Sorry to keep you waiting...

Tags: writing script Scott Sigler work in progress

I know. I know! I know.

Where are the other two sins? Where are the podcasts Paul? Those are the questions you're all asking. I've got people stopping me in the streets and saying But Paul, you promised to do podcasts this weekend. Why do you lie to us? You filthy lying swine!"*

And the truth is, I'm a lazy, lazy man. Well, OK, that's not entirely true. At the moment I have a deadline for something else that I'm working on, and because it has an external deadline (instead of my own internal deadline for the Sins stories - gosh, 17 June just wooshed past didn't it...) it takes priority.

I'm working on a script for a competition featured on Scott Sigler's Bloodcast and since the deadline to submit is Sunday, I need to devote my time to that in order to get it finished and in on time. I think the last time I wrote a script I was 17, so this should be... interesting. After the submission date I'll post it on the blog for you to have a look at.

So yeah. Once I'm done with script, I'll get the final two sins finished, plus a little something extra tentatively called Light's Out. Then, when all that's done, I might, might, begin recording some podcasts. As long as I don't get horribly injured this weekend playing American football, another thing I haven't done in about ten years...



*May not be true... apart from the random abuse part - I do get lots of that.

A quick word...

Just a quick note about some feedback I've had, and a reminder of the rules that the Sin stories are supposed to follow.

I've been getting a good few hits on the Sins stories, and even some feedback, overwhelmingly positive, which is a huge ego boost. I've had two bits of criticism, both relating to the same piece, one good, one not so good, and both on the same subject. The use of cliché.

I'll dismiss entirely out of hand the incredibly well constructed and thought out barrage of abuse I got by e-mail from "Andy", because he didn't even bother to read the whole piece, only the snippet I put on another website (shameless self-promoter I am!), a snippet which, with hindsight, was the weakest part of the piece, with the most cliché, but which conveyed the "Lust" meaning. The other piece of criticism was highly constructive, and although it took me to task over what I had written, it did so in the most well-meaning manner. The point was not to denigrate me, but to help me to improve. So thank you for taking the time to help me Dean, and you can see his constructive suggestions in the comments to the Lust story, as well as my own thoughts on the subject. Andy sought to be abusive in order to make himself feel better about his own writing. Dean on the other hand was concerned to help me become a better writer than I am. Two different people, both with substantially the same thoughts on the same piece, but two totally different motives in getting in touch.

I would however like to add something. Although I have fallen down on some of the rules I set myself when writing the Sin stories - principally the one story a day rule - I haven't forgotten all of the rules. The Sin stories are designed to force me into writing, and force me out of some writer's block. They are crude and unfinished. I am well aware that no publisher would touch writing like that, but then again, I would never submit this to a publisher. All of the Sin stories are at the first draft stage. After writing, I did not go back and re-edit, re-write, or in any other way polish them up. They are potential, but they do not reflect a finished product. As with my Inquisitor fragments, if I wanted to use these anywhere else, they would require substantial reworking. So if your criticism rests on the fact that they are not of a publishable quality, they are not meant to be, they are meant to get me writing on something, anything, just to get me writing again.

The second rule is that the stories MUST be under 1000 words. No exceptions. That means economy of language at times, and rather than spend a paragraph building up a mood, I admit I occasionally get lazy and cut to the chase and use a cliché. Clichés are familiar and easy, that's why they're clichés! If they help me save a couple of hundred words that might help me get to the end of the story I want to tell, well, I'm not above sticking them in there. But overuse can be tiring, and Dean is not the first person to tell me at times I need to show the reader what's happening, not just tell them. That's something I have to try to keep conscious in my mind when writing, and something I do admit I find a struggle at times, as I do lapse back into exposition.

I'm working on Gluttony just now, and am hoping to get some kind of idea for Greed soon, then I'll be done with the sins. I've also got another environmental apocalypse story (The Silent Hives all over again!) on the back burner. Oh, and I'm aiming to record some podcasts this weekend.

I hope you keep reading!

Seven Deadly Sins - Lust

Tags: writing short story fiction seven deadly sins lust

"You shouldn't be here babe. We can't…" Her voice trailed off as she looked at him, standing in the doorway. She tried her hardest to be stern with him, but couldn't help the slight smile that curled the corner of her red lips every time that she looked into his flashing eyes. She bit her lip to try to hide it, but she couldn't cover the sudden flush of colour to her cheeks. Dammit she thought. Why do you always make me feel this way?

