Tag Archive for: writing horror

PJ Greystoke Author, sleepTalker 2, The Room 2. Horror story, psychological thriller. Available now on Amazon

Actually in June. One of the stories ‘The Room’ in the original SleepTalker raised a lot of questions about the stalker. The sequel delves into his rather disturbing backstory. Here is a wee snippet:

The Room 2

Back When Sophie Was Alive

What is it about staring into another person’s eyes that makes them feel like you are a threat, like you – given the chance – would gladly reach into their chest, tear away the paper flesh, pull out their still beating heart and take a bite?

It would taste so good.

She’s scared. I can tell.

I feel the adrenaline rush whenever I’m near. Her pupils enlarge. Her smile, forced to hide the fear.

But I know.

I can tell.

It’s not as though she’s my real mother anyway.

My real mum died.

Dad used to take me hunting when I was younger.

My real dad that is.

We started with rabbits.

Dad had vegetables. Turnips and carrots and well, you know what vegetables are. He had turned our garden into a sort of allotment after mum died.  Got rid of the tree with the swing on it and dug up the whole thing.

He hated the rabbits though. They used to come in and eat what we grew. We stayed awake at night with dads pellet rifle poking through my open bedroom window just waiting for the ‘scruffy little bastards’ to show their stupid faces.

First, he taught me to shoot, then to go down when the gun didn’t finish the job. Twisting the neck was the fastest way.

I still remember the first one. Lying there, bleeding next to a half-eaten carrot. It was desperately trying to get up, frantically waving its front paws as I walked up the garden path toward it. I had a shovel in my hand. Dad told me that the kindest thing would be to cave its head in.

I stood over it and dropped the shovel.

There was something in her eyes. She had stopped struggling and just stared at me. There was a moment of pure understanding. She knew that her life was in my hands. I picked her up, placed my quivering hand around her tiny neck and very slowly started to squeeze. She didn’t even struggle.

It was almost as though she knew that her life’s destiny was to help me realize my own.

We ate her that night. I skinned her and chopped the body parts.

I felt like a God.

I kept the eyes.

***

Sophie was afraid of the dark.

Her father couldn’t bear to see his little angel cry so kept the light on in the hallway at night.

It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. His years of training told him it was wrong. The words ‘Classic Avoidance’ rang out in his mind every time he flicked the switch and kissed his daughter goodnight.

On the rare occasion that he did wake in the early hours, turn the light out and go back to bed he’d hear his daughters’ feet pitter patter across the hallway. The landing light would shine once again, through the crack at the bottom of his bedroom door.

It made him smile.

***

Do you think life has its own heartbeat?

I do.

Like a symphony.

All of the instruments meandering through their lives. Obliviously providing rhythms, melodies and counter melodies.  Some going fast, some slow. Some weak some strong. If you listen carefully enough you can hear a single over riding pulse – a heartbeat.

You probably can’t. It takes a special person to be able to hear that.

A conductor.

To keep the symphony going. To know when instruments should be allowed to sing and when others have reached their full potential and are permitted to die.

***

Sophie was a caring girl, perhaps too caring. She could see the good in anyone. She believed that a person’s natural state was one of peace and love and it was a harsh environment that changed people into the less than desirable creatures that brought destruction and pain upon others.

There’s a guy moved in next door. Same age as my daughter. He’s in some of her classes at school. He’s an orphan, I think. The rest of the kids think he’s some sort of freak but not my Sophie.

She’s made a beeline for him. Anything for the hard luck cases in life.

***

I remember when my mom – My real one – tried to stop me from seeing Dad. She got some sort of sick pleasure from torturing him. All he wanted was to see me, to take me for the weekend.

Dad was gutless. Wasn’t his fault. Just who he was. She said jump and he’d cry.

“You’ve done it now Pete.” She’d say. “You can kiss goodbye to seeing your son this weekend.”

Dad argued but whatever mom said went. And after a few choice words dad went right out the door.

The last time, after mom came back in from smoking a cigarette in the garden, she sat me down and told me what a waste of time Dad was and how he didn’t want to see me.

I was ten – Not stupid.

I smiled and made her a special hot chocolate which she gratefully drank.

I expected her to shout and violently thrash about but she just slept.

She never woke.

***

If you want to read the original story before SleepTalker 2 comes out, you can still buy SleepTalker on Amazon:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/SleepTalker-P-J-Grey…/…/ref=sr_1_1…

The Room

 

“Leave the door open.”

Mary half smiled as she slid further into the middle of the bed, her exhausted body relishing the comfort of the pink cotton duvet; her tired eyes slowly looking around the bedroom.

A soft glow from the candles in the landing leaked through the open doorway providing her with just enough light to see faint outlines from the familiar objects which surrounded her.

Content, she closed her eyes.

She was safe.

Why wouldn’t she be? I was here.

I used to whisper her name, always when she was alone.

Seems she was always surprised to see me, which made me smile. We were creatures of solitude her and me.

