Category Archives: fiction
On #InternationalCatDay, here are three of the feline heroes from Warren Peace.
A short piece for Miranda Kate’s flash challenge using the picture on the right there. The title was a gift from my lovely friend @sparkleytwinkle, though obviously since she’s not a Forties blues singer in New York the protagonist is not her.
Miss Pink almost purred at the ethereal light that cascaded through the arched blue-glass roof. The old subway station was all curves, from the roof to the track and platform curving on a tight bend. The space would be perfect for her new venture, The Pink Blues Club. The station had been closed at the war’s end, three months ago, and sold off cheaply by a City Hall desperate for funds. The proceeds from her last record had easily covered the cost.
She could just picture it; the platform could be extended over the tracks to form a wall-to-wall floor, a bar would run along the inner wall, a small stage at this end, private booths around the curve at the other. She was willing to bet that the arched roof would give great acoustics. She cleared her throat and sang:
Willow weep for me. Willow weep for me.
Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me.
Listen to my plea. Hear me willow and weep for me.
Lord, but the sound was glorious! She could just imagine a packed Pink Blues Club, glasses clinking, blue smoke curling upwards, happy punters chattering, dancing and spending money, Dizzy playing up a storm behind her. She smiled at the vision. A high sound pierced the silence and echoed at the far end of the platform, around the curve. It sounded a little like a child, laughing. She waited silently for a minute, but it did not repeat. Damn her imagination. She should not have chosen that song. It brought back memories of two small bundles wrapped in black, and being covered with earth beneath a willow tree on a cold, rainy night. Miss Pink shuddered. She had started to hope that those memories might be buried forever. She considered leaving to find a bar for a big, dirty martini, but she had always hated to leave any song unfinished. It seemed as though it would hurt the song’s feelings to leave the end unsung. She snorted at herself; it was only a song after all. Nevertheless, she took a deep breath and threw herself into the second verse.
Gone my lovely dreams. Lovely summer dreams.
Gone and left me here to weep my tears along the stream.
Sad as I can be. Hear me willow and weep for me.
There it was again, that laughter … and now it was joined by another child’s voice, giggling away. Miss Pink jumped a little as two small shadows emerged from behind a rickety booth at the distant end of the platform. God in heaven. The figures skipped along the platform hand-in-hand, laughing. As they got closer she saw they were boy and girl, perhaps three or four years old. What on earth were they doing down here? Where were their parents? Come to that, how had they got down here? This place was locked up tighter than a rat’s fanny. Now they were closer she could see that they were dressed in simple black smocks, and skipped barefoot along the cold stone platform. It was winter, for Christ’s sake, what were their parents thinking of? The children halted before her. They were, she had to admit, remarkably pretty, although their hair could have done with a brush. The boy gave a small bow, and the girl a charming little curtsey.
“Hello, Mother,” they said in unison.
Whisper to the wind and say that love has sinned.
To leave my heart a sign and crying alone.
Murmur to the night and hide her starry light
So none will find me sighing, crying all alone.
Miss Pink’s blood pounded in her ears. Her fingers trembled. Ice pierced her heart. No. No, this could not be; it was impossible. These children had broken in here somehow and were playing some sort of malevolent game.
“Who … who are you?” she asked.
“You never did give us names,” the girl said. “You just squirted us out, smashed our skulls and buried us beneath the willow out back.”
“God in heaven!”
“Oh no,” said the boy, in a tone far beyond his apparent years. “Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s beyond time you paid for the innocent blood you spilled that night.”
“Far beyond,” the girl said. “And look: here comes your train now.”
The rust-red rails began to sing, and a hot wind was pushed out of the tunnel behind Miss Pink.
“But I was … I was in a panic, terrified!” Miss Pink said. “Your father left as soon as he found out I was pregnant. And I was unmarried – if people had found out, my career, my life, would have been ruined. The shame, you see. People don’t forgive that sort of thing.”
“You stole our lives from us that night,” the boy said. “Now it’s our turn to steal yours.”
Miss Pink spun about as the noise from the tunnel rose to a screech. A subway train emerged from the dark mouth with a roar. The driver grinned at her, rotting teeth in a naked skull, and in utter despair she read the destination board: ‘The Flames of Hell’.
Willow weep for me. Willow weep for me.
Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me.
