A couple of years back I put together a wee quiz which was very well received – well today it’s back!
The SECOND Great Book Cover Quiz!

Fourteen well-known novels have had their covers altered to remove both the title and the author, but can you still identify them? They are all either books where the cover is particularly distinctive or well known, or which feature strong clues to the story. Some other identifiers such as review quotes and publisher have also been removed.

You’ll receive one point for getting the author and another for the title of the novel, giving a total of 28 possible points.

Go!

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(06)

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(08)

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(14)

The answers will follow shortly!

“Do you know what I miss, Moby?” said the Kraken, idly spinning on his axis, flicking out one tentacle after another. “Wooden ships. I really miss good, old, wooden ships.”

“Ahuh,” answered the great sperm whale, not really paying attention.

“The ones they send out these days are all tough and made of steel, no good for crushing or tearing apart. I mean you still can, obviously, but it’s so much more work. And you just don’t get that same satisfying crunch of timbers.”

“I never did it for pleasure, Kraken. You know that,” said Moby, peering upwards.

“Sometimes sailors would get caught in the sails and drown,” the Kraken continued reminiscing. “And that’s another thing – ships these days don’t have the same crew compliment. Bigger ships, smaller crews. Sigh. I broke apart a big, long one off the coast of Chile, and you know what happened? All this yucky, black gunk came flooding out. It was horrible!”

“What is that, Kraken?” asked Moby.

“Well that’s the thing – I don’t know! It got stuck all over my tentacles and floated on top of the water…”

“No, that thing up there. Look!”

The two giants of the seas looked upwards to see a small, unnaturally bright light descending through the depths towards them, it’s path wavering uncertainly from side to side.

“You know, I have no idea,” said the Kraken.

There came a whirring sound as well now, and as the thing drew nearer, it became clear that it wasn’t just one light but two, mounted on either side of a roundish, metallic object.

“Is it a fish?” said the Kraken.

“I don’t think that’s a fish,” said Moby. “It looks man-made. What on earth have they come up with now?”

“I don’t like it Mobs.”

“Me neither, let’s go find Siren. She’ll know what to make of it.”

The two of them turned to descend further into the gloom.

* * *

“Do you remember when the humans used to come down in diving bells?” said Siren, running a webbed hand through her shimmering hair.

“Oh yes, they were lots of fun,” said the Kraken. “You could really toy with them before you ate them.”

“Well this is like one of those, only it can go much, much deeper,” explained Siren.

Over the years of seducing sailors, Siren had taken to drawing information from them, about the latest goings on in the human world, before devouring them. It provided her with a far more detailed insight into the machinations of mankind, than any of her fellow inhabitants of the depths.

“And what did you say it was called again?” asked Moby. “A summer-bubble?”

“A submersible,” corrected Siren. “Think of it like a man-made bubble. You know what they’re like with wanting to explore everywhere. There’ll just be one man inside, making notes, researching.”

“I blame ruddy Jules Verne,” scowled the Kraken. “This is all his fault.”

“I’ve never known one to mange it this deep before though,” frowned Siren. “Never so close to our domain.”

“What will we do? We can’t let them discover us,” said Moby. “I could probably swallow it, but then I don’t much fancy having it hanging around in my belly for the rest of eternity. My Great Uncle Albert swallowed a man called Jonas once, spat him back out again, but said his guts were never right again afterwards.”

“I could just crush him,” said the Kraken, rubbing two tentacles together with fervour.

“No,” Siren shook her head. “Because there’ll be some sort of research vessel up on the surface, waiting for the submersible. If it doesn’t return, or comes back up in bits, then they’re going to be even more curious and send down more of them.”

“No, that won’t do at all,” said Moby with an anxious shake of the tail.

“So what to do?” asked Kraken.

The three creatures of the deep pondered this for a while, very much aware that from above, the unwanted visitor was drawing ever nearer.

“I’ve got it!” said Siren, a mischievous curl slipping into her smile. “You’re going to have to do exactly as I say though.”

“I don’t know,” said the Kraken. “Last we did as you told us, I ended up being chased by a swarm of irate jellyfish.”

“ Trust me,” said Siren. “Oh – and we’re going to need the Mer-folk as well.”

* * *

The moment Dr Bernard Klauffman, of the Dresden International University, had stepped into the sub and felt it sway from side to side atop the waves, he’d realised it had been a dreadful, dreadful mistake. He had turned to say “no!”, that he had changed his mind, that he had suddenly remembered some pressing engagement that would require his immediate return to his cabin, but already the steel hatch was swinging down above him, sealing him in with a resounding clunk. The sound of wheels being twisted from above were like nails being hammered into his coffin.

After quietly having a panic attack and throwing up in his rucksack, Dr Klauffman began his descent. The flickering beams of light from the waves above, bidding him good bye as they faded from sight. Adrenaline kept him going, trying to remember the routine of what gauges to check and which buttons to press. After a while, the strange sensation descended over him that he was doing it, that he was actually managing to pilot the craft and face his fears. That didn’t make matters any less terrifying, but at least gave him the warm feeling that if he were to die, then at least he would have achieved it doing something positive.

