A few months ago I officially launched my professional voice services and haven’t really mentioned anything about them since. I have been very distracted as you know (and believe me, the pull to write TYL2 right now is so strong it’s hard to write anything else, even a blog post!) so I thought it was high time to tell you all the exciting stuff that’s happened with the voice work since launch. I also recorded a winning Friday Flash ages ago and then neglected to post it up, so that announcement, and the call for entries for the next draw is at the end of this post.

The adventure begins…

My first commission (you know, the one that produces your first cheque that you want to frame but can’t because you need the money so badly?) was from the lovely Kate Maryon who is a local author I had coffee with ages ago. Kate is who I want to be when I grow up; serene, loving life and one of those people who is just so easy to be around. She also diagnosed my gluten intolerance, and since following her advice I have lost a total of 20 pounds in weight and have the energy to walk ten miles a week, play table tennis and do all the crazy work shenanigans I get up to. So, you know, she’s done a lot to change my life already!

Anyway, she loved the sample I put on my voice page and commissioned me to record the first four chapters of her novel “Shine” which is simply wonderful. It’s aimed at the 9-12 year old market but don’t be fooled by the girly cover, it actually tackles some meaty issues to do with interpersonal relationships that are deftly explored.

Harper Collins gave Kate the go-ahead to have the recording done, and it’s since been put up as a widget on their website! If you go to the Harper Collins page for Shine you’ll find a box called “More Audio” and you can listen to the chapters through that. I did an accent for the mother and daughter that was really fun – Kate had to coax it out of me but I’m glad I did it!

Then I did something a little bit crazy

One of my favourite people online, someone who I have talked about on my blog since I started it, wrote a book that was published as an e-book by Lyrical Press. It’s a science fiction thriller called TimeSplash, and the lovely chap in question is called Graham Storrs.

Now I have a lot of time for Graham. Our writing journeys have been very similar in timing, we both struggled for years, got grumpy, frustrated, infuriated, envious of other people’s success – and understood that in each other perfectly. Then bang! We both get our first publishing deal in the same year. Not only that, I also love his writing, and his short stories delight the same part of my brain that is reserved for Ray Bradbury, my all time hero, and not many writers are let in there I can tell you.

So anyway, I decided that I wanted to record an audio book of TimeSplash as my first audio novel. I thought it would be a good experience for me, that it would help to raise Graham’s profile too and that we could do it like pioneers of a new land; having no real idea of the huge work ahead and the pitfalls on the way, but knowing that there was something on the horizon worth striving for.

To my delight Graham said yes and for the last 3 months I have been recording TimeSplash.

And I have loved every minute of it. It’s a great book.

But the story gets even better…

About three weeks before finishing it, I was commissioned for my next audio project by a rather splendid fellow called Greg McQueen. You may recognise Greg (assume Simpsons-esque Troy McClure voice here) from the amazing 100 stories for Haiti project. It’s a novella, and one of the first projects for his new micro-publishing company.

So we get talking and it turns out that we have very similar plans and ideas about audio book publishing. We agreed we should collaborate on other projects, and I had several to bring to the table that I thought would really benefit from such a collaboration.

To cut a long story short (too late!) he has picked up the audio book of TimeSplash and offered Graham a print deal to boot. How fantastic is that?

So any day now I’ll be announcing that my first audio novel will be available for sale. Squeeeee! And double-squee for Graham; his book is fab and I will be one of the first people to buy it in print. I want it on my shelf. I want to hold it in my hand. Even though I have read every single word of it aloud and then edited it for hours and hours, I still want to own it. That’s how much I enjoyed it.

You can read Graham’s happy announcement on the TimeSplash blog here and find out more about Big Bad Media here.

So what’s next?

Well, I’m working on a novella for Big Bad Media, and there is another novella at the audition stage that I am hoping will happen too. Then there’s the re-recorded and professionally produced audio book of 20 Years Later in the pipeline too, plus a few other things…

Friday Flash Prize Draw

I had to miss this in July, but I am opening this up again for your August flashes. Here are the details:

So, just like last time, I am going to record a Friday Flash written by someone in the community (for free), publish it here to showcase their writing and of course, send it to the flash author to do with it what they will. I get a chance to practice producing other people’s work, and the winner gets a professionally produced audio version of their story. The only thing I ask is that at the end I get to say that I recorded it and give out my URL in case someone who listens would like me to record something for them.

Here’s how it works:

• You look at the Friday Flashes you wrote in August and pick your favourite one

• Leave a comment below, telling me that you’d like it to go into the draw, and include a link to that flash so I know where to find it if it wins, and your Twitter name too

• I’ll pick one at random using the random.org number generator (I’m not going to judge or pick a favourite as I don’t want to get tangled up in that)

• Over the following month I’ll record it and produce an MP3 which will get posted here with a link to the original flash and send you the file.

• Then you can put it on your own site, and if you link back to me to spread the word, that would be great.
Sound good? If you don’t follow the instructions above be warned that I won’t have a chance to chase you for details.

So if you want a chance to have me record one of your stories, you’ve got a week to submit – starting now. Please spread the word!