Listen to my plea. Hear me willow and weep for me.
“We’re here,” Lovell said. “Remember that the Professor might not be what you expect.”
“An eccentric professor?” I said. “What are the odds?”
“Just let me do the talking.” He pulled a handle by the door and a bell rang somewhere inside the cottage. It had taken me much guile, and not a little expense, to persuade Lovell to effect an introduction to the mysterious Professor Cuthbert. Many of the incredible inventions that we now take for granted as we approach the twentieth century originated in the mind of the reclusive Professor; the fountain pen and the gramophone to name but two miracles of the modern age.
When Lovell had told me at the club that he knew the Professor personally, I was determined to elicit an invitation to visit. Who would not want to encounter such a remarkable mind? To ask a hundred questions, and perhaps be made privy to what was coming next? It had taken me no little time, but finally Lovett had agreed to take me to see the Professor, and after a long railway journey and a bumpy ride in a brougham, we stood before the front door of a small country cottage in rural Suffolk.
In response to a second tug of the bell-pull, the door opened to reveal a woman with a cloud of grey hair held flat by a pair of goggles pushed back over her forehead. She wore a leather apron, a man’s shirt and trousers, and she held a hammer in her left hand. She seemed to me to be very old indeed, perhaps even into her fifties.
“Jamie!” she cried to Lovell, “How lovely to see you!” Her lined face crinkled even more as she smiled broadly.
“Good afternoon, Catherine,” Lovell said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought along a friend who has been dying to meet you.”
“Not at all,” the woman said. “You’re just in time for afternoon tea. There are more than enough scones to feed a regiment. Do introduce me to your chum, dear boy.”
“Of course,” Lovell grinned at my shocked expression. “Catherine, I would like to introduce you to my friend, the right honourable Cecil Tilbury Moffat. Cecil, please meet Professor Catherine Cuthbert.”
“But you’re a woman!” I blurted out.
“He’s very observant, isn’t he?” Professor Cuthbert said to Jamie.
“Don’t let that vacant expression put you off, he really is a big admirer of your work. Cecil, where are your manners? Doff your hat.” I lifted my topper absent-mindedly, staring at the woman in front of me.
“Is that so, Mr. Moffat?” the Professor asked. “Which of my inventions caught your interest first?”
“You’re wearing trousers!” I babbled. The Professor and Lovell burst into laughter
“Come,” the Professor commanded. “You have arrived at an opportune moment. I am in sore need of a person of just your height to test my latest invention. And then we shall have scones.” She led us around the house and through a back-garden jungle to a large wooden shed. Projecting horizontally out of the left wall of the shed was what appeared to be a garden fence, clearly very securely attached for it stuck out some six feet above the flower beds. Professor Cuthbert struck a pose as if demonstrating a particular clever trick performed by a music hall prestidigitator.
“Ta da!” she said. I stared at her. “Well?” she asked. “What do you think, Mr. Moffat?”
“It’s … a very nice shed.” I was bewildered. Lovell had warned me of eccentricity, but even so. The Professor sighed and stood normally.
“Put him straight, Jamie,” she said. Lovell grinned. He was enjoying my discomfort far too much.
“This shed,” he said, indicating the shed, “is not a shed. This is Professor Cuthbert’s remarkable vessel to facilitate the exploration of the echoing cosmos above our heads.”
“What?” I said. I realised that perhaps that was not the considered response that might be called for, so I spoke again. “No, what?” I said.
“Young man,” Professor Cuthbert said. “This is an airborne vessel. It uses the invisible power of magnetism to free it of the bonds that bind us to this earth.”
“It’s made of wood.” I suggested, helpfully.
“Yes, well spotted, for a metal vessel would interfere with the magnetic forces needed to lift it beyond our atmosphere. This, my deliciously vacant chap, is a craft that will travel into space itself. A space-ship, if you will.”
“A space-shed?” I ejaculated.
“Ship,” said Lovell. “Space-ship.”
“Now, young man,” the Professor said. “Would you be so kind as to do me a favour? Would you please enter the craft and sit in the pilot’s seat? Jamie is way too tall, and it is imperative that I adjust the outer buoyancy cogs to allow for the weight of a passenger.”
“And then shall we have scones?” I asked.
“And then scones, yes,” she said.