I’d often leave notes, send flowers, and even call when I could, never needing to speak, just so she’d know I was there, thinking, always about her.

This is the room she grew up in as a child, untouched by time and carefully maintained by her mother, as a kind of shrine I suppose.

I’ve waited so patiently for her to return to this place, watching as her mother cleaned, dusted, vacuumed; she washed the bedclothes almost on a daily basis, rather curious as the bed hadn’t been slept in since she was here last with me and yet, well how clean can bedclothes get?

I’ve missed seeing her, not just in the bedroom – a gentleman shouldn’t kiss and tell – but at work too.

She always wore that same perfume, smelled of spring time, brightened up the place whenever she walked by.

Her smile was so radiant, so hypnotic. That smile was to die for.

Of course, some people took the smile and perfume combination as a personal invitation. John Matthews; he thought just because he was her boss he could monopolize her time, inviting her into his office every afternoon, doing who knows what behind that closed door.

Once she was in there for sixty-eight minutes!

I followed him to his car that night.

I tried to tell him, to explain, you see I didn’t want to hurt him. I said ‘sexual harassment is a crime.’ I tried to explain but he just didn’t listen, then he shouted at me, told me to leave him alone.

I didn’t want to hurt him.

I had to…for Mary.

Look at her sleeping, so tranquil, a silent symphony in motion. Her lace nightgown effortlessly moving in harmony with her heartbeat, following the perfect rhythm as her chest moves gently up and down, the gentle breeze from the open window blowing across her hair and face.

It will almost be a shame to wake her.

The door slammed shut, jolting Mary wide awake. She sat up and looked nervously around the room, her eyes finally resting on the open window.

Logic told her that a gust of wind from the open window probably forced the door to close. She paused a moment to consider, thinking back.

That window, that open window was closed when she went to bed, she was sure of it.

She carefully scanned the room again.

Apart from the light in the corridor which passed through the space at the foot of the door, the room was pitch black. It was hard enough to distinguish between the different objects that surrounded her let alone recognize a potential intruder that may be lurking in the shadows.

She hid beneath the duvet, pulse rate increased, and closed her eyes trying to convince herself that all was well.

A faint whisper.

‘Mary.’

She poked her head out and looked around, her eyes gradually accustoming themselves to the limited light.

‘Mary.’

‘Hello?’ she cried, nervously looking around.

Her arms wrapped around her legs assuming a foetal position on the bed.

‘Is anyone there?’

There was a slight pause before she heard the final whisper. It was louder and more menacing than the previous two times and so close it seemed that the voice was right above her head.

 

‘Mary, I’m right here.’

 

The light in the landing was blown out, but the breathing above her head continued, slowly and steadily.

Mary clamped her eyes shut, not daring to look or move. She could feel the cold breath on her neck. Goose bumps began to form on her skin as she forced her arms tighter around her knees and buried her head inward.

A river of tears fought to escape the deadlock that her eyelids had created.

She began to shiver.

The duvet was gently removed from the bed and placed on the floor.

She felt an icy cold finger gently caress the back of her neck and slowly make its way down her spine, stopping at every vertebra as if each of her bones were a Braille question, and a brief pause was needed to contemplate the gravity of the answer.

With her eyes closed she could still feel the burning intensity of his stare.

The icy hand was no longer touching her skin, it was now stroking her hair from root to tip, gently massaging her scalp as it did.

Mary slowly opened her eyes and turned her head to see her captor.

The nervous, inquisitive look quickly transformed to a petrified stare when she saw his face.

He smiled; the gaping hole where his front two teeth should be, the cut below his left eye, the indentation on his upper lip.

It was him, but how?

Her heart rate rapidly increased and her tears were now free flowing.

His hand, instead of caressing her scalp now firmly clenched her hair, his grasp gradually becoming tighter and tighter, till he had positioned his body so he was straddling her mid-section.

She tried to pull free but her body wouldn’t move, it was literally frozen.

Her paralysis seemed to be only from the neck down. Turning her head, she looked toward the closed door and tried to shout for her father to help. The first two times, rather pathetic weedy sounds were all that would leave her lips.

An increased yank of her hair from her aggressor seemed to give her improved vigour and she let out a piercing cry, which shocked even her captor and he released his grip.

Pleadingly her eyes searched the door handle for some sign of movement, for the hope her father would hear and come crashing into the room to rescue his daughter from this evil.

Nothing, silence.

‘Father’ she shouted.

‘Faaather’ she repeated, still louder.

The door did not budge, the handle did not flicker, there was no rescue. This made her tormentor laugh.

‘Your father won’t be coming Mary’.

She stared at him disbelievingly.

‘Your father is… sleeping downstairs’.

‘Daddy’ she cried softly, now not caring what happened to her.

‘Is he…?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘He is. He didn’t understand about our love.’

He smiled again.

And now you’re mine.

The tears continued, but something began to change, an anger, like an eager volcano, stirred from within. Fear very quickly turned to hate and her breathing resembled a bull, readying itself for the charge.

Her captor, the red flag.