And if you can’t bear to wait (or you want to have me record one as a present for a fellow writer), you can always commission a professional story recording by me – the details are here.

The winner of the previous prize draw was the effortlessly stylish and all-round gorgeous Icy Sedgwick. The story is in one of my favourite genres and is called No Place Like Home. Enjoy.

So I got ill for a while. Then I was recovering and catching up on all my client work. Then… well, where the hell have I been?

My twitter friends have been wondering about my absence, and when I have popped in briefly to reassure them that I’m not dead (please don’t put me on the cart) they’ve been reacting like I’ve been gone for ages.

And by my standards, I have been gone for ages, so I thought the least I should do is explain where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing.

I’ve been in post-apocalyptic London.

When I was recovering from the latest bout of illness, I felt a reluctance to immerse myself right back into my intense online writing schedule, and even my online socialising. Catching up on work was a struggle, it’s true, but I also felt like I just needed a bit of quiet time.

Whilst I love Twitter and my online life, it does also drain me. It leeches away time in tiny little bursts, but also attention – there are just so many interesting and lovely people that I know online now, all doing such lovely and interesting things that I feel like a child walking through a fun fair every day. You all know how tired kids get after a day at the fair, right?

Trying my best to look after myself a bit better, I decided to give myself a break. I was writing 2,000 words or so of stories to publish on the blog every week, plus writing thousands of words for clients every week and also short stories for my club (which have also been paused lately). As a result I was producing a lot of flash fictions and short stories, but the sequel to 20 Years Later simply wasn’t getting written. I was lucky to get more than 5,000 words down a month, and that simply wasn’t good enough for me, or the book.

When I stopped everything else and just recovered, the story that kept coming back to me was book two. Yes, I occasionally thought about Mickey and the Split Worlds, but Titus and Zane and Erin were shouting the loudest.

So I began to write it again. Just quietly, no Twitter, no blogging, and thought I’d aim for 1,000 words a day in the Ray Bradbury tradition.

Since then, I have become fully immersed in the world again. Writing a novel is completely different to writing an online weekly serial. Many might say “Well, duh!” but I don’t mean in terms of required word counts or differing schedules, I mean immersion.

Not allowing myself to be fully immersed in my novel’s world meant that it was so much harder to start writing it again. Every time I set aside for it, half of it was spent getting back to the mindset I was in when I last planned out some chapters. Stopping and starting, leaping between different worlds just wasn’t working for me.

When I wrote 20 Years Later, the first draft was finished in 26 days. I was writing anywhere between 3-4000 words a day, but my life at the time was very different. I was a psychology teacher during exam time, so I had exam invigilation duties that gave me time to daydream and plot. I had an hour commute each way into London and back, again, all time to be in the world.

I wasn’t a professional copywriter, so all my writing muscle’s energy went into the book. I also didn’t have a son, nor was I the sole breadwinner for my family.

I assumed I would never be able to have that intense writing experience again. I was wrong.

You see, I realised a while ago that even though I had decided to shelve plans to build my copywriting business and just focus on keeping current clients and building my writing career instead, the decision hadn’t filtered down to my daily work routine.

Anxiety disorder- induced thinking was making me plan my day around clients that I was terrified of not doing enough work for, when that was just crazy. They are happy, I work very hard, but it’s not where my full energy and focus needs to be every day in terms of my writing.

When I realised how much my anxiety was controlling my life and schedule, I changed my day completely. I write my novel first now, then I do client work. No loss of quality to the client work – it’s a completely different type of writing – but a massive increase in my novel progress as I am signalling to my brain that it’s a priority.

I am also keeping myself in that world. Every moment I’m not actively concentrating on something else, my brain is writing, just waiting for the next time my hands can do that too.

Now I am drunk though. The book has its own momentum, the characters are swept up in their stories and the sequel is hammering along to its finish. I’ve gone from writing 1000 words a day to 2500 or more, and that itch, that desperate compulsion to write is still not satisfied.

Only the need to keep my clients happy pulls me away. I do the work, I see my family, then I am writing again. I am drunk I tell you, I am only partially in this world.

And it is glorious.

I’ve put a cute little widget up on the right hand side that enables me to track my daily writing – like a micro blog for my novel. If you click on it you can see what I’ve been doing every day. So if you’re wondering why I haven’t written a flash for a while, or why I haven’t been on Twitter for days, that’s the place to look.

I’m into the last 10-15 chapters of book two, and it’s like I’m riding a stallion. Nothing can stop it, and I am just holding on for dear life, enjoying the thrilling ride. I can see the world, hear the characters  speaking, I just have to turn up and write it all down. And you know, it’s almost effortless. The only thing that’s hard is tearing myself away.

I feel that’s the right way to write, and the right way to live my life. Nothing makes me feel as calm and content as writing down all the stories in my head. The story of 20 Years Later has been in my head for many, many years. I just have to get it out. Until then, I’m afraid I won’t be around as much, but you will be getting a sequel as compensation in time.

So that’s why I’ve been quiet lately. Bear with me and my compulsion to write, please.