“Very well,” I agreed. “What would you have me do?”
“Go inside, and sit in the seat before the window. Put on the air-helmet that you will find there, and then just sit back and enjoy the pleasant view that you will have of my cherry tree.”
“That’s all. I shall make my adjustments, then call you out for scones once I have finished. Whatever you do, however, do not touch the red lever.”
“I shall certainly venture nowhere near any levers, madam,” I promised. I entered the shed, and wound my way through a clutter of equipment to what was clearly a captain’s chair by the shed window. On the chair sat a large glass bubble, presumably the Professor’s air-helmet. I removed my hat and put the helmet over my head. It was surprisingly comfortable, although it took some time to get the thing the right way round so that I could see. I sat in the captain’s chair and looked out of the window.
The Professor’s cherry tree was nowhere to be seen. The Professor’s garden was nowhere to be seen. The shed now hovered high in the arched heavens. Miles below a vast sweep of sunlit cloud swept across the surface of the planet. Somehow, I was now many leagues above Suffolk. But … how? I lifted my top-hat from the hat-peg. The red hat-peg. Or, as I now realised it must be, the red lever. I had inadvertently launched the space-shed with my hat.
What next? I had no idea, but now that they were out of my reach I truly fancied a scone.
”But Wombie,” I hear you ask, “How on earth did that picture inspire this story? What has a jetty to do with a Victorian inventor?” When you get no inspiration, try a different angle – I just flipped the picture … and there my tale was: a wooden spaceship floating above a cloud-cloaked planet. Tricksy.
Yes, yes, I know you could go check the “Buy my books” page, but to be honest can any of you be arsed to do that? I doubt I’d bother. With that thought in mind, here’s a list of my published books so far (of course there’s much more Wombie out there in Kindle standalones, stories in magazines & the like, but it would take YONKS to list them). If you fancy reading any of these books, find them on Lulu or Amazon. If you already HAVE read any, thank you and I love you and please leave a review somewhere.
WARREN PEACE: Novel. The Magnificent 7 with fur. “Warren Peace got me through the day”.
FOG: Novel. Sexy, funny, violent – Best Mystery, 2016 #Siba Book Awards. “Had me gripped from page one”.
CUBIC SCATS: Essays. A smorgasbord of Northcentric nonsense & recipes. “Where did you put the bread knife?”
MOTH GIRL v THE BATS: Novella. Steampunky sci-fi fun. “There’s a real excitement to this work”.
BLOOD ON THE GROUND: Short stories. A dozen dollops of wicked whimsy. “Good reading even for a scary cat like myself”.
SOUL OF THE UNIVERSE (editor): Stories inspired by music. “This collection will captivate you, pervade your senses and absolutely enchant you”.
CUTTHROATS AND CURSES (editor): An anthology of pirates. “The greatest assortment of pirate stories anywhere”.
MURDER AT WOMBAT TOWERS: Private novel with a limited print run.
HUMAN 76 (editor): Collaborativer. Fourteen authors take you on an unprecedented post-apocalyptic journey. “Thought-provoking, layered: a real gem”.
THE MUSEUM OF WHITE WALLS: Forty-one monkeybonkers tales & three poems. “The only book for you if you want to see this quote on the back cover”.
A short love story for Miranda Kate’s Midweek Flash Challenge.
I first met Midge beneath the Timothy Whites clock about a week ago. In the blackout it is sometimes difficult even to see your own hands, let alone other people’s, and she’d walked right into me. It was the first night of my week’s leave, and I was lonely as hell. When your whole life consists of sitting in a Halifax bomber with six other chaps, interlaced with periods of drinking yourself semi-conscious in the company of those same men, going on leave comes as a bit of a shock to the system. It’s hard to know what to do with the silence, for a start.
I am the bomb aimer; the bod who actually pushes the button to drop the bomb. I must admit I’ve never thought too deeply about what I do. I push a button, the bomb slides silently through the darkness, and an orange flower blooms below to delight the stars that look down. The thought that there might be people down there has never entered my head.
