Resistance – a short story

file6551270041419

I’ve had this on here before, a while ago.  I came across it again recently and ‘tweaked’ it.  It’s rather bitter-sweet.

Resistance

The pockets of Gran’s bathrobe were empty. She found an old tissue, that was all, nothing useful. No matches. There wouldn’t be anything in Lottie’s school backpack apart from homework and her sports kit, so no point in even looking.

Lottie’s giggles were gone now, the fun was over, the outing spoilt. Their transport, the ambulance, was parked crookedly behind them, the doors open, the driver’s seat empty. Gran didn’t know where the ambulance-driver had gone. She remembered arriving in the vehicle but the details eluded her. She knew she had sat in the front, with Lottie beside her, giggling and asking where they were going. Gran remembered telling her it was a surprise. But there must have been a driver, surely? So where was he?

This wasn’t how Gran imagined it would be. And now she was puzzled. Why had she thought this would work? Outings needed to be planned, not carried out on the spur of the moment. It was growing colder now, and soon night would crowd in around them. Lottie was hunched on a tree stump, kicking her feet, bored, miserable. They needed a fire. Rubbing some sticks together hadn’t helped, had not produced the required spark. Everything was damp from the rain earlier.

“What are we going to do, Gran? Are we going to live in the forest forever?” Lottie asked her. Gran knew her granddaughter was trying hard not to cry. Then as half-expected, Lottie said, “I think we should to go home now, Gran. It’s cold. Mum will be worried. Can we please go home?”

Gran shuddered. Home meant different things to different people. To Lottie, home was a big, bright kitchen, a cat on the window-sill, a plate of chicken nuggets with a blob of ketchup.

To Gran, her childhood home was a dark, cold place where bombs fell from the blacked-out sky. Where all around you was ruin and destruction. Or more recently, home was a converted old manor house, down on its luck and smelling of boiled cabbage, a place filled to the brim with old, crazy people like Gran herself, and harried nurses who had no time to spare for a chat or a cup of tea.

She felt a surge of resistance rush through her. She was not going back. She renewed her attempts to kindle a fire, girl-guide style, in the little pile of damp twigs and leaves. Nothing happened. After another half-dozen attempts she gave up. She had lost the knack, along with so many other things.

In spite of her original expectation, there was no fire, no food, no fun. She slumped down next to Lottie and the nine year-old leaned against her and they sat together for a while.

Gran was wondering about the driver of the ambulance parked behind them, but Lottie spoke and her voice chased the other thoughts away.

“Gran, what does it mean when you say resistance is futile?”

Gran looked at Lottie. “Where did you hear that?”

“Dad says it sometimes. He got it off the telly.  What’s it mean?”

“It means there’s no point in trying to fight,” Gran whispered, and a tear crept down her cheek. She looked down at her slippers as if seeing them for the first time. Why was she wearing her bathrobe and bedroom slippers? And where was the ambulance driver? She had a mental image of herself at the wheel. But surely not? She hadn’t driven for years, and she had never been a paramedic or driven an ambulance, she had been a teacher. That’s right, mathematics, that had been her subject. She had even written articles and books on teaching maths in junior schools. But another mental picture showed her coming out of the day-room and seeing it parked there, the paramedics had been summoned for Mrs Watson who had died in the night. Yes, Gran remembered, she had seen the ambulance and wondered what it would be like to drive a big vehicle like that. It had seemed exciting, she had thought of the places she could go, the things she could do. Yes, now she remembered. She looked about her and saw it was growing dark, and she trembled. She was aware of Lottie, warm, valiant, sweet as ever.

“I never fight,” Lottie said, “you get kept in at playtime for fighting. And then you can’t go on the climbing frame.”

“I know, Darling, I know.” Gran placed a kiss on Lottie’s hair. Then, “shall we get back in the ambulance?”

Lottie nodded. “Yes, Gran.” Brightly, she added, “we could do this again next week. If they let you borrow the ambulance again. It was fun going along fast with the siren on.”

Gran nodded, but she still didn’t move. Lottie grabbed her backpack.

