Friday Flash: The First One

by Emma on February 5, 2010

This was inspired by a prompt sent into my short story club by the sparkling Iapetus999 some time ago. It just needed to find the right home…

—

Cathy had known something was wrong when her boyfriend rolled the twelfth 'seven' in a row. Now he was in the cold casino car park, lip spilt and eye blackening, she wished she'd realised that nine rolls earlier. But with the crowd gathering around them, and the adrenalin of the winning streak making them practically delirious, she'd just watched as he kept rolling the damn dice and the pile of chips in front of him grew absurdly large.

"Poor darling," she cooed, kneeling down to cradle his head in her lap. "Do you think anything's broken?"

"No," he groaned pathetically.

She scowled at the casino bouncers who chuckled their way back to the entrance, but she wasn't really angry with them. This was someone else's fault, someone who'd pay soon enough.

"Baby, I dunno what's going on with me at the moment," he whimpered. "I honestly didn't cheat. Last night, I could swear I was the best dart player in the whole of London, and the lads accused me of cheating too, but I wasn't! I was just on my game. Now this…" His words unravelled, unable to withstand the creaking self-pity that riddled his body.

"Listen, I left my coat behind," she lied. "Give me five minutes, then we'll go back to your place and get some ice on that eye, ok?"

He'd barely nodded by the time she was halfway across the car park. With a last minute check behind her, she ducked round the side and behind the industrial sized dustbins. Certain she was out of sight; she clicked her fingers and whispered the summoning command under her breath. With an audible pop, the fairy appeared in a shower of poppy petals.

"You little tart!" Cathy hissed. "You did this deliberately!"

The fairy planted her fists on her hips and matched her scowl, hovering level with her eyes. "I'm here for less than a minute and you insult me already?"

"Listen, you droplet of troll sweat, Lord Poppy gave me those wishes and you're bound by him to grant them to me. Not screw everything up!"

"What are you talking about, Miss Mundane?"

"I'm not a mundane!" Cathy hissed back, taking a swipe at the fairy who dodged effortlessly. "I wished that my boyfriend would be the luckiest man in London." At the fairy's blank expression, Cathy stepped out and pointed over at the crumpled man in the car park. "Look what happened? Your magic is useless!"

"My wish magic is only as exact as the person making the wish," the fairy spat back. "Besides, he is the luckiest man in London."

"No he isn't!" Cathy retorted. "If he was, he wouldn't have been beaten up!"

"'Luckiest' is a relative term, you sorry sack of blood and bone," the fairy sneered. "The next luckiest man in London is in Putney at the 'George and Dragon' pub, and I can assure you that he is significantly less lucky than that sorry creature over there."

They both looked at him and watched as a huge bird dropping landed inches from his head with a loud splut on the asphalt. He chuckled. "Missed!" he called up into the evening sky.

"You're telling me that he is going to get beaten up and accused of cheating just because I didn't specify an absolute?" Cathy raged. "God, you sound like a bloody Sorcerer!"

The fairy gasped and flew back in disgust. "How dare you! I'll tell my master!"

"Come back here, you little elf-dropping," Cathy snapped, "and tell me how to fix it."

Peevishly, the fairy floated back slowly. "You could use your second wish…"

"Then I'd only have one left, and I might get it wrong." Cathy bit her lip, remembering Lord Poppy's words. Remember, little sunlit one, one of those wishes has to impress me… Her mouth went dry. She didn't want to pay the price of failing, it was too high.

"Blimey!" her boyfriend's squawk pulled her from that fearful place. "Fifty quid!" he was holding a soggy banknote plucked from the nearby gutter. Cathy rolled her eyes.

"Oh this is ridiculous," she sighed. "Will it really last for the rest of his life?"

The fairy grinned. "He's only a smelly mundane. Lord Poppy didn't place any limits on the wishes, he'll be the luckiest man in London until the day he dies."

"God, is that a…" her boyfriend's voice floated across the car park but Cathy couldn't bear to look at what fortune was delivering at his feet now. She had to think fast. She'd squandered the first wish in a post-coital fit of passion, and now she only had two left. It made her throat tight.

A screeching of tyres and a nauseating thud grabbed her attention though. She ran out from the bins to see her boyfriend being pitched across the car park by a black Lamborghini. She wanted to scream and run to him, but the air around her felt soupy, her body frozen in shock.

The driver's door opened and a redhead who was seventy per cent legs, thirty per cent Gucci, jumped out and ran to her victim. He rolled over and they stared at each other, but Cathy still couldn't move. It was like a film playing out in front of her, one in which she'd once been the lead.