"I know." He shook his head lightly, as if to banish the spell captivating him. He looked down at the ground before speaking again. "I just… I had to see you again." He glanced back towards her, and their eyes met. Once again they were looking deep into each other's eyes, into each other's souls. Once again time seemed to stop, even as their hearts raced forward. The air bristled with anticipation, of things said and unsaid in that quiet moment. Whatever battle he was fighting within himself was lost whenever those dark sultry eyes met his.

The quiet, nagging voice at the back of his mind whispered she is leaving, walk away, forget, move on but was drowned out by the pounding of his heart. Forgetting all reason, he moved towards her swiftly, holding his arms out to her, seeking her tender embrace. "You know that I... how I..." She placed her hand against his chest, to hold him back. She shut her eyes and whispered, "Don't. Don't say it. I can't… I just can't..."

They stood, frozen, unsure of what would happen next. With her hand on his chest, she could feel his heartbeat, strong and quick, beating for her. The tension between them made the atmosphere of the room alive with possibility. Stay or go? She wasn't sure which she wanted him to do more. Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Just like the first night she had lost herself in his gaze, she felt a thrill run through her body. Her mind told her she shouldn't. She couldn't. Her body told her that she must. She would. She ran her hand slowly across his chest and down towards his stomach, inviting him to move closer to her. Tenderly, he stroked her cheek, then ran his fingers through her hair. He whispered her name, almost sighing. Her name, sweet, angelic, a prayer from deep within his soul. He drew her towards him, and slowly their lips met, igniting feelings and sensations that had been slowly burning within them.

This slow burn swiftly became a raging inferno, desire consuming them and pushing all other thoughts aside. He held her firmly, his strong arms wrapped around her so that she could feel him pressed against her, smell him, taste him, her senses alive and driving her on. He pulled away from her suddenly and gazed at her. Those eyes, she could see in them everything he felt, a tumultuous rage of emotions and desires, all with only one focus. Her.

"Don't stop, please" she gasped. She needed to feel him close to her, part of her. She needed to be filled, body and soul, by him. Just one last time before they went their separate ways.

He stepped back to look at her, his eyes following the contours of her body, brushing across her lips, the line of her neck, the delicate curves of her breasts, and down her stomach. She shivered under his wanton gaze, that wicked smile, she could almost feel his eyes caressing her. There would be no going back now, they both knew what would happen next, and both wanted it. All thoughts of the future set aside. All they cared about was the moment, one last glorious moment when they could be together.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him again, running his hands down her back, before firmly grasping her buttocks, pulling her into him, grinding himself into her. With furious passion they tore at each other's clothes, casting them aside along with their inhibitions, their doubts and reservations. Nothing mattered to them at that point, not their past words, nor the bittersweet separation to come. All that existed was now, a fleeting present that would exist forever between them.

They lay down on the bed, entwined around each other, her smooth skin caressed by his lips. Their desires, their passions, every thought that had crossed their minds from their first words to this final parting, consummated in a sensuous frenzy. Their bodies, thoughts, breath, hearts, all acting as one in the forever now. She gasped as gently, firmly, he entered her. She dug her fingernails into his back, dragging them down, marking him as hers, for now. And yet, whispering into their subconscious, were those cruel voices of reason, and time. This cannot last. Soon you must leave. Forget, forget...

The intrusions of reality only spurred them on further to enjoy the moment, increasing the urgency they felt to satisfy their desires. They cried out together, not with the sorrows of the future, but the ecstasy of the present, their desires sated at last. They held each other close, postponing the moment of their final goodbye, until at last that unwelcome foe, time, intruded upon them. They dressed in silence, unable to look at each other, conscious of the terrible, wonderful moments shared.

His hand sought out hers, and finding it, he grasped tightly. She squeezed his hand in return, and they looked at each other one final time. He stood up silently and headed to the door. As he opened it, he paused. "I..." With a sigh, he left the words unsaid, but the meaning understood. He closed the door and walked away.

Podcasts, podcasts, podcasts!!!

I know I've been saying that podcasts are coming soon, but they are genuinely coming soon now. I've set up the subscription feed, so you can get automatically updated when a new one is available. Once there are a few ready, I'll submit the feed to iTunes, so you can automatically download each new installment. As and when they are ready, you can find them here.

Welcome to the 21st Century!

Seven Deadly Sins - Envy

Tags: writing short story fiction seven deadly sins envy

Jealousy is a good emotion. Now, you may disagree with me, but just consider it for a moment. "Oh you lucky person, I'm so jealous!" No one ever says that with malice. Jealousy spurs us on. You look at the people you know (or at least know of), you see the things they have achieved, their successes, property, relationships, and you think "me too". That's jealousy. You aspire to the success they have, but you certainly don't begrudge them their achievements. Instead, you seek to emulate them.

