Those of you who have been floating around Penstricken for a while may recall that I once mentioned a particular plot bunny that assailed me when I was travelling home from work. As my bus passed by a Chinese takeaway, it occurred to me that a takeaway restaurant could make a lot of money if only the owner had exclusive and discreet access to a time machine, thus allowing him to deliver food promptly no matter how busy a night he was having. However, I neglected to actually show you the story that came about as a result of that plot bunny.
And so… here it is. As always, what follows here is entirely my own work and has not been published anywhere else in the world, whether in print or online nor do I expect it to be.
THE SECRET OF SIG. PIERONI’S PIZZA
by A. Ferguson
‘What if we’re caught?’ Derek whispered.
‘It’s our customers Pieroni’s stealing with his “piping hot pizza delivered in under five minutes.”’ Sandra hissed. The lock gave. They were in. ‘No way he’s doing that single-handed, whatever he says. It’s a tax thing, gotta be. Try find his ledger.’
‘What’s this?’ Derek whispered, fiddling with an unlabelled control panel beside the pantry. Something inside the pantry began to hum. Derek stepped inside.
‘Found it!’ Sandra called. ‘Let’s go!’
No reply.
‘Derek!’ She whispered, following him into the pantry. ‘Quickl-’
They were outdoors.
In the distance, herds of dinosaurs fled an erupting volcano.
Every Tuesday, I post a new edition of Spotlight: a short post which shines a proverbial spotlight on a published novel or collection of short fiction. If you would like to have your book considered for a future edition of Spotlight, drop us an e-mail including a short synopsis of your book and a link to where we can buy it. Better yet, send me a copy of your book and I can include a mini-review.
I’m still looking to interview fiction authors here on Penstricken, especially new or indie authors. Whether it’s books, plays, comics or any other kind of fiction, if you’ve got something written, I want to hear about it. If you’re interested in having your work featured on Penstricken, be to sure to drop us an e-mail or message us on Facebook/Twitter/Pinterest.
Please be advised that due to a recent surge in interest, I am presently committed to a significant number of reviews/interviews over the next couple of months. If you would like an interview or review, I would still love to hear from you, though it is unlikely that I will be able to begin work immediately.
Well it’s Christmas on Wednesday so that can only mean one thing: it’s time for a Christmas themed short story! I’m not overly thrilled with how this turned out but as it’s now the last Sunday before Christmas, we’ll just have to make do.
As ever, the following story is entirely my own work and has never been previously published anywhere else in the world, whether in print or online, nor do I ever expect it to be. It’s a little bit longer than my usual posts but what the heck.
And so without further ado, I give you:
Christmas Eve
by A. Ferguson
Karen inhaled a sharp drag on her cigarette, holding the burning toxic fumes in her chest for as long as she could before letting them out in one shuddering breath on the snowy rooftops below.
It was freezing. Karen had sworn she’d never do another Christmas Eve again but that man… that stupid idiot man.
‘I wish you wouldn’t smoke, dear. What if someone sees?’
‘It’s your fault I’m here at all.’
‘The little children, dearest, they look up to me; to us.’
She chanced a glance at Santa. His brilliant red jacket was now a patchwork of soot stains and there was a fresh tear in the shoulder.
‘Yeah.’ Karen grunted, stealing one last drag before stamping the cigarette underfoot. ‘Well. Can I go now?’
‘Ah, well, I wonder…’
‘What?’ Karen grunted.
‘It’s just the old knee, my dear. Dr. Jones said I should rest it but when you pulled me out–‘
‘I told you not to use the chimneys this year!’ Karen snapped. ‘I don’t know why I waste my breath talking to you.’
‘I’ve only got Glasgow and Falkirk to go, you’ll be home in an hour.’
‘Am I just free labour to you, is that why you married me? Dragging me out of bed on Christmas Eve–‘
‘Please Karen, it’s for the children. They’ll be so disappointed on Christmas morning if Santa hasn’t been.’ He implored.
‘Like I’ve been every Christmas I’ve had since I met you.’ She muttered, trying to seem indifferent to what the children wanted.
Santa didn’t say anything, but she could see he was hurt.
‘Fine, whatever.’ She huffed, climbing into his sleigh and taking the reins. ‘Are you able to get home in my sleigh okay?’
‘I’ll manage.’ He said.
‘Well mind and call if you can’t–’
‘I’ll be fine. See you when you get back.’
‘Please yourself.’ Karen snapped and with a sharp crack on the reigns she took off into the snowy night sky.
🎅 🎅 🎅
Karen muttered profanities to herself as she stuffed yet another oversized stocking (this one belonging to someone called Adam Forrester) with gifts and chocolates.
That man! This was what her life had become. Stockings, presents, Christmas trees and clambering up and down chimneys. It was all he cared about.
Exhausted from her work, she sat down on a nearby armchair. A plastic, cartoon portrait of her good-for-nothing husband grinned back at her from the opposite wall. On the coffee table, a small plate of mince pies sat beside a raw carrot and a glass of milk. Karen shuddered. How long had it been sitting there?
She looked at the clock on the mantle. Half past four. Enough time for a quick one.
Rummaging around in her pocket, she pulled out her cigarettes and lit one, trying to relax on the unfamiliar armchair, taking the mince pies off the plate and lifting the plate onto her lap to use as an ashtray.