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”

Ray Bradbury

Reality cannot destroy me at the moment. It barely exists.

It’s been so long since I’ve posted here, I have an urge to get out a duster and start polishing. It’s been a tough few weeks and between two bouts of illness back to back and my husband being away a lot over July, things have fallen apart a little bit here.

I’m still recovering, and trying not to be stressed about all I haven’t done. I got into a bit of a tizz about it yesterday before realising that I am the only person getting upset about the fact that I haven’t posted a story here for a while. A part of me was bludgeoning myself with a big stick, berating me for slipping from my schedule, but I see now that it was absurd. At the worst, some of you may be impatient to know the next part of Mickey’s story, but I’m sure that none of you are sitting there, fuming away and shaking your fist at the screen shouting “That slacker Newman! How dare she not entertain me right now!”

Honestly, the amount of energy I have spent fretting about this over the past couple of weeks is ridiculous, it’s as if I were the CEO of a grand corporation not meeting the expectations of my shareholders.

I forgot that this is fun, something I do out of a passionate love for writing. I forgot that it’s actually more important to get well, then return. Yet again, I forgot to take care of myself.

This is a repeating pattern. I work too hard, I do too much, then my body shuts me down by getting horribly ill. Then I get stressed about the work and writing I’m not doing, take longer to recover, am utterly miserable (and hell to live with) throughout, until I am finally well again.

It’s time to find a different way to do this…

I’m better than I used to be, but, to be honest, life is short and there are so many damn stories in my head to write down. I also have to earn money to keep our house and feed my family, and so what this boils down to is frequent 14 hour days and very, very little time off.

I am currently negotiating with my inner Sergeant Major, trying to explain that being horribly ill for two weeks is not the same as taking time off. He isn’t listening.

I find it hard to relax. No, who am I kidding here? I don’t even know how. Those who have known me for years will be nodding as they read this. I come from a family of ‘doers’ who never sit still for long. I suppose it seeped in over the years as I grew up, like damp through an old wall.

I get a lot done, but there’s no slack in my schedule, so when I do finally fall over, the effect feels pretty catastrophic. I don’t have a solution, I don’t even know why I’m writing about this, but hey, I miss you guys, and it’s been a while since I just came here and burbled. I used to do that, before I started a weekly web serial and weekly flash fiction and all the other crazy things I get up to.

And talking of patterns…

I’ve noticed another pattern too. Earlier in the year I got horribly ill, and that was the week after I did that presentation. I got into a complete state about being seen by people.

And what happened a week or so before this most recent bout? The photo shoot. I thought I handled that anxiety pretty well, but I think it took its toll on some level. I know the vomiting bug was caught from friends we visited, but maybe I would have fought it off if I hadn’t been stressed before, and maybe I would have been able to resist the cold that chased the bug (and still plagues me) if I had been less tired. I don’t know.

So that’s where I am at the moment. Normal service will resume shortly. You don’t mind if I take a few more days off do you? And if you have any idea what I could do to break these patterns, I’d love to hear it.

The bell rang and he looked at the woman sliding into the chair opposite him. She had thick brown hair and something of the Mediterranean about her.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

He smiled and said “I’ve never done this before.”

She laughed. “Neither have I!”

He didn’t believe her. “I’m Anthony by the way.”

“Carmela,” she extended her hand across the little table. “Pleased to meet you.”

Her hand was soft and cool. “So what do you do Carmela?”

“I’m an estate agent,” she patted the air. “But I’m not evil, really! What do you do?”

“I’m an author.”

“Wow, had anything published?”

He smiled. “The third book of my trilogy is coming out later this year.”

She leaned forwards, revealing her cleavage. He resisted the tug at his eyes to look down into it. “That’s so exciting. I’ve always wanted to meet a novelist. Do you have an agent?”

He nodded. “Yes, he’s-”

“Oh wow, could you introduce us? I’ve written a romance called ‘The Lady’s Salvation’ set in the eighteenth century and it’s about this woman who’s left destitute when her father dies and this evil solicitor diddles her out of the will, so she has to go and live at this amazingly wealthy Lord’s house and teach his child as a Governess, but then they fall in love, and the Lord finds out about the solicitor and puts it all right. Then they get married, but not because she needs to – ‘cos by this point she’s independently wealthy – but because they love each other.”

He realised she’d stopped and blinked a couple of times, wondering if her prose contained such long sentences. He took a breath to reply, but she spoke first.

“Could you introduce me to your agent? I’m not getting anywhere, and it’s all about who you know in publishing, isn’t it?”

“Well… my books are science-fiction thrillers. My agent doesn’t represent romance novels.” And thank God for that, he thought.

“Oh,” she said, shoulders dropping, breasts retreating. Then she perked up. “I could so easily re-write it so that the solicitor is actually an… an alien from the-”

The bell rang. “Next!” called out the speed dating host. “People on the outside move one to the right!”

He smiled thinly and shook her hand. “Good luck with the novel,” he said as she slid her phone number across the table.

He had enough time to sip his drink before a blonde took Carmella’s place. “Stephanie,” she smiled, shaking him by the hand.

