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.

Flash Fiction: Something to Eat

Red pesto, green pesto, black olive tapenade. Filigree sauce trails spiralled in from the edge, surrounding three halved cherry tomatoes standing guard around three razor slices of mozzarella di buffalla. Across the plate was a scatter of ground pepper, a rumour of truffle oil. Elegant. Suggestive. Insubstantial. Wilbur tried to focus on his starter.

"That'll be four fifty."

Three courses and as many calories later Wilbur found himself across the road. This was worth paying for. Orders of magnitude separated the guilt-drenched doner kebab now in his hands from the drawn-out bemuse bouche skulking in a corner of his stomach.

"Something to Eat" was first published on Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure. More background here.

Hurley-Burley

In the last month I've had two light-hearted pieces published online at Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure.

The first, "Something to Eat", is a 100-worder, a drabble. I wrote it earlier this year for a competition. I was not sure it would find a useful home anywhere else, until Dr. Hurley's happened to have a call specifically for micro-fiction within 100 words.

The second, "Two Weeks in Spain", is somewhat longer at just under 1300 words. I wrote the story last year and it went through a few minor revisions over the year that improved it but did little to alter its basic form. I decided recently to revisit it and overhaul it, restructuring the opening and shearing a couple of hundred words off it. The result was much improved and is the version you can read now.

Debate rages as to what word length distinguishes a piece of flash fiction from a more conventional short story, but the cut-off is generally considered to be in the hundreds — and certainly no more than a thousand. So, I guess this almost makes "Two Weeks in Spain" my first published short story! Almost. "Remembrance of Things Past" is over a thousand words, but is available in spoken form rather than text. I also had a piece, "Patterns at Work", published on IASA's site a few years ago when they created a library of articles on software architecture skills. I decided to tackle my topic, design patterns, with fiction, which makes it more interesting from a technical perspective, but obviously makes it slightly contrived from the perspective of story writing. In contradiction to what I said about "Afterglow" here, "Patterns at Work" was actually the first time I was paid for fiction.

In the coming weeks I will repost both pieces on this blog.

Flash Fiction: Afterglow

I am not yet grown up, but childhood ended the day you, Dad and Allie left me. Why did you leave? Childhood's glow has left no more than a lonely shade. I have barely enough to hold on to.

Every day I miss you. But it is not a still sadness. I turn to blame. Blame turns to anger, to rage, to exhaustion, to self-pity... then once more to blame. Always with bitterness. Always with love. I miss you.

Do I truly blame the three of you? Perhaps I do. I know I shouldn't. An accident is an accident. You don't get to choose it. You don't get to choose who stays and who goes. But the feeling left behind, once reason has had its turn, is a resentment that needs form. There should be someone to blame. And I know no one else to blame.

The years since have been defined only by the accident. An existence forever looking at the present from the past.

I can still see you in those last moments, moments I could not understand. The car became an event. The white noise and gentle movement of steady travel replaced by tumbling and suddenness, glass and metal, over and around, violence and screaming.

I can still see you in those last moments, just as clearly as I can see you now. In your wheelchair, hunched over my bed, holding my blanket. Panda, Bear, Lion... years of tears have left their mark on toys named for simpler times. My room has changed little. Tidier. Frozen. Waiting. The rest of the house has moved on — messy, living and restless.

It's the middle of the night. I can see Dad asleep across the hallway. He still walks with a limp, but he can walk and he has found a way to sleep. Allie is still out, who knows where. It's how she seems to sleep.

Every night you're in my room. Little more than a streetlight's glow through undrawn curtains keeps you company. I don't understand why you're there, why you cry. I didn't leave you, you left me. What are you holding on to?

"Afterglow" came third in FlashStories.net's quarterly competition for January 2011. More background here.

Flash Fiction: Starfall

"Hold me."

I wrapped my arms around her, her and the bump, the house still shaking from the distant airburst. That had been London.

In May our group in Oxford received confirmation from the La Palma observatory. Not only was our working theory a good fit for observations, it was the best fit. The excitement swept through everyone at the centre. Our group's work was the next and final step in understanding the forces of our universe. History would record us following and furthering the steps of Leibniz, Poincaré and others.

Leibniz's calculus and laws of gravity and motion described the epicyclic motion of the planets around the Earth and the simpler movement of the Sun and Moon. Poincaré's theory of luminiferous relativity gave space substance, something through which light could wave. His theory of rotational relativity explained the movement of all the worlds. All the worlds, but not the motionless stars. A century after his work we determined that stars remain fixed by maintaining an equilibrium, not because they are fixed in some firmament. The force of their light and their attraction to one another balances the pull of Earth.

A slight buzz of champagne and talk of future work and Nobels kept me later than usual. I arrived home to be greeted by more good news and, for me at least, another celebratory glass. A day to remember.

That was May. A lot can happen in six months. Cosmology rarely graces the headlines. The universe is a simple and ordered place. Where is the news? More detailed work on the observations began to suggest otherwise, with implications both disturbing and newsworthy. Headlines soon rebranded the Centre for Cosmological Studies as the Chicken Licken Lab. The mocking humour fell silent when the constellations started to drift and fade.

Stars have dimmed and fallen before. But, as history tells, these comets are occasional and exceptional. The thousands of other stars remain unperturbed. But stars cannot burn forever. It seems their natural lifetime is around six thousand years. And now they are falling, together.

The house shakes.

"Hold me."

"Starfall" was a runner-up in New Scientist's Flash Fiction 2010 Competition. More background here.