my story

vampire house #3

Two tall, robe clad figures stood beside the examination table where the dead girl lay.

One was a man with disproportionately broad shoulders and a narrow chin, and the other was an elegant woman with a pleasant face and long fingers that always hovered close to her darkly painted lips.

Edison paused at the doorway to listen to them.

“…findings which would make this improbable to say the least,” muttered the man, his brows furrowed. (more…)

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vampire house #2

Edison waited impatiently as the minute hand of the wall clock declared only half an hour had passed since he made the call. He weighed his options in his mind and tried to come up with a back up plan that didn’t depend so heavily on Jeremy Hayde’s whimsy. He was unpredictable, as Edison knew only too well, and he could refuse to play along.

“Mr Gage,” said one of the technicians, walking up to him with a phone in her hand. “The Director wants to speak to you.” (more…)

vampire house #1

Vampire House

Every monster knows that it is a monster to its prey, and all prey know that they are food for the monsters. There is little room for conscience or hesitation at the moment of the fatal blow.

And yet Emma found herself frozen in a few never ending seconds of doubt and guilt, as her clawed fingers raced down towards the girl’s throat.

Her victim’s eyes widened. Disbelief and fear washed over them.

Emma’s own looked back, wild with indecision and inevitability.

Then the razor sharpness of those inhuman fingers flashed against the soft flesh of the girl’s jugular and Emma’s vision was painted in red.

*

The phone rang, loud and jarring in the quiet of the plush office. (more…)

‘Rainy’ – a tentative Chapter One

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Ted Wilder walked down the corridor of his high school, taking in all the changes that had been made in the last ten years. The building was nearly empty now, a few stragglers remained near the lockers lining the walls. Some walked by him, talking and laughing, not really paying any attention to him.
A part of him was relieved. He had craved attention once. Been obsessed with it.
But the last two years had helped rid him of his fondness for the spotlight.
Almost. He had to admit he was a little offended at not being recognized. Then again, he’d met the team he was going to coach yesterday and they had certainly known who he was.
He exhaled in a huff and laughed softly to himself. Arrogant bastard.
The principal’s office was around the corner and he sped up knowing that he was late for his appointment.
He knocked on the door and waited for Principal Rain to ask him to come in. A few minutes ticked by. He tried the knob and found the door open.
He entered to find an empty office. He looked around for the new principal. The office looked exactly as it had ten years ago- small and crowded. Filing cabinets and trophy showcases lined the walls. The large desk was piled with papers, though arranged in neat rows. He looked over the tower of papers, wondering if the new Principal might be small enough to hide behind them. Nope, the chair was empty.
“Hello.”
Ted whirled around (more…)

Ilona Andrews gives her take on narrative ‘voices’

I wrote to Ilona Andrews for advice on my writing, and the authors graciously answered me on their blog. My question was the following:

“I know the best advice given to new/young writers is read, read, read and write, write, write. So, I read and read, but while writing I’ve discovered a block I can’t seem to get past. While writing short stories or fables this doesn’t bother me so much, but when trying to put an idea for a longer story on paper, I try to stay away from emulating the authors of the genre I’m trying in – that is, I try to write in third person :] – but somehow I can’t find the voice I’m looking for. I can’t decide how to narrate my story. The narrative decides how you explain the characters and how you unfold the story, right?  So, my first question – how did you find your voice? How did you KNOW it was the right style to write your story in?

Ilona Andrews:

Emulating other authors is normal.  I’ve pointed it out before – almost every successful writer goes through a stage where he or she writes a derivative work.  That’s how we learn to write.  🙂

“…That is, I try to write in third person” – does it feel “right” writing in the third person or is this a choice you are making to distinguish yourself from other writers?  If it’s the second, then your voice troubles might be happening because you are forcing yourself into the pattern you don’t subconsciously feel is comfortable for you.  Here is a secret: (more…)

when the characters snub the words I put in their mouth

I can’t seem to write dialogues that sound natural. Sometimes I can, but those times come very, very rarely. Usually what I write sounds hammy. As if I’m forcing the two characters to converse, or that I’m deliberately making them say stuff that left to their own devices neither would ever think to say.

I hate myself. I’m a crappy writer.

Okay, maybe not crappy – but way too amateurish.

In any book I read, conversation is always the highest selling point for me. I need to be sucked into the situation – need to think that these two/ or three/ or the whole army would really say things in a certain way. I get to know more about a character from what they say than what they do. They reveal their past to me, the reasons behind their actions, their feelings and what tickles their humour.

Without conversation the characters are dead to me. Sure, a poignant story can still be written without any conversation at all. Isn’t that what Flash Fiction all about. Haven’t we all had the same reaction when we first read Hemmingway’s little gem?

 For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.

I don’t deny it. But in a novel – a full-length story with all of 300 pages in it, every word typed in size 12 Arial or Times New Roman – I need words spoken between characters.

They are such powerful tools in the hands of the right author. More intimate than sex, sometimes sweeter than the sweetest first kiss and sometimes more brutal than any dagger stabbed and twisted in one’s guts.

Just saying. Words. Beautiful, wonderful words. When two lovers first meet what mundane, indifferent words pass between them? How well can the author later bring back those words and contrast them with the urgent, passionate exchanges that come with development of unexpected feelings?

:sigh:

I like to think that someday I’ll be good enough to write a scene where a commonplace exchange between a milkman and an elevator operator would hold my readers rooted to their seats.

Now, wont that be just great?

 

dirt

My roots are dirty. Someone has poured dirt on my roots! They were clean this morning. Oh, yes, I’m certain they were clean. I had felt the air on them- warm and soothing. It had been most comforting. I had fallen asleep.

And now to wake up with dirt on my roots! Outrageous!

I look around me. There is nothing but a large expanse of shiny surface all around, and I sit in the middle with dirt on my roots. A little bit of air moves near my upper leaves. They are young and sensitive to the slightest movements in the air. It isn’t the wind, as I had hoped, but a head. A human head.

The human head peers down at me and watches me sit in the dirt. It is a humiliating experience. I retort by holding my young stems rigidly still. I am offended. Let there be no doubt about that. (more…)