The creak of the barn door excites him as much as it did four years ago. Echoes of “weirdo”, “misfit”, “oddball” fade as he sees the shimmer of gold shell,the faint fissure crack, the ooze within.
Just a few more months.
He inches closer to the eggpen,pats the straw, wipes the struts of protective wire. Hiding in plain sight was a phrase he learned years ago and it serves him well. The jester-prince is in his thrall; bestowing years of flattery and bamboozelement have stuck in his throat but his creation is complete. Lowering himself has come to fruition.
The urge to cradle the egg is strong – he turns. Discipline is essential for some, on carefully curated occasions, and he needs to experiment with how it might feel. Also he there is a faint chance it may fall from his hands.
As if. He could never be so foolish. No this is the time to open the cage and breathe in its beauty for one last time before….
“Sir, sir, there’s another egg. Quick sir they say it’s important. More important. “
the boy glances sidelong at the eggpen. No one is supposed to know. Many do, but the knots of acceptability are so tangled most workers stay silent for fear of each other. Especially errand boys like this one.
“I’ll have you whipped for falsehood and fakery! Nothing is more important than this. Nothing. We will be richer and more powerful than the outlanders and northfolk ever imagined.”
“But it’s here. Here,packed in a velvet lined box. It looks more important …”
the boy tails off at the sight of his glare. It was a new one he’d been practising. Good to have chance to try it out. He flashes it again. The boy scurries out.
He lopes off, carefully arranging his face somewhere between sullen and smirk. The crowds of scroll masters and criers irk him more than usual. Whispers about an egg that would change the world play about his ears and he feels the work, all the work begin to whittle away. He makes a note to organise those monks to amend his ledgers.
Battling through the odorous masses, enraptured by the jester-prince on the steps, he steps on the cats tail. Not for the first time. He would have kicked it – but the masses never approve. Another thing to iron out.
He reaches the main hall. There it is. Small. Much smaller than his beautiful golden wonder . Darkest green, iridescent, a jewel in its centre. The kind of dark beauty he dreams of but always slips from his pallid grasp.
Scowling at the chattering fools gathered around, plugging his ears to their talk of how mysterious – almost powerful – it looks, he clatters out of the room to his basement,bellowing instructions that he is not to be disturbed and issuing demands for ink and candles. This sort of thing always finds its way beyond the walls and he fancies it makes him more fearsome.
He dreams of the egg all night. Outshimmering his glorious gold creation. His moment. His chance to show them that he is the cleverest of them all.
He wakes with a start! This could work to his advantage – the people could pay the price of both eggs. He’d just tell them the new egg was a fake, a hoax a lot of nonsense. Bide his time. Once they’d seen the hatching it would be too late. But he needs to act fast.
They line up as instructed. Alchemist, jester, taxman. Monks have been scribing just three words on parchment since his three am epiphany
Gold
Beats
Green
The phrase adorns the walls of the courtyard,on banners sewn by the tailors. He even hears it whispered.The sound of his genius muttered by the masses gives him a thrill like no other. Finally.
The egg bearers assemble. Three for the imposter,fourteen for his. That kind of thing is important. The carpenters have worked for hours constructing the egg carriage,lined with silk, not a whisp of straw in sight. Imposter egg? A plain brown box,turned so the dark hearted jewel could not be seen. At the last minute he fashions a few artful tears to make it even more lowly. Oddly satisfying to work with his hands.
At the sight of his nod from behind the drape, the egg bearers begin their parade. The crowd begins to chant Gold Beats Green, Gold,Beats Green. He feels his foot tap. Frivolous nonsense. He allows a smile. It will work. They will forget and just get back to paying attention his beautiful, beautiful golden marvel.
The cat.
The cat saunters. The cat turns. The cat stares. Green eyes lock with insipid blue.
The cat saunters. The crowd purrs. The cat darts. The eggs tumble. The shells shatter
The stench. The stench. The stench seeps to throats and nostrils, tears spring to eyes, skin begins to blister.
“Gold beats green
Gold beats green
Gold beats…”
the jester-prince stops beating his marotte, looks around to see if anyone is still joining in. He stops and scans the courtyard for an exit.