He smiled back, liking her blue eyes. “Anthony.”

“So what do you do?”

“I’m a novelist.”

“Really?” Stephanie’s eyes brightened and she twisted a lock of hair. “I’m a writer too!”

He perked up. “Really? What kind of books do you write?”

“Oh, sci-fi, and just the one so far.”

He swallowed down the excitement. Maybe the evening was looking up. “I write sci-fi thrillers,” he said, leaning forwards. “My third is being released in a few months.”

“Wow,” she said. “I’d love to be published, but I’m not getting very far. Would you mind reading my manuscript, giving me some pointers?”

He looked at her moist lips, the platinum hair. Oh he was tempted, but he’d promised himself never to do that again. He knew he’d regret it. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t do that, but I can recommend a great freelance editor.”

“Oh.” The hair twirling stopped, she looked away and sipped her drink. He sighed as the bell rang again. “Nice to meet you,” he said but she was already smiling at the next man.

Another brunette arrived, they shook hands. She had a confident air, expensive looking dress, nice figure. He wondered what was wrong with her, and immediately chastised himself. After all, he was here, and there was nothing wrong with him.

“Alexandra,” she said and he introduced himself.

When the inevitable question came, he hesitated. She nodded when he told her, he was relieved to see no change in her behaviour.

“I’m going to write a book,” she said.

“Oh? What about?”

“I have a few ideas. I’m going to write a high-end literary novel. Not looking for commercial success, I don’t need the money, but critical acclaim.”

“Do you write as a hobby?”

“Not yet,” she sipped her drink. “I run an investment firm, but I’ve blocked off a week in August. I’m going to my house in France to write.”

“A whole week?” he failed to keep the sarcasm from his voice. It didn’t seem to penetrate the confident bubble around her.

“What do you write? Have you won any awards?”

“Science-fiction. I was nominated for the…” he trailed off, seeing the curl in her lip.

“Oh. I don’t read that.”

The bell rang. He was growing fond of that sound.

He sat back and took in more of the room, filing the awful experience away for later use.

A blonde sat down with dimples in her cheeks as she smiled. He took in her round face and cheerful eyes, liking her immediately, despite himself.

“I’m Annie,” she said and smiled again when he told her his name. “What do you do?”

“I’m… I’m an office manager.”

As you can see, I had the photo shoot, and I have to thank you all again for the group therapy you gave me when I wibbled out about having my picture taken. It really did help. I got my head together at about the same time the opportunity to have some shots by the wonderful Harry Duns came up, so fortune does indeed smile upon the brave.

Harry is a lovely chap and made me feel at ease immediately. He also has very good taste – hence all those great Steampunk pictures in his portfolio, so when I told him the shots were for the publisher of my dystopian YA novel he didn’t just give me a blank expression. He likes the genre and was excited for me too, hooray!

I had a terrific urge to giggle throughout. A part of me felt ridiculous – I mean, having professional photos done? Me? Get out of town!

But then I remembered that it was to go in my book. My book! Then I got so excited I wanted to giggle again. That cycle repeated about a hundred times…

It was surreal experience. I took one of my favourite apocalyptic novels with me (The Kraken Wakes by John Wyndham), and my favourite tea cup for moral support, and one of the shots with the book made the grade as you can see. This is my favourite, probably because you see more of the book than me Maybe I’ll have a similar shot done with my book when it comes out.

So there you go; a decent picture of me, who’d have thought it was possible? Big thanks to the lovely Harry Duns again, and to Mick Dickinson who arranged the shoot.

What do you think?

This tale from the Split Worlds follows on from A Fair Exchange.

—

Mickey’s fingers twitched over the open pouch. The cherry red Ferrari gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. With only ten marbles, he had to choose wisely.

He picked one out, feeling its weight in the palm of his sweaty hand. He rolled the marble across the pavement fast enough to make it shoot off the edge and hit the rear tyre.

Nothing happened.

He frowned and looked in the gutter, but he couldn’t see it. Perhaps it had rolled down the drain. Maybe he should have aimed at the car itself, rather than the tyre?

“Oi!” A middle aged man shouted from across the street. “Get away from my car!”

Mickey stuck a finger up at him and ran off, stopping a street away outside a game shop. He didn’t want to give up hope yet. He knew there was something weird about these marbles.

He stepped inside the shop, pushing past a cluster of spotty geeks and went straight to the back shelf. A row of consoles triggered a familiar longing, the PS3 drawing him close like a seductive lover. He plucked another marble from the bag.

Mickey rolled the marble along the shelf. It hit the side of the console, but nothing changed. He retrieved the marble, noting its dull interior.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “I’m a bloody idiot.”

He stomped out of the shop, chucked the marble down the nearest drain and caught the bus home. He found his mother leaning against the back door, blowing her cigarette smoke out into the back yard.

“What’d you get for it?”

“Sod all.”

She sighed and flicked the ash outside. “Well, it’ll look pretty enough on the mantelpiece.”