The bouncers ran over as the redhead gushed an apology and introduction. Cathy watched in disbelief as they lifted him into the passenger seat and the woman got back in.

"What the…" she finally managed to say as the car sped out of the car park.

"Aw… love at first sight, what a lucky man!" the fairy chirruped. Cathy balled her fists and swung for the fairy who simply giggled and stuck out her tongue. "Don't doubt my magic, Miss Mundane. He is the luckiest man in London; he got away from you!"

{ 22 comments }

I made this!

by Emma on February 3, 2010

From Dark Places: A short story anthology

From Dark Places: A short story anthology

Ta-dah! There it is: my first short story anthology, available for sale at Smashwords.

Did any of you use to watch the X-Files? I was deeply in love with Fox Mulder for far too long, and watched it without fail. Ah, those were the days before a zillion TV channels and hundreds of chances to see something in case you missed it the first twenty times. Back then (for fear of showing my age here) you had to set a special time aside to watch a program you loved, if only to remember to record it, as nothing did it for you back then.

Anyway, at the end of every episode, there was a little signature sign-off, where a child gleefully said "I made this!"

That's just how I feel right now; like an excited child returning home with a lovingly crafted project to thrust it in front of loved ones and say "I made this!"

You are my loved ones here. I hope you don't mind me casting you in that role.

There were many kinds of hard involved in bringing this project to life. Ninety percent was psychological and ten per cent was technical, but I have to say that I'm impressed with Smashwords. It's easy to use, the guidelines document is thorough and easy to understand and the publishing interface is nice and user-friendly. It also makes it easy to offer an e-book in all formats, ranging from simple PDFs through to Kindle-friendly .mobi and that's impressive.

Now I get on to the hard part: selling it.

This, my lovelies, is where I need your help.

The most obvious thing for me to say is: Buy it! It's only $4.95! That's less than a big cup of posh coffee and will provide a more enduring pleasure.

The next most obvious thing to say is: You don't just get the stories: if you buy the e-book, you get access to a super secret area on my site that has notes on the creation of each of the stories, and the opportunity for you to ask questions and have conversations with me and other readers about them.

I could also say: It's DRM (digital rights management) free – meaning that once you buy it, it really is yours. It won't disappear from your e-reader if someone has a row with someone else.

I could even say: If you help me make a success of this, I can earn money to be able to divert even more time into my creative writing (instead of having to earn it elsewhere) so you'll get even more stories from me, and I won't be destitute.

But actually, all that selling stuff doesn't sit well with me (I should get over it, but it's going to take time) so I wanted to explore something else with you guys.

Can we do this together?

Smashwords has an affiliate scheme, meaning that if you are happy to big up my book on your site and make a sale as a result, you get a proportion of the money as a thank you. (Apologies to those of you who are already familiar with this idea, but I know many aren't.) Would any of you be interested in that?

Another option is a free copy in return for a review on your website. And speaking of reviews, if you are one of the wonderful people who has already bought it, if you could take a minute to rate it on Smashwords, nay even leave a little review there, that would be wonderful too.

EDIT: The lovely Heike has written a review on her blog, check it out!

If you are interested in any of these, let me know in the comments and I'll drop you a line.

But Em, I don't have an e-reader and I don't read e-books!

That's ok, a couple of people have asked if I am going to do a print-on-demand version. My current plan (as yet unresearched and unconfirmed you understand) is to produce 4 e-anthologies of this size a year, and then collate them all into an annual printed version. If you think that's a good idea, let me know in the comments.

Over the past month I've realised that this is absolutely what I want to do with my life, and that I need to start doing crazy, scary things (like this anthology) to make that happen. I want fiction writing to be at the centre of my working life, I want to build my days around it, and I have already started to make changes in line with that. But I also need to keep a roof over my family's heads and the only way I can do that right now is to make a success of this anthology.

Can you help? Because without readers, writers are nothing.

{ 11 comments }

Friday Flash: The Delivery

by Emma on January 29, 2010

This Friday Flash is a sequel to last week's "Sale or Return".

—-

"32a Cotswold Drive."

Cob double checked the address on the envelope. He looked at the mundane house in front of him and then strode towards its gate purposefully, whispering the melodious spell of openings. The wrought iron rippled in front of him, he took a deep breath, flipped the latch and stepped through.

There was a moment of roaring in his ears, like he had plunged into a pool of water, then silence. The road noise disappeared and the Other house stood in front of him. It bore a close resemblance to its anchor, as was to be expected, so he let go of the breath. The first part was done, and happily, there were no hounds, or worse, in the garden.

