The Locket + A Doodlepoem

Posted: September 24, 2015 in Uncategorized

Yesterday I wrote a piece of flash fiction for Whimword, an informal flashfic competition. Every week, they give you a word and you give them a story or poem of up to 500 words for their site. The winner chooses next week’s word.

This is my first time writing one, and I suspect it won’t be my last. This week’s word is ‘Locket’, and yesterday I at down and penned a Lovecraft pastiche that I was actually quite proud of. It’s not exactly stunningly original, far from it in fact. But I like it. Only problem? It was 600+ words.

Today I took a scalpel to the story, paring away anything that could be classed as surplus fat. After several goes, I took a machete to it. Turns out 500 words is difficult to stick to. Who knew? The mood changed as the cadence of the writing changed. I like the finished product, though in some ways I prefer the bloated one. Maybe I just need to mature as a writer.

I will post the story below, but first, I will also share a piece of what is becoming my writing process. When I need to sit down and write, I am getting into the habit of writing a sort of freeform stream of consciousness ramble, just to get words flowing before I light upon whatever I actually intend to write about. Tonks has said they look a bit like weird poetry, and as this is the literary equivalent of doodling, I shall call them Doodlepoems. Below, I share the one I wrote yesterday that lead me to write the story below it.

Test

Test vest rest guest quest

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy wait is the fox brown I thought they were red what the fuck

I don’t have a aim for this, I’m just going to doodle

I’m too tired and sad and hungry to focus

Focus hocus pocus louc louctus of borg

Typing until something sticks

Just waiting for the hooks to sink in and drag me aklong with them

This week’s whimwword is Locket

Locket

It’s a necklace that opens up

no shit sherlock

usually there’s a picture inside

a picture of a loved one

a picture of yourself

a picture of a toaster

it’s almost never a toaster

Doesn’t have to be a picture

a lock of hair

a tiny pebble

a grain of sand

Why would there be a grain of sand n the locket

to commemmorate th beach

a beach where something important happened

a long time ago

locket motherfucker

lock it

a lock of hair in the locked locket

the locket is locked and must never be opened

inside the locket is a secret

the secret must never be let out

david cameron fucked a pig

that’s not the secret

i just wanted to type that

The Locket

The locket belonged to my mother.

She told me never to open it, to keep it safe in its box in her basement. I forgot all about it until she died.

I ‘d been going through her things, sorting out what to give away and what to keep. The box was in a corner, small and insignificant. I opened it and found the locket tucked into a nest of papers. The papers were journal entries.

They told of a journey my mother had taken when she was a young anthropologist, a journey that took her all over the Pacific in study of local rituals and religions. That’s where she was given the locket. Her notes described the terrified people who begged her to take it far away from the sea. It was said to be connected to a series of deaths by drowning.

The notes didn’t specify what the locket contained. My mother received conflicting reports. She was told that it contained a grain of sand from the world’s first beach. The tear of a god from beyond the stars. A demon’s last breath. The soul of the sea itself.

I scoffed and didn’t read any more. I didn’t return the locket to its box, choosing instead to wear it.

That night the dreams began.

They started innocently enough. I dreamed of walking along a beach, letting the waves wash over my bare feet. As the nights went on, though, the dreams continued. I found myself wading out to sea until the waters closed over my head. I sank down to a ruined city of ancient cyclopean towers. The city was home only to fish that watched me with strangely human eyes.

By day I was exhausted, calling in sick to work, cutting off contact with my friends. Days blended into each other and I fell into a deep depression. By night I kept exploring, walking the streets until I found what I didn’t know I was looking for.

I found a temple.

I drifted up the aisles to a wide, squat altar. There was a groove in its surface where something would fit, needed to fit. In the last dream, I removed the locket and placed it on the altar. It fit.

There followed a terrible earthquake. The buildings came crashing down around me as the city rose above the waves. The sky was a maelstrom of clouds and fire, and on the distant shores I could see that the world was burning. It felt right. It felt good.

I awoke in a cold sweat, the locket clutched in one fist. It was open. It was empty.

I raised it to my ear. I could hear the sound of waves gently lapping. If I closed my eyes, I could smell seaweed and saltwater. The locket wanted to be returned to the sea. It needed to be returned to the sea.

Yesterday I booked a ticket aboard a Pacific crusie ship.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry.

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I’ve finally done it – I’ve gone and self-published my first ebook.

It’s called The Horror in the Library and Other Stories, and it can be found over on Smashwords where it will cost you the princely sum of zero of your English pounds. That’s right, it’s completely free!

Why? Well, there’s only four stories in there – it’s a sampler, a taste of things to come, a sort of literary EP. If I can get people to read it, maybe they’ll enjoy it. And if they enjoy it, maybe they’ll want more. And if they want more, maybe I’ll be motivated to write harder to give them more.