“I did you a picture at school today.” She hauled it out, slightly bent at the corners. Gran took it and carefully smoothed out the creases and looked at the bright yellows and blues.

“It’s lovely, Lottie. Thank you, Sweetheart, thank you.”

“You can put it on your wall. It’s you and me at the seaside.”

“It’s lovely, Sweetheart. Thank you.” Gran said again and she carefully folded it as she got up. She and Lottie gathered up their things. They got into the ambulance and Gran started the engine. “Let’s go then, buckle up!”

Gran knew by the time they got back, the police would be waiting, and her daughter Jo, Lottie’s mother would be there, frantic with worry. Gran had a feeling this might have happened before but she wasn’t sure, perhaps she was remembering what was about to happen. But in any case, she was too tired to resist any more. There was nowhere to go. And it was getting darker and colder.

“Gran, did you have electric when you were a little girl?”

“No, love. When I was a little girl, your age, we were very poor, and we lived out in the country. Then there was a war. A lot of houses got destroyed. And people. Lots of people died.”

“So how did you see to watch telly with no lights?”

Gran hid a smile. “We had candles.”

***

 

Sirens

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

We all love Sirens, don’t we?  They usually travel in three, like witches.  Though sometimes they hunt alone, like the Lorelei siren, luring sailors to their death on the rocks.  Their typical characteristics are: physical beauty that is often a mirage or facade and that is used to seduce, song or music to sooth the senses or even to call unnatural slumber to fall upon their prey.  They lie in wait, ready to snare the unwary, the naive, the innocent adventurer who just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Like the scene with the Sirens in the movie “O Brother Where Art Thou?”, there is a pleasurable anticipation of what might happen.  They have mysterious powers, and they can bend a man to their will, no matter how good and chaste he may be.  Maybe he’ll get ‘loved up and turned into a horny toad’!  Sirens are bringers of doom, of ruin.  They are depicted as mercurial, evasive, changing and insubstantial, there one minute and gone the next.  We don’t see their true self until our ruin is complete. No one can resist the lure of the Siren when she has decided to call them.

But the Siren is not the only one who owns this fatal attraction.

The innocent – pure or naive, chaste of body or merely without guile – this person is as alluring to the Siren as she is to him.  Evil craves purity.  Wickedness pursues goodness to overtake and devour it.  Monsters are always appeased – and manipulated – by their need to consume maidens.  The dark always seeks the light, because in its own way the light has become the Unknowable to those who live in darkness.  The Siren can never know or experience innocence, because that would mean a subjugation of their own essential nature – it would requite cleansing, sacrifice and purity, a way of life that is alien and impossible for the Siren to bear because they are forced by their nature to live outside of society’s acceptance and to live by instinct alone.   Thus the innocent, completely oblivious to their power, draw in Sirens after them as the moon cannot help but follow its preordained journey across the night sky in the wake of the golden sun.

 

 

Don’t look down

file311313612038

The dreaded middle-of-the-book slump.  The urge to give up and get a proper job strikes yet again.  Why am I doing this to myself, I ask.  I sit in front of the keyboard and think, I can’t even remember the names of all these people, what they look like and what they did.  My murderer is too obvious, my victim deserves to be bumped off – whiny, stupid and pushy – the only mystery here is why someone hadn’t bumped her off sooner.

Staying focused is the hard part now.  Some 35,000 words into the book, and I am into self-doubt territory.  The desire to write something new, something easier is strong.  But I have to press on.  This is not the time to listen to voices telling me to stop, telling me what I’m writing is rubbish.  This is not the time to be concerned with quality or to agonise over the aptness of a phrase.

There are ways of coping – mechanisms for dealing with the tough parts of the experience.  I could try Dr Wicked’s Write Or Die, set it on Kamikaze and write, write write, furiously, for the allotted time before the programme deletes my words and they are gone forever.  I may not churn out Proust or Shakespeare, but at least I AM still churning …   anything – even ten words – are better than writing nothing.

I could go for a walk, take some time off, watch TV or read a book, do some chores around the house, I could do ‘research’ – ie sit looking at stuff on the internet.  Just taking a break will renew my energy and strengthen my sense of purpose, so long as I don’t allow myself too much time away.

