@sandradavies
Active 4 days, 2 hours agoForum Replies Created
-
Posts
-
Hilary, as an aside, the Bookoture girl did say she had a 96 year-old on her list for whom she had so far published some 23 ‘cosy crime’ novels. ‘One every couple of weeks’ she said.
Feedback today from those who did pitch to her said she refused most straight off. Made suggestions to make more acceptable to one and I now of another who pitched for the hell of it (far from the finished she asked for) but she said ‘I’m interested, Get back when you’ve done it’
For the record I did not pitch. For one I’m not in an obvious, singly, clear-cut genre, and also because she said ‘We ALWAYS change title’ – ‘Because We Know Best’ the unspoken sub-text.
Bit of a confession from me – this lifted from current wip, otherwise I might not get one done. 400 words plus title.
Returning from honeymoon (First day of the rest of their married life)
They were on the A9, having just left the Kinross services, before Luke asked. ‘Your wedding present? When do I get to see it?’
‘Soon as we get home, I hope. The plan was Ivo would deliver it, Valerie let him in –‘
Fran watched him struggle to not ask the next question. Took laughing pity, ‘Ivo did assure me “plain brown wrapper”, which I took to mean he’d at least cover it with cardboard. So Valerie won’t get to see it.’ Ivo had also advised her how best to hang it; offering to provide the necessary hooks. His sarcastic ‘Luke does own a hammer, I suppose?’ a tease with something darker – and historic – beneath,’ to which she’d replied, ‘I own a hammer. And a spirit level.’
Arrived home, and not seeing it propped up in the sitting room, as expected, Fran went in search.
Then the silence impinged. As she attempted to decipher it, there came a noise she did not recognise. From Luke. Distress? Had they been burgled? Interrupted a burglary? All was well in here … She walked to the bottom of the stairs to better hear. A … snuffle was it? A muffled cry for help?
Silently she crept upstairs. Tip-toed into the bedroom.
Hanging had not been necessary. Ivo had done it for her. Saw, as she had seen, there was only one place for it; on the wall opposite the bed, in the space between window and bathroom door.Luke sat on the end of the bed. A trickle of wetness on the left side of his face, glistened in the light from the window, she’d caught him in the act of using the back of his right hand to wipe a similar track from the other cheek.
He was crying. With … with emotion. And probably, Fran guessed, with relief. God only knows what he’d been expecting!
Seeing her he held his hand out. ‘It’s …‘ Voice clogged he stopped, sniffed, swallowed, tried again, ‘Fran, it’s … perfect. Wonderful. It’s you as I’ll … Fucking Christ, Fran, I never …’ Another rush of tears. He reached for, pulled her close, arm around her waist. Buried his face in her side, blotting wetness.
Over his bent head she looked for the first time at the finished painting. And knew exactly why Ivo had done what he’d done that final night. To evoke that expression.
Very well done, Libby – such a strong and individual tale (as were they all) and thank you Jane for the prompting and the comments.
Still here also (and elsewhere!) and glad to say one 2019 resolution was fulfilled by my self-pubbing the first three of my ‘Love triangles with murder’ series, so now I’ve got book 4 to a near-beta read stage and begun book 6.
A not-so-idle threat
Even though she knew looking left and right as she opened the discreet dark green door was a dead giveaway for anyone watching, she couldn’t stop herself. Crowds and dazzling Christmas lights made it harder to spot a spy, but surely, after five days at Ivo’s cottage they’d’ve given up by now. Wouldn’t they? The low-level but persistent panic she’d succeeded in subduing whilst away had grown stronger the closer she got to Edinburgh, so by the time she handed back the hire care she’d already decided to take a taxi home.
She sniffed at rare staleness. Unsurprising since she’d cancelled her cleaner. But warmer than Ivo’s. She emptied her suitcase and stripped the bed – the twice-daily change of sheets a habit hard to shed – and set the washing machine going. Checked the fridge; milk still in date. And the vodka too tempting to ignore.
A mistake.An hour later the doorbell and she too sluggish – five hour drive as well as the drink – to be thinking straight, mis-identified the caller and let him in.
A big man. Wealthy. (They all were that. Had to be to afford her, but some wore it less ostentatiously.) As he now wore a pretence of good manners.
‘What are you playing at, Lucy? Marrying the law? You’ll be playing a very dangerous game if you think you can outwit him –’
I don’t intend to outwit him. I said last month this, the nasty little arrangement you tricked me into, has got to stop –‘
‘And I said you were mistaken –‘ He looked at her, the well-fed – not fat, not yet ¬– face of him bunching round eyes only two shades bluer than glacier mints.
He’d said, in the early days, he enjoyed the challenge of her; said most women in his life liked his money too much to disagree with him. She’d asked him then what was he worth and had smirked when he boasted.
