get some girls," Bud said, hee-hawing a mile a minute as we pulled away from their farm. Dawn in Bakersfield, the most uninspiring sight a body can see anywhere in this great nation I am sure. The golden light just cast a beautiful glow on the stunted fields and ugly houses of mile after mile of failing farms and subsidized indolence...

Matt Hilton edited this monster-sized anthology -- nearly 300 pages of non-stop mayhem, including folks like my pal Mr B and Richard Godwin, Absolutely Kate, Col Bury, David Barber, Graham Smith and many many more. Chock full of action, just like it says on the tin -- er, cover. Vol 2 already in the planning stages. This is going to be big!

As usual, drop by to see all the Six Sunday offerings.

Six Sentence Sunday: It's a Curse, Round 2

Six Sentence Sunday has rolled around again. Drop by and see all the offerings at the Six Sunday blog. Today I offer another taste of "It's a Curse" because the eBook of Drunk on the Moon is already out and the print version arrives this week. And because I had such a hard time choosing just six sentences from the story. So here's another half dozen from when Roman Dalton, the werewolf PI, meets the woman he's supposed to be locating:


Jameson smiled, then looked thoughtful. "There's something odd about you."


"I missed the Paris fashions this year, so I'm out of season. Imagine my embarrassment."


"You're not what you seem."


"Neither are you."

In his blurb about the collection, Les Edgerton praised my dialogue in particular. Very kind words, indeed! You'll enjoy this anthology -- I guarantee it.

Six Sentence Sunday: Bill is Dead

Yes, it's that time again, Six Sentence Sunday. For this week I share another work you can read in full for nothing over at Pulp Metal Magazine, where you will find lots more for your noirish pleasures, including the omnipresent Mr B.

PMM loves stories inspired by songs; oddly enough, I tend to write a few stories that are inspired by songs especially -- wait for it! -- songs by The Fall.

So here's a little snippet from "Bill is Dead" which happens to be a real fave of mine. All dialogue: the difficulty in this kind of story is making the two voices distinct. In this case, they're also rather crude, as well as not being the sharpest tools in the box. Slightly based on true facts; Bill, it turns out, is having a bad day, exacerbated by a party lasting past 4am next door...

“Not because of the party?”

“At first, no. His wife, after threatening for twenty years, does a runner. Seems she met a new guy on line and they were running off to Budapest.”

“Budapest? Where the hell is that anyway?”

Flash fiction, so a quick read. Let me know what you think, let PMM know too. Lots of good writing there.

Six Sentence Sunday: It's a Curse

Howling out of Dark Valentine Press later this month, "It's a Curse" is one of the Roman Dalton stories in Drunk on the Moon, tales of the werewolf detective created by Paul D. Brazill. Mr B has lured me into the crime world much like a stranger with candy. I may be some time.

This is another story I can blame on The Fall, forsooth, by gad, verily! The opening owes as much also to Kingsley Amis, who set the bar high for hangover scenes in his classic of academic ambivalence, Lucky Jim. What can I say? I'm competitive.

I could feel my eyeballs roll in their sockets before I opened my lids: never a good sign. I steeled myself for the brutal fact of daylight, but the dawn was as grey as if it hadn't yet decided to get dressed. I reached for the crumpled pack of gaspers lying next to the bed. The object my groping fingers found puzzled me.


I opened one eye warily. It was a handkerchief, floral and trimmed in lace...

Poor Roman: things are going to get worse before they get better. Oh, wait -- no, they're just going to get worse. Hee.

Six Sentence Sunday: Revelation

Today's six come from a pivotal story in my life: not for its quality (though I find some things to enjoy even now) or because it was my first "official" publication (though it was) but because it brought me kind words from Clive Barker. His Lord of Illusions short story contest inspired me to write this story of a child preacher and the apocalypse that begins at Disneyland. I think Clive had been on some talk show mentioning how much the ride horrified him (as it does all right thinking people) and suddenly the idea was there.

I won the contest, which was cool; even better were the kind words in the letter he wrote me to tell me my story was full of "fluent style and poetic dialogue" and the big hug I got when I first met him and told him that I wrote that story. Clive is a swell guy: every time I see him, he seems to remember me (considering how most people seldom remember me, that's a lot). I have seen him greet the last fan in a very long line with the same enthusiasm he had for the first. It's a good life being an imagineer.