The crowd turns. A small girl whispers to her mother, who whispers to her sister who speaks a little louder and the clamour begins to rise. The stench is from the egg. No one knows which one. They both look so different but even the lowliest amongst them knows a bad egg is a bad egg. There are mutterings that the torn box egg is still intact, people begin to look, but it is no-where to be seen.Not even the torn box. Fragments of gold shell lie all around and the stench is rising. But the golden egg cannot be bad. The golden egg cannot…be bad?
Those who can begin to move, to march. Jester-prince has fled. Taxman counts. Alchemist tries to treat the sickest. The drape flutters. The cat sniffs at a speck of yolk.
Tag Archives: #shortfiction
I submit…
Lots and lots of submissions sent today, it’s a funny mix of happy excitement (they might accept) and nervous negativity (they might not) but the good far outweighs the bad. Having work accepted for publication validates it somehow; it moves beyond just being liked by kind friends, and into something that is valued by people who want to sell their magazine or increase traffic to their blog. Having said that, the loveliest feedback is when someone takes time to get in touch to say how a poem moved them. Writing needs to be read, and knowing someone has felt some kind of resonance is the most precious thing.
Health has been frustratingly up and down…four days laid up last week but, thrill of thrills, I managed two outings with dear old friends last week, which lifted me and left me feeling warm and loved. Marvellous stuff. Exciting things are happening work-wise too, and I’m hoping to bring more news soon.
I’ve a couple more pieces to polish before sending off, then I’m going to knuckle back down to doing some actual writing. I have a fancy to write some short fiction again, so I’m at the germinating ideas stage which is always exciting.
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It’s kind of like a drug…..
……this writing lark. The more I do the more I want to do and the more my brain pesters me with ideas and random sparks of sentences. I’m obsessive by nature, and easily become fixated on things. Sometimes my brain actually hurts (you’re allowed to think of the Gumbies) and that is when I have to stop, and that is when it gets really frustrating. I suppose it’s like a runner pulling a muscle.
What has caused this fizz of enthusiasm ? I think it’s partly time. I’ve been hibernating, not gardening, not going out and not seeing many people at all. I’ve had the luxury of waking up with nothing to do but write. Admittedly, a good chunk of that writing is about sofas and storage lockers, but it’s still writing. And it still makes me happy.
I’m having a good creative spell too though. The Short Short Fiction course from Poetry School has produced a tangible improvement in my flash fiction, which has had the happy effect of inspiring me to sort and collate my poetry from the year. I’ve realised a key failing for my Primers application was that there was no real theme. It’s not that I have to create a collection of poems based on my love for toasters or the like, but there does have to be a thread of commonality. Obviously I didn’t have a clue about this at the time, I just put together six poems I didn’t hate. This is where the hard work I talked about in my last post comes in. Research, reading, and really understanding what I’m submitting is crucial. The time I spent today has illuminated my themes, however subtle, and moved me towards creating a considered collection, rather than a random assortment.
Submissions
Submissions are happening. I have to wait until January at the earliest to get feedback. It’s a pest, but it’s how it is. I read a tweet from a fellow poet today that he has had 90 rejections and 17 acceptances this year. That’s a sobering percentage. The reality is that my focus and joy has to come from creating pieces that I love. If others love them too, then that is a bonus.
Thanks as ever for reading, please do comment, and if you can take a second to like and share on one of the social media platforms, it really helps support me.
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Practice
“I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times.”
It may be a shock to discover I’m not a massive fan of martial arts films so this quote is new to me. It worked so well for me today I thought I’d share it with you.
I’m trudging through the last part of my OCA module. Attitude is everything of course and I was aware I needed to approach my work in a positive way but I didn’t know what to do. When I found myself cleaning behind radiators, I figured I needed to stop avoidance tactics and face up to this last section. I flicked through Short Circuit and fell upon an essay by Claire Wigfall who talks in detail about how she creates her characters. I tried her technique and what do you know it’s worked. I’ve got a story rumbling around and characters that I want to find out about.