But then, sooner rather than later, I have to sit down, take up my pen or put my fingers on the keys, and carry on with my story.  I have to believe in my ability to tell my story and believe that it is a story only I can tell.  Mary Wibberley, a great British writer of romance novels, wrote a book many years ago which changed my life.  It was the first how-to book I ever read, and it taught me to believe, hope and above all, to write.  It was called ‘To Writers With Love’, and in it she likened the writing process to that of mountain climbing.  Her advice?  “Don’t look down”.

Don’t look down means not stepping back from the ‘problem’ and seeing too big a picture, filling yourself with fear and a sense of something too large to be scaled.  It means keep battling forward, one step at a time, then you will gradually reach your goal.  Don’t allow yourself to become overwhelmed but move forward, overcoming difficulties one at a time.  So I will battle on, through this Slough Of Despond, until I write those wonderful words that bring such joy and a sense of accomplishment. ‘The End’.

It wasn’t me – it was her!

file0001574631517

There is a convention, some say a misconception, that writers base their protagonists on themselves.
Not me, of course. I’m nothing like, for example, the main character in my novel Criss Cross, Cressida Barker-Powell. Nothing like her.
She lives in a massive house – we could probably justifiably call it a mansion – with a husband worth at least a million, if not two or three. She has a lady who comes in and ‘does’, whilst I have to wash my own dishes, and heat up my own baked beans.
Cressida wears designer clothes, has accessories to match and she goes to dinner and cocktail-parties in smart restaurants and posh houses, whereas the highlight of my social calendar is going to the supermarket for the week’s groceries.
And she kills people. Lest we forget. Not just one. And not by accident. She plots multiple murders in a vicious and calculating manner. I never so much as step on a woodlouse if I can avoid it.

And yet …
I researched those murders. I put the ideas into her fictional head. I wrote those words that come from her perfectly-lipsticked mouth. I chose her clothes, her bags, her shoes. When she is complaining about people who annoy her in some way, her impatience is mine, her anger, even her acerbic wit is mine.
And when, in those rare and tender moments, she does something nice for a change, that’s me too, isn’t it?

I tried. I had hoped to succeed – at least in part – in making her so different to me. Some of her views and attitudes and certainly her experiences are different to mine. But differences can be positive and negative. I would never – I hope – kill anything or anyone, but part of me can’t help but admire her decisive (if somewhat ‘final’) method of dealing with things and people she is unhappy about, whereas I am very passive, and I agonise and fret and usually fail to act. Let’s be clear, she is a monster, but she is bold and acts in ways I never could. It’s quite cathartic sometimes to allow her to do those things I choose not to do. But she’s nothing like me.

She’s more like my big sister.

Woo hoo – exciting news!

SAMSUNG DIGITAL CAMERA

I am delighted to announce that Cross Check, the sequel to my novel Criss Cross, is now available from Amazon and Smashwords, in a variety of formats to suit tablets and eReaders and even laptops and PCs.

Not got a Kindle? You can still buy eBooks from Smashwords and read them on your tablet, laptop or PC using a variety of different formats:

epub; mobi (kindle for tablet); pdf, rtf; pdb; txt; and even – readonline !!!!
Also, if you just want a taster to get you in the mood, you can download a free sample which equates to about 4,300 words, or up to page 21

Please note: the language is foul and there is a fair amount of violence. Not much sex though. Sorry about that.

Many, many thanks to my lovely friends and family for all the support and encouragement you have given me over the last year as I laboured with these two books, and many others!

Now I’m going to put my feet up!  (Not really!)

Not long now …

cross check
I’ve been spending the last week editing the second draft of my new novel Cross Check. I’d already done most of the donkey work, so this time around editing has been a walk in the park, but all the same I am so glad it’s almost over! All on course for publication the first week in February.
Someone once told me that if you are not sick of the sight of your story, you haven’t done enough work on it. I have to say I’m beginning to see what they meant. I’m not exactly sick of the sight of it, but I am beginning to feel pretty excited about writing something else and the prospect of spending some months later this year writing the third book in the Posh Hits trilogy is something I’m not yet ready to contemplate!