There is a darker side to jealousy, however. Envy. Envy is more than simply "me too". Envy is "me instead". You don't just want to be like someone. You want to have what they have, and you begrudge them all they have achieved. Instead of wishing to join in their success, you are compelled to compete with them, to beat them, to surpass what they have and if you can't achieve the same then the next best thing is to see them fail…

And as I sit here tonight, it is to my eternal shame that I realise that I am not simply jealous of Peter (and how ridiculous of me to be even that!) - I hate him, I envy all that he has, all that he has done in his short life.

When I think of Pete, all I can think of is my own shortcomings. It seems as if we had a shared life, one that diverged somewhere along the line, a point I can’t quite place my finger on. We were born at about the same time, we come from the same small town, and we had roughly similar upbringings. We even bear a passing resemblance to each other. And yet…

… and yet he has done so much more than me. It's like his life is charmed. Everything he does always comes out for the better, in the end. Even the adversities he faces turn to his advantage. He could fall into the shit and come out spotless and smelling of roses. At first it was splendid to watch, but now? It just seems so unfair. He's a nice guy, I won't deny it, but everything is just so effortless for him. Whilst I struggle, he just sails through life, as if the world owed him a living, and everything was just planned for his arrival. Almost as if he has this destiny, and his entire world exists solely for his benefit.

Well, no more. Tonight, his charmed existence ends. I really can't stomach it any more. He has to learn. Nobody gets a free ride in this life, and it's time he learnt a lesson. You know, I actually considered killing him. It's crazy, but that's how much I hate him right now. I couldn't just let him continue in his life. I wanted to end it. But then I thought, where's the justice in that? I know how things would turn out - a celebration of a wonderful life, ended tragically and prematurely. He would be gone, but my god, the eulogies and testimonials that would flood in. Can you imagine? Having to put up with all those gushing words of praise from the myriad of people who think him simply wonderful. It turns my stomach to think of that. I'd want to scream "but he doesn't deserve it!" at everyone.

No, I can't kill him. But Pete is going to have to suffer. And I'm going to make damn sure that he does. For the rest of his life, starting from tonight. Everything he has, I shall take away. Everything he loves, I shall turn to dust. His happy marriage? Wait until he finds out that she's been cheating on him with his business partner. The daughter he dotes on? Not his. His home, his car? Yeah, guess who will be hanging on to those when she kicks him out...

And if his business partner is taking his wife, his house, his car, effectively taking his place, well... it doesn't take a genius to predict a boardroom push that would see him out on his ear.

Of course, such a shocking turn of events would drive a lesser man to drink, but not our Pete. No, he's got friends and family who love him. Well, unless there are skeletons in Pete's closet. Skeletons I intend to put on display. Things guaranteed to turn his friends from him, and even give his family second thoughts about associating with him. Wouldn't that just be awful? Golden boy's not looking so golden now, is he? Well, perhaps he shouldn't have been put up on such a high pedestal, should he? Heroes always seem to have feet of clay...

It's amazing that I didn't think of doing this to him earlier. Maybe not ruining him totally, but causing him just enough misery that he wasn't so damn perfect all the time. And it's so easy. Just a couple of taps of the keyboard, the click of a mouse, and you can change someone's entire life. You can raise them up. Or you can dash them down...

Am I proud of what I'm doing? Of course not. As I say, it is to my shame that I'm doing this. But I have to. Pete's perfection is a burden on me, and I can't live my life constantly comparing myself to him, living in his shadow, seething at each accomplishment. I made him the success he is, and it is within my power to put him in his place.

After all, I created him. But how sad, for an author to be jealous of his own character…

Spoken sins

Just a couple of updates on things. First, I've decided that for the initial podcasts, I'm going to do the Seven Deadly Sins short stories that I've been working on. That should also give me a kick to do them, so hopefully you'll see podcasts going up shortly.

Next, as far as the Sins themselves go, Envy is almost finished, so should be up here soon. Next sin will be Lust, then that just leaves Greed & Gluttony, the almost interchangeable problem sins.

Finally, thanks to everyone for the feedback on the stories so far. You've all been too kind.

Lust, gluttony, greed and envy...

Tags: writing short story fiction seven deadly sins

Well, I've got the "easy" sins out of the way. Easy in that each of them (pride, sloth and wrath) was distinct, easily distinguished.

Now I'm left with four sins that have a lot in common. All of them are about satisfying desires, all of them are about excessive, compulsive needs. I'm going to have to tread carefully to keep the concepts separate.

It may help to consider the seven virtues, and by looking at their opposites, figure out what angle I'm going to take on these final four.