Character is what I am good at, what I enjoy reading and what I enjoy writing. People fascinate and terrify and I have an eye and ear for the details and oddities that make a person unique.
I realised what’s happened. I’ve been guided to try so many different styles (magical realism or sci-fi for example) and as a result I’ve lost sight of my characters. My initial thought was that I’d wasted the last few months. Perhaps not. Perhaps I’ve realised that an interesting story can only ever be built on an interesting, rounded character. No amount of quirky imaginative details will make up for a character that is laden with stereotypes. I knew this but I had become distracted by trying out new techniques and styles. I’m frustrated that I have wasted a bit of time but I’m happy that I’ve come back to such a basic truth.
Which brings me back to the wise words at the beginning of this post.
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How to be a contented writer-seven top tips.
Writing can be a lonely old business. Sometimes it feels like little more than shouting at the sky . A big part of writing is perseverance. A bigger part is confidence and having enough of it to see me through the moments when writing seems like a terrible way to spend my days. Here are seven tips that keep me working even when I feel I’m wasting my time.
- Read
I read as much as I possibly can. I read within my genre to see how it’s done, make notes of what moves me and how, make notes of what leaves me cold and why. I read outside your genre to spark my ideas and give me the ever elusive inspiration. If I’m struggling I find local newspapers have the quirkiest stories that demand that I ask ‘why?’
- Write
Even when I don’t want to. Especially when I don’t want to. Write about why I don’t want to. I whinge, wail, write all the things I can’t say. If nothing else I feel less furious, plus despite myself, I’ve written something.
- Grammar
Grammar helps my reader understand what I am trying to say. All those annoying rules are signposts that help them hear the tone I hope to create and read at the pace I intend. I’m surrounded by poorly written content on enthusiastic blogs and it’s easy to think grammar is outdated. It’s not. It’s what makes quality work stand out.
- Use “How to” guides
There are dozens I’ve dipped in and out of but these are three I return to.
The Creative Writing Coursebook Julia Bell
https://wordery.com/the-creative-writing-coursebook-julia-bell-9780333782255
Writing Down the Bones Natalie Goldberg
https://wordery.com/writing-down-the-bones-natalie-goldberg-9781611803082
and latterly How to be a Poet Jo Bell and Jane Commane.
ninearchespress.com/publications/poetry-collections
These three give me a good balance of step-by-step guide, a little bit of hand-holding and a decent amount of “just get on and write.”
- Talk to other writers
I’ll admit I struggled with this. I’m a solitary soul and the thought of discussing my work with peers filled me with horror. I took part in an online workshop at the start of this year and can honestly say I gained as much from that hour as I did from six months of formal study. The wealth of knowledge and generosity in sharing that knowledge within the writing community is a wonderful thing. I’m gradually getting more involved with writing groups online and am even venturing out to a Poetry Breakfast at a local bookshop. A big step for me, but I know it’ll be beneficial. I might even enjoy myself!
- Write anywhere and everywhere.
I love stationery and I have many beautiful notebooks. I never have one with me when I need it. Hospital waiting rooms are my current favourite writing space. Lots of time, lots of people and no internet. Perfect. I have numerous scribblings on the backs of receipts that are the basis of some of my favourite pieces.
- Read
No, this isn’t a brain fog moment. It really is the most valuable thing I do to support my work.
There we have it. Seven writing tips that keep me moving forward. Now it’s time to get on with a bit more work. I should have news of competitions and submissions by next week, so watch this space!
Thank you for reading, as ever please like, share,shout from the rooftops it all helps.
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Try again. Fail better.
Oh my, two steps forward eighty-seven back. I started a post last week about how positive and invigorated I felt following the poetry workshop with Bare Fiction. I didn’t finish it, but I wish I had because right now I could do with remembering how it felt to feel positive and invigorated.
I’ve had my feedback for my most recent assignment. It’s ok, but it’s the kind of feedback where you know the tutor has struggled to find some nice things to say. I know, I used to do the same. The thing is, her points are entirely right. I was bored of this story by the time I finished it,and it shows. I still have the feeling that I am standing on the edge, too scared to actually push myself to write honestly. I seem to default to a style that echoes the tales in Woman’s Weekly (nothing wrong with that, it’s just not where I want to be). Perhaps this is why I like poetry. I seem to move a little more freely, where I get all tangled up with short fiction.