With increased vigor, she lunged forward with all her might digging the nails of one hand into his eye whilst the other grasped at his throat.

He squealed in pain and jumped back from the bed and onto the floor, blood pouring from his eye socket, one hand covering his wound.

She saw her opportunity, jumped from the bed and dove at the door reaching for the handle. She had barely touched it when a sudden blow to the head sent her crashing violently to the ground.

Determined, she struggled to her hands and feet, but that was as far as she got. The two massive bloody hands of her captor were now round her throat, squeezing from behind, unrelenting, constant, harder, tighter…

Mary felt the life slowly leave her body.

Her heart rate once so strong and innocent, now gradually slowing, her body limp, her eyes closing. Now accepting the finality of her fate.

Her mouth opened; one last whimper for help.

‘Daddy.’

Her final word, her final breath, she was dead.

He released his grip and lay next to her on the floor, blood still pouring from his eye socket, he lovingly stroked her hair.

The door opened.

Two elderly ladies walked into the room. Bright light from the afternoon sun shone through the closed window.

The room was perfectly kept, clean and tidy, nothing out of place. Mary and her captor were nowhere to be seen.

‘And this is the third bedroom’ said the lady with the black dress and a tear in her eye.

She sat on the bed and pinched in between her eyes a futile effort to stop the tear escaping and falling to her lap.

‘Are you alright?’ the other enquired with one helping hand on her shoulder.

‘Yes’ she replied, feigning a smile.

‘This was my daughters’ room. She died twenty years ago today, my husband too. I can sometimes feel her here, always so sad, so helpless. I swear I can still hear her calling sometimes.’ She paused and sighed.

‘You must think I’m crazy?’ She sighed and turned her head away.

The other lady, momentarily speechless, sat beside her on the bed.

‘I’m sorry’ she eventually offered. ‘I didn’t realize. Are you sure you want to sell the place, so many memories?’

she nodded.

‘Oh yes, enough memories, time this house belonged to a family again.’

She rose to her feet and walked through the door, followed by the other lady.

The door closed, the room was quiet once again. The lights dimmed as the window opened. On the bed, Mary yawned, her tired eyes struggling to stay awake.

‘Good night daddy’ she called, ‘leave the door open’.

 

Hello all…

My book (The Trouble With Time Travel) is still going well and ever closer to the finish line.

Whilst writing, as a wee warm-up exercise i tend to do a little free form to drum up ideas for future projects and I think I’ve hit on something here.

Its not complete (Just an idea at this stage) and i am interested to see if this turns into a novel or a short story.

See what you you think, hope you like it ….

As always all comments and thoughts welcome x

 

Little Ruthy

“Drink, but slowly. It’ll feel a little strange as it goes down but…”

He stopped to consider his choice of words before continuing.

“That’s what you paid for.”

He finally muttered something under his breath before turning away from his pleading image in the mirror and downed the blue liquid contents in the blue cup.

He finally chanted something under his breath.

It only took a few seconds for the paralysis to kick in; one hand grasping to the sink, the other clawing at his chest, instinctively trying to stop his blood from freezing over.

The time had long since passed for second thoughts.

The last image his eyes were to capture, as his lay on the bathroom floor gasping out his last, was the little girl in the red dress.

Stepping forward out of the shadows, she smiled sweetly before blowing him a kiss and walking out of the room.

Daddy was her first.

Father Mcdaniel mopped his brow with a handkerchief that looked as though it had serviced his nose several times before tending to his sweaty head. He refilled his tumbler and drained the contents in one smooth movement. He may have lost his faith many years ago but as an alcoholic, he had a real future.

The dreams had not stopped, and this one troubled him more than most. He looked at the telephone on his desk waiting patiently for it to ring.

‘Riiiinnngggg’

To his ears, the sound was piercing, like several broken finger nails skating circles on a blackboard. He slowly picked the receiver and placed it to his ear, knowing with absolute certainty that Mrs Jennifer Collins would be hanging on the other end still trying to comprehend the apparent suicide of her loving husband.

“Hello Jennifer dear, are you alright? Slow down dear… Have you called for an ambulance?”

ImageThis one started out as a bit of an experiment. I wanted to leave the gender of the protagonist to the reader. The resulting story was a bit of an emotional roller coaster for me. I hope you enjoy. As always all comments and thoughts welcome x

 

Dreamer

 

“Sorry for your loss Sam”.

John Templeton smiled sympathetically as he sat by my side, wiping his sweaty hands on the crumpled Armani suit trousers which were caked to his legs. His natural body stench was enough to make my dog wretch but I was glad of the company. The room was crowded, yet for the past two hours no one had given me so much as a second glance, perhaps they knew something John was unaware of. Personally I think he was there for the free buffet.

It took five minutes of uncomfortable silence,  with John slowly shaking his head whilst desperately trying to find the right words, before he finally offered his own comforting sermon “First your best friend, now your dad, and in as many days. Are you ok?”

