I saw a tweet earlier, and it made me absolutely furious. Now that doesn't often happen to me, so I had a cup of tea. I was still angry. I had a shower. I was still angry. So here I am.

I won't name the tweeter, as I think this post could get me into trouble enough, but it was an agent. And they said "Loads of queries written by query writing services. If you can't write a query, what does that say about your writing ability?"

Well just wait a cotton-picking minute there! Oh my goodness, that makes me so mad! I'm struggling to order my thoughts well enough to get them on the page, so bear with me if this goes all over the place.

Ignoring the part about query writing services (I never even knew they existed) I am absolutely horrified to see this for two major reasons: one – that someone would directly equate the ability to write a stormingly good query letter with the ability to write a stormingly good novel and two: that other writers might have seen that tweet and thought "Well, that sums it up, doesn't it? I'll give up on the dream now as this query letter hell I'm in shows I can't write."

Actually there are three main weapons reasons – the third is seeing an agent being so insensitive to how damn hard it is for authors to write three pithy paragraphs that obey all the rules (some of which are still a mystery to us), comply with the right parts of the contradictory advice on query letter writing out there and make the novel that we've spent hundreds of hours on sound like the most original money-spinner novel on this earth that's completely different to the other 300 queries that arrived that day.

<pauses for breath. Considers more tea.>

Let me go back to that first point; the equating of the ability to write a query letter with the ability to write novels (I'm assuming it's novels here.) Well, I'm sorry, but I can't think of two more different skill sets as a writer. I write business copy for clients (some of which is sales copy and similar to query letters) and a lot of fiction too, and I know that different parts of my brain are used for each type.

Yes, of course there's an overlap. The ability to phrase things well, the use of correct grammar and the demonstration that you're not a screaming loon who thinks that 120,000 words about a kettle and it's relationship with a piece of mouldy bread is the next Twilight – these are useful in both query letter writing and novel writing. But it ends there. To write a novel requires a feel for plot, pace, characterisation, a great story, compelling characters and the ability to keep people interested for hours, and that's just for starters.

Keep readers of novels interested for hours. Not snag the attention of a busy agent who has two seconds to decide whether to look at the sample chapters or not.

Not to mention the fact that when you write a book you are so close to it that it can be nigh on impossible to encapsulate it – not only succinctly but in a sales appealing way – in a paragraph or two. It took me so long to get my query letter right – and it required months of not being involved with the novel (and a great conversation with my best friend whilst walking through the local park) – but I'm pretty certain that during the time that I was sending out the duff query letters, I could write novels. And stories. And blog posts. Oh yes, actually, there's proof: the novel didn't change between the time I sent out the last batch that didn't work and the changed query letter that got my publisher.

In my opinion, the ability to write a query letter – or rather inability – says nothing about whether you can write a novel. It does, however, say everything about whether you can write a query letter – and whether you know how to sell your own book, and that you can determine the right person to try and sell it to. All of which can take an agonisingly long time to figure out. And blimey, wouldn't it be nice if it was just the writing the book part that authors needed to worry about?

The second point: that it might make writers struggling with a query letter lose heart. Oh I've been there, but thank goodness I stopped reading the sites out there that just constantly spouted doom and gloom about getting published when I realised it was eroding my dream. Instead I deleted those feeds, found more positive sources of advice, like Alan Rinzler, Nathan Bransford and The Query Tracker blog, and kept at it. I know there are several writers amongst my blog readers who are at that stage of trying to get published and it can be soul-destroying enough without comments like that one flying around the web.

Lastly, the third point. It's the tone that gets me. That implicit sneer: "How pathetic that this writer has resorted to using a third party to write this query letter." That suggests to me a person who has no idea what it's like to have worked so hard on a book, to only meet with failure again and again at the querying stage and keep trying, despite the odds. Don’t get me wrong; no-one is making us do this, it's entirely voluntary, but please, a little sympathy and the briefest thought about what effect you may have on us poor souls? And yes, many might fail because the book isn't good enough, but that's not my point here – and another world of pain altogether.

Okay, it may well look bad to have someone else write the letter, but I can see why it would be tempting. Query letter writing is so hard, if you're at that stage, don't feel bad that you're struggling, don't give up because some seem to think that it accurately reflects your writing ability. It doesn't. It's just a different skill set, and one that needs a tonne of practice and distance from the novel and on top of all that, a whole lot of luck that one agent or publisher will take a look at your sample and see your real writing ability there instead.

There. I said it. Cup of tea anyone?

I've been a bit swamped by real life lately, and not the nice parts of it, so I've been a little quiet for the past three weeks or so. Before I forget, as part of "Read an E-book Week" my anthology "From Dark Places" is available from Smashwords with a 26% discount until March 13th. The only thing that's been happening here apart from Graham's interview has been the Friday Flash Fiction that I've been prioritising. That's what I wanted to talk about today – that and a mad crazy scheme I've decided upon.

Back in January, I woke up on a Friday morning with a piece of flash fiction in my head, like it had fallen from someone's pocket as they rushed through my sleeping mind. I wrote it in twenty minutes as I had the tiniest window in my day, published it on the site and raced out the door. It was called Sale or Return.

The next time I logged in there were the most wonderful comments, it seemed to capture people's imagination to have a dusty shop that sold fairies in bell jars, with a grumpy and equally dusty shopkeeper as its caretaker. For the few days after that, my mind kept drifting back there and before I knew it, a sequel appeared, The Delivery, and I realised I wanted to explore this world some more.

For the last five weeks, I've serialised a story about a woman with three wishes (you can find links to all of them in this new page for The Split Worlds), and oh my, I have enjoyed writing it! Diana, who makes beautiful things, asked this after the fourth instalment:

If it isn't giving too much away, can you tell us if this story flowed from your fingers like water from the tap (which is how it seems to me) or if you make many rewrites? And how do you "know" these people so well that you can return to them each week as someone even I recognize? Is there a secretly mapped out otherworld that you draw from? I'm so curious!

I thought I'd answer them here before I go on to do something slightly crazy.

