Teresa, The Haunted Wordsmith – nominated me to participate in the Tell The Story Challenge a week or so ago (this one slipped down the back of my desk temporarily).
This is the photo for the challenge.
The rules: Write a story about the picture you’re given.
Select 3 nominees.
Give them a new picture.
Georgie’s secret
Georgie is a trusting kind of kid; obedient too. Each Saturday morning he dutifully departs to his piano practice with elderly eccentric Zephaniah Zimmerman, even though the open maw of the grand piano, with its great grinning gnashers, smirks at his inability to transverse their scales.
He’s always very smartly turned out, although his mother’s sartorial choices are not to everybody’s taste. Including Georgie’s. But even at the tender age of six, he rises above the taunts and sniggers.
That’s because Georgie has a secret. He leads a double life. Georgie disappears into other worlds.
You see, Georgie reads books.
Despite the rules to nominate three people, I think this time I’ll just throw it open and see what comes back.
What’s the story behind this old photo? I could tell you…
We peer out at the blank, barren landscape. Having landed, we’re not sure where we are. Or for that matter, ‘when’ we are. That’s the problem if you borrow the Professor’s Special Space Machine without asking.
But she’d shown it to us, tempted us. That’s the problem with having someone like the Professor coaching you for entry to the Space Academy.
But hold on, who’s that up ahead? Look, she’s waving.
We hurry forward into the bleak barrenness, but before we reach her, there is an ear-splitting sound. Everything goes black.
Later, when we come round, we are strapped into hard, upright seats facing a large spherical console. The Professor is standing opposite us.
We start to speak, but she holds up her hand for silence. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted to join the Space Academy, but I’m afraid the Great Zyborgatron has other plans.” She smiles weakly. “He did grant me one last request, however.”
Plates of burgers and chips materialize before us. We look at her; what did she say?
“Well go on,” she urges, indicating the food.
We eat. We devour the lot. It’s the best burger and chips we’ve ever had.
The rules: Write a story about the picture you’re given. Select 3 nominees. Give them a new picture.
The Sealed City
‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’
He nods.
‘You see the city over there. It looks like any other city, doesn’t it?’
He frowns and shakes his head. ‘But it’s not; I heard. That’s why I’m here. I’m a writer.’
They sit down.
‘I heard there’s no way in or out. That, although you can’t see it from here, there’s a cordon, an impenetrable ring of steel around the whole perimeter.’
She nods. ‘Since the virus struck.’
He leans towards her. ‘Is it true about the virus? Everyone who catches it becomes some kind of monster?’
‘That’s what they say. Flesh eating monsters and worse.’
The writer’s eyes widen. ‘But the whole thing’s been contained? I mean, no way in and no way out.’
She leans forward and grabs his wrist. Her hand is very cold and her grip is strong. ‘Don’t be so sure.’ She smiles, pulling his arm closer.
I hope these three guys will up for this challenge:
The building stands proud and prominent on a history-dense corner in the commercial district of the Big City. Not a member of a countrywide chain in a modern mall, this proudly independent book store has character. The floors are wood and mosaic and a rickety stairway leads down to the basement (children’s books and non-fiction, coffee and cake).
The author enters. Staff members are all busy with the stock. She peruses the shelves studiously. Virtually all of the fiction they carry is literary fiction. There is no ‘populist’ or mass-market stuff. Actually, these are the books which the author likes to read.
Awesome company surrounds her.
She ventures downstairs. The children’s books are for early middle grade and below. No YA at all. The coffee smells good and there are lots of comfy seats. A couple of students are chatting quietly and, at a rough wooden table, two women are deep in conversation over a laptop and a sheaf of closely typed pages.
The author sits down with a coffee and a rather dusty chocolate brownie. She selects a literary magazine from the low table in front of her and listens in to the two women. Eaves-dropping is second nature to an author, after all.
They are discussing which new books they are going to take for the store!
Dare she disturb them?
She thinks about the Margaret Atwoods and the Zadie Smiths upstairs. The beautiful book covers with their multiple reviews and recommendations. She hears them reject the latest Alan Titchmarsh.
She is intimidated.