Seventeen years of her life she’d wasted, married to a man who cared more about other people’s children than about her and about their children, not that they had any. He’d swept her off her feet that fateful morning seventeen years ago, when she interrupted him filling her stocking. He whisked her away for a midnight journey around the world in his sleigh and she helped deliver presents to all the children in the world. Afterward they returned to her place and shared a mince pie before he suddenly announced the sun was rising and he had to leave.
She couldn’t let him. She was young, starstruck and there was such an obvious and irresistible chemistry between them that she went with him. She married him and, for a while, life was one big festive adventure but now… now she was trapped in the dwindling hours of an everlasting Christmas evening, when the presents are all unwrapped and the turkey is all gone and the tree doesn’t seem to sparkle quite as brightly as it did a few hours before. That was her life, all year round with him locked up in his workshop most of the year then expecting everyone to jump to his command come December. The sleigh was just a mode of transport now. Giving gifts to other people’s children was nice but it wasn’t quite enough and whenever she tried to talk about starting their own family, he would find some excuse to change the subject or–
‘Who are you?’
Karen nearly fell off the armchair as she smashed the cigarette furiously into the plate. There was a man in the doorway, presumably Adam Forrester. He was a little younger than Karen, perhaps, but not by much, maybe early thirties. He didn’t look particularly bothered to find a stranger in his living room.
Of course not. He was expecting one.
‘The first openly female Santa.’ Karen grunted.
‘Are you Mrs. Claus?’
‘Karen.’ She grunted. ‘Karen Claus. You’re supposed to be sleeping.’
‘Couldn’t sleep.’ Adam said, matter-of-factly. ‘Too excited. I love Christmas.’
Karen snorted. ‘You’re worse than my husband.’
‘Don’t you like Christmas?’
‘Every day is Christmas with us.’ Karen snorted. ‘This is just work. His work. Only reason I’m here is he got stuck in a chimney earlier and hurt himself.’
‘Oh, so you get lumbered with it whenever he’s not well?’
‘I don’t mind doing it.’ Karen said. ‘It’s great giving gifts to all the children and everything, it’s just…’ Karen paused, hunting for the right word.
‘Christmas isn’t Christmas anymore.’ Adam finished for her. ‘Like you said, it’s work. His work.’
‘Yeah. Exactly.’
‘You wanna talk about it? I know we don’t know each other but if you want to let off steam or…’
Karen sighed. ‘That’s very kind but there’s nothing to tell. I’ll tell you this though, one day you’re gonna meet someone and you’ll think to yourself, “that’s it, this is the One for me!”, ‘cause there’s so much chemistry between you and you think he’ll make all your wildest dreams come true. But you can’t live like that…’ Karen looked in her cigarette box. It was empty. ‘You marry someone like that and you realise what’s really important to you. Not the sleigh rides or the presents or the fact he can do magic. Boring stuff, like raising a family and knowing he cares about you more than all that other stuff; Christmas, or whatever it is makes him feel good about himself.’
‘I guess being married to Santa must be a bit like being married to a celebrity.’ Adam mused. ‘Christmas is what he is and everyone loves him for it, expects it from him. And you just get absorbed into all that whether you like it or not.’
‘Yeah.’ Karen said. ‘Yeah, exactly. So now it’s all just Christmas this, Christmas that, all year round. It’s not magical anymore, but it’s not quite a proper life either. And that’s what I want, a proper life. I love Santa but I want a normal life too. I want to get excited about Christmas like a normal person and and see my own children getting excited about it every year instead of just standing in the background making Christmas fun for strangers
‘You know, we had this big fight last Christmas. Something that was important to me but he didn’t want to know. After that he spent all year locked up in his workshop, hardly came out at all, just says he’s gotta get ready for Christmas.’
Karen exhaled sharply through her nose. She looked down at her hands and tugged at the fingers of her gloves.
‘You know what? No, I don’t like Christmas, not any more.’
Adam didn’t say anything. She looked up to see him, focusing intently on her with genuine concern on his face. He seemed like a kind man.
‘Look, never mind about me.’ Karen said, rising to her feet slightly embarrassed by her own catharsis. ‘Tell you what, since you love Christmas so much, why don’t I give you a quick ride in the sleigh? Just to say thank you.’
Karen smiled, feeling a whole lot lighter than she did half an hour ago. ‘Get your coat. It’s chilly out.’
🎅 🎅 🎅
The sleigh ride did not last long. It was too close to daybreak to take Adam beyond his own city. There was a tiny chink of light on the farthest point of the horizon when Karen and Adam landed back on Adam’s rooftop and Karen couldn’t help feeling disappointed it was over.
‘Well,’ Adam said without rising up from the sleigh. ‘Thanks for a wonderful night.’
‘No, thank you for listening to me. For understanding.’ Karen said.
Adam smiled and Karen felt her heart skip a beat.
‘Well,’ She said, business-like. ‘You’d better get to bed or Santa won’t come.’
Adam took a long time to clamber out of the sleigh. When he finally did get out, he walked around the sleigh to be as close to her as possible.
‘You want to come in for a coffee or something?’ He asked.
Yes. Yes, I do.
‘I can’t, Adam.’ She said, feeling sick. ‘The sun’s coming up, I have to get back.’
‘Before you turn into a pumpkin?’
‘Something like that.’ She grimaced.
‘Alright.’ He said, taking a single, very small step back from the sleigh.
‘Goodnight, Adam.’ She said, cracking the reigns hard to return to Santa.
🎅 🎅 🎅
The sun was just beginning to rise over the snowy Korvatunturian landscape when Karen landed the sleigh in front of the quaint log cabin which was their private residence. Smoke puffed happily from the chimney and a warm glow from the windows gently illumined the snowy ground but she felt more miserable than ever. Two serious faced elves met the sleigh as soon as she arrived, taking charge of the reindeer, allowing her to go immediately to the house.