Do these stories flow like water? Yes and no. I spend a lot of time in the week thinking about them, but tend to write them inside of an hour, sometimes with a thorough edit, but most often without as I've been so pressed for time. So in one respect they can take me hours if you count the thinking time, but in pure writing time, very little.

".. how do you "know" these people so well?" I could write a book about knowing characters, but that's for another day. I've got to know Cathy more and more over the last month, and now she has a little nook in my mind that she'll inhabit forever. When I started to write her serial, I knew the broadest strokes about her; the outline of a personality, her interests, pertinent details about her childhood etc, but I let her tell me the rest as I wrote.

I see writing stories as a collaborative effort with my characters; I do half of the work, they do the rest. It keeps it interesting for me, as they often surprise me, but knowing the parameters in which they exist keeps them consistent and plausible within the story. Does that make sense? Once I have written a few thousand words of a character's life, I feel I know them as well as someone I know in the real world – actually better – and to a part of my mind, there is very little to tell between them.

I guess that makes me a bit mad. Sorry about that.

The last question, about there being a secretly mapped out otherworld I draw from, well, I have actually been doing a lot of research in my spare moments, and building the world – or rather Split Worlds that these stories are set in. And that leads me nicely to this crazy plan I have.

I have a yen to stay in this world and explore it, and I'm going to commit to spending a year and day there in fact. So every Friday between now and January 23rd 2011, a new piece of flash fiction will be published on the site, set in the Split Worlds.

But it doesn't stop there (as if committing to 53,000 words isn't enough) oh no siree bob. Once that year and a day is done, I'll start writing my next trilogy, as the Twenty Years Later trilogy should be written by then, and that will be set in the Split Worlds. All of the flash fictions will paint the world, introduce characters who will be in the cast of the novel, and provide a rich background to the trilogy.

So if you've enjoyed the Split World stories so far and want to stick with it for a year with me, you'll recognize characters, places, references and events in the trilogy that you'll have met through the flash fiction. I want it to be a perfect fusion of escapism, geek-tastic detail feasting and urban fantasy, and I would love you to come along for the ride. I have ideas about the trilogy already, and will be seeding clues into the flashes, and I also have ideas about the sharing the writing of the novels with you too, but that's for another day.

So, what do you think? Do you want to spend a year in the Split Worlds with me? Do you have any requests? Do you think it's insane? And just how much would you pay for a fairy in a belljar?

—

P.S. If you like the sound of this, you can subscribe by email if you like, then you won't miss anything!

TimeSplash by Graham Storrs

Well, this is an auspicious day; this is the first ever interview to appear on my blog, and it's right at the start of "Read an E-book week" which is just perfect, seeing as this interview is with a fine author whose first ever novel, TimeSplash has been published as an e-book by Lyrical Press. For those of you who've been here a while, you'll recognise Graham as a regular commenter here, and someone I've talked about in the past. So when Graham was putting together his blog tour for the release of his debut novel, I threw a virtual hand in the air and yelled "Oooh! Come to my place!" as loud as I could. So here he is…

Hello Graham!

First off, let me say how happy I am to be here, Em. I've looked at this blog from the outside so often but, now that I'm in here, I have to tell your readers, it looks much bigger on the inside. So, thanks for having me over.

I understand that you started life in the UK, and now live in Australia, I've often wondered why you live so far away (and felt quite grumpy about it too!). What is it about Australia that has stolen you from us? 

I'm a Yorkshireman. There's no getting away from that. I wear it like that tattoo of your first Great Love, the one whose face you can't quite remember but who you now have to explain to every new girlfriend. Hull, my home town on the East coast, is a place full of people planning to be elsewhere.  So I left. I moved first to Portsmouth, then Guildford, Reading, Cambridge, Aberdeen, back to Cambridge, then London, and then Cambridge again.

The thing is, once you've severed the umbilical of your home town, it sort of doesn't matter where else you go. I've always had a thing about places I visit on holiday. I want to go and live there. That's how I ended up in Aberdeen and that's how I decided to go to Switzerland and live in Zurich. Going to Australia was a complete accident. Someone called me and offered me a job after I'd been  in Zurich a couple of years and I thought, “Why not?” So I went to Sydney – which I wasn't fond of – then Brisbane, which I loved. Then I made the mistake of going on holiday to the Granite Belt and fell in love with it. I saw a property out there – 46 acres of beautiful bushland on a mountaintop – for about the same price as my Brisbane home and had to have it. Within two days of getting back, I'd sold the house and bought the mountain top.

I tend to stay home a lot now and not take holidays. It's not that there aren't places I'd like to see but, honestly, I feel like I'm on holiday all the time now, in a beautiful self-catering resort. And the sunshine down here just makes you feel happy all the time. I don't think I could live in England again after being here.

Do you have any writing heroes? Not people whose writing you admire, I mean writers that have inspired you to write, or keep pursuing the author's dream?

The first and only name that springs to mind is Joe Konrath. I've never read one of his books (although my wife has) but I follow his blog. He's someone who had wholeheartedly embraced digital publishing and has been very clever about transitioning from print and making a decent living at writing. He works hard and earns every book sale he gets. He's also very reflective and is constantly trying to understand the business he's in and what works for him. I always admire people who are observant, analytical, and who use real evidence to understand the world.

Konrath is a good yardstick for me. I look at his sales, earnings, his blog visit rate, his Twitter following, and relate them to my own. Proportionately, for me, all these indices are much smaller but I use them to estimate my effectiveness in the market and to test whether I am on track for a similar level of success one day.

We both have a great love and respect for the work of Ray Bradbury. Which of his stories or novels is your favourite and why?

There are some writers – like Ballard, Steinbeck, and Salinger – who have a way of plucking the strings of your mind to produce beautiful and distinctive notes. Bradbury is one of them. I honestly don't know how he does it. There's just a lilt to it. (Have you ever tried reading Bradbury with a soft, southern Irish accent?) The first thing of his I ever read was The Martian Chronicles. It just turned my whole world upside down. I'm pretty sure my mind actually expanded by several centimetres that day. The language was lovely, the Martians were lovely, but the sense of melancholy and loss that pervades those stories will stay with me forever. Just mentioning it makes me want to read it yet again.