“I haven’t got it,” Mickey said. If he told her that he’d exchanged it for a bag of marbles that turned out to be as magical as a toilet brush, he’d get a hiding. “The bloke in the shop gave me a quid, I used it to get back home.”

“Oh Mickey!” his Mum slapped him on the arm. “You’re useless; you should’ve kept it and walked home!” She flicked the cigarette butt into the garden and slammed the door. “I’m goin’ out, stay and look after Jack; I won’t be back till tomorrow. And do the washing up for God’s sake!”

She grabbed her handbag and left him with the scent of cheap perfume and smoke.

“Where’s Mum gone?” His brother lurked at the door.

“Dunno.”

“You need to do the washing up.”

Mickey looked at the dishes piled high in the sink. “Get lost.” Then he had an idea. “Look,” He fished the pouch out of his pocket. “If you do the dishes for a month, I’ll give you this pouch of magic marbles.”

Jack came over as Mickey pulled one out and held it up for him, sparkling and magnificent.

“Blimey!”

The boy’s eyes were wide. Mickey smirked. When Jack reached for it, he pulled it away. “Washing up for a month, then they’re yours.”

Jack frowned. “How come you don’t want them?”

Mickey drew in a breath, buying himself some time. “These marbles only work for sprats, like you. I’m too grown up for them. You roll one at whatever you want to have, and then it’s yours.”

“Cor, really?”

“Would I lie to you? Deal?”

“Yeah!”

“Cool. Do that lot in the sink and you can have the bag.”

A loud pop woke Mickey early the next morning. As he opened his eyes, a terrible smash made him yell and sit up in his bed.

The bedroom wall was bursting outwards, pushed out by the red Ferrari that was parked impossibly at the foot of his bed. The bricks and plaster above the newly made hole rained down on its bonnet, the front wheels teetering above the front garden.

“Christ!” he yelled, scrabbling out of bed.

There were footsteps on the landing, then a second pop. He turned to see a brand new PS3 in the middle of his bed, price tag still taped to it.

Jack peered in and there was another pop. A kids bicycle appeared next to the Ferrari, teetering for a moment before tipping to rest against the car door.

Jack whooped. “My new bike!”

A fourth pop, and a large trampoline materialised a few feet above the bed before landing on it with a crash.

Jack jumped up and down. “My new trampoline!”

By the time the next pop came, Mickey was cowering in the corner. The dawn light was streaming through the hole in his wall, local dogs barked at the noise.

The marbles. Oh God the marbles were really-

A row of shop shelving appeared next, breaking the bed frame as it fell on top of it. Mickey dived for cover as it fell on its side with a crash, spilling hundreds of packets of sweets all over the demolished bedroom.

Jack was now weeping with delighted laughter.

“Jack!” Mickey yelled. “What else did you roll them marbles at?”

“Only a bou-”

The pop was the loudest yet, the room rapidly filling with a massive bouncy castle that Mickey had seen secured in a garden down the street. He was briefly crushed against his wrecked chest of drawers before the plastic was punctured on a sharp shelf corner and began to deflate.

“Awww,” Jack moaned. “My bouncy castle!”

Mickey scrambled across the car and ran to Jack’s room. The pouch was partially tucked under his pillow. He grabbed it, feeling the remaining four marbles inside.

“That’s mine!”

“Deal’s off,” Mickey said, retrieving clothes from the bathroom laundry basket. “I’ve got to sort some stuff out Jack. Might be a few days, but I’ll come back for you, okay?”

He left his brother and ran out of the back door to avoid the crowd collecting at the front to gawp at the car. A plan was forming, and he couldn’t stop himself grinning. Life was looking better by the minute.

—

To be continued…

This flash is part of a year and a day of urban fantasy stories set in the Split Worlds. There is an index of the the stories here and some more info on what the year and a day is about here. And if you liked it, you can subscribe by email if you like, so you get the rest delivered to your inbox.

This tale from the Split Worlds was inspired by a prompt sent in to the Short Story Club by the lovely Joanie. I hope you like it Joanie!

A Fair Exchange

“Mickey?”

He looked up at his mother. She was standing in the doorway to the living room, hair tied under a scarf and covered in dust.

“What?” he said, turning back to the television.

“Turn that thing off,” she said.

He sighed heavily and pressed the remote.

“Look what I found in the loft.”

She held out a figurine of a fairy on her palm, even more dusty than she was.

“Isn’t it pretty? I’ve never seen one so nice. I’m going to clean it up, I want you to take it to the pawnbrokers.”

“Aw Mum,” he moaned. “I’m knackered. Can’t Jack do it?”

“He’ll only break it,” she said, heading off to the kitchen. “Stop being such a lazy bugger and do something for your poor old Mum for a change.”

“It won’t be worth anything,” he said when it was placed in his hand, sparkling clean and brightly coloured. “They want gold and jewellery and stuff, not tat like this.”

“It’s not tat! Look at it, she’s beautiful.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Give us a quid for the bus then.”