How can you read it if you don’t have a smartphone, a Kindle or other such device! I’m glad you asked! My recommendation is to download a program like Calibre – it’s free and will let you read ebooks of all different types and formats (which means you can take advantage of the Humble Bundle book bundles more often!). I’m reliably informed that there are browser extensions that will let you read ebooks in your browser, but to be honest I’m not sure how much I trust them, so downloader beware.

I’d like to ask you all a quick favour – even if you don’t want to read the stories (which is fair enough), could you please spare a moment to spread the link to the book around a little? That way it might get in the eyes of people I don’t know, which is an absolute win as far as I’m concerned.

If you do read the stories, be sure to tell me what you think in the comments!

Writing is hard. In my experience, it involves squinting hard at a screen then typing a handful of words, only to immediately delete most of them. Rinse, lather, repeat until braindeath. It’s nice when it comes easily, when you get into the flow of it, but that’s pretty rare for me.

That’s where writing exercises come in. I need to engage in these more often. They’re a way of flexing brain muscles that I’ve been letting atrophy. A drabble here, a stream of consciousness there. It doesn’t matter what I write, as long as I write.

One of my favourite exercises is the Six Word Story. The aim is to write a self-contained story that says everything it needs to say in just six words. The most famous one is attributed to Ernest Hemingway, though there’s doubt as to whether or not he actually wrote it : “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” There’s a whole story’s worth of sorrow in those six words alone.

I find it difficult to get a whole story in six words, but that’s why it’s a challenge. Here’s a few I came up with :

What goes up sometimes comes down.

I thrash, I flail, I sink.

I aim my gun. Still miss.

Since you left, I’ve been sleeping.

“Please don’t,” she said. I did.

“Please don’t.” I did it anyway.

Do Not Push? What could possibly-

No experience? No job for you.

Play it again, Sam. No? Ok.

Sad songs, empty glass. She’s gone.

Screams. Heart pounding. Crying. Baby boy.

“Look out for-!” SPLAT. “… never mind.”

My stomach hurts. Get it out.

Ate Dad. Could have tasted better.

Got super powers. Jumped. Couldn’t fly.

Dead on arrival. Why’s he moving?

Where’s the holy water? Oh shit.

I loved her. Now she’s gone.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Click.

Now cut the red NO WAIT

I should write. What’s on TV?

The stench of death. How lovely.

The words won’t come. Blank screen.

Plastic bottle, plastic bag, plastic flesh.

I bite down and drink deep.

The hunger burns. I eat more.

Feel free to share your own in the comments!

So there you have it. 30 Days, 30 blogposts. It was touch and go for a while there as to whether or not I was going to make it. As it is, I changed a few of the topics and juggled the order around at times to make it easier. And of course bent the rules a little here and there. It’s easy to justify a little mild cheating when it’s on my own terms and the stakes are so low.

To be honest, though, this month was partly an exercise in keeping up momentum and partly an excuse to talk about film. As you may have guessed, I love films. I love sitting down and losing myself in another world. I also love letting a less gripping film wash over me while I do other things – yes, shock of all shocks, I am capable of multitasking. Who’d have think it.

There’s something magic in the way you can really get caught up in a good story, It’s akin to the magic that can be found in a good book. It’s about story, and characters, and compelling narratives, and spectacle. Where the magic of books is a deep connection between two people, author and reader, the magic of film is a collaborative effort shared by hundreds.

I don’t really have anything deep to add. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading my posts and I hope that you may feel like you’ve gotten to know me a little better through them. I do think you can tell a lot about a person from their film tastes. For example, you can tell how pretentious they are or how much they love explosions.

Next month I’ll try and update a minimum of twice a week, though who knows what I’ll find to talk about. After that, though… ah, after that.

The nights are drawing in. The shadows are growing longer. The wind has begun to whistle eerily through the cracks in the walls, in the floor, in the fabric of reality itself.

October is coming…

Halloween is coming…

Horror is coming…

As you may know (because I won’t shut up about it), I have been known to make short films with my friends. I’m hoping to make this the first step on the road to becoming a professional filmmaker (though that’s a long way off at this stage). It’ll involve a lot of hard work and a lot of compromises – but that’s how you get started.

Clerks is the film with which nerd icon Kevin Smith started his career. He was working as, yes, a clerk in a store. in fact, it was the very store where he shot the movie. He would do his shift and then, after hours, film the movie there. He sold his entire comic book collection to finance the movie – though now he has bought it all back and then some. He cast his friends in bit parts, though he he got actual actors for the lead roles. Unknowns, but still. They also filmed in black and white, not to be arty or edgy, but because it was significantly cheaper.

Is the film perfect? No, not by a long stretch. It’s very cheaply made, and it shows. Some of the shots are clunky, the pacing isn’t always great and the sound quality isn’t great. But it’s made with heart, and that shows too. Everyone involved worked hard and had a good time doing it. The commentary on the Clerks X disc is worth the price of the DVD alone, as they talk about the behind the scenes procedures and so on.

