#SampleSunday 1: A New Venture in Tweeting

Today is the start of a new venture, SampleSunday. Each Sunday, English-writing indie authors from around the world will be posting a sample of their work on their blog – be it from a published novel or a work-in-progress, a short story or a poem, non-fiction or drama. The thing is, it’ll be every week, on a Sunday.

Writers will Tweet when they’ve uploaded a sample. Readers can leave comments and ReTweet those comments to wave a flag when they’ve found a sample they believe is particularly good. And to see exactly what is available, search for #SampleSunday. You could find yourself amazed.

To kick off my stable of offerings, I’m posting the opening excerpt from the title story of the collection e-published this week. Don’t read if you are of a nervous disposition.

Contribution To Mankind (excerpt)

© Linda Acaster

Spaz passed across the wrap and I gave him the money.

    ‘Sure you only want one?’

    ‘No,’ I said. ‘I want six. Hell, let’s not quibble about numbers. I’ll have ten.’

    I hadn’t even given him The Look, and already his elbows were leaving the small bar table as he backed into his chair.

    ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Am I supposed to guess your finances?’

    I picked up my glass and dribbled the contents into my mouth. There wasn’t even enough to coat my tongue.

    He leaned back in a little. ‘If you’re looking for a source... Well, I might know of an off-licence, y’know, with an unguarded window.’

    ‘And what use would that be to me?’ I snapped. ‘Think I’m an alckie?’

    The little prat moved closer, sure of himself now.

    ‘That’s the beaut, isn’t it? Could be there’s an anxious buyer.’

    I slid my empty glass across the table towards him. He looked disconcerted, and it made me smile. ‘Buy me another and we’ll talk about it.’

    He didn’t even try to argue, but dragged back his chair and limped towards the bar. I eyed his roll and sneered. He believed he had a charmed life, did Spaz, believed the sharks ignored the little fish. Silly bastard. Twice in plaster and still he thought he could fish the waters.

    ‘Here he is! A round of applause for our hero!’

    I looked to the clamour near the doorway. It was Tony mouthing off as usual, this time to a group from the old days. Tony was another one who’d never recognise his own name being called. And then I saw who our hero was and felt the tendons stand rigid in my neck. This wasn’t his local any more; I’d driven the bastard out.

    ‘Very funny,’ Willans was saying. ‘If you want to show some appreciation of our contribution to mankind, get us in a beer.’

    ‘Shouldn’t it be weak tea?’

    ‘Been there, done that, let the nurse hold my hand.’

    Lascivious laughter rolled round the group and I knew there was no letting it pass.

    ‘Listen to the pillock,’ I called across. ‘Contribution to mankind. Be organising a fucking aid run to the Balkans next.’

    That killed it. Willans peered over shoulders to see who had spoken and I gave him The Look in return. He soon shifted his gaze.

    ‘It’s your ten up, isn’t it, Mike? Deserves one on the house, that.’

    I turned my beadies on Don behind the bar, but he was already looking my way with a very flat expression. I marked it for future reference.

    ‘Ten’s nothing,’ Willans said. ‘It’s the first that counts, and Jerry here has just passed the needle test.’

    It was like listening to dogs puke. Jerry Davidson had all the hallmarks of a good wheelman: seconds into a Gti, and nerves the Iceman would prize when a blue light was tailgating him. He’d only been caught once, too, and now Willans had sunk his claws in. How many more of the bleating sheep would follow? All of them, probably, just as they had into that poxy soccer team he’d started. All the makings of a regular crusade, it had, with Jesus Bloody Christ at its head, shining example to the world.

    When Spaz put a full glass in front of me I ignored him and took it to lean on the bar. Don gave me the warning eye, but I ignored him, too.

    ‘Well, Jerry, congratulations. You’ve taken the first step to ensure your place in heaven. Has he got you to sign the red pledge, too, eh? Are you going to have some money-grubbing surgeon ripping out your heart before it’s stopped beating? An eye here. A liver there. Sausage, mash and kidneys.’

   ‘Leave it out, Sinclair.’

    I turned my gaze on Willans, careful with The Look. I didn’t want to spook him too soon.