On the way into town, he sank low in his seat at the back and inspected the fairy. He couldn’t deny that it was well-made. Its tiny features were perfectly described and he had no idea what its sparkling pink dress had been made of. Certainly none of the figurines at his late grandmother’s house looked like this. He shook his head, smirking at the thought of his stupid mother rooting about in the loft, hoping to find a lost masterpiece like on The Antiques Roadshow. He knew the pawnbroker would offer a fiver at the most. After the bus fare back home again, they’d be three quid up.

That’s what his time was worth; three quid an hour. He scowled at the shoppers walking past, dressed in their fancy clothes and designer shoes. Life sucked.

Mickey first noticed the man when he got off the bus, mostly because he was dressed like a prat. He wore a dark red jacket that was tragically old-fashioned, looking like it was from the kind of rubbish his Mum watched on TV.

He saw him a second time when he was crossing the street, striding along the pavement behind him, using his large umbrella like a walking cane. He had long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and stank of money.

Mickey trudged towards the pawnbrokers, glowering at the Saturday afternoon shoppers out with their screaming kids and depressed husbands. It felt like every old person in London had chosen exactly the same time to walk the same street as him, conspiring to walk in front as slowly as possible and tag each other in as he dodged them. He was so busy tutting at a stooped old man that he didn’t see the fancy-dressed prat until he was standing right in front of him, blocking the way into the pawnbrokers.

“Excuse me,” he said, his smile revealing perfect white teeth. “Forgive my intrusion, but may I ask whether you intend to take that statuette into the pawnbrokers?”

“Eh?” Mickey asked, confused by the man’s words. They sounded like English, but they didn’t make much sense.

“Are you planning to sell that?” the man said, pointing at the figurine.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?”

The man smiled and reached into his pocket. “The pawnbroker will not offer you a substantial amount of money for it, I can assure you of that. May I offer an alternative?”

Mickey frowned, not liking the way the man spoke. It made his head feel woolly, and it reminded him of English Literature class. He hated English Lit. “D’you wanna buy it?”

The man smiled again, Mickey felt light-headed. “I’d like to offer you these in exchange for the statuette.” He held out a pouch made of the same burgundy velvet as the man’s jacket. “They’re marbles, but unlike any marbles you’ve seen or played with before.”

“Marbles?” Mickey snorted. “My Mum won’t want marbles.”

“No, you don’t understand,” the man said, leaning closer as the tie at the neck of the pouch seemed to work its way loose. He plucked a marble out and Mickey couldn’t stop himself from gasping in amazement. It was made of the same stuff as the fairy’s dress, sparkling with such depth that he felt he could stare into it all day. “These are magical marbles. Roll one towards something you want, and the object of your desire will be yours to keep.”

Mickey couldn’t take his eyes off it. The wool between his ears thickened. Magic marbles? Yeah, they sounded a whole world better than some poxey fairy.

“You’re on,” he grinned and held out the figurine.

The man dropped the marble back into the pouch. “What’s your name?” When Mickey told him, the man held the open pouch up to his lips and whispered; “Hear me now, these are Mickey’s Marvellous Magical Marbles.” He blew into the bag and it closed and tied itself, making Mickey blink in surprise.

The fairy was plucked from him and the pouch dropped into his hand. It was heavier than he thought it would be. “So I just roll these towards whatever I want, and then it’s mine?” he asked, shaking his head in an effort to clear it.

The man nodded, wrapping the fairy in a silk handkerchief pulled from his pocket. “Indeed.”

“Anything I want?”

“Anything you want. Good day to you, young man.”

The man gave him a curt nod and strode off down the street at a fair clip, the Saturday crowds posing no problem as they parted in front of him.

Mickey looked down at the pouch and grinned. He knew exactly what he wanted first. He just had to find it.

—

Read the next installment: Mickey’s Marvellous Magical Marbles.

This flash is part of a year and a day of urban fantasy stories set in the Split Worlds. There is an index of the the stories here and some more info on what the year and a day is about here. And if you liked it, you can subscribe by email if you like, so you get the rest delivered to your inbox.

A tiny flash of 300 words this week, again inspired by the five minute flash fun hosted by the lovely Leah Petersen with the prompt “Flying” and the prize draw for your June Friday Flashes

Flying

“You were in it, and Jack, but he didn’t look like Jack, he looked like a dream Jack.”

“Yeah,” he said, barely taking in the nervous gabbling that flowed from his friend.

“So anyway, we were all in this car, and the sky was really red, like, I dunno, like the most intense sunset, like, ever.”

He looked up as the seat belt sign came on and checked the clasp. He glanced into his friends lap. “Seat belt time.”

“Oh God, I don’t think I can do this.”

“You can, just remember to breathe, in, out, in, out.” He squeezed her hand. “That’s good. I’ll do your belt. Carry on with the dream.”

“Errr… yeah… we were all in this car and there were these signs by the side of the road saying there’d been an accident- oh God is that noise normal?”

“Yes, it’s just the engine warming up. Then we’ll start moving slowly towards the runway, okay? You were telling me about the signs.”

“Yeah… and I tried to stop the car, but the steering wheel didn’t work, and the brakes didn’t work. There was a traffic jam up ahead, and we were going to crash – why is that steward talking on the phone? Is there a problem?”