I thought this would be a good opportunity to take one of the metal skewers from the lamb kebabs on the table and drive it into his forehead whilst shouting “Of course I’m not ok you drooling moron!”

I simply stared at him. My internal message must have been clear because he rose from his seat, picked up a plastic plate and began stocking up on quiche and tuna sandwiches before retreating out the front door. If nothing else at least I had lightened the load on my greedy neighbours’ food bill.

Mother was in the opposite corner, my daughter Margaret sleeping on her knee. I wanted so much to comfort her, to let her know everything was going to be alright. She looked broken, lost almost as she sat running her hands through Margaret’s hair observing the crowd of casual onlookers as if they were not real.

I closed my eyes to shut out the images that surrounded me, the only escape my claustrophobic mind could conjure. Through my inner darkness I took a couple of deep breaths. The sound of my heart beat seemed to drown out the pointless chatter from my guests.

It took a moment to register but the room seemed too quiet for comfort. I held my breath and listened.

The chatter had completely stopped, the rustling and clinking of glasses too. Even the Andersons annoying daughter from down the road, who had been talking to her would-be boyfriend on the phone about what she should wear when she meets him tonight, completely silenced. The sound of my heartbeat completely filled the room.

Slowly I opened my eyes.

It was as if someone had taken a Polaroid and replaced my living guests with it. Everyone and everything completely frozen. One ladies coffee cup had slipped from her hand and was making its way to the floor, the contents escaping and coating the tail end of my sleeping dog; except it wasn’t it just stayed there, in mid air motionless.

Through the silence I heard a sound, mother in her chair still stroking my sleeping daughters’ hair. She looked at me, trying to hold back the tears. Suddenly my little girl sat up and opened her eyes wide. Her head tilted to one side as she looked at me brushing the sleep from her left eye.

They didn’t seem to find it at all strange that they were the only moving parts in an otherwise motionless environment. Both their gazes were fixed firmly on me.

A bright light stole my attention as the front door swung open. In walked a silver haired lady. Her dress, a blinding white that made me want to cover my eyes. As she turned to face me, any anxiety that was inside my body began to slowly diminish. She slowly approached, moving through my still guests as though they were mere phantoms. Mother started to cry. The lady stopped, distracted for a moment. I saw in her eyes, a purity entangled somehow with my mother’s pain. She feigned a smile whilst uttering the words “no change”.

I blinked and the lady disappeared. Mother was once again stroking the hair of my sleeping daughter. The guests were milling round as before. The dog was up and yelping un-amused by the order of coffee his rear end had not requested and Marie Anderson had decided on the pink turtle neck sweater her aunt had bought her the Christmas before.

Save the occasional glance in my direction the guests continued to pay me no mind at all, instead offered their condolences to Margaret and my mother before leaving.

“I’m going to take Margaret for the night” Mother said as she buttoned my daughters’ red duffle coat. “You need to rest”. Margaret kissed me on the cheek before leaving.

I was alone. I had been alone for two days, the only difference being now the house was empty.

I couldn’t be bothered to tidy the place. I sat there for what seemed like hours, trying to make sense of what up until now I had dismissed as mere coincidence.

Two nights ago I dreamt my best friend was killed crossing a stretch of motorway. I didn’t bother to warn him. It was just a nightmare surely? A nightmare, hours later the evening news would report as fact.

Then there was my father.

Dad always told me “Never give up on your dreams Sam”. You gotta love the irony here.

Sleeping last night I had a vision, my fathers clapped out old banger complete with flat tyre being jacked up by the side of the road. Honks from opinionated drivers as they sped past only served to piss him off. “I’m not here by choice” he thought as he fought to free the flat from the wheel arch.

Less than a minute away on the same stretch of road, unaware there was any hazard ahead I was fiddling with the volume on the car radio, trying to drown out the repetitive sound from my daughters Buzz Light Year action figure.

Dad had resorted to kicking the stubborn tyre, anything to loosen it. He knelt again taking each side of the wheel and pulling with all his might. The tyre came loose and dad fell back with it across his chest.

He never got up. The oncoming vehicles’ impact killed him instantly.

As if that wasn’t bad enough I was driving the car. I’d got up in the early hours to clear my mind, unable to sleep for fear the nightmare vision would return.

I sat on the roadside cradling my fathers lifeless body in my arms wishing with every fibre in my soul that I could trade places with him, that he would at least wake long enough for me to say how much I loved him. That he would just wake.

The tears that fell from my face and rolled down his cheeks were not enough to bring him back but did send a clear message. I may be a psychic but I’m no healer in fact I think I’m cursed.

In Eastern philosophy it is said that the five people closest to you directly represent your own personality and state of mind. The philosopher in question failed to mention that as each one is taken, it would leave a gaping hole where they once belonged or that as they left, your heart would be ripped to shreds and you would do anything to escape the pain you were going through.

The emotional hurt from the previous two nights had already started to have a physical impact, spreading through my body like a ravenous cancer, seemingly stopping at every organ en route to hang an out of order sign.

I just wanted to sleep.