    ‘So, you’ve given ten, have you?’ I said. ‘Thought a body only carried eight. Shouldn’t you be dead? Like Rob.’

    ‘Give it up, Sinclair. That’s six years behind us. I’m not rising to the bait any more.’

    ‘Not rising?’ I said. ‘But you rose that night, didn’t you, rose from the fucking dead. What was it? Twenty-five pints they pumped into you? Sounds about right. Still paying off the mortgage, I see.’

    The others were behind him, not at his shoulder; leaderless, as ever. I bared my teeth and sneered to see what he’d do. He just stood there, the gutless wimp.

    ‘Enough of that,’ called Don.

    I never even glanced Don’s way. Don was all bluster. What was he going to do, call the Filth? The amount of gear they’d find carried in that place, they’d shut him down.

    ‘It should have been Rob they dragged from the wreck, not you,’ I said. ‘Rob they pumped all those gallons of blood into, not you. You were supposed to be the fucking driver, not Rob. You were supposed to be looking out for him.’

    I hadn’t realised how quiet it had become until Don slammed the baseball bat down onto the bar.

    ‘I said enough. If you put as much effort into raising money for charity as you do into your hate, your brother would have some sort of decent memorial. But no, you’d rather the likes of Jerry here follow him into an early grave. And doing what? Joy-riding. I don’t see how it’s brought much joy around here.’

    Don didn’t even recognise The Look when I shot it across, he was in such a flood. He’d remember it when it topped out, though, I’d see to that.

    But what was the point? The exchange was going nowhere. Willans wasn’t going to bite, not like in the old days when he’d sooner knock your teeth down your throat than look at you. Getting old, that was the problem, getting old and got his own personal brand of religion.

    I prodded a finger just the once in his chest. Every rib seemed to show through his T-shirt. The flab had deserted him, just like his balls.

    ‘You should take more care of yourself, Mikey. All this running’s wearing you out. What is it this time? Equipment for the Infirmary, or research into crippling diseases? Here...’ I tossed a coin across at him. It bounced off his bony chest and fell onto the floor between us. ‘Put me down for a slice. We can’t have Don, here, thinking I don’t support lost causes.’

    I downed the rest of the pint in one and smacked the glass on the bar. I’d hoped Willans might have given me reason to smash it into his face, but there was always tomorrow. I’d waited six years. I wasn’t in any hurry.

About a week later Spaz came across with the info on the off-licence deal. I did some quiet digging and it seemed clean enough. I wasn’t too worried about Spaz, anyway. Despite his lack between the ears he knew full well that his time in plaster would be nothing compared to what’d happen if he crossed me.

    The place was a small set-up in one of the closer villages. Working out of the city had its compensations. The Filth took longer to arrive, for one, and iron window grilles and concrete bollards set beyond the shop’s front were almost unheard of.

    I’d picked up a van – not to do the job, that was set for the following night – just to drive the route we were going to use. These things always look fine on paper, but it’s amazing how many times you can come across roadworks on these narrow lanes, or a pile of straw bales sticking out from the verge.

    Dusk was falling, not enough to hit the lights, but close enough so that I’d be travelling back with them on, as I’d intended. Anyway, I saw him – Willans – loping along what passed for the gutter in a skinny pair of tracksuit bottoms and a reflective yellow vest. I didn’t realise it was him until I was passing, and even then I was a good half mile ahead before it registered.

    Willans. Running on his ownsome in the middle of bloody nowhere. Willans. Running on the road in the dusk.

    I turned the van and headed back.

    I came upon him almost at once, and slowed the engine to a crawl, hanging back to watch his rhythmic action. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Almost like a heartbeat. My heartbeat as it rose in anticipation.

    Why didn’t he hear the engine? Then I realised: there was something attached to a belt around his waist. An iPod. I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

    ‘For you, Rob.’ And I gunned the engine.

    He heard me at the last moment. I saw the beginning of a turn of his head, but the edge of the bumper caught him, or the wing, and he disappeared from my view.

    I pulled up gently and looked through the mirrors. He was prone, for certain, but in the failing light I couldn’t see more. And I wanted to see more. I wanted to see what I’d seen on the slab in the morgue when I’d identified Rob.

    I reversed the van and opened the driver’s door.