We have both struggled to get published, and both succeeded in the same year. What kept you going when the rejection slips were piling up? Did you ever considered giving it all up? The getting published I mean – I know the writing part is easy ;o)

Actually, I hate rejection. Beneath my rugged, manly exterior, I'm a delicate flower. Every rejection bruises me. I've written all my life but I have only tried for publication in brief, painful spurts. It doesn't take long for the coldness of rejection to become unbearable and I have to pull my head back in and wrap my sepals around myself against the world.

There was a point where I decided publication just wasn't for me. I was having no success and couldn't see a way forward. So I let myself just stop trying. It was wonderful. For ten whole years, I just wrote for the love of it. I enjoyed it so much more and I was more productive than ever.

Unfortunately, I wrote what I thought was a really good book during that time (actually several of them, but one in particular) that I thought I really ought to try to get published. What ensued is a long story – it took about three years in real time – that culminated in me being sucked right back in, but this time with a bit more of a clue as to how to proceed, and in the publication of TimeSplash (which is not the really good book I wanted to see published, but the one I wrote after that one had been rejected to death.)

I follow both of your blogs, and recall your musings about the editing process which sounded quite arduous at times. Now it's behind you, was it as bad as it sounded?

Yes. Much of it was worthwhile. It's amazing how sloppy you can be, even when you think you've been careful. Editors have a miraculous eye for slips in point of view, weak sentences, typos and structural problems. My main editor for TimeSplash did some great work in helping me tighten up the manuscript in all kinds of ways. But I had a big problem when an editor challenges the premises of the story. Now, I think a lot about what I write. My 'worlds' my characters, the plot and sub-plots, even the made-up technologies, are crafted with obsessive care. It was a strain having to argue for the necessity and validity of every decision I made throughout the book.

Worse than this though, were the battles I had over 'house style'. These were over very minor issues, like spelling, or whether a number should be spelled out in dialogue. I found my editors reasonable and persuadable (eventually) in all matters except house style. I ended up doing lots of rewrites just to avoid expressing things in a way that the house style would have forced me to and which I considered plain wrong. Of course, the publisher has their way of doing things and you have to respect that (no, really, you have to, it's in the contract) but it was rather frustrating at times.

Has the experience of being edited by a publisher changed the way you'll write your future novels?

Yes. Definitely. It has certainly helped me improve my craft. I learned a lot from what the copy editor picked up on and the changes she suggested. This is all good.

I think it will also make me more careful about how I set up my contracts with publishers in future. For example, I didn't see the infamous 'house style' before I agreed that the publisher could enforce compliance to it. I'd want to see it in future contract negotiations, and possibly to negotiate the scope of its application. It seems incredible to me that such a thing as house style even exists for fiction.

Time travel, in my mind, is an ambitious topic to write about. Did you ever feel daunted by it?

Not a bit. I love time travel. I've made a big effort to understand modern physics and I probably know as much about relativity and quantum mechanics as any non-physicist is ever likely to, along with a smattering of more speculative theories. So the science isn't daunting. In fact, the science is great. There is so little understanding of what time is, so many competing theories, and theoretical problems, that there is massive “wriggle room” for the writer who wants to play about. Each different model of time has its own consequences, its own potential pitfalls and paradoxes, that time travel stories are just about the last great frontier for free-wheeling imagination in hard science fiction.
Having said that, what is daunting about time travel, is finding something new, exciting, and even half-way plausible to base a story on. As soon as the idea of lobbing time travellers back into a self-healing timestream came to me, I almost jumped out of my seat, I was so excited because I'd hit on a new idea (and one that was just perfect for a fast-paced thriller.)

If you could invent one new thing in the whole world, what would it be?

Immortality. Yes, I know it has its drawbacks. I know I might regret it by the time everyone I know and love has died ten times over, or everyone else had it and it brought on the end of the world several generations sooner than expected. But I don't care. I want to see the future. I want to be there when the off-world colonies start springing up. I want to be there when we encounter our first extraterrestrial intelligence. I want to take a physics class in the year they finally find the last piece of the puzzle. But I'm not going to get immortality, so I'll just have to write the future for myself.

If you could give one piece of advice to a struggling writer, what would it be? There is a lot of advice online for people trying to get published. Have you found any that's worth its salt?

Oh yes. It's nearly all good advice. Here's my condensed version of what I've learned.

1. Write a good book. It doesn't have to be 'The Left Hand of Darkness' (although that would help) but it has to be good.

2. Learn how to interact with agents and publishers. Read their websites and blogs. Read the how-to-get-published books. Use what you learn in your interactions with agents and publishers. Don't think you know better.

3. Network with other writers. Not only are other writers clever, witty, ruggedly handsome, noble and good, they know about things. They know about the publishing industry, and they can alert you to the opportunities that will help you get a toe-hold in it.

4. When you hear about that opportunity, go for it. Trample old ladies in the dust to get to it. And, when you're there, in front of an agent or publisher, say a silent 'thank you' to me for putting 'Write a good book' at the top of this list.

The TimeSplash Blog Tour

This post is part of the TimeSplash blog tour running from 16th of February to the 5th of May. To find out more about the book, characters, Graham, publication and inside information about writing the story, go to the blog tour schedule page at "TimeSplash – The Blog Tour 2010″

This Friday Flash is a sequel to The Duel. The beginning of this mini-serial is The First One.

—-

Cathy watched the motes of dust in the sunbeam that fell across the kitchen table, sucking at the cut on her finger. Their dreamy tumbling captivated her, she had reached the other side of panic. Her body simply wasn't capable of maintaining that tension for so long, and now, even though nothing had changed, she felt lighter somehow.

Three hours ago she'd dried her eyes and showered. Two hours ago she'd been violently sick. One hour ago she decided that she'd die alone, childless. That would negate the punishment for not impressing Lord Poppy.

Her thoughts drifted to her childhood. She recalled her father reading three wishes she'd agonised over for hours, and demolishing them in moments. She'd been mortified to hear why world peace was the worst thing she could have listed, and when he said that she'd disappointed him, she'd run to her room and cried for hours. It became a regular Friday afternoon ritual; come up with three wishes, have them mocked by her parents. Now she realised why they'd been so cruel; because the fey lords and ladies were even crueller.