I rose and slowly walked the desolate wasteland that was my living room, a place that in the past had played host to some of the finest moments of my life. Without my family here it was more like a shell, empty and meaningless.

I glanced over to my bedroom door. There was a strange glow escaping from the gaps in the frame, a glow that seemed to grow in intensity the more I looked at it. Suddenly the silver haired lady in white appeared, walking through the closed door as though it were not there. She simply stopped and stared into my eyes before returning to the bedroom.

Who was she? A ghost? An angel? I had to find out. The light that protruded through the cracks in the door frame dimmed with every step as I moved closer to the bedroom. When I eventually opened the door the room was in darkness, the lady was gone. Yet the bed had never looked so inviting. Yearning for rest I laid down and rested my eyes.

Barely moments later a vision of my daughter crying, shouting my name shocked me from my sleep. I couldn’t loose her. I didn’t want to dream of her demise. I wouldn’t. Tired and exhausted but with my heart pounding so hard my ears ached; I rose from the bed and made myself a black coffee spending the remainder of the night sitting at the kitchen table, trembling.

 

The sun beaming through the blinds the next morning was enough to give me a migraine, to make me want to close my eyes at least. One of the curtains was jammed, typical. When you’ve had no rest sunlight can be a killer.  I considered moving into a darkened room and wait there for the solar flex to go annoy someone else but the thought of accidentally falling asleep was too much to bear.

I needed my daughter with me, and to know that both her and my mother was safe, so decided after a quick phone call to let her know I was coming to pick her up. Mom was asleep when I got there. Margaret answered the door duffle coat in hand.

“Grandma was worried about you” Margaret paused before continuing “I missed you last night” Smiling I picked her up and held her close, My Baby girls arms wrapped around me in a tight embrace. “I’m always with you” I said as we walked to the car. Once the door was opened she jumped into her child seat and I strapped her in.

The journey back home was longer than expected. A traffic jam on the A1 brought us to a complete standstill. Margaret picked up her Buzz Light-year action figure from the seat and flicked the switch at the back of his head repeatedly on and off. I closed my eyes and pinched my fingers between them, a futile effort to ward off an oncoming headache.

Suddenly a bright light through my closed lids stunned me into opening them. I couldn’t risk falling asleep especially not on a busy road.  Looking ahead I expected to see a long line of cars sitting patiently waiting so they could continue on their way, instead the road was completely clear not a car in sight. Cautiously I put the car in gear and began driving.

I was travelling at a constant sixty miles per hour on the A1, pretty clear road. Margaret, in her child seat behind me. She was playing with her Buzz Light-year which with the switch on repeatedly announced “To Infinity and Beyond” every time it was placed at a horizontal angle.

Ten minutes into the journey and I’d heard all I cared to from Mr Light-year. “Sweetheart, do you think you could turn Buzz off so we can listen to the music on the radio?” No Response apart from the continued galactic announcement from Buzz. “Baby Girl, Buzz is giving me a bit of a headache just flick the switch on the back of his head ok?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Buzz drop to the floor and on he went, “To Infinity And Beyond” I swear the cocky little toy actually winked at me; now out of reach of my daughter and even closer to my ear I had to pick it up before the announcement transformed to an internal one “Lack of Sanity and Beyond”.

It was a fleeting thought. One quick glance at the road before I turn around to retrieve it, two seconds max.

As I turned to pick up the toy the radio volume increased “We now change the scheduled programming to cater for all you grieving parents out there” Buzz sat up on the seat and started to shake his head whilst Billie Joel started singing say goodbye to my baby over the airwaves.

Buzz turned his head once more then stopped moving; his lifeless gaze now directed at my daughter. Her eyes met his and paused momentarily. The silence seemed to blanket a moment of pure understanding and clarity between them both, a moment I desperately wanted to share but could not.

Margaret lifted her head and smiled; a single red teardrop made its way slowly down her cheek and fell to her lap. As she lifted her hands in my direction, scarlet tears began to free flow. I felt a shudder and a cold spot on the back of my neck, shards of glass were floating past my head in slow motion effortlessly cutting my face as they attempted to pass me and find their way to my baby girl.

My eyes began to throb as if hot needles were being pushed outward from the inside. I clamped them shut too afraid to reopen them and unable to move, very aware that I was the human shield protecting my daughter from whatever danger that had sought her out.

The radio volume increased “Say Goodbye To My Baby” repeated over and over accompanied by an orchestra of smashing glass, crumpled metal and a piercing soprano that was my daughter as she cried out in pain, my eyes were still closed. I pushed my hands to my ears and prayed for this nightmare to end, and it did.

When I re opened my eyes I was facing front, all in the car was as it should be, but outside everything was happening at super speed. Traffic, people and trees became nothing but momentary blurs. I looked at the speedometer which moved rapidly from sixty miles per hour to one hundred and five then back again to sixty fixed in a constant time loop.