He came closer. ‘If you married him in the hope he could protect you, Lucy, you’ve made a grave mistake –‘
She stood firm. Kitten eyes grown fierce.
‘He won’t be around all the time. It’d be a matter of minutes – seconds – to slice that lovely face of yours open. Anywhere. Anytime. Or I could pick a man less squeamish. Who’d do damage enough to ruin what earns you your money. Then where would your future be?’
[400 words plus title]
Thanks, Janette. I’ve taken the opportunity to post a possible opening of the as yet untitled Luke #5. 362 words.
Prologue?
Lucy Longland, who had only gone to check her hair, emerged from the Ladies in Leith’s Registry Office too prematurely for Dylan Richards to successfully make himself invisible. Her smile a blend of pleasure and warning, she shook her head at him. ‘Put this on the front page, Dyl, and I’ll have your balls!’
‘A not unappealing prospect, Lucy.’ She had had them – a handful, you might say, and but a handful of times – but, Christ, more than ten years ago now.
She grinned. Possessed of a good memory and only ever sleeping for free with men who appealed – and a dozen years ago, he had – ‘Ah, but this time they’d not be attached to your body.’
‘But … Darbyshere?’
Richards – in his younger days what would be known as a society photographer – was having trouble believing his eyes. ‘Are you and he –? Together? On the quiet, like?’‘We arrived together, yes.’
‘And will leave?’
‘Together.’
‘You’re early –’ He’d checked the list for today’s weddings. The groom was the best (i.e. most interesting) of today’s bunch of names; of moderate local reputation, if not always admiration. The ceremony early enough for him to make a detour, then go on elsewhere. He’d not bothered to memorise the bride’s.
‘He’s impatient.’
‘– and you anonymous?’ Late though it’d been last night, he’d certainly have noticed her name had it been given. No big surprise to find she had a working name.
‘Better to be legitimate, under the circumstances, don’t you think?’
‘Tell me what’s going on, then?’
‘Maybe in a couple of weeks. As a Christmas present.’
Dylan Richards’ face suggested a weighing of risks. As an old friend he merited a second warning. ‘Unwise, Dyl. He’s as much muscle to call on as most, and it’ll be legitimate.’Outside, the pacing back and forth of the groom gave truth to impatience, but the should-be matching eager happiness of his face was compromised by a battle to dispel residual uncertainty.
Well done, Janette, and thank you John for releasing words I’d not anticipated writing. Thanks also for some brilliantly enjoyable reads.
Patience undoubtedly a virtue (308 words)
In the same way that Christmas cards seem each year to embrace a different theme – last year it was robins, the year before gold-embossed letters and musical notes – this year’s trend in ‘In sympathy’ cards appeared to be fallen leaves. Drifts of them, beneath trees, along kerb edges, gold and yellow scatterings, bloody acres of them. And before they got to landing, whole trees with half-bare branches, illustrating the aridity of a part-denuded life.
Less depressing in colour (especially – even – when autumnal) but they tended to be outnumbered by a preponderance of black and white. Etchings, lino-cuts or skillful pen and ink. Tasteful litters of them, deemed more in keeping with mourning, no doubt. Certainly hit the message home.
As did, even harder – for where the appeal to other senses? – the soft and spineless sympathy, mournful pigeon-tones of verbal ones, left on the phone? Took me right back to the music my grandmother sang along to – all those saccharine, mooing ballads, repetitive heavy-rhyming ‘moon’ and ‘June’ and ‘soon’ doom-laden words. And I’m sure there were falling leaves there, too, sung by Tony Bennett or some such plastic-faced crooner.
(And, yeah, ‘rock’ and ‘clock’ no less heavy, and just as ubiquitous, but at least they had life!)
Which he no longer had.And, it seemed, neither was I supposed to, from now on.
Except. Except the life I lived with him had never been the life I’d choose were I alone. (Or with another, I suppose. But that dependent on who.) And had I declined his effortfully-romantic proposal – you guessed: moon and June and wine and roses – I’d no certainty of having the money I have now.
Money always comes in useful.
And by the time leaves fall on that recently-dug patch in the depths of the wood where we did our courting, mourning will be well and truly broken.
This only 269 words but says what I intended
Time to play
Clearing a 25 year-old to-be-replaced kitchen, and the resultant sense of temporary displacement, gave time and focus to a wider realisation of things no longer needed. Delays gave more time than anticipated to jettison stuff, then the lovely announcement of a visit from good friends from America (whose house I’d stayed in) turned attention to what is called a spare bedroom but is really fit only for family become used to squeezing in beside a double-stacked plan-chest and past a son-built single bed with drawers. too useful to discard.
Wardrobe space ought to be made available.