Anyway, I hope you've liked them so far. More to follow.

Seven Deadly Sins - Wrath

Tags: writing short story fiction seven deadly sins wrath

"Bless me father for I have sinned."

Then a pause, hanging in the velvet gloom of the confessional. The elderly priest coughed politely then spoke up. "Go on my son, there are no secrets here. God knows all, and I'm old enough not be shocked by anything these days."

"I don't know the words father. I'm not a Catholic."

"But you still wish to make a confession?" The priest tried not to let the surprise in his voice sound too obvious. After all, it was a hard enough task to convince his own parishioners to seek the sacrament, and here he had a stranger to the parish, to the faith, seeking reconciliation.

"I do indeed father. Tell me, what do we say now?"

"Well, normally you'd tell me how long it’s been since your last confession, but let's presume this is your first time, shall we?"

"By all means."

The priest smiled, unseen behind the confessional veil. "Now you just tell me whatever it is that you want to confess - what it is that's troubling your soul." His face became serious. "I should just say these few things before you get started. Firstly, anything you say here is between you, me and God. It goes no further. Secondly, He already knows what you’ve done, so you needn't feel any shame in saying anything to me. Finally, you shouldn't think that anything that you have to say is too trivial to bother confessing to." He paused. "Or so momentous that you can't bring yourself to say it…" He let the implications of this sink in before continuing. "Now, what is it you want to confess?"

"If someone does you wrong, we're supposed to forgive them, aren't we father? That is what the Bible tells us, is it not?"

"Yes, Jesus himself instructed us to turn the other cheek. And you know, that’s not a sign of cowardice, or weakness, but instead shows great spiritual…"

The other voice interrupted. "What if you can’t forgive father? What if you carry that hatred around in your heart for a long, long time, burning away at you, consuming your every thought and deed, until your life is just an extension of that hatred." The man's voice was calm and measured, as if presenting simple facts in front of the priest, rather than revealing dark secrets, secrets that he was ashamed of. "Until all you live for, is revenge." He hissed the final words out.

The hairs on the back of the old priest's neck began to stand on end. This was not someone seeking absolution. This was someone staring into the pit, someone a heartbeat away from perdition. He took a deep breath, then began to speak in slow, steady tones, reassuring but authoritative. "Hate is a powerful emotion, but a destructive one. If you allow it control your life, then it only leads to anger, misery and violence - not just physical violence, but violence to your soul, to what makes you a good person. You have to control that emotion, not let it control you. St Paul tells us that…"

"I killed him."

The priest’s voice trailed away.

"Did you hear me father? I said I killed him."

"Yes, yes I…" The priest's mouth went dry. "To... to take another's life is a terrible, terrible thing, you know that, you wouldn't be here if you didn't. When did this happen? Was this in your past, or recently?"

"You could say it was recent father. Yes, quite recent."

"If you are truly repentant then you must speak to the police. I urge you, to clear your conscience and prove your repentance, you have to face what you have done. I can go with you, help you." He waited for a response. He heard something that he thought was sobbing. He began to speak again "I know this must be difficult..." He stopped when he realised it wasn't the sound of someone crying. It was someone laughing.

The voice stopped laughing, and with a sudden surge, the whispering voice became a roar. "You dare, you dare talk about terrible things, about repentance, about my past?" After this brief outburst, the voice resumed its previous calm tones. "I'm sorry father. I lied to you. I haven't killed him. Not yet anyway. But I'm going to."

The priest seized on this sliver of hope. "Listen to me, please. You haven't done this yet, and you don't need to. The fact you've come here shows you know that what you are thinking of doing is wrong, you know it, you do. And you coming here, it shows you still have control, you can choose not to act on these impulses."

"The wrath of God is righteous, is it not? He cleanses sin by sweeping away the sinful. That is what I am going to do. Do you remember father? Do you remember the lessons that the Bible teaches? Do you remember 20 years ago, the lessons you taught me? You taught me pain, and hate, and I have never forgotten those lessons father. So father, do you repent? Do you want forgiveness for the terrible things from your past?"

His heart pounding, the priest swallowed hard. As silently as he could, he got out of his seat and turned the handle of the confessional door. The door swung open, but as the priest tried to leave a hand roughly shoved him back into the confessional. He now saw the man that the voice belonged to. He stood before the priest, sliding the final few bullets into the chamber of a revolver. "Bless you father, for you have sinned, this is your last confession." With a click, he snapped the chamber shut, cocked the hammer and pointed the barrel square between the priest's eyes. "This is for what happened at St Christopher's."

The priest began to stammer. "But, but... I've only ever been at this parish, I've never been at St Christopher's!"

