In Litro

I had a good year in Litro in 2011: two stories — online, in print and audio — and a winning photo.

Back in April I had an audio version of my story, "Remembrance of Things Past", featured on the site. A revised version of this story is due to be published in the next few weeks at The Fabulist. At the start of December, my story, "Schrödinger’s Pizza", was published on the site and in the print magazine. I plan to read both "Remembrance of Things Past" and "Schrödinger's Pizza" at The Liminal event in Weston-super-Mare, 18^th February.

At the end of December — although I didn't discover until just after New Year — I won the Pictures of 2011 competition with the following:

This photo was taken in response to one of the challenges in the Street Photography Now Project.

Write On

I meant to write this blog post a couple of weeks ago but didn't have the chance. I now find myself at year's end — with a just-over-one-year-old blog — trying to resist the temptation of indulging in too much of a year-end review.

I started this blog with the intention of writing something about my interests, such as writing, photography and running, among other things. Most posts to date have been about writing and photography. While running has made an appearance in a couple of posts, it has always been in a supporting role and never as a lead character. Although not mentioned in this blog, one notable running achievement this year was that I ran my first half marathon. Technically I ran two halves this year: a proof-of-concept around the Downs in August and then the Bristol Half in September. Perhaps more on that and other interests next year. Perhaps.

Writing is what kicked this blog off, with my story "Starfall" chosen as runner-up in New Scientist's flash fiction competition. The last twelve months has seen a lot of writing, but one desire for the year that remains unrequited is revisiting and elaborating "Starfall" to a fuller short-story length. That goal has now been bumped into next year. On the plus side, I was fortunate enough to meet Neil Gaiman, who judged New Scientist's competition shortlist, quite by chance in Heathrow airport a few months ago. I was sitting in Giraffe, Terminal 5, when I recognised him and then went over and introduced myself. Made my day.

OK, so my attempt at resisting the temptation of a year-end review has not been entirely successful. Time to move to December 2011 and three stories of mine that were published.

First off, "Schrödinger's Pizza", a lab lit tale of pizza, beer, summer romance and quantum mechanics, was published both online and on tree with Litro:

Staying with the lab lit theme, I have an entry, "Tracking Elephants", in a flash fiction contest: the Light Reading short story and flash fiction contests are designed to raise the profile of Diamond Light Source, the UK national synchrotron facility. You can find (and vote) for the story here.

The other story published this month is "Meeting over Coffee", which appears here. Not lab lit, just a flash tale of brief encounters, coffee and Catholicism. This story started life in Rosemary Dun's Writing Gym at the Bristol Folk House in November last year, where the first draft came out of an afternoon exercise. Some redrafting and rejection later it was accepted for Glossolalia... which sadly folded just before my story was due to go up. In writing, acceptances can be rare creatures, so I was delighted that the story was accepted and published by Fiction365.

That's it for December and 2011. Hope you had a good one!

Made in Hong Kong

I've had some recent good fortune with a couple of shots I took in Hong Kong when I was last there in July.

The September theme for the monthly competition at Karl Taylor Photography was Glass. I have many nice but obvious shots of skyscrapers that would fit the theme. Instead I decided to submit a shot of a residential building, where the repetition of the windows makes for a more interesting interpretation of the theme than the usual uninterrupted surface of glass and steel. The following picture was featured in the top 25 gallery for the month:

See here for another photo of mine that was included in the gallery for a previous month's theme — featuring, coincidentally, another building with a lot of glass.

My interest in street photography led to the following shot, which came second in an online competition:

This also marks the first time I've been paid for a photo.

Street Photography Then

In the last month a weekly pastime and focus has become noticeable by its absence: the Street Photography Now Project. Each week for a year, on a Friday morning (UK time), an instruction would be issued on list and on site. You had one week to take and upload a photograph in response to that instruction to a corresponding Flickr group. Out of 52 instructions over the year, I took 45 pictures, of which only a couple were not uploaded in time to qualify, but are still posted in the discussion sections.

The project was led by the authors of Street Photography Now:

Street photography is, in essence, the capture of scenes and moments, in public spaces, that have not been set up or posed.

I have learnt an immense amount by participating in this project, both from direct, constructive feedback and through the resulting deliberate practice of following a weekly challenge. I have learnt far more about composition, opportunity, editing and equipment than I would have done without that necessary focus and iteration that came with the project. How much I have yet to learn is also more apparent. And, of course, it's been great fun, which I think is reflected in some of the pictures I took:

I caught this moment on the Downs, where I usually run when I'm home. It was taken with a Samsung ST30, a top-pocket compact with 3× optical zoom. Most of the photographs were taken with either my Nikon D3100 or my Ricoh R10, but a couple were taken with my Samsung ST30 and my Nokia 97 (which I miss as a carry-everywhere camera, but not as a phone).

A compact, whether the Nokia, the Ricoh or the Samsung, is more convenient and more discreet than a DSLR — "Oh, this thing? I didn't realise I had the DSLR on me! I was just casually popping to the shops." And popping out to the shops was just what I was doing when I caught the following synchronicity with my Ricoh:

On the other hand, my Nikon fits in my laptop bag, which means that both photography and carrying around a DSLR are compatible with travel in a way that other interests might not be. The following shot was taken by the World Trade Center site on Friday 13th, just over a week before the global population had been scheduled to go offline:

The shot worked out well, even if the prediction didn't.