Inside it was quiet, though the hallway was warm. He was up, but she just wanted to go to bed and forget about the last twenty-four hours.
‘Is that you dearest?’
Karen swore under he breath.
‘I’m going to bed.’ She called back.
‘But it’s Christmas!’ He called back. Karen heard his heavy footfalls coming towards the hall. A moment later, he appeared in the living room door, wearing those ridiculous red and white pyjamas. ‘Maybe Santa’s been!’
‘I live with Santa. It’s nothing new.’ She grunted, walking past him to the stairs but he gently took her hand and stopped her.
‘Karen, please.’ He said in a softer voice. ‘Come and see.’
‘Can I have a fag?’
Santa winced.
‘Fine.’ Karen sighed. ‘But then I’m going to bed.’
Santa stepped back from the living room door, making a grand gesture of inviting her into the room. ‘Of course.’ He said solemnly.
Karen entered the living room, a little surprised and even a touch disappointed to find it unchanged. Warm, cozy, with a fire blazing in the hearth and the same small bundle of presents under the oversized Christmas tree. Instead of going to the presents, however, Santa crossed the living room towards his workshop and stood beside the door.
‘In here.’ He said, gesturing to the closed door. ‘Merry Christmas.’
Karen regarded him suspiciously and felt an unwanted smile begin to force itself upon the corners of her mouth. ‘What is it?’ She asked, as disdainfully as she could.
‘Your main present,’ he said. ‘From your husband.’
Karen approached the workshop and pushed the door open. She seldom ventured here herself. It was always full of mess and business as Santa and his elves worked furiously preparing all the toys and gifts for the following Christmas. Something she had lost all interest in.
She could hardly believe her eyes when she opened the door. All of the workbenches, machinery and magical paraphernalia were gone. There were no elves and no mess. The entire room had been redecorated from top to bottom in soft pastel shades. On one side of the room, there was a white chest of drawers with soft edges and bulbous, rubbery handles. A similarly styled wardrobe stood directly beside it. There was a large selection of soft toys populating the top of the drawers. The windows were covered with pastel blue blackout curtains which prevented any sunlight from getting into the room. There was a white lampshade with tiny little reindeers dangling from the light, casting reindeer shaped shadows all around the room. On the far side of the room, there was a simple white wooden cot and a baby changing station. Karen was speechless.
‘Like it?’
‘Where’s the workshop?’ Karen gasped.
‘Dismantled.’ Santa said. ‘I’ve decided to advertise for someone else to take over. They can have it all. I thought about what you said last Christmas and you were right.’
Karen looked up at her husband, his face uncharacteristically serious though not stern.
‘I’ve been too absorbed in my work. I’ve just been doing it so long, it’s become my life. So it’s time to retire. To focus on our family.’ He nodded into the workshop-turned-nursery. ‘I know this doesn’t make up for everything but-’
‘But it’s a start.’ Karen said, nodding. ‘And I’m sorry. For everything.’
‘So…’ Santa said. ‘Not a disappointing Christmas this year, then?’
‘No.’ She said. ‘I think this is going to be the best Christmas ever.’
Every Tuesday, I post a new edition of Spotlight: a short post which shines a proverbial spotlight on a published novel or collection of short fiction. If you would like to have your book considered for a future edition of Spotlight, drop us an e-mail including a short synopsis of your book and a link to where we can buy it. Better yet, send me a copy of your book and I can include a mini-review.
I’m still looking to interview fiction authors here on Penstricken, especially new or indie authors. Whether it’s books, plays, comics or any other kind of fiction, if you’ve got something written, I want to hear about it. If you’re interested in having your work featured on Penstricken, be to sure to drop us an e-mail or message us on Facebook/Twitter/Pinterest.
Well it’s Christmas Day tomorrow, so I guess that means it’s time for a story! And what better genre than a sci-fi/horror with a festive twist.
As ever, the following story is entirely my own work and has never been published anywhere else, whether in print or online, nor do I expect it to ever be published anywhere else in the future. And so, without further ado, I give you…
by A. Ferguson
‘Daddy’, my daughter ventured in the dwindling hours of one Christmas Eve. ‘My teacher says Santa’s not Santa but St. Nicholas was Santa. And he’s dead. So… if Santa is St. Nicholas and St. Nicholas is dead, how can is he coming here?’
‘Well Christine,’ I began, thinking on my feet. ‘Your teacher is right that St. Nicholas has been dead for centuries…’
But seeing a wave of disappointment flash across my daughter’s face, I knew I couldn’t stop there. This girl still believed. I couldn’t just snatch it away from her, but would lying to her face be any better?
‘But she left out the part about him being cloned.’ I added.
She looked at me like I’d grown antlers.
‘Cloned?’
‘Yeah, cloned. You know, copied. They made a new Santa out of the old one.’ I continued, trying to look cool. I was committed now. ‘His remains were exhumed by really clever scientists from the future. They used his remains to create this clone, intending to send him back to his own time so that he could continue giving gifts to all the children, just like he used to when he was first alive.’
She still looked confused. ‘But… how come he’s magic and can fly around the world and stuff now?’
‘Well it’s not really magic.’ I explained. ‘They used something called cy-ber-net-ic tech-nologyto make him better, stronger and faster than he was before. It also meant he’d stay alive much, much longer– maybe even forever.’
She still didn’t look convinced.