That evening I’d been to the cinema to see ‘The Stars Look Down’; a slow film about injustices in the mining community. Margaret Lockwood is in it, but even her considerable charms had proved insufficient that night to retain my interest, and I’d left half way through. The blackout was in full force, but a hazy half-moon cast enough of a glow to see. Or so I thought. Her fists caught me full in the family jewels, and I’m afraid to say I let out rather a girlish squeak.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you. Is that an RAF uniform? Very good for hiding in the shadows, isn’t it? I usually carry a little torch, but the battery ran out.” I fell in love with her voice before I even saw her face. And her scent; a heady crescendo of sandalwood, amber, clove and bergamot.
“Are you quite alright, Miss..?” I left the question there for her to answer, or not. My heart did a little twist when she did.
“My name’s Midge,” she trilled. “Well, it’s Margaret really, but that’s only ever used by Mother when I’m in her bad books.”
“Flying Officer Hillary Fields,” I bowed, though I doubt she could see.
“Well now, Flying Officer Hillary Fields, perhaps you might assist a lady in distress? I seem to have got myself turned around in the dark. I was trying to find the cinema.”
Squadron Leader Charlton always berates me for my reticence with ladies; for not grasping opportunity when it is presented to me. “War is the biggest uncertainty there is, Hills, my boy,” he’d said that very morning, “and in uncertainty lies endless possibility. Promise me, when you’re in The Smoke you’ll grab the very next opportunity that presents itself.”
With these words in mind, of course I turned on my heels and escorted Midge to the cinema. Of course I paid for us both to go in and watch the film that I’d walked out of an hour previously. And of course I saw her home safely afterwards, and arranged to meet her at a small cafe the following afternoon.
Every day after that we met beneath the Timothy Whites clock. We visited art galleries, museums, and more than one cinema; Midge had a bit of a thing about Michael Redgrave. One sunny day we went boating, and one evening we even went dancing. Me, dancing! This woman had freed a pilgrim soul in me that I did not know existed. Over the course of six days I fell for Midge hook, line and sinker. This very afternoon I bought a ring from a backstreet jeweller in Soho, and had smiled to imagine Midge’s face when I dropped to one knee to present it to her. I heard the bomb go off, funnily enough, a low muffled roar beneath the traffic noise as I left the jeweller’s. Just the one bomb, most likely dropped by a straggler from a raid many miles away.
The Timothy Whites clock was shattered, though half of the face still clung defiantly to the remains of the brickwork. The Timothy Whites building itself had been transformed into rubble. Midge, who had been waiting for me as usual beneath the clock, had been ripped apart as a German pushed a button, letting slip a bomb into the darkness, and an orange flower bloomed below him. War doesn’t even know that we’re here, and it won’t notice when we go. War is uncertain, and the stars look down upon the tatters of my dreams.
Another disturbing tale for Miranda, who likes them short. This one is here in its entirety.
I knew I had to have her as soon as I saw her. She was breathtaking. She was golden. Her skin gave out a faint glow; a sheen that was both powerful and sexual. She moved wildly, free of care, lost to the emotions of her dance. Her movements emphasised her shape; the roundness of her hip, the plumpness of her breasts. Her lips were slightly parted in a half-smile that sped my pulse, and an exotic difference to the cast of her eye drew me closer.
I wanted her. I was in a dark mood and I knew what I wanted, and I wanted her. The women, you see, it’s always the women. They awaken a feeling I don’t get from the males.
I waited until she was facing away from me before moving silently behind her. I grabbed her neck and forced her face down onto the pebbles. She struggled, of course, but my magpulse bracers always make any such retaliation fruitless. I pushed her face into the packed stones of the beach, and raised my machete. Three forceful hacks, and the wing came free from her shoulder blade. Her screams, as is usually the case when I obtain a new trophy, only added to the joy of acquisition. I gripped the root of her other wing, then looked up.
The blue sun was dipping below the rim of the ocean. I had watched her for too long before acting, and left myself with little time to get back to my ship. The nights on this planet could reach cryo temps remarkably quickly. Just the one wing, then. I lifted it to catch the last of the sun’s rays. It shimmered gold and blue and coquelicot. Even without its twin it would look magnificent mounted between the fin of the piscine girl I’d killed last, and that sex-frond from Anemone-3. I left her sobbing and dying, and swiftly reached the ship. I clambered through the hatch and pulled the wing in after me.