“No, he’s telling the Captain that the cabin crew are ready.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah, the car crashed, and I went through the windscreen, and it was so vivid – it didn’t hurt – but it was like I could feel the glass breaking on me and I thought, this is it, I’m going to die, but I felt really calm. And I thought about Freddie, and who would feed him, and then I was flying!”

“Flying?”

“Yeah, I went up in the air and – what was that bang?”

—

So, just like last month, I am going to record a Friday Flash written by someone in the community (for free), publish it here to showcase their writing and of course, send it to the flash author to do with it what they will. I get a chance to practice producing other people’s work, and the winner gets a professionally produced audio version of their story. The only thing I ask is that at the end I get to say that I recorded it and give out my URL in case someone who listens would like me to record something for them.

Here’s how it works:

• You look at the Friday Flashes you wrote in June and pick your favourite one
• Leave a comment below, telling me that you’d like it to go into the draw, and include a link to that flash so I know where to find it if it wins, and your Twitter name too
• I’ll pick one at random using the random.org number generator (I’m not going to judge or pick a favourite as I don’t want to get tangled up in that)
• Over the following month I’ll record it and produce an MP3 which will get posted here with a link to the original flash and send you the file.
• Then you can put it on your own site, and if you link back to me to spread the word, that would be great.

Sound good? If you don’t follow the instructions above be warned that I won’t have a chance to chase you for details.

Here is the recording of Katherine Nabity’s ‘Wicked Witch For Hire’ that was last month’s winner. (Bottom of the page)

So if you want a chance to have me record one of your stories, you’ve got a week to submit – starting now. Please spread the word!

And if you can’t bear to wait (or you want to have me record one as a present for a fellow writer), you can always commission a professional story recording by me – the details are here.

This tale from the Split Worlds follows Meeting the Parents. The first installment of this mini-serial is The Audition.

—

Luke woke in the back seat of a car. A blanket was covering him, hot and damp over his mouth and nose. He ripped it off and sat up, seeing countryside zooming past the window. The sun was low in the sky and it felt like a small creature had crawled into his mouth and died.

The last he thing he remembered was drinking a cup of tea with Anna’s stepfather, Vincent. He recalled being told that she was feeling ill, and having a strong impression that Vincent didn’t like him.

“What’s going on?” he asked, seeing Vincent in the passenger seat. The butler was driving.

Vincent twisted round to face him, appraising him in some way and then nodded to himself. “Pull over,” he told the driver.

Luke didn’t like his tone, nor the way he looked at him. He sucked in a deep breath, his chest feeling like steel bands had been riveted shut around him. The car pulled into a lay-by and Vincent got out, and went straight to the rear passenger door. He opened it and beckoned to him.

“Get out.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I want to explain it to you out here. Get out of the car now.”

Something in the man’s voice sent a cold flash down Luke’s back. He got out, standing on legs like rubbery corned beef that had just slid out of its can.

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” Vincent said. “But not because of the reason you think you are.”

“I’m so sorry she’s pregnant Mr Iridaceae, I really am. I’m going to take care of her, make sure that-”

“Please, do shut up. This hasn’t got anything to do with that. She isn’t pregnant and you’re not going to get married.”

“Wha-”

“We’re on our way to a train station. You’re getting on the next train to Manchester.” He produced an envelope from his jacket pocket and pressed it into his sweaty palm. “Here’s five thousand pounds, enough to get you somewhere to stay whilst you tie up your affairs in Bath.”

“Manchester? But I don’t want-”

“You will never leave that city again, and you must not pursue any interests that could result in you being in the public eye. Don’t attempt to get in touch with Annabella, nor any of the people or places you have previously associated with her. Do you understand?”

“No!”

“Look, you’ve got caught up in… some difficult business between two families, and I’m trying to save your backside.”

“Families? Oh my God, are you in the mafia?”

“We make the mafia look like a bunch of school children, believe me.”

Luke wobbled, leant against the car to brace his shaking legs. “I don’t want to go to Manchester. I have a life, I-”

“No, you’re dead,” Vincent said and went to the back of the car.

Luke wanted to run before he had a chance to get out a shotgun, but his legs were uncooperative. He simply stared dumbly as Vincent opened the boot, then came and grabbed his wrist and tugged him around the back of the car.

“Look,” he said, pointing into the dark compartment.

Luke looked down at his own face, his own body, lying in the boot, eyes closed, cheeks and lips milk white. He wanted to laugh, cry and throw up all at the same time. Instead, nothing but a strangled noise escaped his tight throat.

“This will be found tomorrow morning,” Vincent said.

“Is it wax?” Luke finally managed to say as the boot was slammed shut.

“No,” Vincent replied, but offered no more information. “If you ever leave Manchester, or are stupid enough to gain any attention there, this body,” he jabbed a finger into Luke’s chest, “will be found dead. Do you understand?”

Luke couldn’t make his lips work, so he merely nodded.

“Good. Get in the car. Your train leaves in an hour. Annabella would suffer the most if you were found, don’t forget that. I may be ruining your life, but I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my family.”