‘Why?’ She asked.
‘Because,’ I sighed, as if it were obvious but my mind was racing. ‘He’s the kindest man in the world! I’m sure your teacher must’ve explained that he always used to give gifts to poor children, right? Well, now that he’s been enhanced with cybernetic technology, he can give gifts to all the children in the world in a single night!’
I could’ve stopped there. I should’ve stopped there. But it was obvious she still had questions that needed answers and now that I had begun, I found that I couldn’t stop.
‘The truth is,’ I began slowly, hoping I wasn’t robbing her of her innocence too young. ‘There will be a war in the future. A terrible war between humanity and the machines they’ve created.’
Her eyes were like baubles.
‘The scientists intended to send Santa back in time to begin giving out gifts as soon as they cloned him, but before they could send him back, the Machines kidnapped the cyber-Santa clone and reprogrammed him to turn him against his fellow humans.’ I continued. ‘They gave him even more cybernetic enhancements, including terrifying metal claws, and he rode a mechanical monster with horns and a deadly laser beam that shot out from its nose. He slew thousands of human soldiers until his clothes were stained red with the blood of his own kind. Others they captured and turned into cybernetic slaves called Enhanced Living Flesh (or ‘ELFs for short’).
‘During one particular massacre, he came upon the cowering figures of a couple of refugees– all children, orphans of the war– and he was suddenly overwhelmed with his own natural, God-given human compassion and regained his own mind. He turned against the Machines and after he defeated them, travelled back to his own time, hoping to regain his former life. But the humans of the past could not accept him, and he was forced to retreat to a remote part of the North Pole. Since then has tried to make amends for the atrocity he committed by using his cybernetic enhancements to secretly bring gifts to all the good boys and girls every year.’
She laughed, a nervous laugh. ‘If that’s true, why’s he so jolly all the time then? He’s always laughing, “ho ho ho!”‘
‘Oh!’ I answered without missing a beat. ‘That’s not laughter. That’s his cybernetic vocaliser. It was damaged during the war. Every now and again it gets caught in a loop and sounds like, “ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho.”‘
She didn’t look at all pleased to hear that.
‘Is he coming here tonight?’ She breathed.
‘Of course!’ I beamed.
‘Christine, don’t you listen to your father’s horrible stories.’ My wife chided from behind me. I hadn’t even heard her enter the room. She leaned in close to my daughter and whispered. ‘He’s really Santa.’
Christine looked relieved, but I felt exposed. Exposed and undermined. A lump rose up somewhere between my chest and my throat, the likes of which I hadn’t felt in years. I had to get out of there before my wife or daughter saw how badly I’d been affected. I retreated as quickly as I could to my room and shut the door– and not a moment too soon. I broke down right there on the bedroom floor.
Every Tuesday, I post a new edition of Spotlight: a short post which shines a proverbial spotlight on a published novel or collection of short fiction. If you would like to have your book considered for a future edition of Spotlight, drop us an e-mail including a short synopsis of your book and a link to where we can buy it. Better yet, send me a copy of your book and I can include a mini-review.
I’m still looking to interview fiction authors here on Penstricken, especially new or indie authors. Whether it’s books, plays, comics or any other kind of fiction, if you’ve got something written, I want to hear about it. If you’re interested in having your work featured on Penstricken, be to sure to drop us an e-mail or message us on Facebook/Twitter/Pinterest.
I may have previously mentioned that there are few things stimulate creativity in writing quite like a deadline. If you’re like me, you’ll probably have multiple competitions and other deadlines on the go at once and will be heavily reliant on your calendar to keep you on track.
Of course, that only works if you put the correct date in your calendar. What follows is a story I had written for a 50-word story competition which had to be set in my native Scotland. I was never very happy with this story, but being keen to meet the deadline I persevered with it anyway and was just about to submit it when… disaster! I had put the wrong date in my calendar! I have missed the deadline!
Not wanting to waste all the effort and frustration I went to, I’ve decided to post it here instead. I wanted to make it stand out from the other competition entries and given that it had to be set in Scotland I thought perhaps a Scottish sci-fi/murder mystery might be the way to go. Just to give you a little context if you’re not Scottish, the chip shops here sell deep-fried Mars bars. Bear that in mind.
The Martian’s Revenge by A. Ferguson
DCI Mcleod had never seen anything like it. The chippie’s owner lay dead, his head submerged in the fryer. Witnesses claimed they saw a tall green man burst from the chippie carrying armfuls of Mars bars, who fled the scene in a strange car which literally flew into the night.
Every Tuesday, I post a new edition of Spotlight: a short post which shines a proverbial spotlight on a published novel or collection of short fiction. If you would like to have your book considered for a future edition of Spotlight, drop us an e-mail including a short synopsis of your book and a link to where we can buy it. Better yet, send me a copy of your book and I can include a mini-review.
I’m still looking to interview fiction authors here on Penstricken, especially new or indie authors. Whether it’s books, plays, comics or any other kind of fiction, if you’ve got something written, I want to hear about it. If you’re interested in having your work featured on Penstricken, be to sure to drop us an e-mail or message us on Facebook/Twitter/Pinterest.
Well, it’s Sunday the 6th of October 2019 and that can only mean one thing: another thrilling instalment[2][3][4] of 6 ‘Six Word Stories’ for the 6th.
You all know the rules by now. I roll six story dice and I use these to inspire six stories, all exactly six words long, then you guys come along and post your far superior efforts in the comments section. So here goes nothing:
Iacta ālea est.