So won’t you please …. be my little baby

holding figure

Just before the start of NaNoWriMo on November 1st, I was pondering various ideas and little bits and pieces, a bit like the pieces of a puzzle or of a collage, which together create a whole picture.  Snippets of songs, pictures, story ideas, dreams, poetry and memories – all these things were telling me or showing me something, an indefinable thing whose presence I could sense but not see.  Well, after last year’s NaNo attempt I was a bit reluctant to take up the challenge for this year but in the end I decided to take a bit of a risk and set aside my WIP for a few weeks to concentrate on the November challenge, and I’ve been quite revoltingly smug that I had a good experience this year, and felt and still feel I have begun to tap into the buzz my brain had created from all those fragments.

And so I have returned to my poor neglected WIP, that should have been released on an unsuspecting public by the end of October but is still not ready, and now I am mentally pencilling in end of January for a possible release date.

Which leads me on to the next question – what next?  Again the brain is working on ideas and motifs and snippets, and I am wondering about the possibilities …

I love music.  I don’t play any instrument.  I’m not now and never have been in a band.  But music has been tremendously important to me in my life, and I like a lot of different kinds of music.

And now this is what I’m mulling over:

Ronettes: Be My Baby  (Be My Baby – would make a great working title and I have searched on amazon for a mystery/thriller book of that name but found nothing as yet.  Beloved Object also a good title but maybe a bit too close to the Jennifer Aniston film Object Of My Affection – based on the bestseller by Stephen Macaulay)

These lyrics seem a bit menacing when you think about them; Psychological dependency – what would she/he do to gain the approval and adoration of the one she/he loves?  How far would they go?  And in the end, what happens when they suddenly are confronted with the fact that the beloved object does not return their feelings?  And they will see all the (perceived) sacrifices they have made, all the efforts they have made to try to please the beloved object and achieve their love – and for what????  How could you do that to me?

A bit like the Police song Every Breath You Take, which was used as the title for the excellent novel by Cath Staincliff, this one also has overtones of obsession that make it uncomfortable as a reality, though people always see it as romantic.

“The night we met I knew I needed you so

And if I had the chance I’d never let you go

So won’t you say you love me? I’ll make you so proud of me

We’ll make ’em turn their heads every place we go”

I’m not sure this is a relationship that you could easily extricate yourself from.  Thinking of a story set back in the days of slicked back hair and that whole new scene for teenagers – or older – of freedom, obsession, new styles and opinions.  I’m thinking about big hair, cardigans with the top button done up, big flaring skirts and evenings at the dance hall.   But there will only be one way out of this relationship.

“Be my – be my baby – my my only baby …”

Rejection – or, Moving On

 

file000401942226

Rejection.   It’s something we all fear, I guess.  We are born craving acceptance – if we are not accepted we will die.  Or at least be put up for adoption.  Writers are no different in this respect to new born babies.  Or maybe we are more like the loving mothers urging our offspring on to others and not able to see if its not really as beautiful as we think.

It’s no secret that I have had a bad review for my book on Amazon.  I had known that sooner or later it would happen, but when it did, being pre-warned was no help.  I went through the usual stages of grief:  I started with a kind of ‘so what’ shrug, then went into a depression and a downward spiral, felt like everything I wrote was worthless and what was the point anyway, I was surely kidding myself I could write?  I asked a Facebook contact, who is a very well-established, successful and admired writer, what do you do, how do you deal with this?  She told me what I already knew.  You can’t please everyone.

The thing is, it would be so easy to try to change yourself, your style, your genre, everything, in order to please the one or two dissenters who don’t get you or your writing and probably shouldn’t have read it in the first place.  If you are a lover of fantasy or paranormal fiction, I don’t understand why you would choose to read something totally different and then complain that its different?  That’s like going to a book shop and asking for sausages.

So I got over it.