Something that this and other shots have in common is people. Before participating in the project, the only shots I took with people in were snaps of family and friends, and other shots where people were essentially part of the background. Where I would once wait for people to get out of shot, I am now more likely to wait for them to get in shot — made more ironic when more observant and polite people pause outside the field of view not wishing to mess up my photo! Even without quirky moments, there is often more to the pictures with people in, even if the shots are of buildings or landscape.

Of course, that doesn't mean all street photography is about people. It is as much about urban details and juxtapositions of things created by and for people. I took the following in Bangalore:

There are a number of levels to this and I know that, a year ago, I would most likely not have spotted this opportunity or have edited it to extract such a composition.

Over the year the Street Photography Now Project gathered over 16,000 pictures. They have showcased around 170 of them. One of those selected was taken by me and is, without doubt, the most viewed, marked as favourite and commented on photograph I have taken:

This elastic, cartoon moment was taken early one morning in New York, overlooking the Hudson.

That was street photography, then? There will be more.

Ghost Writing

Over the last couple of weeks the Society of Authors has been running a Twitter-based collaborative writing competition: write a story in five tweets. Each Wednesday a well-known author posts an opening line as a single tweet. Tweeps then post candidate second lines, from which one is chosen, and the process repeats for the third, fourth and concluding parts.

With a limit and structure of 5×140 characters, the challenge is how to tell a story, moving it forward and wrapping it up, in so few words. A good exercise and a lot of fun — something like a crowdsourced version of the game Consequences — regardless of whether or not you have any lines chosen.

Last week's story, the second, was a ghost story whose opening line was given by Sarah Waters. The next four lines selected were contributed by Maria McCarthy, Daniela Sacerdoti, Allegra Holbrook and me:

My house is a jumpy house. Doors fly open. Windows shudder. There are sighs. Don't come calling! My house has something on its mind. Things have been disappearing: clingfilm, favourite socks, the gas bill. A woman died in this house. She's reclaiming her space. That woman is me and this house is mine. I've tried to tell you, but you're not listening. I watch your baby sleeping in her cot. You think she is yours. You think you know her. Look closer. Look into her eyes. Not what you expected to see? Wiser, darker and older than they should be. As old as the house. She has something on her mind. She's here to take back her space.

So now you know: if you see the hashtag #soatale on a tweet there's a story in the making, not an obscure and allusive experience report on Service-Oriented Architecture!

Photo and Prose Poem: Sky Divers

You wake. You wonder at the gimps in the sky, strung out, beads on wire. You wonder at the pounding in your head. You wonder, as you come to, sit up, look around, at the dead urban space around you and the lightness of your wallet. It's morning, sunrise, you've spent the night in the company of concrete, beneath an overpass, near trains. You didn't reach the station.

You are in the city of peace. It is spring. Your head holds the rhythm of a good night out. Your wallet agrees. Oslo sentralstasjon is a few hundred metres away. Your concrete bower was a place to stop for no more than a moment as your thoughts swam in tiredness and alcohol. One moment led to another led to slumping led to slumber. Calls were missed, the vibration of your phone soothing you in your sleep.

You stand. It's time to go. Somewhere there is breakfast, with aspirin and friends. You thank the divers for watching over you, with a promise to return in more sober moments. The station is that way.


"Sky Divers" was first published on Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure. I took the photo in Oslo, April 2011. The fiction came a couple of months later.

Short Story: Two Weeks in Spain

"Terence, what's on your mind? You seem a little preoccupied."

"Nothing." Everything. Your mother! "I was just running through everything in my head, making sure we'd left nothing behind or forgotten to do anything. Don't want any upsets for our fortnight away."

Terence hoped the reassuring smile he offered Jenette was both reassuring and a smile. He glanced at the time.

Another hour and a half.

The motorway. At least in name. The long series of roadworks strung together with brief stretches of road served a slow route to the airport. Terence had, of course, accounted for the extra time it would take. But he found little comfort in his planning. The contingency gave him longer to mull and stew.

He did not consider himself awkward or shy, just particular. Particular about social situations and particularly about physical contact. Intimacy wasn't public and it didn't come in degrees.

They crawled past traffic cones and through contraflows. Jenette leafed through a holiday guide. Janie slept in the back in her car seat. Scenarios and evasive manoeuvres raced through Terence's mind. Roadworks only gave him more time at the wheel to contemplate the possibility of having to hug — and perhaps kiss — his mother-in-law goodbye at the airport.

Joan was half French. She hadn't grown up in France. She didn't have any trace of a French accent. She didn't seem particularly French. She was, nonetheless, half French. No matter how peripheral, all factors had to be considered relevant: as well as a hug she might expect a kiss on each cheek.