I’m also struggling with the degree element. I’ve no desire for a qualification but I know I’m deliberately holding back so that I’ve got something to rework for the assessment. I made the mistake last year of revising to the best I could before each assignment, which meant I felt I couldn’t take my work any further when I had to submit for assessment. It’s tapping into my desire to complete and achieve, which is easier to work within than actually making the leap into creativity. That point where things scare me a little is occurring less frequently as I sink into the comfort of meeting learning objectives, and the gratification that gives. I think It might be time to stop working with OCA, I don’t feel I’m developing. To be honest, I learned as much from a two hour workshop as I did in six months study. Or perhaps I’m just in a sad fug of low confidence. A tiny bit of me wishes I’d never started this and was able to gain satisfaction from a lovely new dress or buying a fancy car.
Hopefully I’ll be in a better place next week, and I’ll be able to tell you about the good things. They seem a long way away at the moment.
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Buses……
You know how things just gently work themselves out? It seems to be happening. A couple of posts back I wrote about my tricky start to the year, viruses, horribly dark mood, and a head that felt it would burst if I tried to make it think of one more thing. The virus is still here, and the black moods still pop their head up, but my brain seems to be more fertile and free. I’ve been reading some great poetry which has excited and inspired me. I find I have to give myself a kick to make sure I don’t stray into self pitying “I’ll never be that good ” frame of mind. Once I get over myself (only I control how I feel after all), I can flit and fly with the joy of reading new exciting work. The delightful consequence is that I’m writing more again. By giving myself permission to stop, I’ve given my mind freedom to ruminate and relish the thoughts and ideas that grow.
Combine this with receiving the fabulous book “How to be a Poet”, and the chance to take part in an online poetry reading/feedback session hosted by Bare Fiction magazine and I seem to a have a happy mix of opportunities. I’m terrified, but I’ve got to be brave. Putting myself out “there” is frightening. Burying myself in the false comfort of consumerism would be even worse.
OCA work is moving forward too.I’ve completed my penultimate piece for Writing Short Fiction with the help of a master proof reader (thank you Gill!) . It’s almost ready for submission and then it’s time to start the final part of the course. I’m also on the OCA thirtieth birthday celebration picture! Can you spot me ?
Read, like, share and comment. Interaction is good for me!
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Magical tortoises
My latest module has been a joy to study. Uncovering the history of the short story, from early myths and fairy tales to the joy of magical realism and the simple beauty of post modernist work. Work for my degree covered many of these aspects, but never in relation to short fiction. I’ve read so many great stories, Gogol, Poe, Katherine Mansfield and Raymond Carver are just a few that spring to mind. I’ve also revisited my beloved Charlotte Perkins Gilman, who has a gentle yet fierce way of expressing the reality of oppression and of mental distress. Reading so much and so widely has given me a new excitement for the power of short fiction.
My own work for this module was a struggle. So much inspiration left me not sure where to start, as well as rearing the ugly notion of inadequacy. Writing is the only way through this and after dozens of false starts which saw me producing pale pastiches of my favourite stories, I’ve finally created something I like. Many of my stories focus on what I feel is a forgotten voice. There is a generation of silent,often compliant women who are at best ignored and at worst derided, with little understanding. The recent #metoo campaign has highlighted the scale and reality of sexual harassment and accepted abuse of others. Ensuing discussions are dominated and diluted by arguments based on a previous culture of silent acceptance and we seem to be faced with a situation where women are being pitched against each other and a weird scale of ‘seriousness’ is being developed. The reality and impact of daily abuse rarely attracts attention.Often it becomes so normal that we do just put up with it. It is these scenarios that populate my current short fiction.
I’ll see how successful I’ve been when it gets back from my tutor. And yes,this particular tale does feature a magic tortoise.