Now, where should I go next? There was a bipedal species near the outer rim, apparently, where the women only had two breasts and no sex-frond. Their planet circled a yellow sun, so I’d have to wear an EM-Veil, but it would be worth the effort to obtain a skin of that rarity. I flicked the controls and engaged the Magpulse Drive.
A very short piece for Miranda Kate’s Midweek Flash Challenge. You should totally go there and read the other stories. Maybe even write one yourself if the picture prompt makes you go WHOA MAMA like it did me.
“Imagine if you had clocks in your eyes and could see through time. Where – or rather when – would you look first? Would you draw down a hazy veil across the present and set your gaze instead to the dinosaurs? See for yourself the Titanic strike an iceberg? Or would you rather watch what really happened at Calvary, all those dusty years ago? Or something more personal: your own birth, perhaps?”
The professor peered across at me, eyes sparkling. I sighed, and hoisted my bosom more comfortably. “That’s very nice, Professor,” I said. Sometimes you had to humour him when he was in one of his excitable moods, all aerated and full of gusto. He’s as mad as a wet hen, but a proper genius. When it comes to science, no-one understands more, but with anything else he’s clueless. I folded my arms across my floral pinny.
“Very nice indeed, but I need a decision. Chicken or pork for your evening meal?”
“I can do it, Mrs. MacPherson!” he ignored my question, and waved a shiny object that looked like three forks taped together with a green pocket watch. “I can do it right now, with this! My calculations prove it!” he gestured towards his blackboard, a huge thing that blotted out any light that might have entered his study from outside. On it was a confusion of numbers and squiggles that only made sense to the professor. The front of his tweed waistcoat was covered by chalk-dust. I would have to pop that in the wash later.
“It has long been known that nothing can travel faster than light,” the professor raved, with nary a mention of chicken or pork. “I have discovered, however, that in certain circumstances, light itself can be accelerated beyond its usual speed. A gas of cold caesium, held within something as small as a simple pocket watch,” he waved his strange device once more, “and excited with a laser produces secondary ripples of light, leading to a wave distortion so large it causes the group velocity to become negative, which means the peak of the wave pulse appears to exit the gas before it enters! In other words, the light waves run backwards and we can see into times other than our own!”
“Chicken or pork, professor?” I persisted. “If I don’t get it in the oven soon it’ll be brawn sandwich again.”
“What? Chicken! Chicken, woman! What does it matter? I must commence my experiment immediately – but what should be my first port of call? I could watch Romans invading Britain, or perhaps look ahead to the unknown? Hmmm, perhaps…”
“Chicken it is,” I said, and left him to his experiments. Honestly, if it wasn’t for me I’m certain he’d forget to eat entirely. I busied myself in the kitchen for the afternoon; plucking and preparing the chicken, doing a little cleaning, having a small sherry, putting taters on to roast. When the meal was ready, I put his on a tray and carried it through to the study.
He was clearly dead, but I neither screamed nor dropped the tray. We do not do that sort of thing in Scotland. I put the tray down carefully and crossed to where the professor lay sprawled across his desk. His strange fork-watch device was attached to his eye, from which a grey fluid oozed. Beneath his hand lay a scribbled letter, which he had clearly been in the middle of writing:
These brief scratchings must serve as my final will and testament. Through hubris I sought to tread paths of scientific glory, but they have indeed led me to the grave – Thomas Gray had the right of it. My new time device works. It is a scientific marvel indeed, as proven by my first experiment. I had thought to look into the future, to see where science may take us in fifty years. What I saw, however, was my own end, brought about by the very device that I was testing. I can feel it now, pushing ever more forcefully against my eyeball. I am unable to disengage its mechanism. I fear I do not have long.
My house and all its contents I leave with gratitude for all her ministrations to the redoubtable Mrs. MacPherson, to do with as she wishes. I commit my soul into the hands of Almighty God, my final act on his earth.
Professor Fletcher Campbell, 3rd Marc…
Here the note ended. I sat down and ate the chicken.
When did you start writing?
AB: I think perhaps I’ve always told myself stories when I might otherwise have been bored, particularly when I couldn’t sleep (I’ve always been a night owl, and I used to have a pretty rigidly enforced bed time). From my teens onwards I’d try to write a novel now and then, but I was fairly easily distracted until I had an idea for a series of short stories for one of the protagonists I’d toyed with most often. I finally gave her a regular antagonist and started writing outlines for the series, and one of them took off like a rocket and became Black Knight (The Novel That No One Will Ever See – not in anything like its current form, anyway).