In 2009 lack of it damped down the urge to continue printmaking – a skill learnt and loved while doing a part-time Fine Art degree – which was when I turned to writing.
I’d forgotten I also painted.
Forgot until I pulled out two of an original series – subsequently entitled CHART – of four (the others sold) and tried to remember how they’d come about. Hazily remembered they’d once been prints considered failures. Large prints on paper too good to waste.
Remembered I had played.
Had let my mind lose focus and simply played with paint and pencil. Knowing nothing could be lost, allowing colour and shape to dictate direction, suggest ideas and tell me where and when to stop. Give each of them a title.
Finding them again not only gave me joy but made me realise that, much as I love writing, and using words, it far more rarely offers the chance to play. Made me resolve to fish more of my failed prints out of the plan-chest and start to play with them.
Congratulations on the win Ath, and for what it’s worth I found it uncomfortably horrific in its pervasive cult brainwashing manipulation – the sort of thing I usually avoid reading and very definitely cannot write, so am as admiring as I am uncomfortble with it.
And thanks Squidge for the competition which I took as opportunity to try out a scenario for not-yet-begin novel.
‘Commission & omission’, book three in the series Love triangles with murder, is now available for sale on Blurb.
DIY promotion (which I am strenuously uncomfortable with) takes up a helluva lot of writing time. Book 4 – ‘Drink with a dead man’, whose opening 400 words was declared winner of Raine’s monthly competition, isn’t likely to see daylight until maybe this time next year.
Meanwhile, if you buy, read and would like to review any of those currently available (I like to know whether they’ve been enjoyed) you can do so on Blurb and Goodreads.
Longest shadows reach, book 2 in the Love triangles with murder series now available
‘Step so grave’ indicated a wealth of history between Luke Darbyshere and Baz Rose. They’d been born within a week of each other; lived half mile apart, in a Hertfordshire village small enough to allow no escape. Each had successfully come through adolescence courtesy of Susannah Elphinstone.
Before puberty was reached, however, Susannah, to some extent, made an already horrific situation worse, the results of which came back with a vengeance 24 years later.
‘Longest shadows reach’ reveals how nurture and nature influenced what came next.
I’m publishing this (and the next in the series) with what may look like indecent haste, but if I don’t I’ll carry on fiddling with them forever, and I do want to get on with book 4
Phew – and thanks. The Orkney Distillery is gin, not whisky, and given the amount of free gin, good value as well as entertaining.
Damn! Sorry @Raine (AND I posted that before the distillery tour!)
Hopefully my name &/or ‘Step do grave’ ought to find me – links I see might not be different.
Try: https://www.blurb.co.uk/b/9571608-step-so-grave
I’ve a couple of reviews on Blurb already, but would be pleased for a few more – honest ones, of course, (I’m not wanting to bit it up for sales) just whether you enjoyed (or didn’t) and why. Or Goodreads.
‘Longest shadows reach’ and ‘Commission and omission’ will be added within a couple of weeks – unless I get them out there I’ll fiddle with them forever!
I have attempted to produce ebooks but failed so far. 🙁
Early because I’m about to go on holiday (and yes, Squidge, definitely Valspar!)
Battle drab (400 words including title)
DS Fran Lloyd had visited Lucy before; remembered the picture window framing a stunning view of Edinburgh’s Castle perched on its volcanic mound; the stepped backsides of the buildings fronting the Royal Mile and a sliver of the Forth, Fife’s hills beyond.
That time, Lucy very much alive and Fran, given what she knew (he’d mentioned it, before he said he loved her) struggling to maintain her confidence. No such problem now! Not that death too soon, was anything to rejoice about – but she couldn’t deny the new-lit flicker of a tiny flame of relief when she heard.
The team sent to search her apartment – not the crime scene – an all-female one. Fran hadn’t needed telling male colleagues potentially problematic. No-one mentioned souvenirs, but all too easy to imagine the stampede and depletion of laundry basket and knicker drawer!
Having also been told Lucy’s earnings came into the phenomenal, no surprise the place furnished throughout with both money-no-object and good taste. (He, not deemed one of the impartial, unlikely to forgive anything less).The surprise was in the dressing room. A once-square room narrowed by opposing mirror-doored wardrobes. Ironing board permanently set up in front of the window.
Lucy was petite, kept herself in trim and, as something much more than a whore – ‘courtesan’ her tax-return job-title, though she’d told Fran she considered herself a mistress. ‘Times five’ she’d said. ‘Escort’ another of her titles – men liking to flaunt what they thought they owned, hiding from themselves they were one of several.
Again no shock re the quality and quantity of working clothes. Dozens of dresses, outfits, for all occasions. Working, searching through them exclamations became repetitive. Silence fell. Nothing of significance found.