She buries her head in the literary magazine. Time passes. She listens and ‘people watches’. For a Monday afternoon there are a surprising number of customers. She pigeon-holes them for future reference.
Finally, the two women finish their meeting and go upstairs. The author abandons the remains of the brownie; her mouth is dry enough as it is. She takes a deep breath, then takes the stairs.
One of the women is leaving, but the other smiles at her from behind the desk. The author approaches and enquires in general terms about the store’s purchasing policy. What the owner has to say is interesting, but not exactly encouraging. She explains how they know their purchasing clientele and what will sell in their store.
And here it comes. The woman’s guessed what’s she’s really asking. The author owns up and bravely tells her about her book.
The owner is very pleasant. She explains that they select less than one percent of Indie Authors’ work each year. Anything they do pick has to have a local ‘buzz’ about it. The author’s novel clearly doesn’t fit.
The woman is kind. Another might…one day.
The author reflects. It would be nice to have her book in a bricks and mortar store. But one book, amongst all these… and in just one store..?
The year before, and all the years before that, as long as anyone could remember, when the travelling circus came to town, elephants and monkeys marched along the main road all the way through the town to the open field where they set up the tents. Snake handlers, people on stilts, and even the bearded lady followed, handing out fliers as they danced past.
But this year was different. On the appointed day we heard a brass band heralding the parade. The rosy cheeked ringmaster in his full regalia marched proudly at the front. Dainty drum majorettes followed, parading and pirouetting; next came the gaudily dressed clowns with their sad, smiling faces. And acrobats who turned cartwheels and somersaults.
But where were the lions, the tigers and elephants? Where were the dwarfs and the tallest man in the World? No ladies with beards or two-tailed monkeys? No fire-eaters, no sword-swallowers or freak acts at all!
What kind of entertainment was this?
Cruelty-free.
I wrote this back in December in response to a prompt fromTeresa, The Haunted Wordsmith. It’s so long ago I can’t find the link.
Anyway, I never got around to posting it. Somehow it didn’t quite chime with the festive season. But now we have a circus – with animals – coming to our town.
So, this writer walks into a book store. She has a mooch about; she knows the store well. She often comes in, to browse (books are so expensive). It’s one of the largest book selling chains in the country. Nicely fitted out, and the staff are always friendly. It must be nice to work in a book store, surrounded by all those lovely books.
The writer picks up the latest copy of The Artist magazine. She’s written a few articles on behalf of clients which have been published in this particular periodical. Not that the artists get paid – it’s for their publicity. Nor does she get a mention, but at least the clients pay for her time. She has an idea for another of her clients.
But that’s not why she came today.
Clutching the magazine, she approaches the desk. One of the assistants intercepts her. “Can I help you?”
She takes a deep breath. “Can I just ask you..?”
The assistant smiles encouragingly. He’s a nice-look young man; intelligent, open-faced.
“Can I just ask you if the store supports Indie Authors?” (There, she said it).
The assistant smiles kindly; a little apologetically. “No, no, never. It’s all done by Head Office…with the publishers, you know.” He pauses. “There was this one time though…”
“Go on,” the author says, leaning forward, as if some major confidence might be shared; some key to unlock…
The assistant is speaking. “The lady’s books were selling very well. There was a lot of publicity. She was selling her books out of the boot of her car.” He shakes his head. “It was a bit greedy really. You know, on the part of the store. They realised they could make money out of her. It didn’t last long.”
The author nods. “So you have to be popular first?”
The assistant nods and smiles sympathetically (pityingly?)
The author nods. “I’ll just pay for this then.” (At least she asked. The ground didn’t swallow her up). She leaves the book store, head held high.
The rules: Write a story about the picture you’re given. Select 3 nominees. Give them a new picture.
Uncle Foss’s Library
Catherine loved books which was just as well as she had very few friends other than the characters in the stories she read. Fortunately she wasn’t short of these, as there were so very many books in her uncle’s library. Uncle Foss had been her guardian ever since she could remember. He had engaged various tutors over the years, as had been stipulated in her wardship agreement, but none had lasted long. Catherine had therefore educated herself, partly under her uncle’s guidance, through the perusal of the wealth of knowledge which was contained between the covers of his extensive library.