"I know father. But he already died. Cancer got there before I did. But you look like him. And I need my revenge."

Seven Deadly Sins - Sloth

Tags: writing short story fiction seven deadly sins sloth

A little self-indulgent this one I'm afraid. A writer, writing about having difficulties writing. But it seems appropriate for Sloth.

It's late. It's very late. Fighting off sleep, prising your own eyelids open to stay awake late. You know that feeling, I'm sure we've all been there before. It's an almost nightly occurrence for me. I would set myself these ludicrous challenges though, wouldn't I. One story a day... and the day has already passed. True, I did write one today, but then again I'm playing catch-up. I should have done three already. Crap, four now. It’s gone midnight…

Perhaps a break for coffee is what I need...

Oh, new e-mail, I'll just... you see, this is precisely why I don't get things done. There are just too many distractions. I'm like a magpie, constantly flitting over to something new and shiny, whether it's an e-mail, an instant message, a forum post, a TV show, or just staring out the window, there always seems to be something to take my attention away from the task in hand, lead it down the dark and twisting alleyways of my mind, then mug it and leave it slumped against the wall.

Have I always been like this? Surely not. I'm organised, aren't I? OK, apart from that huge pile of filing that sits in the corner and makes me feel guilty. And yes, OK, all those e-mails from friends I should have replied to already. I admit, I'm a little behind on some tasks, but when it counts, I'm not usually this disorganised, am I?

Like when I was at university, when there were all those essays to hand in... Well obviously that one time when I didn't sleep for a week before an essay was due in, because I didn't start the reading until a few days before it was due in, that betrays a lack of effort on my part, but it was just that one time. OK, two times, I did it twice. Not including the assessment essays in fourth year. They don't count. OK, true, my dissertation wasn't finished until the day before it was due in but hey, I finished it the day before, rather than the day it was due, right? That's something? An improvement?

Hmmmm, coffee's cold. Should make myself another...

Where was I? Yes, writing. Concentrating on writing... I'm sure I read a great article on improving your concentration recently. Yes, that was it, Dave sent me a copy. Should look for that e-mail actually, I meant to write back to Dave... Ha, forgot about that picture! Wow, we were all pretty hammered that night. Wonder if that bloke ever found his hat again...

Anyway, writing! Must concentrate! Shit, now I've lost the train of thought. Pity, it was a good idea too...

Except it's not really that I'm distracted, is it. I'll stop what I'm doing for this trivial e-mail, yet I've let that important e-mail go unanswered for weeks. This isn't simply a wandering mind, perhaps more a wandering soul. It's not just me, it seems to blight an entire generation. There's some kind of deep spiritual malaise affecting all of us, and we can't seem to bring ourselves to snap out of it. University courses we don't want to go on, for jobs we don't seem to be happy in. Mounting debts, sky-high rents in an overcrowded, unfriendly city we can't afford to live in and sure as hell can't afford to get out of. So we increase our debts with bright shiny things bought in an attempt to buy happiness, then when there's more month than money we complain about not having enough to go out for an overpriced drink in a bar stuffed with enough vinyl and strip lighting to justify the tag "trendy". We keep working at jobs that don't fulfil us, just to keep meeting that inflated rent on the tiny little box we call home.

It's like we're no longer equal to the task, not like our parents and grandparents. They worked, they saved, they achieved. Now we want it all, and we want it immediately. My mum would save her pocket money to buy a single from the record store. I expect to download it on a whim. My dad saved for a year for his first car. I'll have mine on HP thank you, and never mind the repayments - I just want one that looks cool. Everything is easy, and it makes everything difficult. And maybe that's it. All these little tasks I'm avoiding, they're the ones that take the effort, the difficult ones. The story that requires thought, effort and time to distil meaning into the words. The e-mail to a friend, telling them the home truths that might stop them making a huge mistake, but might cost you their friendship. The application for that job that would require a lot harder work than you put in at the moment, for not much more money. Sure, you'd feel better about yourself at the end of the day, but why rock the boat? All the things that promise distant reward for immediate sacrifice. No thank you, I'd rather not if it's all the same. All of us living for today and ignoring the fact that tomorrow is just round the corner.

Are we lazy? Or just so scared of failing that we can't be bothered to try? So we find the immediate distractions that bring us fleeting happiness. And we avoid the difficult tasks that might truly make us happier. It's not procrastination. It's fear. Fear of success as much as failure.

And my coffee is cold again...

Seven Deadly Sins - Pride

Tags: writing short story fiction seven deadly sins pride

"...so I said 'Your wife? I thought she was a nun!'"