Caught the lifebouy. Saved the dog.
Removed the prickles. Lost the cactus.
I was dead and am alive.
Reading ‘Final Demand’, eating final breakfast.
Halloween: masked thief escaped into crowd.
FAULTY HAT COMMENCES 823bn RABBIT APOCALYPSE.
Phew! That turned out to be trickier than I thought (especially that ruddy cactus, didn’t have a clue what to do with that one).
Here’s an idea. Since I know you’re all better writers than I am, why don’t you try coming up with your own six word stories based on the above stimuli (or based on something else, I’m easy) and share in the comments below so we can all see how it’s really done?
Until next time!
Thanks for taking the time to read this post. If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to ‘like’ this post and also follow us so you never miss another post. You can also follow Penstricken on Twitter, Pinterest and like Penstricken on Facebook, if that’s what crashes your car.
I’m still looking to interview fiction authors here on Penstricken, especially new or indie authors. Whether it’s books, plays, comics or any other kind of fiction, if you’ve got something written, I want to hear about it. If you’re interested in having your work featured on Penstricken, be to sure to drop us an e-mail or message us on Facebook/Twitter/Pinterest.
‘A thin crack is all it takes for wickedness to coil into our world. Winding through the delicate minds of innocents and the twisted desires of killers, it preys upon the crippled pieces of our souls.’
Jacob Klop: husband, father, accountant and author of The Community, has just released an excellent new collection of short horror stories, collectively entitled Crooked Souls.
I had the pleasure of chatting with Jacob about his new book, the writing process, and what he feels makes for a great story.
How did you get into writing?
I always took creative writing as my optional courses throughout university, but my brain sent me into accounting and then life/kids came along. About five years ago I wrote the first couple chapters of The Community and then set it aside. I showed it to my wife a year and a half ago and she said it was good enough to be published. Since then, I’ve been obsessed. I believe I was born to be a writer in my heart but my brain sent me in another direction.
It must be quite a challenge to find time for writing while you’re still working as an accountant on top of your family/life commitments. Any tips for juggling it all?
Honestly, I believe the best strategy is to do your best to set a daily goal. Three hundred words a day and you’ll have a first draft of a novel in a year. I aim for a thousand words, but my kids are older now.
What kind of process do you go through when you write? Do you have a particular process that works for you?
I do. I like to write a chapter then do a first edit of the chapter before moving on. I find that tackling the first edit in one chunk can be overwhelming.
Often when you talk to some authors they’ll tell you that they’ll have their stories all planned out and then as they write, their characters will take on a life of their own and take the story off in unexpected directions. Do you ever find this to be the case or do you like to stick doggedly to a plan?
For my short stories I often only have two or three sentences outlining a general plot when I start and they can take a life of their own. My novels need a bit more planning though. As I write I tend to improve my original version/thoughts when I think of better ideas.
So let’s talk about your new collection of short horror stories, Crooked Souls. There’s some really compelling stories in here, each with their own tantalising, grizzly themes running through them. What inspired you to write this book?
I had the idea for one of the stories ‘Trick or Treat’ from years ago so I wrote it for fun in between novels. I had so much fun writing it that I just kept going with more short stories. It helps that my wife is addicted to short horror stories, so I always had a fan to show my work to.
Is horror your ‘usual’ genre then, or do you dabble?
Oh, I’m a dabbler. My first novel was dystopian fiction. I have a completed Sci-fi and MG Fantasy that I need to do final edits on and I’m currently working on a sci-fi in a cyber world with an augmented detective as the main character.
Going back to Crooked Souls, I was quite struck, in a good way, by how in some of the stories the more fantastical horror themes are blended together with ‘real life’ monsters: nurses who get off on the suffering of patients, sleazy groups of men hoping to take advantage of a lone woman and so forth. Would you say horror, despite its fanciful surface themes, has something valuable to say about the darkness of real life?
I suppose it can, but personally, I’m just doing my best to entertain the reader with realistic characters facing horrifying situations. Once the story is in my readers hands it’s up to them to take whatever they want from them.
So what makes for a really great story in your opinion? What ‘does it’ for you personally as a reader?
In my opinion, great stories are driven by a combination of strong character development and an entertaining plot peppered with enough description for the reader to visualise what’s happening. As a reader I want to see what’s happening and feel like I’m getting into the mind of the character. I want to feel immersed in the story.
Do you have any particular author heroes?
Robin Hobb is my favorite followed by Dan Simmons probably. Lately I’ve been reading a variety of indie authors.
And finally, do you have any tips for new writers working on their first book?
Just do it. Don’t hesitate. Get writing, but keep reading and keep writing. I thought my first novel was great, but set it aside for about six months. When I returned to it, I cut out two thousand words because I’d essentially continued to grow and improve as a writer.
Thanks for taking the time to read this post. If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to ‘like’ this post and also follow us so you never miss another post. You can also follow Penstricken on Twitter, Pinterest and like Penstricken on Facebook, if that’s what crooks your soul.
I’m still looking to interview fiction authors here on Penstricken, especially new or indie authors. Whether it’s books, plays, comics or any other kind of fiction, if you’ve got something written, I want to hear about it. If you’re interested in having your work featured on Penstricken, be to sure to drop us an e-mail or message us on Facebook/Twitter/Pinterest.
In my experience, one of the hardest things about writing is coming up with a brand new story idea from scratch. I only know one way to force new story ideas on demand, and that is to sit down and write something. Anything. Maybe it’s different for all of you, but for me, a crumby little zero draft is the best and only way I know to stimulate brand new ideas from nothing. However the temptation to perfect those ideas as I go can be crippling. Ofttimes it can take ages to get started because I want to come up with a good idea before I start writing, which completely defeats the purpose of writing a zero draft.