She plucked her wrinkled finger from her mouth and watched the wound weep again. Who was she trying to fool? Lord Poppy would bend her destiny to lead her to pregnancy, whether she wanted it or not. A drop of blood splattered onto the tabletop, the colour of the poppy petal that landed beside it moments later.

"Time's up!" the fairy chimed with delight.

"It's not; I've still got over 16 hours," Cathy retorted.

The fairy sighed. "Lord Poppy has been so patient, considering how dreadfully boring you've been. The time is up because-"

A burst of lemon juice arced from the half that Cathy had been concealing under the table, straight into the fairy's eyes. She squealed like a tiny piglet, dropping onto the table with a delicate thud, giving Cathy the chance to squirt more of the juice on top of her head.

"You evil mundane minx!" the fairy screeched as her eyes puffed up and her wings drooped. "Euw! Lemon! Lemon!"

"Fresh lemon, you little tic turd," Cathy gloated, grabbing the fairy in her fist, knowing that she only had moments to enact her plan. "Stop squawking and listen to me. If you don't give me some damn good advice, my third wish will be that you'll wear a thick copper necklace for the rest of your days."

The fairy quivered, hearing the undeniable truth in her voice. "Yes, yes, I'll help!" she wept, watching Cathy retrieve the other half of the lemon from her lap and hold it only centimetres from her head. "Listen very carefully, the words are important…"

Every time Cathy stepped into the other world, she thought of two things. The first was the day she learnt the rules of other world conduct, designed to protect her from easy mistakes that that dropped mortals into slavery faster than captured beetles in a specimen jar. The second was the Wizard of Oz; the stepping into a world of such glorious Technicolor that it made the mundane plane seem monochromatic.

She saw Poppy's wood straight ahead, the fairy had brought her through mercifully close. She didn't waste any time. This was like a dentist appointment; better to get out of the way as swiftly as possible. Soon she was at the edge of a clearing with a cluster of red blousy blooms crowded around the fey lord in the centre like adoring children.

"Ah, my little sunlit one," he smiled and held out a hand towards her. "Time for your third wish, Katarina Papaver. I wanted to hear it in person. I like to watch condemning words fall from mortal lips, it amuses me so."

His long fingers clasped around her hand and a pulse of magic rippled through her stomach. Then a thought hit her mind like a woolly hammer.

He's baiting me. I won't condemn myself; I've already won. She looked at him, feeling the effects of her second wish coursing through her, slowing her racing pulse. She knew how to impress him; defeat the best swordsman of the fey-touched families without lifting a finger. That's what the fairy had done; she'd alerted Iridaceae to the one behind the magic that had stolen the Gucci-goon from him, how else could he have found out so quickly? The fairy had known that if she survived that, Poppy would be impressed. And now the wish completed itself with her realisation of that fact.

Cathy reined in her elation. It wasn't over yet, and she was an entire world away from any Arbiter's protection. "I hope my third wish will impress you, Lord Poppy," she said steadily, "if I haven't already." When he said nothing, she took a deep breath. "I wish that I could achieve my full potential, in accordance with the laws of the mundane plane, in such a way as to not draw the attention of the Arbiters, nor endanger my life, my health, my happiness, nor those of the individuals- be they fey, mundane or fey-touched- upon whom I place good regard and care."

Lord Poppy remained motionless, scrutinising her intensely for a moment before resuming his cold, detached affect. "Very well, return to Mundanis and purchase several canvasses and a variety of paints. The rest will become clear."

"But I can't paint!" Cathy frowned.

"Oh, my dear, you can, you should and you will. No mundane teacher could draw out what I can unlock in a moment." She smiled as he released her hand. "I'm afraid I can't entertain you as a guest; I understand that Lord Iris will be at Court today." He winked at her, and for the briefest moment, she allowed herself to enjoy his regard. "I wouldn't want to miss the look on his face when I mention your name." He sighed like a sated lover. "Katarina Papaver, I will watch your progress with interest."

This Friday Flash is a sequel to Satisfaction. The beginning of this mini-serial is The First One.

—

Cathy burst into the Emporium of Things in Between and Besides, panting and silently cursing the founder of public transport, his children's children and all of their pet rabbits. It had taken two hours to reach the shop, and to top it all, she still hadn't had a cup of tea.

The shopkeeper looked up at the sound of her heaving breaths and removed his reading glasses, closing his book. "Miss Papaver," he said with just enough surprise to sound condescending. "You're here after all. Did you forget that you cancelled your appointment?" He watched her suck in the dusty shop air. "Or perhaps you are extraordinarily early for your next appointment."

"I need a scrying glass," she wheezed. Damn she was unfit. When all of this was over, she was throwing out the Xbox. No, she reconsidered, she'd get a Wii fit instead.

"But what about my accounts? They're in a terrible muddle."

"Sorry, they'll have to wait," she said, bracing her hands on her wobbling knees. "I need that glass right now." She couldn't bear to discover the outcome of the duel from a nauseating double page spread, nor a summons from Lord Poppy angered at her mishandling of the duel and his loss of face in the court.

The shopkeeper peered at her and then sighed. "I have a wide variety, perhaps you could give me an idea of the power you need and your preferred frame. I recently took a delivery of scrying glasses decorated with crystallised tears wept after the restoration of sight, the most powerful range this side of the Nether."

"Just a simple, plain frame will do."

She watched his slow movement towards the appropriate shelve with the agony of someone in a hurry waiting for another who has all the time in the world. A glance at her watch told her that she now had less than twenty four hours. No doubt that frog's fart of a fairy would soon arrive to tease her.

"This is a lovely glass," the shopkeeper said, lifting one down that was wrapped in lambs wool.

She barely looked at it. "How much?"

"The price for this fine specimen of craftsmanship is only one secret, a lock of hair and a song learnt as a child. Very reasonable."

"Blimey!" she squawked. "I only want to scry into central London!"

"In Mundanis?"