    He was laid partly on the verge in the shadow of the hedge, his arms angled as if he were still running. The iPod was kicking out its tune as if nothing had happened. I could hear it as I approached. It threw me for a moment, made me think that I hadn’t hit him after all.

    There didn’t seem to be any blood. I didn’t believe that and got down on my haunches to peer closer. There wasn’t any blood, not even a graze that I could see. That wasn’t right, wasn’t fair on Rob.

    The music was getting on my nerves. There should have been blood and there wasn’t and the damned noise from that thing was driving me crazy. I put out a hand to switch it off and saw that there was a polythene cover over it. Inside the cover was a tenner and a credit card. Willans was running round the countryside with a note and a credit card strapped to his iPod. Had he been expecting some farmer to draw up and offer him a neat deal on hamburger?

    I realised my mistake as soon as I pulled them free. The card was the bastard’s red pledge, his organ donor card. Rob didn’t get any organs. Rob didn’t even get any blood.

    I was holding it, staring at it, when I heard the faint wisps of a groan. The bastard wasn’t dead. Then his eyes flickered open and he looked at me. I looked straight back at him.

    ‘Ssssinclair..?’

    ‘Yeah, it’s Sinclair. How you feeling, Willans?’

    He blinked, and gave a faint stab at a frown. I’d dislodged something, that was certain.

    ‘Can you get up?’

    There was a second or two while his mouth tried to work.

    ‘No.’

    ‘You just lay there and listen to your music.’ I replaced the earphones and his limbs seemed to twitch at the sudden injection of sound. ‘Won’t be long,’ I said, but I don’t think he heard me.  

    Once in the driving seat I fired the engine, slipped it into gear and reversed over him. Like hitting a kerb, it was, with the nearside rear. The front jumped, too. For good measure I slid into first and pulled forward slowly. There wasn’t as much resistance the second time. Willans could donate all he owned, but who’d want a bucket of sludge?