Luke nodded and got back into the car. Something was wrong with him, he couldn’t fathom what it was, but something was missing. He looked down at the envelope in his hand as the car pulled back onto the road and thought of Anna. There was only one thing he was certain of now. He would never let himself fall in love again.

—

This flash is part of a year and a day of urban fantasy stories set in the Split Worlds. There is an index of the the stories here and some more info on what the year and a day is about here. And if you liked it, you can subscribe by email if you like, so you get the rest delivered to your inbox.

“I think he was the last one.”

“Oh God, I hope so,” he said, slipping his trigger finger out from under the shotgun and flexing the cramp out of it. “I don’t know how much more I could take of this.”

She looked at him, frowning at his chattering teeth. “Don’t crap out on me.”

“I’m fine,” he said, soothing his male pride with a puffing out of his chest. “No harm in being truthful. You’re just hanging on too, admit it.”

She rolled her eyes and peered out from behind the post box. “I’m cool and the gang, granddad,” she couldn’t resist the dig. “I’ve been training for this day for two and a half years. The world is finally making sense.”

His jaw dropped as he scanned the suburban street. “Making sense?” He looked at the headless bodies, the smattering of small fires, the police car on its roof with its siren broken and wailing like a deranged walrus. “Jesus, where did you grow up?”

“Online,” she whispered back. “I was doing important things like learning how to kill them whilst you were busy making money and screwing everyone over.”

“Shut up,” he said, putting in two new cartridges and snapping the gun closed. “Bumming off the state to sit and home and play ‘Left For Dead’ is not a worthy pursuit, don’t dress it up.”

“Saved your ass though, didn’t it?” she winked at him, grinning at his grimy, ripped suit.

“Now listen here young lady-” his lecture was interrupted by a mournful groaning that ended the bickering.

She pointed at a garden towards the end of the street and began to pick her way through the debris. He sighed, hefted the shotgun up and followed her.

For once, he got there before her, having chosen a better route. He peered through the fence, seeing the zombie (who looked like he was once a fireman) dashing a poor woman’s skull against the garden path. He would have vomited, but there was nothing left inside him. The fading blush on the woman’s cheeks suggested a recent kill.

He could hear the girl, whose name he still didn’t know, swearing at a piece of car wreckage that had snagged her jeans. The zombie was too set on his task to notice, digging into the gash he’d made and parting the woman’s skull like it was nothing more than a stubborn walnut shell.

He knelt there, shotgun across his knees, fixated on the horror playing out in front of him. The zombie scooped out the brain, but then contrary to everything he and his annoying fellow survivor had seen that day, he didn’t just shove it straight into his mouth. Instead, he swayed back up onto his feet and lurched towards the house, holding the brain in outstretched hands ahead of him.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, almost crashing into him as she arrived. “Drop him!”

“Wait!” he pushed the barrel of her shotgun to one side as she levelled it at the zombie. “He’s different; he’s taking the brain somewhere.”

“So he’s a zombie and a weirdo with it? Big deal; still gotta die.”

“For God’s sake,” he said, pushing the barrel again. “It might be important. I’m going to see where he takes it.”

“Fine, it’s your funeral granddad,” she shrugged. “But when he turns on you, I’ll drop you like all the rest.”

“You’re all charm,” he muttered, and vaulted the fence.

He followed the zombie up the path, noting how it hadn’t turned towards them, even when their whispers had got louder. It was more focused than any of the zombies they’d dealt with that day.

It stepped into the house and he followed it inside, gun pointed at the back of its head like she had taught him. It moaned a little as it entered the living room, he jolted when he heard a second moan as if in response.

He edged up to the doorway and peeped inside to see the male zombie offering the brain, still dripping, to a female zombie reclining in one of the armchairs. Even though her eyes were glassy and unfocused, she tilted her head towards him and – could he be imagining it – seemed to smile at the gift with spasms at the corner of her mouth.

He ducked back into the hallway as she devoured it, wiping the sweat from his forehead and leaning against the wall. Shooting the ones that had been desperate to eat him had been easy. Well, easier once he’d met the teenager and she’d shown him the best way to do it. But could he kill them if they still retained emotions and the capacity to care?

Then he remembered what the zombie did to the woman in the garden.

He raised the barrel again and stepped into the front room. She was on her feet now, they were locked in an embrace, with no chewing involved. Both were making soft noises like his rumbling stomach, and neither had seen him.

A thunder crack from a gun broke his voyeurism, the shot hitting the man in the back of his head and dropping his body just like all of his fellow victims. The female zombie roared in distress but before she could move a second shot finished her too.

“Haven’t you learnt anything?!” the teenager yelled at him. “Hesitate and you’re dead. God, you’re rubbish!”

“They were in love.”

“Whatever,” she said, reloading the shotgun. “They’re the last ones, I’m sure of it. Let’s get moving.”

She left but he couldn’t take his eyes off the couple lying dead on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said, and left the lovers’ blood mingling on the carpet between them.

—-

This is my entry for the Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest. I hope you enjoyed it! In accordance with the guidelines, here is the info about the contest.

Guidelines: