Run Pete, Write!

I’ve been a bit quiet on the writing front these last few weeks. I’ve not been loafing, honest! It’s just that writing a novel seems to be a lot less sociable than writing flash fiction.

On the plus side I’ve got a story, ‘Marble’, being hosted over at John Xero’s place for his Xeroversary. Go check it out!

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Tagged Flash Fiction, John Xero, Marble, Science Fiction, writing, Xeroversary

In my last post I was talking about writing plans. This week I’m talking about running.

It’s been a choppy year. I’ve had knee trouble and the odd cold and a lot of travelling and between them I’ve lost a lot of fitness. Again and again I’ve had to start building my fitness back up, chasing to get to the place I was at around March.

I lost a lot of confidence in my knee which seemed to keep giving out. I dropped out of a half marathon in April and was struggling to run for more than about fifteen minutes.

Things were not looking good until I made a discovery. I was poised to see a specialist and to consider changing the name of this site* when I realised that the problems had started on a long run just after I’d bought some new trainers.

I tried on my old trainers and voila, all is well! ** That's what I get for letting the Bean pick my new ones (he wanted me to get ones with green shiny bits).

I’ve built back up to 10K and, all being well, I think I’ll go for a half marathon in September. Anybody care to join me? ***

*The new one would be called: Write Pete, Write! I’d eat a lot more chocolate.

**Apart from my fitness, that’s still pretty ropey.

***Jose, Tom, Jack? I’m looking at you.

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Posted in Running

Tagged my knee, new trainers, running

I’ve not written a Friday Flash this week but I do have a story, Dismissed, over at the wonderful John Xero’s 101 Fiction site.

This year I was planning to enter lots of short story competitions and generally put myself about. Back in February I found a host of anthologies and competitions that looked interesting and made a list which became a plan of action.

The plan never actually saw action as I discovered that I didn’t feel like writing short stories, I wanted to write another book. It’s called Grand Theft Hero and, so far, I’m enjoying it much more than I’m not. The new plan is to focus on the first draft.

Oh and I’ve got this goat* lying around the house…

The first chapter of the Vagrant has come to a close and I’ve got to decide what to do now. It’s been an odd experience for me writing it. Normally I have an idea for a story and then I tell it but with the Vagrant the idea was buried deep in my head and it felt like I had to be patient and trust that it was there while chipping away each week. Gradually the larger arc emerged and now I can stand back and appreciate the overall structure (even if there are a lot of nooks that still need exploring).

At some point I’ve started to think that maybe, just maybe, the Vagrant has got legs. That maybe I could work on it and, one day, publish it.

That’s going to mean a lot of work. For starters it’s currently set up as a serial and I’d like to turn it into a series of novellas. That means pacing issues, plotting changes, and probably a lot of other unglamorous stuff.

I’ve been very lucky to have such supportive readers and there are a lot of criticisms that need reflecting and acting on. So to that end I’m going to let it rest for a while, have a break from that world and then take it off the blog for a serious reworking**.

Eventually I’ll need Beta readers*** and I’m particularly interested in folk who’ve already read the first incarnation so if you’d be interested, let me know.

*Imaginary (no I don’t really own a goat)

**If you’re still catching up, you’ve got about two weeks left.

***Ideally an impossible crossbreed of cheerleader and critic.

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Tagged 101 Fiction, Beta Readers, Grand Theft Hero, John Xero, The Vagrant, writing

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

From high in the cavern, the Vagrant sees them coming. Tina emerges first, slack limbed, followed by the Knights of Jade and Ash. He waits at the passageway’s edge, his laboured breathing held slow and quiet.

At the commander’s signal they spread out, searching for him, sensing his closeness. Without lamps, only their essence is visible, luminescence seeping green through visors, joints, and cracks in their living armour.