And so today I thought I would try something new (new for the blog at least). I’ve picked a random writing prompt using Arc Apps’ Plot Gen Pro for Android and have given myself exactly ten minutes to write a zero draft based on it and post the results here, typos and all. I didn’t finish it on time (didn’t even come close to doing so) but that wasn’t the point. The point was to alarm myself into producing something that could conceivably grow into a full story. I’ve also filmed the whole thing so you know I didn’t cheat (the video is at the bottom of this post). So here goes nothing:
Untitled and Unfinished Zero Draft
by A. Ferguson
Prompt: You are living in an evil and corrupt city. Your character is reclusive and has no status in society. you have supernatural strength. You must bring someone back from the underworld.
The kettle on the stove began to whistle furiously. Tagan lifted it off with a curse. He had forgotten all about it.
There was a knock at the door. Tagan glowered suspiciously towards the door. The old man seldom ventured outside any more. He had no friends. He didn’t want any friends in this godless city. He wanted to be left alone.
Another knock at the door.
‘Go away’ Tagan growled. ‘I’ve nothing here for you.’
The door opened by itself and a man entered the hovel: tall, slender and dressed in the robes of a High Wizard. Tagan didn’t know the man’s face but he recognised his attire. One of many corrupt cults of magic that had come to the city in recent decades.
‘Get out of my house.’ Tagan spat.
‘I need you to come with me.’ The man said in a quiet but stern voice. ‘I’ve heard of your quests to the underworld–’
‘Many years ago.’ Tagan grumbled. ‘I don’t do that anymore. Not for anyone.’
‘I’m afraid you have no choice.’ The Wizard told him. ‘The Emperor’s son has died–’
‘So?’
‘So the emperor wishes him returned. You’re the last of the Heroes. No one else can make this voyage into–’
‘Then let him die.’ Tagan said firmly. ‘The whole nation’s corrupt. Everybody’s gone after black magic, despicable pagan practices and now they’re all liars and murderers and adulterers–’
‘I don’t see why–’
‘Everyone who dies is a rest for this world. Maybe soon the whole sorry generation will go the way of all the earth and I frankly don’t care. I’m not going down there, not for the emperor or anyone else.’
The Wizard looked Tagan dead in the eye and said dangerously: ‘You will go down and retrieve the emperor’s son. If you don’t, you will die.’
As he spoke, Tagan felt a curious crushing sensation grip him around the throat. He couldn’t breath. No hand touched him, but he felt as if this young wizard had both hands squeezing tightly on his throat, crushing his wind pipe.
‘Alright.’ He wheezed. ‘I’ll do it.’
The choking sensation immediately stopped and the Wizard appeared to relax.
‘The Emperor will be so pleased. You will leae
TIME UP!
Well that was a fun game. I didn’t manage to write a whole story: more like a really rubbish and half baked inciting incident but maybe I’ll do better next time. Why don’t you give it a go? Use the above prompt (or another of your choosing) and try to write a story based in on it in no more than 10 minutes and share it with us in the comments or on your own blog if you’re feeling brave. I can guarantee you you’ll not write a good one. If you’re like me, you probably won’t even manage to finish it unless you write a really tight flash fiction, but it’s still a good exercise for the imagination. After all, this crumby little scene I’ve written contains the seeds of a story, so maybe one day I’ll write it properly.
Thanks for taking the time to read this post. If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to ‘like’ this post and also follow us so you never miss another post. You can also follow Penstricken on Twitter and like Penstricken on Facebook, if that’s what pickles your onions.
ATTENTION AUTHORS:
I’m still looking to interview fiction authors here on Penstricken, especially new or indie authors. Whether it’s books, plays, comics or any other kind of fiction, if you’ve got something written, I want to hear about it. If you’re interested in having your work featured on Penstricken, be to sure to drop us an e-mail or message us on Facebook/Twitter.
It’s that time again! Sunday the 6th only ever means one thing here at Penstricken: another exciting instalment[2][3] of 6 ‘Six Word Stories’ for the 6th.
You all know the rules by now. I roll six story dice and I use these to inspire six stories, all exactly six words long, then you guys come along and post your far superior efforts in the comments section. So here goes nothing:
Mad Axe Murderer Exonerated Post Execution
Mushroom cloud, nuclear winter, the end.
Slew the sheriff, saved the maiden.
‘Sorry I missed you. – The Cat’
Downloaded Treasure Island for free. … … … What?
‘I was tired of giving in.’
Well, that one was even tougher than usual but I’m sure you’ll do better! Just use the stimuli above to come up with six ‘six word stories’ of your own and share them in the comments below.
We’ll do it all again on the 6th of October!
Thanks for taking the time to read this post. If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to ‘like’ this post and also follow us so you never miss another post. You can also follow Penstricken on Twitter and like Penstricken on Facebook, if that’s what tickles your toes.
ATTENTION AUTHORS:
I’m still looking to interview fiction authors here on Penstricken, especially new or indie authors. Whether it’s books, plays, comics or any other kind of fiction, if you’ve got something written, I want to hear about it. If you’re interested in having your work featured on Penstricken, be to sure to drop us an e-mail or message us on Facebook/Twitter.