Whilst I was wondering what to do with it I went back to the first outline, and it became Viennese Waltz – although only after a long period in the back of the cupboard when I thought that it was just an itch I’d successfully scratched. It still has one line in it that’s only there to support a scene in Black Knight, but I’m not telling you which one.
KJC: Story telling just seems like something I’ve done all my life. I remember a writing project in sixth grade (approx. age 11) that I enjoyed. But I think my real passion for writing started with a creative writing class I took in high school. My teacher said I would be published some day. I’m thankful to have benefited from her encouragement.
Do you write to a schedule, or as and when the mood strikes?
AB: I’m terribly decadent in my writing habits, and that’s how it’s likely to stay. I know just how slim the chances are of making a living at this game, and for me the risk of turning writing into a chore is one I’m not willing to take on those odds.
KJC: It’s definitely a free-for-all. I’ve tried to have a schedule, but if characters just aren’t willing to talk to me, it reflected in my writing.
What 3 things are guaranteed to make you smile?
AB: Smelling my honeysuckle from half way up the street as I walk home on a summer evening. The first day that I walk out of my front door and find the street full of swifts (I always feel a little bit guilty about this, because they nest round the corner from us so that we get the joy and not the hassle). A long and well told shaggy dog story wound up with a particularly excruciating pun.
KJC: The Chicago Cubs, piglets, and new lip gloss.
Who’s your favourite author?
AB: This changes a great deal, depending on my mood and what I’ve been reminded of recently, but today I’ll say Ursula K Le Guin, for writing such wonderfully alien alien cultures, and (to steal a phrase shamelessly from a friend) for being so damn humane.
KJC: I think I’d have to go with Anne Rice. She impresses me on so many levels. She launches herself into research when prepping a new story. She invokes every sense when she’s telling her story. She simultaneously leaves you satisfied and wanting more. I think if Anne were to read and comment on my work, I’d lose my mind.
Where do you do most of your writing?
AB: In notepads. Sorry, I don’t mean to be facetious, but there isn’t really one main place – in bed, on buses, in the kitchen at work (to be absolutely clear, there’s no comma missing there, I don’t write on company time) – anywhere, when the story is keen enough to be told. I don’t think I’ve actually written anything in a supermarket queue yet, but it’s a definite possibility.
KJC: At work over lunch hours or home on weekends.
Do you have any pets?
AB: I usually say we have an indeterminate number of cats. That’s three real residents and a shifting population of feral visitors in varying stages of socialisation. This is all my husband’s fault, and I’m still trying to deny that I’m in any way a cat person, but it’s a hard sell when there’s a cat sleeping on your pillow.
We also have a tortoise. The cats are fascinated, but don’t seem to classify him as a living being, fortunately. I assume it’s because he smells all wrong.
KJC: I just said good-bye to my Main Man Maximus. He was my wonderfully spastic toy fox terrier. His dedicated fur face will be hard to replace. However, my cat, Isis, is still sassy and insolent, as cats are much expected to be.
What’s your favourite book, and what are you reading at the moment?
AB: This is another one that depends on the mood you catch me in, but I’ve been saying Nevil Shute’s Lonely Road for a while now. It’s generally placed as one of his pre-war books, and I read it first as just a good yarn, but that’s not fair. For one thing it has a gloriously odd opening chapter, written from the point of view of someone who was extremely drunk at the time and somewhat concussed immediately afterwards – I’m rather impressed that his publishers were willing to run with it, given that he wasn’t an established name at the time. Secondly, there’s actually a grim post-war theme at the heart of it (it’s listed in the pre-war group because it was written before WWII). In a lot of ways it puts me in mind of Rebecca, but with the advantage that I don’t want to grab the protagonists by the scruffs of their necks and scream ‘just bloody talk to one another’ at them.
At the moment I’m working through all the Saint books (yes, as in the pre-Bond Roger Moore series) that we have in the house, which is rather more than we did – I picked up a dozen or so in a charity shop recently, some new to me, some that I read in my teens and had pretty much forgotten, so I’m reading them in order, which is interesting – for one thing the first few are much more serious than I expected, but on the other hand one of the light hearted collections that I’d always assumed was a later one (without ever thinking to glance at the copyright page) is actually from very close to the beginning.