The ratbred looks up, pink eyes finding him in the dark. Her foot points in his direction but she does not let it move, refusing to go closer. Within her broken mind impulses war, fear rises, matching the compulsion to obey. Taunt muscles quiver, threaten to cramp.

In ignorance one of the knights walks the way Tina stares.

Seizing his chance, the Vagrant accelerates down the hill, scattering chunks of stone. The sword’s wings unfurl, its unblinking eye fixed on the target. A low hum sounds as it splits the air, like a bomb from the heavens, descending.

Ordinarily the knight would fall but the Vagrant is tired, his edge dulled. An attack is made but the knight survives, falling back to the safety of its companions, a mortal wound turned brutal.

There is no time to finish the injured infernal. The other knights approach, like sharks drawn to blood. The Vagrant struggles in the dark, climbing back towards his perch, to the exit he must bar.

This time, the knights are faster. Two move ahead, blocking his escape; another three advance together, blades reaching for his heels.

He is forced to face them, to catch the heavy blows with the sword, two handed, body jarring with each impact. They drive him up the slope, strike by strike, towards the pair on higher ground.

The Vagrant does not fight to win but to delay. Grudgingly, he gives way, pushing against every attack. Sweat coats his face, dampening the dirt that inks his scowl.

The sword glares to the right, seeing the shape before the knights do; a shroud of teeth ripples through the air, wrapping about one of the Vagrant’s enemies. Patchwork has come, drawn by the sounds of the Malice and the chance to revenge itself against the Usurper’s knights. Within the black cloth, bones grind on metal, essence boils and the sometimes Duke claims another victory for the Uncivil.

Lower down, lights wink from a passage, a river of robes rushes forth, numerous, violent. The commander turns to face them, raising the stubby lance but something snakes out from behind, dead flesh coiling around the commander’s bracer, pulling the weapon wide.

Tina vanishes in the initial charge, final thoughts smashed beneath hammering feet. The half-lifers break about the commander, spilling either side, grabbing for arms and legs.

The commander begins to lean, a knee buckles. More bodies join the fray. The commander cannot move its arms, cannot aim its weapon. It fires anyway and flames belch outwards, keen to kiss.

Flesh, necrotic or otherwise, burns.

Above the carnage, the Vagrant’s arms droop, heavy despite the sword’s enthusiasm. To his right, Patchwork begins to rise, ratcheting erect. As the wide-thin body becomes tall-thin, its victim is revealed, curtain lifting on the ruined empty body.

The Vagrant spins from the sight to the pair at his back and charges, swinging the sword wide, a desperate note. The first knight parries, its sword groaning with effort. The Vagrant pushes past and swords stroke each other, blue sparks dancing downward.

He stumbles on, head bowed, into the path of the second knight. It stands ready, sword poised. The Vagrant tries to raise his guard but muscles falter. The sword’s eye bulges with anger as it dips, blade tip brushing the floor.

Defenceless, he steps forward.

The attack does not come.

With clenched teeth, the Vagrant raises his head, staring into the fathomless dark of the knight’s helm. For a moment, neither move.

He steps forward again.

It wavers, uncertain.

Another step brings them close, like lovers.

The knight steps aside.

The Vagrant keeps walking.

From below, the commander watches. Its armour is scorched but intact. Corpses smoke, welded to their killer, a mass of smudged limbs. It pulls against them; an arm and a weapon come free. The lance is damaged, coughing tears of fire. More half-lifers threaten but the commander attends only to the scene above.

Patchwork glides after the Vagrant, coiling and launching after its prey, faces eager. Airborne, it closes the distance quickly but from behind comes a roar, faster.

Air ignites and rock falls, half burying the Uncivil’s Duke. Exposed bones flap impotently.

The commander looks at the hand that held the lance. Fingers weave, unrecognisable. New assailants climb over their dead brethren, keen to finish their isolated foe. Knights rush to defend but the commander orders them to finish Patchwork and reaches for its sword.

***

He places one foot after another, slowly, never stopping.