When I watched the special features and listened to the commentary, I thought ‘I could do that’ – it’s a challenge, but it’s doable. I just had no idea how to start, and so I didn’t. Years went by, and then my friend James came up to me and said he wanted to make my short story Jeremy into a short film and would I like to help? And the rest is a well worn cliché.

If you have any interest in making films, you should watch this film and its commentary. You should also watch The Evil Dead and read about the steps they took to get that film made, it’s a real eye-opener. There’s much you can learn from those who came before you, but ultimately the best way to learn is to try and do.

And that’s all, folks! 30 Days, 30 blog posts, 30 movies (more or less). One blog post a day for a whole month, an entire month’s worth of writing! Thank goodness that’s over, all that writing was really getting to me. Now to sit back and return to my regularly schedu-

What? 31 days in August? Really?

Motherfu-

When you see a film in the cinema, it can go one of two ways. You can be distracted by those around you, as a child kicks the back of your seat and a bored teen checks their Twitter feed in front of you and sweet packets rustle all around you and you just want to go home… or you can be transported and whisked away into a shared state of induced hypnosis along with everyone else. There’s no middle ground.

When it goes right, I love the cinema experience. The swanky chairs, the overpriced popcorn, the sound that blasts you out of your seat. I always feel anxious going in that sitting in a room full of strangers will be awkward and uncomfortable – that’s rarely the case, though, even when I end up sitting next to a stranger. If I had more money, I’d go to the cinema more often.

Of course, you can’t catch every film in the cinema – especially not those from decades before you were born! I like to keep an eye out for screenings of classic movies, because there are plenty of films that I’d love to see at the cinema. I’ve caught Alien, ET, The Shawshank Redemption, The Godfather and 2001: A Space Odyssey. I hope to catch more soon.

Of all the films I’d love to see on the big screen, Sergio Leone’s Spaghetti Westerns are the ones that would kill me. I would die of sheer joy. His films are so epic in their scope, but I’ve only ever seen them on the small screen. The huge sweeping landscapes were shot for cinema, not living rooms. I want to experience them as they were intended. I want to get lost in that desert West, with gunslingers and duels and haunting melodies. I want to sit in that darkened room and be swallowed up by the grand scale of it all.

It’d be nice to see the Back to the Future trilogy in the cinema, or to be thrilled by Jaws on the big screen, but there’s something about the beauty of the Sergio Leone Westerns that makes me long to see them writ large.

If you ever spot one screening locally, please let me know!

I love telling jokes. There’s a craft to it – you can’t just mumble your way to the punchline and expect to get a laugh. It’s all in the delivery. It’s not even what you say, it’s how you say it – or in some cases how you don’t say it; a perfectly timed eyebrow-raise or sharp look can get just as many laughs as a witty bon mot.

I also love telling anti-jokes. Anti-jokes are in no way about the punchline – if anything, the punchline is usually a letdown. in an anti-joke, the point is the fun you have getting there. If I’ve never told you The Ducky Joke, remind me next time I’ve had a drink and I’ll show you what I mean. I’ve not told it in ages so I’m a bit rusty, but I’ll get back into the swing of it.

The greatest of the anti-jokes is The Aristocrats, the subject of this documentary. A legend from the days of vaudeville and variety, The Aristocrats isn’t so much a joke as a comedian’s exercise. The joke always starts the same way – a man walks into a talent agency and says ‘boy, have I got an act for you!’. He then proceeds to describe a family act, though in some versions he brings the family with him to act it out in the hapless agent’s office. The act is invariably a vile, crude, offensive, lewd, scatological, gross, abusive nightmare, getting worse and worse as the joke goes on, with all sorts of horrendous actions and bodily fluids all over the place. It reaches a crescendo and comes to an end, after which point the dazed and horrified talent agent asks ‘what the hell do you call an act like that?’ And the man says, ‘the aristocrats!’.

I told you, it’s an anti-joke. The point of it isn’t that the punchline is funny, it’s that the joke takes a long time to tell and racks up the horrified laughs. And this documentary discusses its form, its function, its merits and the different ways it can be employed.

The ‘cast’ of the documentary are a whole host of comedians, including the late great Robin Williams, many of whom tell their own version of the joke. It’s a fascinating insight into the mechanics of comedy and a chance to laugh at dick jokes all in one. The comedians discuss punchlines and why the joke works and tell other, similar jokes along the way. Some of the jokes hit better than others, but when someone like George Carlin or Whoopi Goldberg is onscreen, you can’t help but listen and laugh along with them.

As the documentary goes on, you find yourself thinking up your own version. You can’t stop yourself. The Aristocrats is an anti-joke in which you express your innermost squicks, because you inevitably fill the act with the things you find the most offensive. It’s like a game of Cards Against Humanity that way.

Get me drunk enough and maybe I’ll tell you mine…