A brief pause as the little group around me laughs at my witty repartee. Their guffawing is as much a lie as my humorous little anecdote, but that's all part of the game isn't it? Me, charming and outgoing, sparring verbally with the other gentleman in the room to be the alpha male at the party, the centre of attention.

The women, all coquettish smiles, fluttering eyelashes and "oh you're so smart/funny/intriguing/whatever flattery it takes to draw you into my trap". All of us liars, players in a game, and it's a game I play exceptionally well.

Handsome? Yes. Witty? But of course. Charming? Certainly. Successful? I ought to be, I'm well-rehearsed, and have played this rogue for so long he is second nature to me.

Tonight is different though. Normally I enjoy the game. It's a thrill, to be a man I'm not; sorry, a man I never used to be. And in these circles that's the kind of man you need to be. Men respect you and women love you for these qualities. For a while anyway. Until the deal is done, be it business or pleasure.

Tonight is mechanical. I'm not into it tonight. I play the part well enough that even on auto-pilot I can get by. But tonight I'm unsettled. Tonight I'm acutely aware of how much I am not really this person. Because tonight she's here, and she knows me better than that.

Ellie. How many years has it been now? How many times have I wanted to call you, see you, show you that you were wrong about me. I was a dreamer you said. No ambition, no drive. Look at me now. Look at what I've achieved. All these people, hanging on my every utterance. And I'm nervous about even saying hello to you. But I want you to see everything that I am now. Because of you. I want you to see, and remember, and regret.

I excuse myself from the group, and head out to the balcony. I need the fresh air, my head is swimming with thoughts. Unresolved feelings, things I want to say, things I don’t want to say. Questions I don’t want to know the answers to.

I knock back the last of the champagne I’m drinking, and my eye is caught by the moon shining high above me. Hello old friend. When did I stop looking up at you? When did things get so complicated…

"Hey you. It’s been a while." A sharp intake of breath, and my hands grip the balcony rail just a little tighter, my shoulders stiffen just a fraction, and I look down towards the ground. Her voice is still so soft and caring… I don’t turn round, and I don’t answer. Stay out of sight Ellie.

"How have you been? You look well." Her heels click across the terracotta tiles as she approaches, drawing up beside me. I turn my head slightly to avoid looking into her eyes. How have I been? I’ve been down in the depths, and clawed my way back. I’ve become everything you thought I never could be. I’ve become the kind of man you wanted me to be. I’m someone now, I’m not a dreamer. And still I hold my tongue as my heart races.

"Jack? Jack, please, talk to me..."

I want to. I want to tell you… I’m still me, deep down, you know. That’s the point, isn’t it? You didn’t need to go, all the things that you wanted, I could do, I’ve done them. But it’s too late now. I want you to look at me and realise… I don’t want you to see that I still…

I screw my eyes up tight to stop the stinging. Set my jaw. Then slowly open my eyes and look straight ahead. Don’t allow your eyes to flicker left even for a second, don’t catch a glimpse of her. Don’t give her that. Be strong.

"Look at me, Jack, please?"

She falls silent, and we let the moment pass, our history, our thoughts speaking for us through the silence. I keep looking ahead.

"So you can’t even talk to me? You can’t even look at me, or say hello?" The reproach in her voice cuts me to the core. I’m not looking at her, but I can tell there are tears in her eyes. I bite my lip to stop it trembling, and keep looking straight ahead. You didn’t want me back then, and here you are talking to me after all this time. I’m no different to how I was, I just… I’ve just achieved more. I’m still me. How does it feel to be pushed away?

"You used to be… do you know how often I wondered…" She leaves the thought hanging in the air. "You’re not the man I used to know. I don’t even know who you are, and I sure as hell don’t want to know."

She turns, as if to go, then rounds back on me. "Look at me for fuck’s sake, are you too much of a big shot now to even acknowledge my presence? I’m not even worth a hello?" The anger and hurt are like a verbal slap, but I resist the natural reaction to turn and look at her. She stays standing beside me for a minute more, trying to stop herself crying, willing me to turn, react, do something that shows I’ve got some kind of feeling. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her shoulders slump, and she turns and walks away. As she does so, she softly whispers “Goodbye Jack.” And then she’s gone.

Well done Jack, you sure showed her. Now that she’s gone, I can give in. The man I am melts away to the man you knew. I let the tears fall freely, tears I refused to let you see. Why couldn’t I tell you? Please, come back and talk to me again, this time I’ll answer, this time I’ll look at you.

This time… will never happen again.

Stories? Oh, yeah, them...

The first story is based on the sin of Sloth.