Muffled through stone, he hears a sound, like the death cry of a giant. From its scabbard, the sword thrums in agitation.

He keeps walking, slowly, never stopping.

Passageway becomes cellar, becomes steps, becomes house, becomes street.

He heads north, slowly, never stopping.

The gate remains open and he goes through.

The suns are low in the sky and he squints against them.

He is alone, abandoned, betrayed.

He stops, shakes his head.

From behind a rubbish pile a voice calls, imperious, infantile.

The Vagrant smiles.

***

Under a lonely gold sun, a small group travels. Night is close; the red sun has already swung beneath the horizon, making way for eager stars.

Harm speaks, too low to discern, soothing the creature in his arms. Exhausted, the Vagrant walks alongside, pulled in jerks by a tyrannical goat making the most of fortune’s reversal.

Verdigree fades easily from sight and memory and the four walk in the last of the light, beyond the Usurper’s reach, northwards, towards Wonderland and Slake, jewels in the crown Uncivil.

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Posted in The Vagrant

Tagged Dystopian, Flash Fiction, Science Fiction, The Vagrant, Tuesday Serial, writing

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

The Vagrant goes Harm’s way, weaving through passages, crumbling, forgotten. Away from the rebels and the fighting, silence presses in. Only footsteps and ragged breaths challenge its dominion.

Tiny fingers rise from inside his coat, probing upwards. They find stubble and pause, thoughtful. Not satisfied with his chin, the fingers stretch higher, questing. At full extension they find a nose and grip hard, scissoring, clamping nostrils shut.

The Vagrant coughs.

Harm’s voice is gentle. “It bothers you, leaving them behind.”

Nobody responds and the group march on.

The baby squeezes harder. Torchlight glimmers at the corners of the Vagrant’s eyes.

From far away comes the cry of fresh destruction. Harm and the Vagrant tense and the goat bleats unhappily. Walls rumble, unsettled, and rocky tears drop from above.

Gradually, things settle. The passage remains.

The group move on.

“I think that was more of Tough Call’s heavy artillery.”

The Vagrant nods slowly, little fingers still clamped to his face.

“She must be desperate, trapped between the Usurper’s knights and Patchwork’s forces.” Harm glances at the other man, his face solemn. “It’ll be a slaughter.”

The Vagrant bows his head, keeps walking.

“I know we didn’t do right by you but that’s on me and Joe, nobody else.”

Their footsteps echo, rhythm unbroken, heading northwards.

With unknown purpose the baby’s hand begins to twist, and twist.

The Vagrant stops, his sigh nasal. Gently, he liberates his nose, guiding the hand back into his coat, then he draws the sword, tapping it lightly against stone.

It sings, one note, long and round. When it stills he taps it again, and again, charging the air as minutes pass.

In time it is heard. Six off-key replies disturb, followed by another, deeper. The sword’s silvered wings twitch in anticipation.

Harm smiles, soft. “Thank you.”

At speed, they depart. Every few steps, every new turn, the Vagrant declares their presence. Now the replies are constant, gaining.

Without need to discuss, fast walking becomes jogging, then running.

Rubble springs up at the edge of their light. Fresh dust floats, decorating the collapse. Harm examines the damage, hope for escape fading. “We could go back, try another route.”

The Vagrant nods, sheathing the sword, and they rush the way they came, towards the hunters, till a side passage appears, narrow, unused.

Harm plunges in, strands of web break on his face, masking, tickling his mouth. He stumbles, the torchlight jerking, catching glimpses of skittering, shy things. In places the roof has fallen, forming mounds that trip, raising the floor.

An arm bursts from the Vagrants coat, grasping. He tilts his head back, foiling fingers that scrape past his nose, snaring his bottom lip; the baby chuckles.

They run, breath coming harder. Legs slow, no longer light.

The passage opens up, becomes vast, its edges unseen.