She nodded after a moment, not immediately recognising the old term. "Yes, just a mundane place, that's all."

The shopkeeper sighed as he carried the Glass back up to the shelf carefully. "Why didn't you say so?" he said, grabbing an unwrapped glass from another part of the shelf and climbing down with less care. "It's not a powerful glass, one use only."

"How much?"

"Twenty of the Queen's pounds. No coins."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course," she said as she handed two notes over.

"You'll need to be in Mundanis to use it," he said, holding the notes at arms length with a thumb and forefinger as if they were dead rats. "So be careful."

She nodded, dropping it into her handbag. Unlike the majority of the fey-touched, her primary residence was in the mundane world so that wouldn't be a problem. And this time, she'd get a taxi.

"I don't suppose you have any fresh milk do you?" she asked.

The shopkeeper looked at her as if she'd asked whether he stocked pop music. "Fresh milk?! You do know where that comes from, don't you? And don't tell me it's for tea. Any civilised individual drinks tea with lemon."

"Never mind," she muttered, and hurried out.

As she sat down to use the scrying glass she realised she'd forgotten to stop off at the shop. There wasn't time now, so she held her hand above the mirror, holding the only thing of her ex she still owned; his dried blood that had soaked into her skirt that night at the casino.

The glass's surface rippled once as she whispered the old words handed down to her, losing its opacity as it became a tiny window looking onto another place.

She saw Mr Iridaceae staring at the broken blade of his sword in disbelief, a battered lampshade perched on his head like a boater hat at a jaunty angle. Her ex staggered into view, holding a large copper saucepan, hair wild and clothes rumpled. She could make out a disgustingly swish room in the background, with a TV that cost more than she earned in a month.

"I'm not familiar with your fighting style sir," Iridaceae was stalling for time as he struggled to regain his poise. "It's beyond chaotic."

"I told you, if you don't leave, I'm calling the police," Dingle shouted.

"But our business is unfinished," Iridaceae continued, rounding the sofa. He glanced at a point behind Dingle's shoulder with a shocked expression. Dingle turned to see what had caused it as his opponent took the opportunity to step and thrust.

The dirty tactic would have worked, if a seagull hadn't flown into the room through an open window, making Dingle duck instinctively. The bird caught the blade's swipe instead and the decapitated gull landed with a thud at Dingle's feet.

Iridaceae stared at the dead bird, aghast. "This is ridiculous. I have no idea which agencies are protecting you but-" He was cut off as Dingle exploited the opportunity to swing the saucepan and it connected with Iridaceae's head with a terrible clang. The swordsman crumpled like a broken marionette leaving Dingle white-lipped as the bloodied feathers settled at his feet.

Cathy didn't need to see any more and dropped the glass onto the table. It shimmered back to its original form and then cracked. She didn't know whether the tears that rolled down her cheeks were ones of relief or heartbreak at seeing him again, but there was no time for them either way. The third wish still eluded her, and she had less than twenty hours to make it.

—

P.S. If you enjoyed this, you can subscribe by email if you like, then you won't miss the next installment!

This Friday Flash is a sequel to The Second One. The beginning of this mini-serial is The First One.

—

Cathy may have been fey-touched, and as a result slightly separated from the mundane world, but she was still British. That being so, she realised that she wasn't going to get anywhere without a cup of tea. The next logical steps presented themselves; purchase fresh milk, return home, make tea, drink it.

On the way to the shop Cathy recalled that the fairy had cast the wish magic and not just withheld the answer. That gave her hope and increased her pace. Minutes later, diligently ignoring the magazine aisle, she strode towards the refrigerated shelves at the back of the shop. Only the biscuits distracted her, and as she considered the relative merits of 'Jammy Dodgers' over 'Rich Tea' in a crisis, she noticed a lone penny rolling along the floor towards her.

She looked for its owner, but no one else was in the same aisle. Then she felt the slightest pressure in her sinuses and noticed that a pen was also rolling towards her from the opposite direction, closely followed by a ball of dusty hair, a mouldy M&M and half of a lollipop. "Bugger," she muttered, all of the biscuit wrappers crinkling in protest as they pointed towards her. By the time she had spoken the first line of the dispelling counter-magic, it was too late. The caster of the seeking spell had already stepped into the shop.

The broad shouldered man was dressed in a long grey velvet jacket with smoke grey trousers tucked into black riding boots. A single brilliant blue iris bloom burst out of his buttonhole. A haze lingered around his sword, hiding it from mundane eyes and her knees turned to water. Surely he couldn't be looking for her?

He marched past the washing up liquid, stopping next to the marigold gloves, clenching his fists. Her seeker's hair was Byronesque in its flamboyance; a ridiculous part of her brain wondered how he got the curls to sweep back so dramatically from his forehead. Would such a renowned swordsman use styling gel?

"Miss Papaver," he greeted with a clip of his heels and she hurriedly bobbed a curtsey.

"Mr Iridaceae," she said, thankful that the memory of his family name hadn't run out of the shop with her confidence. "What can I do for you?
 
"All manners now I see," he replied petulantly, resting his left hand on the pommel of his sword. "Pity they weren't in evidence two days ago."

She frowned. She hadn't seen him or any other members of his family for months. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Don't play the coquette with me, Miss Papaver." He sighed at her blank stare. "The wish magic you cast, you foolish girl. Your meddling prevented the delivery of a mundane that was promised to me by Lord Iris."

Cathy tried her best to link either of the wishes with Lord Iris. Between the caffeine withdrawal, background dread and rising anger at having been called a 'foolish girl' there was little room left for deduction.

"Which mundane?"

"Lorna Lovella, the film star. The woman currently cavorting around Londinium with a veritable brown paper bag of a mundane who was never destined to meet her."

The Guccified redhead, Cathy realised. "Lord Iris promised her to you? A mundane? Isn't that just a little bit dodgy? And a seeking spell in the middle of Highgate is pretty damn cocky; aren't you fussed about the Arbiters anymore?"