There was a voice, a warm comforting sound that eased my pounding heart “I realise you’re concerned.” The voice continued “I’m here to help as much as I can”. In the distance, but moving ever closer the silver haired lady approached. Her high definition image contrasted with the surrounding environment.

I wasn’t even alarmed when she glided through the bonnet of my car like a heavenly apparition to look me in the eyes from above. Her stare now both hypnotic and frightening. The pain in my head and body returned and amplified.

I turned to check my daughter was ok, but when I looked she wasn’t there. Her red duffle coat was laid out on the empty child seat as a blanket for the Buzz Light-year action figure. Slowly the car seat began to fade from focus, and my entire environment was becoming a hazy image like a repressed memory till it disappeared altogether.

I heard my father speaking behind me. “You can do it Sam, stay with us”. “Dad? But that’s impossible” I thought. My daughters pleading voice joined his “I love you. Please don’t die; I’ll be good always I promise”. She cried like I’d never heard before. Facing front again I looked at the lady in white who returned my smile. The name on her badge read Nurse Rebecca Walker.

The mist that had been shrouding my perception was finally lifted and my memories once again clear. There had only ever been one accident with myself as the only victim. A wave of relief passed through me as I saw my family and best friend standing in the hospital room with me. I felt gratitude for the nurse who had been there through my fleeting moments of consciousness and sorrow for the loved ones I would leave behind.

“There’s nothing more we can do” Rebecca said as she stepped back to allow my family to approach. Behind me the bedroom door I’d seen earlier opened once more. The light from the room was inviting and warm.

The bleep from my heart monitor was slowing gradually. “Take care of my daughter” I managed to say. “I love you all so much” My family’s tears made me want to stay but I knew I couldn’t. I approached the light and lay down on the bed. The heart monitors unrelenting beep turned to a constant drone as I slowly closed my eyes.

 

ImageI started a short story recently, experimenting with the nature in which a protagonist is portrayed. An early version of this story is shared on a previous post.

This is one of those occasions in which i can see the short story becoming a precursor to something much bigger and just as exciting, I’ll let you know once it is finished.

For now I’d be very interested to hear your views on where you think this one is going I have included a section from it below.

I hope you enjoy, as always all comments and thoughts welcome x

 

………………….

The sun beaming through the blinds is enough to give me a migraine, to make me want to close my eyes at least. One of the curtains is jammed, typical. when you’ve had no rest sunlight can be a killer. I’m just going to move into a darkened room and wait there for the solar flex to go annoy someone else.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, a half drunk mug of cold black coffee before me I have time to reflect on last nights unwanted sleeping episode.

I was driving home from my moms house after picking up my daughter Margaret. I know it’s an old fashioned name but suits her so much more than some of the, shall we say common names that have graced our community in recent months. In our street alone there’s an eclectic mix of all things chav, we have a Chelsea Tracy and even a Shazza, who, whilst they haven’t perfected the fine art of speech, or dressing properly have no problem shouting, smashing car windows, drinking white lightning by the bucket and smoking enough cigarettes to put Alex Higgins to shame.

I remember travelling at a constant sixty miles per hour on the A1, pretty clear road. Margaret was in her child seat behind me. She was playing with her Buzz Lightyear action-figure which repeatedly announced “To Infinity And Beyond” every time it was placed at a horizontal angle.

Ten minutes into the journey and I’d heard all I cared to from Mr Lightyear. “Sweetheart, do you think you could turn Buzz off so we can listen to the music on the radio?” No Response apart from the continued galactic announcement from Buzz. “Baby Girl, Buzz is giving me a bit of a headache just flick the switch on the back of his head ok?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Buzz drop to the floor and on he went, “To Infinity And Beyond” I swear the cocky little toy actually winked at me; now out of reach of my daughter and even closer to my ear I had to pick it up before the announcement transformed to an internal one “Lack of Sanity and Beyond”.

It was a fleeting thought. One quick glance at the road before I turn around to retrieve it, two seconds max.

As I turned to pick up the toy the radio volume increased “We now change the scheduled programming to cater for all you grieving parents out there” Buzz sat up on the seat and started to shake his head whilst Billie Joel started singing say goodbye to my baby over the airwaves.

Buzz turned his head once more then stopped moving; his lifeless gaze now directed at my daughter. Her eyes met his and paused momentarily. The silence seemed to blanket a moment of pure understanding and clarity between them both, a moment I desperately wanted to share but could not.

Margaret lifted her head and smiled; a single red teardrop made its way slowly down her cheek and fell to her lap. As she lifted her hands in my direction, scarlet tears began to free flow. I felt a shudder and a cold spot on the back of my neck, shards of glass were floating past my head in slow motion effortlessly cutting my face as they attempted to pass me and find their way to my baby girl.

My eyes began to throb as if hot needles were being pushed outward from the inside. I clamped them shut too afraid to reopen them and unable to move, very aware that I was the human shield protecting my daughter from whatever danger that had sought her out.

The radio volume increased “Say Goodbye To My Baby” repeated over and over accompanied by an orchestra of smashing glass, crumpled metal and a piercing soprano that was my daughter as she cried out in pain, my eyes were still closed. I pushed my hands to my ears and prayed for this nightmare to end, and it did.