The irony that I have failed to post anything is not lost on me, so nobody needs to point it out...

*slap*

Later today I will have at least one of the stories ready and posted. Most likely Pride, as it has come on nicely. Sloth, it's just lazy, a story about not writing isn't really worth reading...

Quick change...

I'm about to shift my news feed over to Feedburner. This will probably mean you will need to resubscribe to the posts on here. This is the last post that will go out on the old feed, so that anyone who has subscribed doesn't start to wonder why I've disappeared!

Another slap, and a better idea...

On the Tube on the way home from work today, lamenting my lack of creativity and facing another day of failing in my challenge, a thought occurred to me.

The point of this exercise is to get me writing. To force me to get an idea on paper. But I'm a ditherer. I often hesitate. And the problem here, is choice. The flaw in my plan was deciding I would select one story from the news feeds I subscribe to. That's 200+ stories, easily. And I'll always think there's a better story just around the corner, until it is five to midnight and I've not done anything.

If I'm forcing myself to write in order to beat this block, then I have to remove the wide choice that I have. Seven days. Seven...

Then it hit me. One story a day, so seven ideas only... what comes in sevens?

Sins...

New idea. I'm going to post one story a day, based on the Seven Deadly Sins.

The rules remain more or less the same:

• Stories must be posted before midnight in order to count for that day.
  
• Word count is limited to 1000 words.
  
• If I miss a day, for any reason, then you can slap me...

For those who don't know, the Seven Deadly Sins are: Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy and Pride.

And, if I feel saucy, I may follow this up with stories based on the Seven Virtues (Chastity, Temperance, Charity, Diligence, Forgiveness, Kindness and Humility).

A potential 14 days of my ramblings. Given that it's me, I have no doubt at all that the "Sin" stories will glorify the concept, and the "Virtue" stories will vilify them. But then I'm slightly twisted that way.

Rules shmules...

I probably could have told you in advance that the challenge would go belly up at the first hurdle.

First day of the challenge, and I'm already breaking the rules. Firstly, I've reduced the maximum word count to 1000 instead of 1500 (I went back and had a look at "The Silent Hives". It's only just over 1000...). Secondly, well, although this post will be made before midnight, there's no story to accompany it.

Oh well, there's always tomorrow. And now that I think about it, the weekend is always a better time to start a new project...

And before you ask, yeah, I did get slapped.

Tomorrow. I swear. I'll do it tomorrow. Just like the mythical podcasts I keep promising (assuming anyone is still interested of course...)

The Daily Feed Challenge...

This is revisiting an idea I first had at the end of March. It's a challenge to get my creative juices flowing, and to force me to come up with new ideas.

I subscribe to a number of news feeds which I check periodically throughout the day (bear with me, there is a point to this...). In March I came up with the idea of selecting one item from the news feeds, and writing a short story based on, or inspired by, the story. For various reasons (laziness, procrastination, bright shiny objects distracting my attention...) I never actually got round to doing it.

And now back to the blog title... I am setting myself the challenge I came up with in March. Over the next 7 days, starting tomorrow, I will select an item from the news feeds and try to come up with a short story based on it.

I work best with structure, so here are some rules:

• Stories must be posted before midnight in order to count for that day.
  
• Word count is limited to 1000 words. Keeps them short, and encourages economy of language - make sure every word counts!
  
• All source stories to be credited, so you can tell what the inspiration was.
  
• If I miss a day, for any reason, then you can slap me...

And the challenge starts tomorrow, Thursday 7 June.

About "The Silent Hives"

Tags: Colony Collapse Disorder bees pollination

I have begun to notice a lot of dead bees just lying around on the street recently.

And Colony Collapse Disorder is a genuine phenomena, and it has got beekeepers worried globally because of the drastic impact it has on their livelihoods.

I took the two ideas, and came up with a worst case scenario based on them. I don't think that the scenario envisaged is plausible, although recent studies link a decline in the bee population to a decline in plant pollination. About 80% of Europe's crops rely on insect pollination, so a reduction in the population of those insects who pollinate the crops could conceivably impact on our food supplies.

Anyway, enjoy the story, and don't have nightmares.

The Silent Hives

Tags: writing short story fiction Colony Collapse Disorder bees pollination enviropocalypse

Like all important events, it started off with something imperceptibly small.

Like the glance or kind word, that turns friendship into love. Or the slight shift in the breeze before a raging storm.

The end of the world was heralded by a bumblebee on Old Bond Street.

I spotted it as I was walking home from work one balmy June evening. It was just lying there on the pavement, unmoving. Not an unusual sight, circle of life and all that, bees die, and you often find them, lying on the ground, still and silent. But not usually at this time of year. Not when they should be in their prime.