Or is it three kisses? Right, left, right again? Or is it left, right, left again? Can't remember. And if it is two, is it right then left or left then right? Or is she English about this, settling for just one? In which case, which side? Starting on her right doesn't feel quite right... but then again, is that because I'm left handed? Or in spite of it? Contact with the cheek or air kisses? Who leads...?

His father-in-law was a no-nonsense sort of person. Terence liked him because he knew precisely where he stood. And precisely how he left. First across the threshold, framed in the doorway, Terence would bid Joan a verbal farewell as he offered John a firm but brief handshake. Following an exchange of pleasantries about the motorway, the weather or work, Terence would retreat to a safe distance outside, exuding departure while Janie hugged her grandmother goodbye. He would seem suitably parental, taking Janie to the car, fussing over her car seat, arranging her entourage of teddies, toys and snacks. This simple, effective and practised exit strategy ensured Terence could be in the car waiting for Jenette under the guise of preparedness. And he didn't have to hug, kiss or otherwise physically engage Joan.

When his in-laws visited, Terence would use John as a human shield, standing in the hallway shaking hands and discussing matters of inconsequence while Janie, Jenette and Joan huddled and cuddled their farewells by the door.

Terence had sidestepped the mechanics of a parting embrace for years.

The pride he had taken in his own creativity and execution was, today, all for nothing. Joan was seeing the three of them off at the airport without John.

Every possibility had to be imagined, every contingency considered, every risk mitigated. Take, for example, Joan's height: Terence's mother-in-law was petite. If he had to kiss her he must remember not to give her the fatherly peck on the forehead he gave Janie.

Miles passed. Anxiety did not. Arrival, parking the car, securing a baggage trolley and the general busyness of the terminal granted Terence a temporary stay of fixation.

Joan had not been delayed. She was waiting for them exactly as planned. She gave her daughter a hug, mouthing Terence an over-shoulder hello, before taking her granddaughter's hand. Terence assumed a rearguard behind the protection of the baggage trolley as they drifted, chatting, through the aisles and isles of holidaymakers, business travellers and farewell bidders.

Terence found sanctuary in the order of the check-in queue, disturbed only by the odd uninvited thought.

Yes, just these three suitcases to check in.... Yes, I did pack them myself.... No, I haven't been given anything to take on board.... No, I definitely have no issues with giving my mother-in-law a farewell hug. None. None at all.

Downsized to the buckler of his hand baggage, the surrender of suitcases left Terence exposed. Taking offence to be the best defence, he suggested they get a coffee before going through to departures.

As they approached a free table Terence slowed to let Joan take the first seat, and then quickly secured the place opposite with his shoulder bag. He busied himself with the logistics of the order before joining the volley of chatter. The table offered some peace of mind and a sturdy shield; drinking a diuretic upper less so.

It was time.

They stood up. Joan knelt down and gave Janie a big hug. She straightened herself and turned towards Terence.

OK, she's definitely expecting something... maybe only a hug.

"Come here, Terry. How about a goodbye kiss?"

Oh... K.... OK. It's OK. It's not a problem. I can do this and then it's done and we can go through to departures and we can catch our flight and spend two weeks in Spain and don't kiss her on the forehead.

Hesitantly, he bent down towards her and —

Oh no! Oh God!! Oh shit!!!

— the affection brought forth, spontaneous and automatic, was not the fatherly touch Terence had sought to avoid. His left hand cupped then squeezed her breast. By the time he became fully aware of what was happening, reflex was brushing his lips against hers. Shock realisation panicked to clumsy intervention. He veered awkwardly and upwardly to his right, his lips grazing her cheek then her ear, his chest against hers. Overbalancing, his right arm pulled her closer to him.

NO, NO, NO! How did that happen?! Shitshitshit!!!

Fumbling, stumbling, he withdrew. Surprised, tousled, Joan wore a tilted smile with a raised eyebrow.

"ByeMrsPatayseeyouinacoupleofmonths!"

Lurching off to the security of the queue, the metal detector and departures, he grabbed hand baggage and Janie by the hand. Jenette kissed her mother goodbye and joined them a long minute later.

Divorce? Too messy. Separation? No, would still cause problems for Janie. Besides, I still love Jenette. And we should be together... if she'll forgive me. Emigrate? Keeps the family together while putting some distance between us and Joan. Perhaps we shouldn't bother with the return flight? Strike while the iron is hot! But what about if she comes to stay? She will come to stay. And she will stay that much longer to make the journey worthwhile. Perhaps I could arrange to be away when she visits? Maybe if we moved somewhere remote or somewhere Joan doesn't like? She likes Spain, but I think she once said she had no wish to visit Iceland... or was it Indonesia? Wherever, the question of extended visits — or any visits — would simply unask itself —

"She's rather flattered, you know. I think you made Mum's day."

Two weeks of holiday. Fourteen days to put all this out of his mind. Over three hundred hours and a thousand miles between him, Joan and the incident.

Yes, I think that should be OK. Then fly back, go home, return to work. Return to normal. Yes, everything will be OK. Good.... Yes.... Good.

"By the way, Mum says she'll meet us in arrivals when we fly back."

Two weeks.

"Two Weeks in Spain" was first published on Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure. More background here.