When I re opened my eyes I was facing front, all in the car was as it should be, but outside everything was happening at super speed. Traffic, people and trees became nothing but momentary blurs. I looked at the speedometer which moved rapidly from sixty miles per hour to one hundred and five then back again to sixty fixed in a constant time loop.

There was a voice, a warm comforting sound that eased my pounding heart “I realise you’re concerned.” The voice continued “I’m here to help as much as I can”. In the distance, but moving ever closer the silver haired lady approached. Her high definition image contrasted with the surrounding environment.

I wasn’t even alarmed when she glided through the bonnet of my car like a heavenly apparition to look me in the eyes from above. The smile left her face when she uttered the words “No change”. She rested her right hand on my shoulder and finally said “Wake”.

And here I am, afraid to sleep or venture outside.

ImageLast week I shared some free form that led to the creation of a lead character in my latest novel The trouble with Time Travel. Today a section from the book itself. At this point Arran and Molly two children and friend to the brilliant professor Fidget are playing in a strange device they believe to be a futuristic hover craft, this is the moment they discover they are in fact sitting in a Time Machine…

As always comments and thoughts welcome x

……….

 

But wait, something was different.

The professor was sitting at her desk reading a book. ‘We’re in trouble now’ said Arran. ‘Sorry professor’ he said, ‘It was Mollys fault, I told her I wanted to go to bed but then she hit me with a teddy and so I switched on the light and now we’re in your hovercraft’.

The professor didn’t even look up from her book. ‘see what you’ve done?’ said Arran ‘the professor cant even look at us, I’ve never seen her this angry’.

The basement door opened and in walked John their father. ‘Dad’s here’ shouted Molly ‘shh’ replied Arran, he paused. ‘Wait a minute, he’s ignoring us too’.

John walked across the room, without so much as a glance toward the children and slammed his briefcase down on the professors desk, she put her book down and began speaking with their father.

‘He cant of not noticed us’ said Arran. ‘He’ll notice if we stand right between them’ snapped Molly who refused to spend too long in any situation she didn’t understand, with that she turned round and attempted to get out of the time machine ‘Ouch!’ she yelled as her head started to throb, there was an invisible wall surrounding the whole machine, soundproof and inescapable. ‘I cant get out’ Molly shouted.

Arran wasn’t paying any attention he was much more concerned with what was in the machine itself, ‘Molly look’ said Arran pointing at the dashboard. Directly under the picture was a digital display it read DESTINATION 8 HOURS 32 MINUTES INTO THE PAST HOVER MODE ENGAGED.

‘Oh my goodness’ said Arran it’s a time machine, Professor Fidget has invented a time machine!’ Molly turned to look at the display in disbelief, then turned to face her brother. ‘I mean I’d have preferred a blue police box that was bigger on the inside, but still, a time machine’. MATERIALIZATION IN 20 SECONDS appeared. ‘Twenty seconds?’ shouted Arran ‘Its counting down’

19,18

‘what do we do?’ Molly’s attention was firmly fixed on her father who was now looking right at her from the other side of the room ‘dads stretching out his arms, he’s walking this way. Arran he knows we’re here!’ Arran was still looking at the display.

13, 12

‘Molly do something’ ‘Oh yea. I’m quite the time traveller, I know exactly how these things work’ Molly shouted sarcastically as her father drew closer.

6, 5,

‘Molly now!’ Shouted Arran. Molly began randomly pressing a series of buttons.

4, 3,

‘If we end up landing in Jurassic Park your getting eaten before me!’ snapped molly as she finally came to press the same green button that had transported them there in the first place. The display changed, FLIGHT MODE, the time machine began to vibrate and the laboratory disappeared from view. Almost immediately they found themselves back where they started from.

You know I read a shocking statistic recently, 82% of young people in the UK don’t read for pleasure. It made me kind of sad to think that television, movies, Nintendo Wii and the PS3 are converting our future generation into couch potatoes devoid of imagination and purpose.

I have travelled quite a long and varied path before I realized I wanted to be a writer, doing seemingly unrelated jobs which usually had an artistic or writing element but through it all I have always read for fun.

As much as I enjoy computer games television and cinema (and I do) they will never be able to match the potential imagery your imagination can produce.

I read mostly fiction because that’s where my interest lies. When I pick up a book by Stephen King, James Herbert or Dean Koontz I very quickly find myself lost in the world they have created. The beauty is that once I am in that world it is no longer theirs, it is mine. They will describe the essential parts I need to know to highlight a particular character or to drive the plot forward but will leave ample breathing room so my imagination can fill in the blanks. Let’s take this section from Velocity By Dean Koontz…

Although he had the head reminiscent of a squash ball and the heavy rounded shoulders of a sumo wrestler, Ned was an athletic man only if you thought barroom jabber and grudge-holding qualified as sports. In those events, he was an Olympian.