No books in Uncle Foss’s library were forbidden or out of bounds, although there were certain high shelves that he’d steered her away from, saying she’d enjoy those books better when she was older. But now, a few days away from her fifteenth birthday, while her uncle had been occupied in Town, she’d climbed the library ladder and removed three interesting-looking volumes which she’d been considering for some weeks now. At almost fifteen she was certain she was ready for the high shelves.
Back in her room after supper and a game of backgammon with her uncle, she chose the smallest book. It was old, bound in finely tooled black leather with silver embossed letters on the front which read: ‘Faerie Folk and Mischievous Creatures – A Guide’. Catherine had loved magic and fantasy stories since she was a little girl. She started to read.
“They are as old as the oldest hills and their presence is clings on even in the most rational minds, deep within our collective memory. Ancient and modern, of both sexes, and neither good nor ill, they live long, long lives, then disappear as ash on the wind.” Catherine started as the window behind her rattled. She looked round, but it was just the oak trees branches brushing against the glass. Storm clouds were gathering, covering the bright face of the new moon.
“Although of the earth, they are otherworldly, living between our world and theirs. Rarely noticed, they appear at the periphery of our vision, hidden in plain sight…”
Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine suddenly noticed a movement behind the nightstand next to her bed; a mouse? But no, it hadn’t moved like a mouse, and she was sure she’d seen a flash of scarlet.
There was a knock at the door. Her uncle entered, smiling. He crossed the room and gently took the little book from her hands. “It’s time, Catherine,” he said. His face lit up with excitement, “time to introduce you to the other members of our household.”
Here’s some very sound advice for authors which I came across on J.I. (Jenn) Rogers’ Facebook author page – head over and have a look there are some really interesting and useful nuggets!
The article is by Anne R. Allen and is entitled ‘Your Online Presence: 10 Mistakes for Authors to Avoid’. Here’s the link to this useful article (which includes another cute cat pic).
Percy the pigeon was on holiday. It had been a very tiring journey but at last he’d made it; all the way from London to New York City. As he perched on a tree in Central Park, admiring the city skyline, he noticed a group of children playing hopscotch. What were they using as a marker? Percy wondered. It wasn’t the usual stone that bounced and skipped.
A little girl dressed in pink made her throw. Percy flew down for a closer look.
‘Oh, what’s that pigeon doing?’ she cried.
The children gathered around as Percy waddled over to the marker.
Percy put his head on one side, examining the object. ‘Hoppy Taw‘ he read on its face. (He was a very intelligent pigeon who’d spent a year in Oxford.) Well, I never, Percy thought. I’ve never heard of one of those. Whatever will these clever Americans think of next?
Over the years I’ve had sporadic attempts at getting some of my short stories and flash fiction pieces published in various magazines and journals. Each time, after a series of rejections or silence, I give up for a while.
Rejection is a bit disappointing but it’s not the end of the world. Winning a prize, any kind of prize, would be lovely. A cash prize especially!
I’m still awaiting the outcome of a short story submission to a competition run by Mslexia, a UK magazine; whether or not it appeals to the judges remains to be seen.
Either way, is it time to have another go? Well, yes, I think so. Coincidence is a wonderful thing and a couple of weeks ago I went to see a production of the longest-running ever play, Agatha Christie’s ‘The Mousetrap‘ which was playing at the Theatre on the Bay in Cape Town. It was really good and of course, I can’t tell you ‘who dunnit’, but it did get me thinking. Perhaps I could write a detective story.
And I was still thinking the following day that perhaps I should have a try.
The next day I received an email from Support Indie Authors with an invitation to participate in aShort Story Contest for a Murder Mystery. So I thought, why not?
This will be a totally new challenge as I will have to plan the story properly. No seat of the pants stuff. But I’ll see how it goes and let you know.
And, whilst we’re on the subject, this article from ‘A Writer’s Path’ happened to drop into my inbox last week. It’s in interesting little piece on submissions:How Fish Eggs are Like Fiction by Richard Risemberg
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