Immediately opposite the dressing-room’s door, a similarly-sized white-painted blank. Took a moment to spot the covered keyhole. Many more to find the key, in a purpose-built box glued to the underside of the ironing board.
Trying not to let imagination run amok, Fran unlocked it. Not trophies of lovers lost (Just as well!) but shelves of cheap-brand jeans and fleeces, trainers and a baseball cap. Scarfs and several pairs of sunglasses. Even a camo jacket. All ubiquitous, anonymous, guaranteed near-invisible.
Fran recognised a downside to Lucy’s apparently glamorous life of luxury (apart from the obvious!). She had to maintain the illusion. Couldn’t be seen out with friends. Not unless she dressed to hide. Battle drab.Squidge, you mentioned paint colours when we did the Lords and Ladies, and I’ve been gathering them as prompts ever since.
Well done Squidge, and thanks Kate for the challenge – much appreciated, and all entries enjoyed, as ever.
Sorry Kate: this stemmed from the couple of ideas I was playing with before I went away last week. Lack of time then (and little in the foreseeable with a kitchen about to be installed) this was what I came up with.
‘I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.’I was taken aback by how irritated I was by the first part of this quote. Then further irritated by realising part of that irritation was due to reading ‘master’ as overly masculine, having recently read a novel which in part looked at militant feminism and their propensity for hi-jacking and distorting the English language, to the extent that perfectly effective words (chairman for example) have become anathema and suggested ‘corrections’ ugly and clumsy.
Second knee-jerk was because of the one-time inescapable ‘Master and Commander’ – film or game, I’m not sure but think one son kept on about it, one year. Then I reminded myself of the verb ‘to master’ – nowt sexist about that – calmed down, and looked the word up in my OED.
Two full columns devoted to the noun, and nineteen definitions, many qualified with ‘usu. a man’.So, I’m no feminist. But I am a wife and mother. Am the product of my time and my upbringing. None of which permit me to be sole master of my fate because compromise, adaptation to circumstances too often beyond my control prevent that. ‘Soul’ is how I deal with whatever it turns out to be, so yes, I can agree with that.
Much of my thoughts in the past couple of days have been taken up with the appalling death of PC Andrew Harper; his widow is fated to be forever linked with tragedy; however she comes to heal the shreds of her soul.
(245 words)
I remember reading after a train crash disaster, of the non-stop ringing of victims’ mobiles. Could you hot say “Somewhere there was a phone that seemed to keep on ringing and ringing.” ?
Like Richard, waiting for inspiration – and I’ve next week away from home in which to receive it (several ideas bubbling)
I didn’t have any specific criteria in mind by which to judge this; just expected to choose the one which moved me most, in much the same way as Vicki Feaver’s poetry moves me. Which was a BIG mistake. Because each and every entry was thought-provoking in a subtly different way.
But definitely NOT a mistake for the pleasure each one brought me, very much deserving of at least a brief comment.
Libby’s multi-layered tale of military duress I took as WWI, a favourite period of mine. It reminded me – in mood at least – of Rebecca West’s ‘The return of the soldier’.
John’s was cleverly constructed domestic noir, the resonance and the power of it only apparent at the end (and thus demanding a re-read).
Baz’s reference to Goon places this in yet another world. The tale rests on a lot of unspoken history – all the more intriguing for that – and the reference to the cut of a suit . was fascinating.
Athelstone delivered an instant brutal punch. And went on punching. A tongue-in- cheek (I hope) by-passing of estate agents.
Daedalus thought big. Very big. Required a bit of Googling to find out just how big. And realise just how clever, as well.
Jane’s tale of cyclic inevitability was heart-breaking. I read it three times over in the hope that things would change. Knowing they wouldn’t.
Seagreen used snatches of contrasting imagery like abstract poetry, which allowed me to create my own overall picture. Vividly contrasting phrases such as ‘Silence flutters down on the wings of crows’ against the brutal tooth embedded in the wall. And not nonsense at all.
Janette’s tale of little Annie one of full-on psychological horror, leaving me trying and failing to suspend disbelief, fully taken in by ‘Afternoon had turned ripe and golden’.
Squidge succinctly brings more domestic violence, the gun changing the weight of it, empowering as much as destroying.
Jonathan’s gun … ah. I couldn’t decide how reliable his narrator. ‘For the un-betooled’ held something sly and self-justifying. Yet it might be that he’s driven to it because of being bullied … except ..
… except I think he’s guilty. Of a massacre. Am I right?GippsGirl provided poetry of a different sort with an enticing opening line, then hammers home the finality of the mistakes that can be made with a gun.
Kate describes the physicality of the gun. Spoke of how ‘the truth of it slices like broken glass on bare feet‘ Of the responsibility of holding a gun. Of what it can do.
So, limiting myself to two honourable mentions: John and Seagreen
And one winner: Kate
Thank you all for participating