To begin with, I don’t flatter myself I have universal appeal, and just as there are books I would not enjoy reading, I realise that my books may not appeal to everyone.  I have to be myself.  I’ve tried writing the ‘proper’ way, as I was taught by a number of well-meaning and in some cases, very successful writers and teachers of writing.  But I have to be me (visualise someone running down the road into a golden sunset, arms outstretched in triumph, singing “I Gotta Be Me – just gotta be free”) – I need to write to be happy and also I need to be happy to write, so I set aside the slings and arrows and choose not to let them hurt me or distract me from what I am trying to achieve.

I’m now moving on.

 

 

 

Still thinking about it – writing in – not on – the brain! A kind of mental patchwork.

swarkestone causeway 5

So I’m still thinking over what I want to say in my new story. Still clueless about a title, although I have a couple of alternatives to ponder.  I’m drawn to old stuff, I’m drawn to the past.  I’m thinking of all the Summer of Love protest songs, but no, too recent, go further back.

I’m thinking rural, villagey, fields, water, trees.  I’m thinking of sorrow and haunting, of deeds never talked of.  I’m thinking of shame and sacrifice, I’m humming old pastoral songs and rhymes, of Scarborough Fair, of the occasional duplicitous nature of the minstrel, wandering, legitimately planting one foot in each camp.

I’m thinking of myths and legends, hills cloaked in mist, an unseen bird calling in the gloom, of the soft insinuating sound of the wind.  I’m thinking of that moment when you come home and you know someone else has been there, the house is guilty, complicit, hushed as if someone had been speaking and stopped when the door opened.

I’m thinking of The Waste Land (all-time No. 1 for me) by T S Eliot,   Snatches of it: “Speak to me.  Why do you never speak?” “What are you thinking?” “What is that noise?  The wind under the door.” “Do you know nothing?  Do you see nothing?” “I remember/Those are pearls that were his eyes.”

I am thinking, staring at the falling leaves, driven across the grass by a pushing wind, and I am thinking of long ago, of people who may not have existed, but who may come into being in my imagination.  I am thinking of a man at a window staring out, his mind working on things he cannot speak.

I’m thinking of a boy coming over the hill.  Of grass, green, long, dewy.  Of the sun, soft, golden, gentle as a mother’s hand, just touching his hair, his shoulder.

I remember.  It was all long ago and afar away.  I’ve said that a lot lately.

Gray’s Elegy “Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,/And all the air a solemn stillness holds.”

Autumn spookiness

graveyard

 

What is it about the Autumn that always bends my thoughts to things that go bump in the night?  Is it the pumpkin-suit wearing tots that pound  on the door demanding ‘trick or treat’?  Is it the proliferation of black felt bats or  witches costumes?  Or maybe the prospect of fireworks and an effigy burnt on a pyre?

Whatever it is, when the evenings crowd in and I huddle indoors with books and comfort food, this is the way my thoughts turn.  I gaze into space and hear the long-ago-and-far-away sound of a creaking stair or see a candle gutter and revive, and my mind is away, fashioning old gloomy houses with uneven floors and unreliable electricity.

Last November’s NaNoWriMo saw me writing not quite 60, 000 words under the title of The Silent Woman, a ghost story set in haunted converted buildings.  I fully intended to revise and publish that story this year, but everything else got in the way, so maybe next year.  It’ll do it good to ‘lie fallow’ for a year.

This year it looks as though I might do something similar.  I have the germ of an idea floating just out of reach, just beyond my field of vision, i can almost glimpse it sometimes, but it is not yet ready to come into view.  It began in the middle of my two-week temping job in mid-September.  It was a job which required me to perform vast numbers of scans of old documents and maps.  This was a job of the hands and the eyes.  My brain was busy elsewhere …

I pictured a hospital room, an old man lay dying, a young woman sat with him, holding his hand in those last moments, his daughter/niece/granddaughter, I don’t know yet.  He thinks she is his wife, when young, he forgets where he is.  He says, “Whatever happened to the boy?  I never told anyone, like you asked.”  He sleeps for a few minutes then stirs again, still holding her hand and says, “remember when we were young?  There was a photo – all of us – that spring.  I still have it somewhere.”  He points in the direction of the chest of drawers in his bedroom, he forgets he is in hospital.  Later he dies, and she is left wondering.

And now, so am I.