Fact: it is absolutely impossible to write a novel, a script, a screenplay or even a six word story without starting somewhere. There must come a point, somewhere in the journey of your life, when you put pen to paper, so to speak. Not only that, but starting must be the first thing you do. You can’t begin working halfway through the process, nor at the end. You need to start at the very beginning. It’s not just a very good place to start. It’s the only place to start.
We know this to be true and self-evident. And yet getting started is often one of the hardest parts. In fact, the whole reason this week’s post came about is because I spent the last hour and all of my blog-writing time last week being completely unableto start. So I’m writing from personal experience. Friends, let me assure you that there is a reliable way to get those juices flowing on demand: it’s called free writing.
Free writing is a time honoured prewriting technique which works by encouraging the writer to write without fear of criticism or failure for a set period of time. Of all the manifold techniques that exist for helping writers to get into the zone, this is easily the one I find the most useful.
Anyone can free write. All you do is set yourself a time limit and then write anything and everything that comes to mind as fast as you can without stopping. And when I say ‘without stopping’, I mean without stopping. You don’t stop to correct spelling or grammatical errors, nor do you stop to delete something you’ve changed your mind about. You don’t even stop to think about what to write next. You may find yourself writing nonsense. You will almost certainly be appalled by your own spelling and grammar. That’s all okay. If you’re anything like me, you will probably find your page is punctuated with little passages bemoaning how difficult it is to write: ‘yes, anyway, right, what will I write now? i don’k know, I can’t think what to write now. I’ll think of something in a minute. I hope. Maybe’.
Here’s one I made earlier.
That’s all okay. That only means you’re doing it properly. The point of free writing is not to write something good. It’s not even necessarily about coming up with ideas for proper writing (though you often will). It’s simply about getting out of that lazy, defeated-before-you’ve-even-started zone and into the writing zone.
Want to give it a go yourself? Here’s a few tips:
Make It The Very First Thing You Do
Think about it: when do you usually write? After you’ve done other stuff, obviously. It might’ve been work, it might’ve been recreation, it might’ve been sleeping, it might’ve been shopping but one thing is certain: before you started writing, you were doing something else. And now you come to your story unmolested by writers’ block and with a head full of life-things; and all life-things are potential sources of ideas. If, on the other hand, you decide to free write only after you’ve been staring a blank page for three hours, you’ll only have a head full of writers’ block and a gnawing feeling of self-doubt. While it doesn’t matter what you write, you’ll probably find it a more rewarding and enjoyable experience if you write something other than ‘I suck at writing’ a million times over.
Keep The Time Limit Brief
How long you need will depend on your own abilities as a writer, but I find ten-fifteen minutes usually works well for me. You don’t want it to be so short you barely have time to get started, but you also don’t want to drag it out so long that you run out of things to write. Give yourself just enough time to vomit every last drop of consciousness onto the page.
Remember, you are not allowed to edit at all. However, knowing this does not always remove the temptation to hit that delete key, just once. We’ve grown so accustomed to quickly correcting our spelling errors and tidying up as we go along that we don’t even realise we’re doing it. If that applies to you, grab yourself a free copy of Typewriter – Minimal Text Editor. It’s a simple ASCII text editor with absolutely no editing functionality whatsoever. The delete key does nothing. You cannot copy and paste. You can only make words appear. If you’re feeling really hardcore, there are also apps out there like Write or Die which will punish you in cruel and unusual ways for writing too slowly.
Make It A Habit
You’ll probably feel a bit silly the first time you free write. Stick with it until it becomes a regular part of your prewriting routine. If nothing else, it’s a good way to signal an official ‘beginning’ to your daily writing session, like clocking in at the day job. Before long, you’ll look forward to turning on that timer every day for the easiest part of your writing session.
Thanks for taking the time to read this post. Be sure to leave us a wee comment if you enjoyed it and don’t forget to ‘like’ this post and follow us so you never miss another post. You can also follow Penstricken on Twitter and like Penstricken on Facebook, if that’s what blows your nose.
Until next time!
ARE YOU AN AUTHOR?
I’m looking for authors (especially, but not limited to, new and/or indie authors) whose work I can feature here on Penstricken over the coming year. It will simply take the form of a quick Q&A about yourself and your work via private message or e-mail and, of course, a link to where we can all get a copy of your work.
I’m open to interviewing authors of almost any kind of story, provided your work is complete, original and of course, fictional. I will not consider individual short stories/micro-fictions, however I am happy to feature published anthologies or entire blog-sites of micro-fiction, provided you are the sole author.
If you’re interested, or want to know more, be to sure to drop us an e-mail or message us on Facebook/Twitter.
You know what? Sometimes, it’s murder coming up with a good title for your story. I wrote this little flash-fic ages ago, and although I don’t think it’s the best story I’ve ever written, I wanted to at least share it on the blog but… I just haven’t been able to come up with a decent title for it to this day; and believe me, it hasn’t been for a lack of trying. Still, it’s been sitting on my computer doing nothing for too long so for better or worse, here it is. Feel free to suggest better titles in the comments.
As always what follows is entirely my own work and has not been published anywhere else in the world, whether in print or online, nor do I expect or permit it to be. And so without further ado, I give you:
The Girl & The Car
by A. Ferguson
The car was mine. I found it, so it was mine.
I don’t know how it got there. I was just playing in the bushes at the bottom of the hill one day and there it was, in the clearing. It didn’t have any glass in the windows and two of the doors were missing. Also the steering wheel came off if you turned it too hard.