The Vagrant stops, shoulders drooping. Harm collapses against the wall, letting ancient stone take his weight, lungs working like bellows. With an air of finality, the goat sits.

Harm moves the torch slowly, revealing the remains of the old city, a monument to what was. Buildings have become pillars, curves beautiful beneath flakes of rust; they stop the sky from falling. Just above head height, pipes run. They are dead now, purposeless. In the centre of the square is a statue, features lost to time. One arm is missing, the other extends, palm upwards holding a pitted orb. Hills of rock and debris intrude upon ancient streets.

They begin to explore. Cracks in the walls are numerous, big enough to promise escape. Other passageways present themselves, three still useable. The Vagrant points at the highest and Harm starts to climb.

The goat does not move.

The Vagrant frowns and tugs at the leash.

The goat does not move.

The Vagrant closes his eyes, swaying slightly. He takes a breath, exhales, opens his eyes, and pulls.

Much to its displeasure, the goat is standing.

With deliberation, the Vagrant follows Harm down the new passage, it is small but even. The green eyed man stops, pointing. “You see that?”

A shaft of light cuts across the passage, winking sporadically.

“There’s an essence lamp on the other side.” Harm peers into the hole. “It looks like a cellar, still in use.” Using the back of the torch he begins to batter at the hole, making it crack and widen. The Vagrant joins in, kicking at the wall.

A sound stops them. Not the keening of a tortured blade but the clank of armour.

“They’re close!” Harm says, voice fearful. He redoubles his efforts to break through.

The Vagrant looks back down the passage, then down to the baby. It giggles, reaching for his face again. He lifts it closer, lips pressing against its cheek, then holds it out towards the green eyed man.

“What are you doing?” Harm asks, as the baby is put into his arms.

The Vagrant wraps the goat’s leash around Harm’s wrist and points at the hole, urgent.

Harm looks into the Vagrant’s eyes. Words squeeze through a throat, suddenly tight. “I understand. I’ll wait for you, beyond the north gate.” He feels the Vagrant’s fingers gripping his elbow, fingers hard against the bone. “I understand.”

While Harm struggles through the hole, the Vagrant drags his feet back towards the cavern. He looks back, once, twice, and is gone.

(Go to Part 29)

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Posted in The Vagrant

Tagged Dystopian, Flash Fiction, Science Fiction, The Vagrant, Tuesday Serial, writing

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

Sweaty faces shine in shielded lamps. Box-laden, men and women labour through tunnels. Maxi leads them, hair spikes combing the ceiling. At the rear of the group, Tough Call stands, watching for pursuit.

Max waits with her, huge hands cradling a cylinder, an acquired treasure. Fine engravings run its length, unnoticed through thick calluses. “You think they’re coming boss?”

The kick is affectionate but firm. “Keep your voice down! And yes, they’re coming.”

“You see them?”

Tough Call hunches forward, peering into the pistol scope. “Not yet.”

A ball of sweat rolls down the back of Max’s skull. Slow at first, it gathers speed down his thick neck, racing on to meet its fellows budding in the curve of his back. “But…if you can’t see them…how do you know they’re coming?”

She kicks him again, firmer this time.

Robed figures enter her sights. They walk in single file, a queue of killers, patient. From the hidden recesses of their ranks she hears bones grinding together, an alien laughter.

Max forgets to whisper. “Was that Patchwork?”

“Bring down the tunnel.”

“That was Patchwork wasn’t it?”

“Max, bring down the tunnel.”

He looks over at her. “You sure boss?”

She doesn’t look back, one eye closed, the other pressed against the scope. “You want to be a glove puppet for the Uncivil?”

“No boss.”

“You want to be turned into pick and mix for the half-lifers?”

“No boss.”

“Then stop asking stupid questions.”

“Sorry boss.”

She holsters the pistol, puts her hand on his shoulder. “And Max?”

“Yes boss?”

“Before you fire, give me a five count.”