And it wasn't the first I had seen this year. Walking to and from work, I must have seen dozens and dozens in the preceding weeks. How many streets around the country, how many fields and gardens harboured lifeless bees?

It struck me that I had noticed fewer and fewer bees this year. I had good cause to notice. A dreadful phobia of bees, coupled with an allergic reaction to stings left me acutely aware of bees of all species.

Soon we became aware of the initials. CCD. Colony Collapse Disorder. In the United States alone it was estimated that as many as three-quarters of all hives had vanished, simply disappeared, almost overnight. And that was just the domesticated colonies. What of the wild bee populations? There were no statistics.

But reports of swarms were down. Even the slow creep northwards of the Africanised honey bee, the dreaded "killer bee", defied all predictions by spontaneously reversing.

Then reports of CCD began to appear in the South of England. Within weeks only Scotland seemed unaffected by the problem, and by the time Defra began to address the issue, colonies were disappearing the length and breadth of the UK.

Reports came in from Europe, Africa, spreading east. And yet, nobody seemed overly concerned, other than beekeepers. Initially it was reported as just another "and finally" story. Then the Einstein quote started to appear. Supposedly, Einstein had once said that if bees disappeared, then the human race would follow in four or five years. No-one is sure if he ever actually said it, but we certainly believe the truth of it now.

The obvious impact was on honey. The price simply rocketed as supplies began to get scarce. What was once a common product became an expensive commodity. I still remember the day that an ounce of honey became more expensive than an ounce of platinum. That same day my mother found a few old unopened jars of honey in the back of the cupboard, and it was as if she had won the lottery.

But then other effects began to be felt. The price of flowers began to creep up, slowly at first, but then florists and garden centres began to run out, and the prices went sky high. A dozen red roses showed you truly loved someone then, or at least could afford to splash the cash. Without the bees, gardeners were struggling to pollinate flowers by hand. It was a long and difficult process, and failure rates were high.

After the flowers, fruit and crops were hit badly. Panic began to set in when we began to see just how many foods we were used to, relied on pollination by insects. And as they dwindled, people snapped them up as and when they could. What might have been preserved to help rebuild the reduced crops was instead consumed. After the direct effects came the indirect effects. Other species that relied on these items for food began to die of starvation. Insect species that, like the bees, pollinated the plants began to die off, as there was less food to go around. And less insects meant less pollination, which meant fewer and fewer flowers, fruits, plants as the seasons went on. A reduction in one population led to the reduction in another, and the knock on effects just went up the food chain, and before we knew it we were facing a global famine.

With that realisation, there were riots. I'm not talking a few hundred people erecting barricades and throwing bricks. Millions of people. All over the world. Insurrection on a global scale. Governments fell, and wars arose over the dwindling stocks of food we had left. Stronger countries invaded the weaker, raided their food supplies and tried to use their land to provide enough sustenance to keep going, from day to day.

It's funny. I was a pacifist once. I marched against the war in Iraq. And now look at me. A captain. A regiment to command. And the blood of countless innocent people on my hands. People whose only sin was to be in the way. Because we only follow three rules now. If you don't fight, you don't eat. Look after your own. Kill the rest.

We thought the Yanks were crazy a few years back, when they shut their borders, but now it seems like they had the right idea. They moved their population to the coasts, and to the borders of Canada and Mexico. Millions of people, ready to defend the US from invasion. And the rest of the country they turned over to pasture, to try to raise crops and cattle to keep themselves fed. Sure, we all heard the rumours of what the government did, things that we only speak of in hushed tones. But was it any worse than what we are doing now? Their population is stable now. With only 3 million left, they can produce enough food to keep going.

And of course, no-one would dare invade them, not after President Turner's Suicide Proclamation. In the event of invasion of US soil, he informed the world, in the last public message from America, then the United States would unleash its entire nuclear arsenal. Not against the invading force. But against itself. Turner understood that this war would be about surviving. It would be about taking land and using it for food. And what use would land be that was poisoned for generations to come? So we steer clear of the United States now. The new Eden, they call it. And so the US is secure.

The rest of us? We fight. We kill. We conquer. It's been five years since I saw that bee, lying on the ground. And tomorrow morning I lead my men into a surprise attack on Sydney. Australia is our ally for fuck's sake, and we're about to attack them. It's wrong, but we have no choice. I'll feel guilty as hell tomorrow, when it's all over, if I survive. Just like I felt after Tokyo. But there are no friends in this world anymore. There's only food. If you don't fight, you don't eat. And if you don't eat, you don't survive.

And we all want to survive.