I couldn’t have been happier. My own car. A real one. I let Michael and Paul use it too, and sometimes I even let them drive it because it’s no fun on your own. That was okay because they knew it was mine because I found it. I didn’t tell Mum and Dad about it and I told Paul and Michael not to tell their mums and dads either. Adults have funny ideas about things like that. I knew they wouldn’t let me keep the car, even though I found it fair and square and it didn’t really go.
It was Sunday. Me and Michael were playing Batman in the car while we waited for Paul. His family went to a different church from me and Michael so we always met him after lunch. I was Batman (obviously, because it was my car) but it was Robin’s turn to drive.
When Paul arrived, he had a girl with him.
‘Girls aren’t allowed in the car!’ Michael objected. ‘Why’d you even bring her here? This is private property.’
‘Aw, c’mon Mikey, she’s my cousin!’ Paul whined. ‘Mum said I had to. It’s just for today. I swear I tried not to but they said I had to or I couldn’t come out. I swear I tried!’
‘Well, she’ll have to sit in the back!’ I decreed, thinking myself generous. I don’t know how old she was but she was younger than us. Too young. And a girl.
‘I want to drive!’ She cried with glee. ‘Please please please please, pretty, pretty please!’
‘No.’ I said. Enough was enough.
‘How not?’
‘Cause. It’s my car. Girls aren’t allowed.’
‘Come on, Haitch, let her have a go.’ Paul said. ‘It’s only for today.’
‘He’s siding with her!’ Michael jeered, gripping the wheel even though it had fallen off again.
‘I’m not! It’s just Mum said I had to or I couldn’t come out. It’s only for today. Come on!’
‘Your mum only said she had to come with you. She’s with you.’ I ruled. ‘She doesn’t even know about the car so that doesn’t count.’
‘Henry!’ Michael hissed, grabbing my arm. ‘What if she tells?’
‘I’m telling!’ The girl taunted us. ‘I’m telling, I’m telling!’
‘That was your fault!’ I said, punching Michael in the arm.
‘How’s it my fault? Paul brought her!’ He hit me back, though not hard. I guess he knew it was his fault.
‘I’m telling, I’m telling!’ The girl sang in words that didn’t rhyme. ‘Let me drive or I’m telling!’
‘Henry, just let her drive!’ Paul pleaded. ‘What’s the big deal? It’s only for one day.’
‘She’s a girl!’ I exploded. ‘And she’s too wee, she’ll tell!’
‘I’ll not tell if you let me have a go.’ She promised. I was about to argue but–
‘Alright.’ Michael said, opening the imaginary door and climbing out. ‘You can have a go, just a quick one mind! But you’d better not tell!’
Treachery!
‘That’s not how it works!’ I said, clambering across to the driver’s seat and grabbing the wheel. ‘It’s mine!’ I said, pointing to the place on the dash where I had scratched ‘HBS’ into the dashboard. That’s my initials: Henry Barrington-Smyth. ‘I found it, so it’s mine!’
‘Fine!’ The girl shouted. ‘It’s a stupid car anyway! I’ve got a better one at my bit, with proper doors and windows and everything! And it drives for real! And you’re not getting a go!’
Then she went away. Paul went after her.
‘Just let her go!’ I shouted after him. He turned to face us but kept walking backwards slowly.
‘I can’t! My mum, she said…’ He trailed off. Then he turned and ran after her.
‘Paul! Paul! Just let her go, Paul!’
He ignored me. Michael ran after him, leaving me alone in the car. I couldn’t move. It felt important to hold my ground in the car. The car was mine as long as my bottom was on the seat and my hands were on the wheel. Ahead, at the edge of the clearing, I saw Michael grab Paul by the arm to pull him back. Paul shrugged him off and shouted something at him. I don’t know what it was but his face was livid. He stormed off through the bushes, out of the clearing. Michael followed him, shouting after him but was back a few moments later. He came back to the car.
‘Henry, what if she tells?’ Michael asked again. His voice was quivering and his face was ashen.
‘She won’t tell.’ I said, fighting to ignore a hollow sensation in my stomach. ‘Paul won’t let her. She won’t tell. She was just saying that.’
* * *
Well, she told. Ten minutes later, Michael’s mum came down into our clearing where our car was parked. We were still sitting there, forcing ourselves to be Batman and Robin. Michael got such a blazing row off his mum that I didn’t know where to look. She gave me a good tongue lashing as well, then I went home and got more of the same from my own mum. I wasn’t surprised by that. Once one adult knows something, they all know it.
We never saw Paul again for weeks. He didn’t go to the same school as me and Michael and whenever we went in for him, we were told he couldn’t come out. I felt sick. What if he wasn’t talking to us any more, all because of some stupid burnt out car? Michael and me never spoke about it but I think he felt the same. Then one day Paul came in for me. Turned out his parents had just grounded him and never told us, not even when we went in for him.
We never saw the car again. In some ways, it was a relief. We went back to the clearing a while later (and I mean a long while later) but the car was gone. I don’t know where. We didn’t dare ask. It didn’t matter that it had my initials on it or that I found it. It wasn’t mine any more. I don’t think it ever had been.
THE END
Thanks for taking the time to read this post. Be sure to leave us a wee comment if you enjoyed it and don’t forget to ‘like’ this post and follow us so you never miss another post. You can also follow Penstricken on Twitter and like Penstricken on Facebook, if that’s what crashes your car.
ATTENTION AUTHORS:
I’m hoping to do author interviews here on Penstricken over the coming year, especially with new fiction authors. If you’re interested in having your work featured on Penstricken, be to sure to drop us an e-mail or message us on Facebook/Twitter.