“Sure,” he says but Tough Call is already running.

***

A low rumble shakes the underground room. Dust shrugs downwards, settling on the Knights of Jade and Ash, who wait, ever patient.

From the commander’s hand, a ratbred dangles, bare feet lightly brushing the floor. She stares, eyes wide and vacant, temples pulsing in time with the living metal at her throat.

The commander releases her. It has been difficult, connecting with essence so dry. Stubborn like cement, it slows thought, yet the commander has left the necessary mark in her mind. Around it, cracks have started.

Muscles fail on the ratbred’s face and her right cheek succumbs to gravity, mouth turning down on one side, a confused squiggle. But behind the empty eyes, she knows what is sought. With effort, she approaches the wall, injured leg dragging behind.

The Knights watch, expressionless.

Memories move slowly, hands spasm in momentary rebellion, then they move among the stones. The hidden door opens once more.

She sniffs, thick air invading her nose, making her sneeze. She sniffs again, sifting scents till she finds it, faint, hooking her nostrils, compelling her forward into the tunnel.

Like shadows, the Knights follow.

***

In his arms, the baby nestles, content. The Vagrant blinks against the dust, pulling his collar across his mouth.

Ahead the earth roars again and chunks of stone fall from the ceiling, shattering around the feet of the fleeing people, their essence lamps quivering but staying lit.

The Vagrant does not slow, staying close to their reluctant guide.

Forced to keep pace with him, the goat flicks its ears, irritated.

Other branches present themselves but Harm does not take them, following the other rebels, moving towards the source of the noise. He glances at the Vagrant, eyes dipping guiltily to the hidden bundle.

The rebels converse in tense whispers. They cannot go back, can they go forward? What should be done? Anxiety becomes inertia and they slow, unsure.

Footsteps pound through the dark, numerous, giant. The group ready their weapons.

Then a rebel cheers. A familiar voice answers, Maxi. Verdigree’s resistance reunite, clasping arms, swapping well-worn names.

Tough Call moves among them, firing questions. She does not like the answers. Her last question is asked, angrily. A forest of fingers points towards the Vagrant.

Harm speaks as she marches towards them. “It’s not his fault, it was Joe. He-“

“Looks like we have a problem,” she says loudly, pushing aside the green eyed man. “I’ve brought down two of the entryways to hold off Patchwork. With luck we’ve buried the bastard but more likely we’ve slowed them down. We were coming back this way to get somewhere defensible but now I’m told we’ve got trouble in the southern passages too?”

“The Usurper’s Knights are right behind us.” Harm says into the sudden quiet.

“Wait a minute,” Tough Call says, looking round. “Where are the others?”

None of the rebels answer.

“Did the Knights get them?”

The rebels look uncomfortable. “We’re not sure,” says one eventually.

“Right.” Tough Call runs a hand through her hair. “Everybody, crack open those boxes, looks like we’ll be testing these weapons sooner than we thought.” She gives her attention to the Vagrant. “My hands are tied here. There’s going to be a fight and it’ll be hard as hell. I don’t know if I owe you or if there’s bad blood between us and right now I don’t care. We could use your help, now more than ever.”

The Vagrant shakes his head.

“I get the feeling that’s non-negotiable.”

“It’s this way,” Harm says, beckoning.

Tough Call puts a hand on her hip. “You going too?”

“Yes.”

There is no time for argument, so none is made.

“Good luck getting out of here. We don’t use the other tunnels much and there’s a good chance they won’t have survived the quakes we made.”

Nodding, the Vagrant starts to leave but Tough Call grabs his arm. “Word is, those knights are only here cos of you. If you could draw some of them off, it’d give my people a better chance of survival.”

Shrugging sharply, the Vagrant breaks away, leaving the rebels behind.

(Go to Part 28)

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Posted in The Vagrant

Tagged Dystopian, Flash Fiction, Science Fiction, The Vagrant, Tuesday Serial,