This story appears in full at the official American Clive Barker site.

Michael snapped open his folding-table by the exit of "It's A Small World," one of his favorite spots, despite the risk. The scissoring legs telescoped toward the pavement and locked with a pleasing thwack. Other children, some younger, eyed him surreptitiously, waiting for the show to begin before committing to the spectacle.

In a single practiced motion, he slipped the heavy book from the crook of his elbow to the slanted table-top where it opened at will. Not by my will, but by Thy will, Michael repeated silently with satisfaction. He shaded his eyes to scan the well-tanned pages.

Stop by the Six Sentence Sunday blog to discover new writers!

Six Sentence Sunday: Horse Clock

This story was inspired by -- wait for it -- the clock on my mantelpiece and the Sekhmet postcard my friend Joey gave me. It started as a caption for the picture on my Facebook page. I liked the blue tone which resulted from the wrong setting on the phone ("fluorescent"? maybe). My friend Richard complimented me by calling it, "Hobanesque" which pleased me greatly. It will be in a collection soon; more as the details come together, but it will feature a number of writers all linked by the Burning Bridge theme.

My six:
 

At one time, there was another horse on the clock, but it fell in love with the chime and they ran off together, so the clock no longer keeps time. The horse that remains behind conceals his broken heart and keeps the ball ready in case anyone wants to play. Sekhmet awaits the desert breezes and the return of the rain.

"How does it begin?" The big hand asked the little hand.

"With laughter," said the little hand, "but it always ends in tears."

Drop by the Six Sentence Sunday blog to sample more writers.

Six Sentence Sunday: Mandrake Anthrax

I've been getting all noir lately. I blame Mr B. Ireland's so lovely, but I've been setting stories here that are undeniably grim. So I blame Ken Bruen, too. While I'm spreading the blame around, might as well point a finger (or two!) at Mark E. Smith, too. If he hadn't written a lyric like, "A serious man /In need of a definitive job /He had drunk too much /Mandrake anthrax," then I wouldn't have had the idea for this story, which first started up on Twitter. Let's blame Twitter, too, shall we? It worked for Franzen.

My six:

Hanley eyed the brick façade. The door proved to be a gothic affair, metal bound and painted all black. Seeing no modern convenience, he lifted the oversized bat knocker and clapped it to a few times. They both craned their ears but all around them it was suddenly as quiet as death, as if all the people had walked hand in hand into the bay abandoning the city behind them. Hanley shuddered.

When he had just about surrendered all hope and began to get thirsty for a tall foamy pint, the door groaned open to reveal a disheveled looking eurotrash reject of indeterminate age...

You can read the whole of this bleak little tale over at A Twist of Noir. While you're there, read some of the other fine stuff they've got.

Drop by the Six Sentence Sunday blog and sample some new writers today.

Six Sentence Sunday: The Big Splash

I had the best time writing this story. After reading too much P. G. Wodehouse (too much? is that possible?) and some Winifred Watson, I was full of madcap story ideas and thought it would be fun to try to set a story in Jazz Age London. I wrote The Big Splash in a kind of fever over the Christmas break between semesters. It ended up being a novella instead of a short as I intended, but I had such a grand time inventing my own Bertie and Jeeves. I have an idea for a new one, so Constance and Collier will get another outing soon. Here we meet the best friend, who makes our heroine look positively sensible in comparison. Yes, of course I found an excuse for someone to say that immortal line.

Both their heads turned at a sudden outburst of noise. As Constance suspected, the sound accompanied the arrival of her friend, the irrepressible Hardie. All of her entrances seemed to include dropping things, making loud excuses, and happily shrieking greetings, though at times they had also included gunshots, fire, and the occasional oran-utang. 

"Con-stance!" Hardie shouted across the room as she bashed into a small planter, then corrected her path by jostling an elderly judge who harrumphed most alarmingly. His equally ancient partner brought up her lorgnette to examine the madwoman who walloped her way across the room, leaving destruction in her wake. 

"Constance, darling! What a delight to see you!" Hardie grabbed her shoulders and kissed each cheek in turn as if they had been parted for years rather than the space of a mere day and a half. 

Be sure to check out all the Six Sentence Sunday posts and discover some new writers.