He walked up the path. All of the windows were shut and the pale silver sky above him was empty. He pulled on the bell chain. No barking, howling or screeching. Marvellous; he'd be back at MacDonald's within the hour.

A tired, coat hanger of a man opened the door; thin and crooked. "Yes?" he sighed.

Cob showed him his left palm. The shopkeeper's identifying mark sparkled across the creases of skin. "Delivery from the Emporium of Things in Between and Besides," he rattled off quickly.

The servant nodded. "For the mistress. Come in out of the nether. You can wait in the parlour."

He was led into a cosy room with an impressive collection of bronze hearts mounted on the walls, some large, some small. Cob wondered if the mistress was a sculptor. He hoped she was.

The door was shut behind him and locked. That was standard practice in these houses. They couldn't have delivery boys poking around whilst the servants went to find masters that might be hundreds of miles away. He dropped into an overstuffed chair next to the fire and relaxed.

Something landed on the floor next to him and he peered over the arm of the chair to see one of the mints from his pocket rolling across the wooden floor. He leapt up to hurry after it, but it seemed to speed up, rolling under the door of a small cupboard in the corner.

Cob bit his lip. Should he leave it there? What if it got mouldy and the owner found it and then realised that her dry old servant would never eat mint imperials? She'd complain to the shopkeeper, and he couldn't risk that, not after the last mistake…

He checked for fairies hiding behind the hearts, pulled at the round door knob and the door swung open. The light of the fire didn't penetrate far in, and the mint wasn't anywhere to be seen.

He stooped and leant in; still no sign. A step further, then the door slammed shut behind him, hitting him hard on the backside and sending him tumbling forwards. He landed in a pile of books, coughing in the dust filled cupboard. He took a moment to orient himself, looked for the crack of light from under the door and was surprised to see it to the left of him. Convinced he must have pitched sideways in the fall, he struggled to his feet and hurried out as quick as he could.

There was grass beneath his feet. His head snapped up to see a bright blue sky with plump white clouds above him. He span around in time to see the door click shut and then fade into the tree behind him. He hammered on the trunk, desperately dug his nails in the bark's crevices but there was nothing left of it. "Stupid, stupid!" he yelled at himself.

He was in the Other world.

He turned and pressed his back against the oak tree, panicking. Beautiful meadows, alive with dancing butterflies stretched all around him as a warm, gentle breeze caressed his cheek.

It didn't seem so bad.

He saw a copse of trees ahead, sprinkled with poppies that bobbed merrily in the breeze almost like they were fingers beckoning to him. He walked towards them, recalling the sight of a poppy in the shop only that morning. Perhaps the shopkeeper knew someone here who could help?

The poppies snaked in a haphazard line through the trees, forming an impromptu path for him to follow. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and began to whistle. He felt the letter and struggled to remember what he was supposed to do with it. It didn't seem important any more.

He glimpsed a figure in a clearing and headed towards him, wondering if he might be able to find… find what exactly? He couldn't remember, but continued anyway.

A tall man with long black hair and obsidian eyes was watching his approach. He was dressed in elegant clothes that looked old fashioned to Cob, yet not out of place here. The poppies clustered about his feet and some were twisted around the man's elegant cane.

"Ah, delivery boy," he said cheerily. "Here at last."

Cob nodded and held out his left palm out of habit. The man waved it aside with the dismissive skill of an aristocrat.

"You have a letter for me I believe?"

Cob frowned, that didn't seem right. He pulled the letter out and peered at the words. "F.A.O. Lord Poppy" was written on the front in the shopkeeper's elegant hand.

"Are you Lord Poppy?" The man nodded, taking the note. Cob waited as the seal was broken and the message read.

The lord clicked his fingers and a scowling fairy popped into existence at his shoulder in a shower of poppy petals, a thick silver band around her left ankle.

"Well done boy, you've just made your last delivery," he pointed at Cob's ankle and the fairy sighed. She whispered something that made Cob's head pound. A cold, heavy silver band was forming around his own ankle. "A new slave," Lord Poppy smiled. "Just what I needed. That shopkeeper really is a marvel."

{ 25 comments }

Secret no more…

by Emma on January 27, 2010

For the last couple of weeks I've been working on a secret project. I'd like to say that it was secret because I wanted to create an air of mystery, a subtle build up to some grand announcement. But I can't – at least, not if I want to maintain a modicum of integrity.

No, it was secret because I was absolutely terrified. Yup, it's that fear thing again folks, but now I've decided to talk about it, thanks to some incredibly generous people on Twitter who volunteered to be part of my "Secret Project Support Group", or SPSG for short.