After reading this for the first time I had a perfect complete mental image of Ned, any film or pictorial depiction of him presented to me after that point was almost guaranteed to be a disappointment. I can also guarantee to within a certain degree of accuracy that your own depiction of Ned will be equally as brilliant and completely unique to you.

Reading is to my mind essential to any writer. How many times have you wanted to describe something but couldn’t find the right words? The more I read the less that happens.

The correct grammar, how much of a character or plot to give to the reader, and at which point the many ways of depicting an emotion is delivered are all generously donated to the aspiring writer by their literary heroes.

I hope you enjoyed today’s post and my morning ramblings, all thoughts and comments as always very welcome x

Today I’d like to share what was a common business practice when I ran an advertising agency and is now an irreplaceable part of my writers toolkit.

Questions…

As I once wrote ‘Without questions there can never be any answers’, they open your mind and your field of creation, they force you to remove the blinkers and write with absolute confidence.

When I start writing I am always very aware that my first draft is for me and me alone, it not written with a great emphasis on target audience I simply want to get the story out, to display the diamond in the rough.

After the first draft is complete I become a fictitious member of my potential audience and ask questions…

Is the plot line clear enough? Is there enough empathetic or emotional attachment? What unnecessary text is there? (Something that doesn’t drive plot forward or further define character and character relationships).

Questions don’t have to wait till you have finished your first draft. During my work on ‘The Trouble With Time Travel’ I was myself troubled, every one of my characters was well rounded and created with absolute precision save one, and this one was a constant irritation to me; What was his motivation? Where in fact did he come from? What exactly does he want and what will he do to get it?

It was only when I stopped writing the main story and allowed myself to answer these questions could I continue without these self imposed road blocks.

As a writer I am well aware that every time I type or pick up a pen I am potentially creating an amazing environment full of living breathing people, animals, buildings, trees, ghosts and as yet undiscovered entities.

How well defined this environment is depends entirely on the questions I ask myself.

I hope you found this helpful, As always all comments welcome x

Writers block is awful, you sit down eager to continue with your short story, manuscript or novel and all your brain produces is the odd piece of tumble-weed within a vast deserted landscape, the building that once housed the creative life force behind your work exists only as a mirage.

My initial way of responding to writers block was to simply stop go into a Zen state and simply wait for the inspiration for me to continue with my project.

The fear being that if I continued without the inspiration, whatever words were added at that point would serve only to infect what was up to now equivalent to a work of divine creation.

Thing is, you could wait forever for the right inspiration to come along, days, weeks even months and lets face it a writer who doesn’t write, well isn’t a writer.

I came up with two solutions one was to write every day, and that starts with free form which has been covered in my earlier posts, then pick up the manuscript (you know the divine document) and write, even if its terrible drudge, just write, and keep to a word count start with 1000 words per day.

Humans are habitual creatures and you’ll find once you start doing this it will be easier to keep going.

This helped me to write every day but I found the inspiration was still a problem you see my brain is constantly ticking over and whilst one section of my creative self was interested in swimming in deep rivers of shock and horror my other half was simply wanting to make people laugh.

I came up with a project that was the counter balance to all things dark and devious.

This meant I had two projects on the go at the same time, but you can’t do that can you???

I didn’t think so, but it seems to work for me. I tend to find that every day I’m in the mood for one or the other project and I seem to find absence make the heart grow fonder, once I leave one project I can’t wait to get back to it which makes my daily word count rather large.

I’d be very interested to learn from other writers, find out what different methods work for different people so please feel free to leave a comment.

Till next time x

ImageI sometimes think as a writer I have a dual personality, Its something I learned as an actor, often observing myself as harmony and chaos collide then travel the same road together in perfect unison.

My life’s experiences both imagined and real, laid out on the page to form a new species which plays upon the red carpet that flows from my mind.

The ‘playground’ I create becomes the world in which the characters exist by amplifying true to life situations and taking them to their absolute extreme then blending them with perfect fiction with a definite idea of the emotion I want to create whilst simultaneously developing the character and moving the plot forward.

I’d like to share with you a piece from my Novel in Progress ‘Melek’ in which we take a step back and observe the serial killer as a child. Hope you enjoy, as always all comments welcome x

 

Daddy broke eye contact with her and looked at me. ‘Its my weekend, he’s my son’. He pleaded with her  ‘You cant just stop me from seeing him when you feel like it’ . ‘Well maybe next time you’ll think of this when you piss me off, now leave!’

I used to cry when this happened, but now, nothing. Mummy has taken my tears.

In the past daddy would walk out, I wouldn’t see him, and mummy, well she’d go to bed or go out into the back garden to have a cigarette, then she’d come back in and tell me what a terrible person he was. ‘I’m ten, not stupid’.

Daddy wasn’t a horrible person he just couldn’t stand up to mummy, and mummy, well she only smiled when daddy was upset.

I made her a hot chocolate when he left. I expected a violent reaction, shouting screaming, but the pills I put in her drink just made her sleep.

She never woke up.