He tutted. "That's irrelevant. What is of the utmost relevance however, is how your trickery and quite frankly disgusting thoughtlessness has resulted in my deprivation of one of the most alluring natural beauties of her generation." As he spoke, he began to tug at the fingers of his left glove. "In accordance with the rights of my birth, and with the approval of Lord Iris," he slapped her face with the leather glove, "I demand satisfaction."

Cathy sighed. "Not now."

His eyes widened in genuine shock. "How dare you!"

But Cathy really couldn't duel him now; she had no idea where her sword was and hadn't practised since she'd bought the Xbox. A year ago she would have been nervous, but would've had a chance. Now her bones had turned to milk and she saw her death approaching. Damn that Halo game!

"Well?" he said, slapping her other cheek. "I demand satisfaction!"

"I will not give it to you Sir!" she retorted, angered by the second slap. The words had flown out of her mouth without any thought, but their release reminded her of something. As fast as she could recall the case, the words tumbled from her mouth in the formal style she hadn't spoken for years. "I counter your accusation with one of my own. I hold that I did not directly cause the offence, and I that I do not benefit from the offence, therefore I place responsibility for your grievance onto the soul of the party who directly benefits: Mr John Dingle, mundane, unaffiliated to any of the great houses." My poor ex, she thought, but didn't add that detail.

Her opponent lowered the glove. "Is there precedent?"

"Oh yes," she nodded. "Lord Iris would know of it, as would my patron. In fact any of the fey court would know of the dispute between Lady Wisteria's favourite and the head of the family Orchidaceae in 1657. The latter argued that as he did not directly benefit from the effects of a miscast spell, responsibility for the grievance fell upon the actual benefactor, a fat mundane by the name of Wokingham, who had bedded the milkmaid who'd been inadvertently hit by the beautifying spell."

"So be it," he bowed. "I will seek out this bland benefactor 'Dingle' and call him out in a manner he will understand. Good day to you."

He turned on his heels and left the shop at a quick march. Cathy leant against the biscuits, hoping that her ex's luck was strong enough to endure the challenge.

—

P.S. If you enjoyed this, you can subscribe by email if you like, then you won't miss the next installment!

On Wednesday evening I will be standing up in front of thirty clever people who love social media and gather once a month to talk about it in the centre of Bristol. The monthly event is called Brrism and it is great fun.

I am, quite frankly, terrified. At times like this I wonder why I do these crazy things, but then I realised it's because this event has given me a wonderful opportunity that I couldn't refuse: to be part of a unique fusion of short story writing and social media think-tanking. To quote part of the blurb:

In a unique blend of social media future gazing and fiction writing, Brrism is collaborating with local author Emma Newman to generate themes relating to the future of social media, leading to the creation of an original short story written by Emma after the meeting for the Brrism community.

How cool is that? You can see the full blurb about my talk and those by the other speakers on the Brrism blog.

This is a natural side-shoot of the short story club, in that I'll be encouraging the attendees to brainstorm lots of short story prompts with me, all focused on 'what ifs' about social media. I'm really excited about that part – once the talk that's being broadcast live on Ustream is over (I think I'll be speaking at about 7pm GMT).

I'm resisting the urge to spill my anxiety about people seeing me in real life onto this page, because I want to share something else with you, and it's something that attendees on Wednesday might like to read if they're curious about what this "writing the social media future" exercise is all about.

After last month's Brrism event, I spent a happy half hour at the pub talking about this upcoming presentation with the organiser, the lovely Michael. In the course of that conversation he inspired a flash fiction piece which you'll find below. Thanks Michael, it was a great conversation!

This flash is designed to explore one tiny human experience in a possible future society – and that is what really excites me about speculative fiction. I love the way it enables us to explore what happens when future technology intersects with the same old human stories that play out every day. I dabbled with this in an earlier piece of flash fiction called "The Perfect Escape" and I'm hoping that the Brrism event will inspire another story or two.

Short stories cannot explore whole worlds, that's why I like to focus in on one or two people and how that future world impacts upon them. I'm hoping that the short story that comes out of the Brrism event will stimulate discussion after the event – and that's what I intended with this piece – I want it to create many questions in the mind of the reader about what life might be like in this future…

Anyway, I'll let you read it first, I can wait…

One message received

"There has to be something you can do!"

Tanya lurked in the hallway outside her mother's room, staying still and silent to prolong the successful eavesdropping. Her mother had been shouting down the microphone for five minutes, demanding to speak to the next person up after each one had failed to tell her something she wanted to hear.

Her pocket buzzed but she'd check the message later. She wanted to find out what had wound her mother up so much.

"But there must be some kind of record, people don't just disappear like that," her mother's voice was cracking. This was bad. "So what happens now?" she asked a moment later, quieter, weaker.

She pulled the tablet out of her pocket and brought up the message. "Miz_Katix39: Flying with Dad, new avatar rocks, lolz." Tanya rolled her eyes. Katie was always showing off on Fridays, the day she spent with her Dad in Second Life. Tanya knew he only spent it with her because of the court order. Katie didn't broadcast that, did she?

An electronic beep signalled the end of her mother's call and Tanya heard the headset landing on the other side of the room. Then the crying really started.

It was definitely Dad.

She took a deep breath and dropped the tablet back in her pocket. She stepped into the doorway. "Are you ok Mum?"

"No, I'm not 'okay' for God's sake!" her mother snapped and Tanya bit her lip, trying to shrug it off. "Sorry. It's your bloody father."

Tanya tried to stay nonchalant. "What about him?"

"That was the Ministry for Identity and Safety on the line," her mother replied, sniffing and wiping her eyes. "They've closed the file. It's over."

"They can't find him? How's that even possible?"

"He's gone off-net," her mother dropped her head into her hands and sobbed. Tanya just stood there, not knowing what to do or say.

"They sure?" She only got a nod in response.

She plucked her tablet out again, searched on "define: off-net" but an MIS logo loaded with a polite notice. If she wanted to know more about "off-net", she'd have to request the information via her mother's access, a buzz from her mother's tablet on the desk confirmed that she'd been notified. She rolled her eyes and closed the browser.

"Does off-net mean he isn't online at all?" At her mother's nod, she asked "But how does that work? Isn't that illegal?"