I’m reading and writing more poetry too. Two new books from Nine Arches Press are giving me great joy. I’m struggling with my health at the moment, averaging one/two ‘up’ days out of seven, which is much less than last year. The poetry in these two books is short enough to be manageable, and challenging enough to be satisfying. And the obvious consequence is that it sparkles up my poetry writing brain too. It’s incredibly frustrating not being able to do all the things I want to do, but I am determined not to give up, even though progress is so painfully slow.
Thank you for reading. Please comment or leave a like so I know you’ve seen this. Your waves and hellos cheer me on!
Sending peaceful thoughts.
Find out more about the wonderful Nine Arches Press here
http://www.ninearchespress.com/
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One year on……..
It’s my anniversary. Twelve months since I started putting thoughts on paper and sending them out to be read. By rights I’d like to be shouting about my acheivements. I’d like to be telling I’ve been published or that I’ve won twenty seven competitions. After all there’s no point in all this if I’m not successful is there?
But there is. And I’ve only just realised it. You see, I’m the kind of person who says nothing unless spoken to. The kind of person who gives little away unless I’m asked a question. I am someone whose voice is crowded by those who are confident,those who are noisy and those who simply can’t bear silence. It’s not a trait I like, and I find many social occasions leave me frustrated and cross with myself. I am used to it and I am happy to be a listener for eighty percent of my time. I just long for the chance to be heard in that other twenty percent. This is what I have here. It’s not a particularly loud or flamboyant voice, or place but it is a voice nonetheless. Realising that is my success.
I believe am writing some of the best work I ever have. It’s not visible, mainly because I can’t afford to enter any competitions at the moment and I really want to save the work for when I can. I think I’m afraid I’ll never write anything else half decent. The down side is that I’m experiencing brain fog more powerfully than I ever had. Writing creatively seems to exhaust a whole new element of me. Interacting with people is becoming harder and my body is not in a happy place. I’m resting my brain, as advised by the two people closest to me. They also have the dubious accolade of being possibly the only people that I’ll actually listen to. Don’t tell them .
I am still working on my OCA work, but not at such an intense rate. I was rushing to finish, rather than working to learn. My intention is to have a body of work ready for submission to comps and publications by summer. This gives me time to research my market which I find incredibly challenging. Perhaps I’m just a bit intimidated.
A year on I haven’t hit dizzy heights. I don’t even feel that great about the prospect. I’m not going to stop though, and anyone who knows me knows that is a sign that I think there’s something worthwhile ahead.
Thank you for reading. Please follow my blog on here and please, like and share on Facebook. They’re mucking about with the settings again, so make sure you’ve clicked the button at the top of the page that says you would like notification when I post. If you could invite your friends to like my page, that would be absolutely tremendous.
Peace and kittens x
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Does your brain hurt ?
I can feel mine scrunching up, almost twitching with over-use. The vast quantities of snow that covered Shropshire and the Gorge in particular have given me so much time to write that I’ve managed to get myself in a bit of a pickle. I’ve always been one to push and pressurise (whilst maintaining an demeanour of not caring a jot), and I seem to have decided that the best way to tackle my degree is to race through the course in a bid to finish this module and get on to the next.
And then I had to stop. Nothing was making sense, all the reading was getting harder and I finally realised I was wasting my time. I had to give myself a talking to, and remind myself that the reason I am studying is not to get yet another piece of paper, but to be a better writer. The carrot of qualification is a powerful one, but ultimately meaningless. This is even more ridiculous when I consider that this section is on a subject I adore, is introducing me to a range of writers and leading me to revisit some of the work that has most influenced me. Racing through is making me feel rotten, dissatisfied and frustrated. It’s time to breathe, and to allow myself to enjoy what I am studying, to make the most of the opportunity. When I’ve decompressed a little, I shall write a few more posts about the stories I’ve read this week. They are stunning, and have shown me the art and beauty of short fiction.
In other news, I managed to get out to take some snow pictures, which was a wonderful thing. Being out, wearing the unworn snow boots I bought in the excitement of the last snowy winter (2013), seeing my breath, being immersed in the bright chill of the wooded landscape, it was wonderful. I feel at home in winter.
All in all, a time of learning, both from books and from the wise, interspersed with throwing snowballs for the cat.
Kathryn Anna Marshall 