Six Sentence Sunday: High Plains Lazarus

I began writing this story about a day before I went off to Trinoc*coN one year, because I knew I had to read something and I suddenly decided I hated everything I'd ever written (yes, I have those kind of days). It came from the voice: as soon as I heard Finn's voice in my head, I knew I had a winner. I hadn't planned to write a zombie western -- and I didn't know that it would end up being a 10,000 word novelette that really would like to be a novel. In time, in time.

As another bottle went whizzing by my head I knew that I had made some serious miscalculations. I knew too that Jim was like to kill me because of those miscalculations, but at the moment the shambling wreck of a corpse was a much more pressing issue. I had unloaded most of my pistol into it already when Jim shouted that I should quit wasting bullets like they were made of manure and throw something more substantial, but somehow guns still seemed like a good idea. Cursing his illustrious forebears, I finally holstered my beloved pearl-handled Colts and looked around for something heftier. The dead guy continued his staggering plunge toward me, so I grabbed a chair and flung it wildly across the room. It fetched up a glancing blow on his shoulder, which spun him around to the left...

You can pick this story up in the collection Rotting Tales from Pill Hill Press. Fun stuff there -- get your zombie on and go west.



 

Six Sentence Sunday: The Mangrove Legacy

I nearly forgot about the Six Sentence Sunday meme: perish the thought. I have since discovered that there is also a Tuesday Serial meme, so  I have to also remember to add Airships & Alchemy  to that. As usual, be sure to drop by and see all the other six sentences -- it's a great way to discover new writers. So here's something from my comic Gothic novel The Mangrove Legacy. I will say once again how much pleasure writing this surprisingly chunky novel gave me over time. It's such a joy to write very silly things. In this chapter, Alice Mangrove and her new-found friend, Constance Forward (o_O) meet a man to whom they have not been introduced. Shocking events are just around the corner!

Just then the two young women heard a voice echo tentatively across the sands. "I beg your pardon…"

They looked up and saw a very nice looking young man. Perfectly respectable, Alice thought, despite his ungentlemanly willingness to be helpful. Although he appeared to be French (his clothes were far too stylish for him to be a English tourist), his manner seemed admirably proper.

"I could not help but to notice that you were in search of a corkscrew. I can call my manservant at once and give you use of mine." He nodded slightly as if to acknowledge their predicament.

Six Sentence Sunday: Pelzmantel

As always, drop by Six Sentence Sunday to browse through the offerings and discover new writers.

Once upon a time, there was a queen. She had hair of brilliant gold. It would shine like burnished metal in the sunlight, dance in moonlight spears. Her face had the radiant glow of genuine happiness, for she loved the land in which she dwelled, and she had found her own true love... 

This is the end of one story that I know: a happy ending. But it is the beginning of this story, so of course something terrible is going to happen.
 

Get the ebook!

Six Sentence Sunday: Palakainen

A simple concept: six sentences to win you over. Here's mine, from "Palakainen," one of the stories from Unikirja. As a special treat, you can read the entire story at Mythic Journeys. See the rest of the titbits at Six Sentence Sunday. And think about buying the ebook version of Unikirja. Kiitos.

 Swanlike she was born, swanlike did she grow, with white hands and a graceful neck and eyes that looked unblinking at you. The servants, who all grumbled day and night about their work, would give her the best of the cream, the finest weaving, the sweetest olut brewed for her. Her brothers and sisters too, who should be jealous of the attention our little star received, instead protected her, coddled her. Her sisters did the mending rather than let her prick her fingers. Her brothers gathered kindling, which should be her job, carried hay to the cows in winter, rather than let her chap her hands. Swanlike they stayed, white.


Palakainen she was named, our little tidbit, our little treat...

Six Sentence Sunday: It's a Curse

A simple concept: writers offer six sentences to pique your interest. Here's mine:


"And you're a beast among men, Roman Dalton." Marinova spoke softly but the words hit like a blow anyway. I hunched my shoulders and walked on, the zubrowka churning my guts yet. When I reached the lifts I punched the button with a little more energy than it called for to summon one. The wolf arched in my spine. His time drew closer. I hit the button again. I needed to finish up this job.


You can buy It's a Curse: Drunk on the Moon 7 and the other titles in Mr B's killer fun werewolf PI series along with a bunch of my fine colleagues at Trestle Press. You can also win a copy at Goodreads.

Drop by the Six Sentence Sunday blog to sample other writers.