"Don't ask, Tanya," her mother pushed past her and went into the bathroom. "Nothing good will come of it. We won't get any money now, even if they do ever find him. Now I'm late for my co-working day. God I hate having to go into the office."

Tanya left her mother to wash and went to her room, calling up her broadcast app, but no words came to mind. She could see that 147 of her friends were currently chatting, but what was she going to say? "Hi guys, Dad's gone off-net and my Mum is freaking out, my dad's a crim!" just didn't seem appealing somehow. The Ministry would probably block it anyway judging by the earlier search intervention.

She browsed her friend's activities whilst her mother ran from one room to another trying to make herself presentable. She hadn't left the house in a fortnight and she always got into a state before she had to go outside.

Tanya was drawn to Katie's status, looked at the picture of her father's expensive new avatar. She sighed. She'd rather have a Dad that only took her out virtually once a week because he was forced to by law, rather than a criminal. She couldn't even look up her father's status, photos, nothing. A void. This sucked.

The door slammed and the house was silent. She watched a few movies posted by her friends, but nothing took away the dull ache in her stomach. She wondered what he was doing; it infuriated her that she couldn't just look it up. Without a Ministry registered sign-in, there was no net: no food, no bill paying, no wages, nothing. What would he do?

A noise downstairs startled her. She froze the live feed and listened, straining her ears. "Mum?" she called, but a quick glance at the corner of her tablet confirmed she was half way to the station.

Tanya crept to the top of the stairs and looked down into the hallway below. Something was lying on the doormat. She raced down and picked it up, seeing that the rusting letter box was still partially open. She'd read old stories in which letters were pushed through the front door, but those times were long gone. She looked at the paper envelope in her hand, looking just like a quaint old fashioned message icon.

She waited for a buzz on the tablet, or a beep of some kind from the envelope itself. Nothing. She resolved to open it manually.

Carefully she peeled it open at the back, spreading out the four pointed sides of paper to reveal a smaller one in the middle. The paper was bitty and rough, nothing like the conventional paper that the expensive paper books were printed on for rich eccentrics.

Something was written on the smaller piece, but the letters were so irregular. She sat on the bottom stair and deciphered the message.

In a bit of trouble, don't worry, but had to go off-net. When I'm sorted, I'll help, just had to tell you I love you and that I'm sorry. Stay strong, will come when it's safe. Dad xxxx

She squealed, racing up the stairs, holding it on her outspread hands carefully for fear of creasing it. She didn't care how it had got there nor what he had done to pay someone to get this to her. She lay it on her pillow and snatched up her tablet, tapping the broadcast icon.

"@Miz_Katix39: your Dad's trying too hard." She grinned. That'll wind her up.

—- 
I'd be interested to hear your thoughts about that flash before I say much more about what themes I wanted to explore by writing it. And I'd also like to put a call out for prompts for this month's short story club please, if you could be a darling and pop one in the comments below that would be marvellous. Remember, you don't have to be a member to suggest a prompt, but only members receive the story. Heavens to Betsy, it's a creative month!

P.S. If you enjoyed this, you can subscribe by email if you like.

This Friday Flash is a sequel to The First One.

—

Standing in the newsagents in King's Cross station with greasy hair, a blinding headache and mismatched shoes, Cathy wondered if that little thorn of a fairy had stolen some of her luck to funnel it to her ex. She had woken to a broken boiler and spoilt milk, only realising she was wearing the left of one pair of shoes, the right of another pair once on the train, thanks to two boys sniggering in her direction.

Chocolate in one hand, station concourse tea safely paper-cupped in the other, she was looking for something to escape into. She scanned the rows of airbrushed models on magazine covers touting sumptuous cake recipes directly above the 'secrets' of losing a dress size in two weeks. The last two wishes and Lord Poppy's threat loomed over her like a tsunami frozen by the will of a sea god. A parenting magazine reminded her of the price of failure. It was all she could do to unpeel her tongue from the roof of her mouth and not burst into tears.

Then she saw the latest celebrity gossip magazine, her ex on the front cover, snapped with the Gucci clothes horse emerging from an exclusive jewellers. Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she snatched the magazine from the shelf, paid for it and the chocolate and went home again. Sod work. The end of her life was playing itself out around her; the Emporium's accounts could wait.

An hour later, sitting in her freezing cold flat, she wept over the double page spread. He looked so happy, so slick in his new clothes and fashionable hair cut. The bright penny of a man that she'd always planned to find underneath life's tarnish had been snatched away from her before she'd had the chance to polish him up. She smashed her fist down on the picture of them leaning across a small coffee shop table holding hands, oblivious to the paparazzi scum outside.

With a delicate pop, the fairy appeared. Cathy watched the poppy petals settle over her ex's public good fortune before sweeping them and the magazine off the table.

"Oh… is this a bad time?" The fairy chimed, fluttering to the edge to look down at the magazine. "Doesn't he look handsome?"

"What do you want?" Cathy asked, too heartsick to insult her.

The fairy looked disappointed and perched on the edge of the fruit bowl. Cathy fantasised about battering her to death with a banana, but didn't pursue the fantasy. Everyone knew that lemons were much more effective.

"Lord Poppy sent me to remind you that you only have twenty-seven and a quarter hours left."

"Why not remind me at twenty-four?" Cathy asked.

"That's such a mundane thing to say," the fairy sighed and pitched backwards into the bowl to avoid Cathy's swipe. She peeped over the rim, grinning. "You don't know what to wish for, do you?"

Cathy shoved the fruit bowl off the edge, hoping that it would trap the fairy underneath for a moment or two, but she was too quick. The problem wasn't a lack of ideas, indeed, like all good fey-touched children she had diligently spent days of her early years dreaming up clever wish combinations just in case.

She'd never prepared any to impress a fey however.

"I've got loads of ideas, you witch's wart," she lied. "I'm just choosing between them."

The fairy made no effort to disguise her disbelief. "Lord Poppy is disappointed with your first one," she commented, flying down to the magazine and planting her feet squarely on her ex's nose. "He thought you'd have wished something interesting by now. The week is nearly up and all you've done is broken your own heart. It's like Lord Poppy said 'Anyone can do that, what a waste of a wish.'"