KJC: There was a book my Grandpa used to read to me all the time called “Who Are You Looking At?” that is my all time favorite. I know, kid’s book… but nostalgia wins here. And although I have plenty on my To Be Read list, I’m not currently reading anything.
eReader or physical books?
AB: For me this totally depends on what’s most convenient at the time. Physical books probably edge it because I haven’t found an e-reader that’s as comfortable to read as a paperback yet (I’m willing to assume that this is purely because I’m such a cheapskate) and because the local library has a rather slender collection of e-books.
KJC: Both. I don’t have to choose!
If reading and writing were banned, what would you do instead?
Play with the cats. No, obviously not that, because I’m not a cat person. I’d say walk more, but I’m not twenty anymore and my ankles hate me, and I assume that listening to Radio 4 Extra is disqualified by association. I don’t know. I might have to actually talk to my husband.
KJC: Write in secret.
If your Glint story were to be filmed, who would you cast as the main character?
AB: I usually throw up a complete blank for fantasy casting, but for Chrissy I think Stephanie Cole would be perfect. (If you’re struggling to think of a Stephanie Cole character being nice to someone, even for cynical reasons, you haven’t heard of Cabin Pressure, which is a shame.) I’ll bet that the first character you thought of at her name was the black widow of Open All Hours, Delphine Featherstone, and perhaps the thought of her using her feminine wiles on anyone was a startling one, but what she and Chrissy share is a hard, guarded cynicism that’s hard to set aside, but harder still to live within.
KJC: Third Rosemary would be a newcomer. I can’t see anyone playing her.
What 3 things (not including paper, computer, pens) would you like to facilitate a good days writing?
AB: Can I have a force field to keep the cats off the keyboard? Or does that count as general writing implements?
Sticking to the realm of things that actually exist, plenty of nibbles, a dull job to alternate with the writing (weeding and polishing things are both good), and a good dollop of guilt (this seems to work equally well whether it’s generated by the thought that there’s something more important that I should be doing or by a deadline).
KJC: Music, cheesy poofs, and a minion to rub my shoulders and bring me tea.
If you could genetically cross and animal with a fruit or vegetable what would you choose and why? (When I was asked this for Tattooed Mummy’ blog I invented a Potato Spider, spinning its intricate webs of French Fries and Waffles.)
AB: If I can stretch the definition to include herbs I’d love to hybridize the cats with something to make them self-deodorising, like mint or parsley. Better still, bay – a bay-cat snoozing in the sunshine would smell divine, and be a delight to all the senses.
If I must have a fruit or vegetable I’ll cross them with lemons, please, because someone told me once that if you leave a lemon on the tree it unripens in the winter and re-ripens next summer & if that’s true then you would always have kittens to cheer you up in February, and mature cats to leave you alone to get on with stuff in summer. I did mention, didn’t I, that I’m not a cat person? Not at all. Honest.
KJC: I want a Grape Kangaroo…. a never ending supply of grapes. Reach into her pouch and BAM!… Grapes.
Fancy forty-one tales and three poems from out of my head? Read tales of Robin Hood, torture, unicorns, death, poo, toffee apples, giant spaceships, stuffed dogs and more. With additional stories from the highly talented Alex Brightsmith, KJ Collard and Ellie Cooper, this collection might just burst all over you while you’re reading. So, you know, sorry about that.
One problem with publishing a collection of forty-one disparate short stories (and three poems!) is deciding what to do with the cover. Do you clutter it with references to every story, or just pick a few items? I decided to go a third way, and just embrace the title story. When Thom White graciously agreed to continue our association for a fifth book, I specified “spare, simple, almost brutalist” for the cover. Here’s what he made:
He did a brilliant job. I love how the fold between front cover and spine form the corner of a wall spattered with blood. That wonky ‘THE’ emphasises the original subtitle of this book: forty-one tales of a world askew. It’ll certainly stand out amongst a slew of other covers on Amazon, and be easy to find on your bookshelf. Notice also that my running man motif continues, here making his first appearance on the spine.
“The Museum of White Walls” will be available on Saturday, for Kindle and in paperback from Lulu (then a few days later on Amazon when it filters through). Thom, you talented bugger.