"But what's the secret project already?!" I hear you cry.

Well, I want to produce my first e-anthology of short stories. And…

Earn money from it.

Dah dah duummmmmmm!

Let's rewind a tiny bit though to a couple of weeks ago. I was unhappy. I knew I needed to be building up my business, I needed to be out there, being dynamic and networking but I was struggling to do that.

At the same time, I was getting more annoyed with the fact that I can't just write fiction all the time. Now I know every writer save 0.01% of lucky authors who make it big feel the same way, but that's how I felt. I have to pay a mortgage and support a family, so I can't just run off into some bohemian sunset and live off porridge whilst I dedicate my life to fiction writing (and lose weight at the same time. Wow… that sounds so good…)

Where was I? Oh yes, so I decided that I had to make that dream happen. Yes, my first novel is being published in October, but advances for debut authors like me are tiny, and royalties won't be arriving for a long time, and probably won't pay the mortgage anyway. Then I hit upon the idea of an e-anthology of the short stories and flash fiction pieces I've written over the last few months.

So I have been working hard, editing, planning, researching. I have even sorted out a cover. It got to the point when I only needed to put it all together, and you know what happened?

I ground to a halt. Paralysed. Fear:1, Emma:0

That's when I realised there was a block the size of Ayer's Rock in front of me. So I did what any modern author does… I bemoaned my horribly stuck state on Twitter.

Then, lo! Like sunlight from between the clouds, kind souls stepped forwards and said they'd love to help. So I emailed them the plan, asked questions and they all helped me realise that I wasn't crazy, or evil, or going about this the wrong way.

They also made me realise that I should be blogging about this! It helped me when I was trying to find a publisher, and my mistakes and ranting helped others too. So here I am. I hope that by sharing all of the stuff I'm learning will help you guys too.

The anthology is going to be called "From Dark Places" and here is the book cover as a super-sneaky peek in case you're interested. It was designed by my best friend in the whole world, Kate, you can find her site here and she is @tangokate on Twitter. How much does it rock?

So, this is the plan. I have edited six short stories and five flash fiction pieces, making an anthology of about 19,500 words not including the introduction and closing notes. People in my Short Story Club have read the stories – but one of the things I was struggling with is the fact that when people join, they get stories from that point on, not the back catalogue. This anthology means that they can get all the stories that were produced before they joined. Only a handful of people have read all of them.

I'm going to publish through Smashwords. I've seen a lot of good reviews about the site, and I like the thinking of the founder Mark Coker. In short, they host the book, handle all the payment gubbins, ensure that the book is available in a comprehensive range of e-formats and also do vouchers and affiliate schemes too. In return, they take a 15% cut of the cover price. Not bad really, considering how much tricky technological stuff they take care of.

Smashwords also allows you to set the price of your choice and determine how much of it you want to give away as a free preview. I'm currently planning to sell it for $4.95 and give the first 25% as a preview. I figure that will give people enough of an idea of my writing style.

When people buy the e-book, at the end of the stories there will be a link to a super secret (as in really secret!) part of this site where they can read about how the stories came to be and leave comments and ask questions if they wish.

I do want to use the Smashwords affiliate scheme, so I'm hoping that if some of my short story readers like the anthology and want to help promote it, they can earn a little money in the process too.

At my current rate of writing, I think I'll be able to produce an anthology every four months or so, meaning this would be the first of a series.

So… the questions I asked my SPSG were these, and I’ll ask them here too:

1. Do you think this is going to upset anyone?
2. Do you think the price sounds right?
3. Do you like the cover?
4. Do you think people will be happy to be affiliates?
5. Is there anything I haven't considered?
6. Am I just being a muppet that should just do it already!

The responses I got from the SPSG were fantastic. Everyone loved the cover, comments about the price ranged from "spot on" to "Far too cheap – double it!" and all were very encouraging. The thing that made me particularly happy is that one of those kind souls joined my short story club the day it was launched, and still wants to buy the anthology.

I blogged about fear of asking for things a while ago, and someone suggested asking for donations on the site. I still can't bring myself to do that, but figure that if there are people who are enjoying the stories and podcasts want to donate, they can do that by buying the anthology and then they can read the stories on any device they like, and have them all in one place.

I'm burbling nervously aren't I? Ergh, this "earning money from creative endeavours" is difficult. But if I am going to create the life I want and need, and have the time to create fiction that people enjoy, I have to get over it and make this happen.

Deep breath… big brave Gruffalo steps…

{ 19 comments }

Friday Flash: Sale or return

by Emma on January 22, 2010

The bell that hung above the door jangled as it was opened, but he didn't look up from his book. If the browser needed him, they'd soon let him know.

"Um, excuse me?"

He sighed and removed his glasses, resting the book down on the counter to look at the customer.

A woman, dressed in distinctly odd clothes, was standing awkwardly in the centre of the shop, holding a large box. He recognised it immediately and stood quickly.
 
"Good morning madam," he smiled and stepped out to greet her. The rich were always eccentric, perhaps this way of dressing was a new fad in the more fashionable circles. "How can I help you?"

She looked relieved. "This was delivered yesterday," she nodded at the box. "But I think it's broken. Or I'm not using it correctly, but I can't find any instructions."

He forced his eyes not to roll. Hopeless, each and every one of them. "Well, if Madam would care to put it on the counter, I'll endeavour to put things right."

She placed the box on the wooden surface carefully, unhasped the elegant clasp at its top and unfolded the top segments, allowing the four sides of the box to spread out gently, like a flower opening in the dawn sunlight. He couldn't help but admire his work. The way the panels eased down to rest, and the rich velvet padding inside, still just as pristine as when it left the shop the day before.

He replaced his glasses and moved closer to inspect the contents. The large glass bell jar was still intact, no cracks or chips were evident. The brass clips holding it to the base of the box shone, also intact, so nothing could have got in.

He turned his attention to the contents of the jar, and just like everything else, that looked fine too. A little bad tempered perhaps, but the fairy was hovering a few inches above the base of the jar, still glowing slightly. She didn't look bruised or sick. Frowning, he turned to the customer.

"Everything looks in order," he said, trying his best not to let his irritation slip into his voice. "Perhaps you could describe the problem in more detail."

The customer pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. "This note came with the box," she said, ""Dearest, hope you love her. They're marvellous things, you'll wonder how you survived without one. All my love, M."

The shopkeeper nodded, remembering the note. "Yes," he said slowly, inviting her to continue.

"Well, as I said, there are no instructions. It does look like a wonderful thing, is it a hologram? Some sort of robot thing from Japan? I know Marty, my husband, was planning to visit there before he came home." When his frown deepened, she hurried on, nervously. "There wasn't a phone number on the delivery slip, just this address, though I can't believe I've never noticed this shop before. I've lived here for ten years and I must have walked straight past you a hundred times before!"

She laughed, he didn't.

"Could you give me your name please madam, I'd just like to check my purchase record."

"Mrs Hardy," she said and spelt it.

He went to the ledger and ran his finger down the columns of information. The buyer was a regular, always sent a messenger boy with strict instructions; no doubts there.

"And your address madam?"

"23 Mansion Row."

He shut his eyes when he read the delivery address. It was there, clear as the bell jar. 23a Mansion Row. The mirror property, not the one it was anchored to. He clicked his tongue in frustration. That damnable delivery boy had done it again. He'd delivered to a mundane.

Well, there was only one thing to do. "Ah yes, I see the error Mrs Hardy, and we'll have it rectified straight away. You were entirely right, no instructions. I'll get some sent in and have those and the box returned to you as soon as possible. In the mean time, perhaps you would accept a small compensation for your inconvenience?"
 
Her eyes brightened, darting from one displayed curio to another. "Yes, thank you."

He crouched below the counter to retrieve his lockbox, opened it with the brass key he wore around his neck. He sifted through several packets, considering which option to take, feeling a strange pity for the woman. It wasn't her fault after all, and she had been very polite. Not like the last one. That had very messy indeed. So much dust…

He plucked out a piece of paper, locked the box and then went to a shelf, carefully selecting an elegant bottle. She watched him approach with interest.

"We have a range of marvellous perfumes," he said as he unstoppered the bottle. "If madam would care to sample this fragrance, I'll send a bottle with the delivery this afternoon."

He wafted the bottle under her nose and waited for the telltale pupil dilation and glassy stare. She swayed slightly as he pushed the stopper back in and slipped the bottle into his pocket. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the fairy on her back, clutching her sides as she laughed uncontrollably. Horrid things. He was grateful that the bell jar kept the sound locked away.

He steered the woman to the door and stepped out onto the high street with her. The daylight refreshed her, at which point he thrust the piece of paper into her hand.

"Yes, up there, first on your left," he said. "They sell all the ingredients you need."

She looked down at the fruit cake recipe in her hand, blinked and nodded. "Oh… thank you."

He watched her wobble and then walk away. Satisfied, he stepped back into the shop with a sigh. He was never going to finish his book today. The lesson he had in mind for the delivery boy was going to take several hours to prepare…

{ 29 comments }

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