Cathy trapped the expletive behind her teeth. She couldn't demonstrate her panic; it would only be reported back to him. Her eyes drifted back to the magazine. Oh how she wished for that redhead to wake up with the skin of a rhinoceros, or to manifest a bizarre medical condition that meant she could only survive on a diet of anchovies and cheap chocolate that gave her acne and bad breath. But her parents had prepared her well for this life, and she knew that ultimately she'd regret such a vicious revenge.

But it was tempting.

"It must be so hard for someone as bland as you," the fairy continued in mock sympathy. "How on earth can you be expected to dream up something to impress the great Lord Poppy? I doubt you could, even if you had ten wishes."

"Why do I have three?" Cathy asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"He's a traditionalist I suppose."

Cathy recalled the tales she'd studied, all disguised lessons left by her ancestors. Now the mundane world pegged them as fiction, but she knew the truth. And right now, she couldn't recall one in which the mortal didn't screw it up in some way. If only she knew how to impress him!

She laughed out loud. That was it! She narrowed her eyes at the fairy. "My second wish is this," she began, taking care to frame it properly in her mind first. "I wish I knew how to impress Lord Poppy."

The familiar pulse of magic swept out from the fairy as she cast the wish into the world. When it was done, she opened her mouth and Cathy held her breath for the answer.

"See you soon," the fairy chirruped.

"What?!" Cathy squealed. "My wish first! Tell me how to impress him!"

"Oh that," the fairy shrugged. "The wish is cast. I'm done here for now."

"But!" Cathy fought not to stammer. "But you haven't told me."

"You never wished for that," the fairy stuck out her tiny tongue. "You mortals never learn. You only wished to know. You didn't specify when."

—

P.S. If you enjoyed this, you can subscribe by email if you like. Then you won't miss the third wish!

I don't quite know how this happened but Thursday evening has arrived and I haven't had time to write a blog post. All of my ideas have been shut up in an airless waiting room, and now I'm finally sitting down to write, they're all trying to rush out of the door at once, shoving rudely at each other. No manners amongst ideas it seems – oh that one just got an elbow in the face – stop! One at a time for heaven's sake, else someone will get hurt…

Ah, one makes it through the door, someone I wanted to introduce you to actually, but a description is in order for this fellow. He has incredibly large feet, wearing traditional black leather brogues that are neatly laced. Sitting atop this pair of feet is a huge head, with no body between them. He has pursed lips, a putty-like nose and dark-circled eyes that are hidden beneath a deep frown. The frown only conspires to make his forehead look all the more bulbous, and the thinning hair doesn't help either.

He's fidgety and stomps around in my mind with those great big feet, mumbling constantly. So much so that I've rather unimaginatively called him Mr Muhurnahur, as that's what it sounds like, when I'm not really listening to him properly.

And what does he mumble all day?

Stories.

Not the ones that I write for you, I hasten to add, oh no dear reader, nothing so useful as being my creative muse. No, Mr Muhurnahur spins elaborate yarns that are horribly boring, but strangely compelling at the same time. Boring because he only has a few plots that he constantly recycles, compelling because those plots come straight from the dark, sticky molasses textured anxiety deep in my unconscious mind.

Let me give you an example of one his stories. "Emma goes to the dentist for the first time in six years and the dentist pokes her teeth with that horrible metal prong, draws in a breath through his clenched teeth and says "Oh dear. Three teeth have got huge cavities and we need to do three emergency root canals right now. So we have to inject your gums, and then there's no guarantee you won't feel anything." So Emma-the-needle-phobic has a terrible experience and faints afterwards, in front of the entire waiting room and -"

Actually, I'll cut him off there, as I said, he's an appalling storyteller.

But that's all he does, all day; he stamps around in the back of mind, telling these stories. And a part of me is always listening.

And a part of me has been believing them for such a long time. The example I give here is only one of an entire anthology he knows off by heart.

When I first noticed him (I was falling asleep and thinking about tackling my anxiety problems and sort of went into my head and met him – I know, I'm mad) I asked him to speak up. When the mumbling turned into these stories, I was shocked. I was listening to this rubbish? So I challenged him. And you know what he said?

"But if I don't tell you these things, you'll get complacent. If you stop being afraid, you'll make a mistake."

Today I had a wonderful group call with some people I met through Pam Slim's workshop. It's the Mastermind group idea she talks about in her book (a great idea by the way, Glen wrote about here ) It was my turn in the 'hotseat' and we talked a lot about what I'm doing to focus on my creative writing and two major things came up: fear, selling and the horrible bit where they intersect with me launching my first e-anthology and having to actually sell it.

During the conversation I said "I am a fearful person" and the wonderful Tanya said "Stop, write that down. You need to think about that." She went on to point out that I tell a lot of stories about myself. Stories that I had told them, but ones that might not actually be true about myself anymore.

Being a fearful person is such an intrinsic part of my self-identity. What if I decided to stop listening to Mr Muhurnahur and started listening to some new stories?

So much of my anxiety stems from fiction; a terrible side-effect of having a broiling, churning cauldron of an imagination. It makes me scared of the dark (at 33 years old for heaven's sake!), it keeps me awake at night, it entertains me and lots of other people, it weaves stories and it creates anxiety.

That's nice, but what am I actually doing about this?

Well, I told Mr Muhurnahur that I don't need him in that way any more and that he can go and tell his stories somewhere else. He has stomped off to another room in the house somewhere, and I can't hear him so well anymore.

I also try to keep myself in reality more when the anxiety is biting. Seeing as my default setting is to escape reality as much as possible, this can be hard, but simply asking "Is this fictional? Are these fears really plausible?" is enough to rein it in enough to function, and some of my anxiety flash points are fading now.

Do you have any stories you need to throw out? Or a Mr Muhurnahur of your own? I hope I'm not the only person here with a giant headed creature wearing brogues in their head…

—

P.S. If you enjoyed this, you can subscribe by email if you like.

P.P.S. One of my heroes, Pam Slim, published a post I wrote. Heavens to Betsy!

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!"