    The red pledge was still in my fingers as I pulled away. I smiled at it and slipped it into my jacket with the tenner. It would make an interesting souvenir, a decent lever, too, I shouldn’t wonder, shown to someone who knew him and was getting out of line.

~~~

Thanks for reading this excerpt. Contribution To Mankind and other stories of the Dark is a collection of five short Horror/Supernatural stories launched this week in all formats for 99c/72p.

Drop by next Sunday for something completely different.

Talk Notes - Huntington, York

I want to thank everyone who attended Huntington's Community Centre, York, last night, to hear myself and Penny Grubb speak about our new novels, Torc of Moonlight and Like False Money. It's great to have such a receptive audience willing to ask questions.

We were there to help launch the La Scala Short Story Competition (theme Equestrian & Countryside) and as promised I am posting below the gist of my talk for beginners how to write a short story:

"Anyone can write fiction - it's just a snapshot of normal life with all the boring bits taken out. If you think there'd be nothing left once the boring bits were removed, consider this: the life you write about doesn't have to be your life. It can be the life of...

• the confident/beautiful/witty/rich person you've always wanted to be (but don't choose a real living person; they won't appreciate it and could sue you)
• a historical person, real or imaginery
• a fantasy person - if you are a rider in real life, might your fantasy person ride a unicorn or be a groom for Sleipnir, Odin's eight-legged flying horse?
• you, where something fantastical happens - you find Sleipnir in the stables. How do you hide an eight-legged horse?

Think round the theme. The easiest way of doing this is to create lists: every animal you could come into contact with in the country, people you are likely to meet, people's jobs. Pin it up somewhere you'll see it every day. Cross out those that don't interest you, tick those that you find interesting. Once your lists shrink to a manageable size...

•  invoke the writer's magic words, What if..? and mark all the problems that might occur.
• choose a problem, and decide how you want that problem to be resolved for the person - the character - you are writing about: well or badly - never indifferently because the ending has to matter.
• decide how you want your reader to react: frightened, sad, happy, laughing? This is the tone of writing you will use.

You've now got the story's scenario, the problem, the ending, and you know the type of story you are going to write. It's time to focus on the writing.

• choose a character and let the reader experience the story through that character's eyes
• ensure that character has a big problem central to the story - wet feet is not a big problem
• be spare with description: use only enough so characters aren't moving in a vacuum
• make dialogue snappy, 2,000 words might seem a lot, but there's not enough space to waffle
• don't just think visually - readers don't want to watch your story unfold, they want to experience it unfolding. Humans have five senses, so make use of hearing, touch, taste and smell as well as sight

Then go for it! Remember, this is only a first draft so you can make changes later. Even professional writers write several drafts. Get it on paper and then leave it a few days before reading it again so that it settles in your mind. Look at every word:

• does the story make sense?
• have you covered all the main points: who, what, where, when, how, why?
• is the problem big enough?
• do you feel sad, or frightened, or happy reading it? Is this what you intended?

Be aware that you will never feel that the story is "brilliant" - no writer ever does, not even published writers. We all think we could have done better. Now complete the competition's entry form and send it off.

Then write another story. That's how you hone your writing skills - by practising. Good luck."

Short Story - or Study?

When beginner writers send in short fiction for constructive feedback they can be surprised to learn that they haven't written a short story but a study - of a person or a memory, of a place or a thing. There is usually masses of description, using words and in terms the cipher character would never use in real life. Dialogue might illuminate a flaw, or virtue, but this flaw, or virtue, is never put to the test; it's merely stated as a given as if that, in itself, is a revelation worth the reading. 

In some circles it might be, but not in markets looking for short fiction. Short fiction has to have a point, a reason for existing, and it needs to have a structure that moves it along to its finale. Think of this as the bones on which to hang the flesh:

• Introduce the focus character and the scene
• Show that character's problem
• Add a complication
• Which brings about a crisis
• Have the character work out a resolution
• Wrap up the story quickly so as to
• Elicit a reader's reaction

The structure outlined above is not a blueprint, but a very basic, chronological, skeleton, and a little explanation wouldn't go amiss.

The first line does not read Set the scene; introduce the focus character. We live in a world of 24 hour news bulletins, with pictures being beamed from all parts of the globe, offering instant snapshots of life in all its diverse forms. Given a few clues, readers will happily paint in the colours of the background as they go. Characters should take priority, because your readers are people. Forget this at your peril.

Show that character's problem. No matter how many characters there are in a short story, though at such an early stage I wouldn’t suggest juggling with more than three, there is always a focus character. If that character doesn’t have a problem there is no story. Although we might strive to live happy and fruitful lives, reading about one is boring.

Problems come in all shapes and sizes but can be generalised into two categories: external and internal. An external problem can be a pile of quick-drying cement setting on the lounge carpet; I’ll leave you to work out how it got there. An internal problem can be the focus character's vanity, or selfishness, or extravagance - often a trait illuminated in a study - providing a 'ripe' situation.

The complication is usually external; if you like, a trick of fate or an unrecognised possibility. It doesn’t have to be exotic; it can be quite mundane. What it must do is bring about a naturally evolved crisis.

For the focus character the crisis is the turning point. The character may cast around for a heaven-sent solution, but none must be to hand. There should be no guardian angel perched in a tree, and no waking up to find it was all a dream. Through a change in the character's own thoughts or actions a resolution will be presented that should perceptively alter that character, perhaps for life.

After the resolution the story needs to be wrapped up as fast as possible. This is sometimes called the anti-climax, and often this element is omitted altogether leaving readers to complete the sequence of events to their own mental satisfaction. If readers have empathised with the character during the conveying of the story those readers will experience an emotional reaction - the ahh, err, ooh, ugh, factor. If readers haven't empathised with the character the story will be put aside with mutterings along the lines of ‘...load of old tripe’, probably not the emotional reaction the writer was looking for.

A good exercise is to take a recently published short story you have enjoyed reading and mark the structure. Half an hour and a few coloured pens are all you need to realise how difficult this can be. If you've chosen a story you enjoy it will invariably have been well written; well written because the writer not only knows what flesh is required on the bones, but what clothing and perfume is best suited to package, and therefore disguise, the whole. There may be more than a single complication or a single crisis, and the elements may not be in as neat an order as set out above.

A good writer uses sleight of hand with the same dexterity as a magician with a pack of playing cards. And the only true way to gain that dexterity is to practise.