As he descended, he observed lanternfish and nautilus and all sorts of wonderful creatures, previously mere pictures in his textbooks, but now gliding about before him so beautifully. He made notes every so often, before descending a little further. Then he saw it. The dark curve turning in the darkness before him. What was it? It looked… it looked like a whale, but surely they didn’t come this deep? Then he noticed two more things as the creatures slowly turned before him – first was that it was indeed a whale of some sort, the fin and black, pearly eye confirmed it. Second however, was that a long, pinkish tentacle was wrapped around it. Then more tentacles, came into view – some wrapped tightly about the whale, others waving freely in the water. Surely not – a whale and a giant squid? And were they fighting, just as the old myths had always stated? Klauffman could barely believe it. He would document this and write himself an award-winning research paper of the back of it. Fame at last! He stared at the vision before him for a moment longer and then had to blink a few times. There didn’t seem to be much struggling going on in this fight, although both creatures were very much alive. In fact, it was quite serene and beautiful, they were moving in the water and occasionally… bobbing. Now Klauffman noted that one of the squid’s tentacles was wrapped around the whale’s fin, whilst another was around, what one might have called, it’s partners waist.

“You have lost your mind, Bernard” said the doctor, out loud.

It was too ludicrous to believe, but there was simply no other way to describe the act that was taking place before him. The squid and the whale were waltzing. There was a definite rhythm and grace to their movements, the bobbing and the swaying. The whale even flicked its tail as a female singer might flick a fan, seductively.

Things became even more surreal then, as the water around them filled with naked people… no fish… no… mermaids and mermen.

“I am not well at all,” said Klauffman, feeling the heavy beads of sweat upon his brow.

The mer-people formed pairs and began waltzing around the whale and the squid, then, in the style of some big Broadway number, they started splitting off into lines and forming stars. They clapped and waved, with practiced perfection and flawless grins. This all carried on for another five minutes, Klauffman sitting frozen, unable to compute what was taking place, then the dancing creatures fell into one long, horizontal line and bowed in unison. When they raised themselves once more, the glistening eye of the squid winked – winked – at Klauffman.

Klauffman jabbed at the red “emergency ascension” button on the dashboard and the submersible starting climbing upwards again, as rapidly as it could.

* * *

“Well, I think that worked rather well,” grinned the Kraken.

“I’ll say,” said Moby. “You can take your tentacles off me now.”

“Oh. I was rather enjoying that,” said the Kraken.

“Well done, gentlemen! Well done!” said Siren joining them, as the Mer-folk dissipated.

“I think the praise really needs to go to you, Siren,” said Moby. “The poor fellow in that summer-bubble will be convinced he’s gone crazy. There’s no way he’ll tell anyone what he saw down here.”

“Indeed,” Siren replied. “Now we just have to hope that thing didn’t have any cameras on it.”

“What on earth are cameras?!” said the Kraken and Moby in unison.

Title image courtesy hanuman

Wayyyyy back at the beginning of the year I set myself some objectives, albeit with the caveat that this year I probably wasn’t going to achieve any of them due to the imminent arrival of my first child. Here is what they were and how I got on:

Find an agent for my novel The Mechanician’s Apprentice
Didn’t get far with this one at all, submitted to one agency – The Greenhouse Agency, who came back with a polite “no” fairly quickly. That was as far as I got. In truth I’ve struggled to find agents who look like they would be a good match for me – need some who’s interested in the specific genres this book covers. Work on the book itself stalled again as well – have done quite a lot of editing on the first two parts and done some rewrites following feedback from the wonderful Tessa Bazelli. Work on part 3 hasn’t really progressed at all this year though (it is actually fully written, just needs editing and polishing to be done).

Write a novella
This one happened! I wrote a novella called Biter, which will be making it’s way onto the Kindle store very, very soon (possibly tomorrow)! I’m very excited about this story: it’s my trademark “twist on reality”, but is one of the most personal stories I’ve written – it’s very real world, draws heavily from my own experiences and is set in my neck of the woods.

Writer another novella
This one I didn’t manage to complete. I did start on the WW2 novella I’d mentioned, but quickly found I simply did have enough knowledge to do the setting and people who lived through it justice. It’s still on my to-do list but will require a substantial amount of research first. Instead I did write quite a few more short stories which will also be making their way onto Kindle over the coming months!

So I only achieved 1 out of my 3 goals, but that’s pretty good going considering. I had predicted that this was going to be a “tough, tough year” personally and that turned out to be a massive understatement. My son, Jack, arrived in March (5 weeks early) but has been doing well ever since, and has of course been tons and tons and tons of work (but all so worth it). My writing had to take a back seat for a while. I was starting to get back into things in November and October though when something slightly unexpected happened – I got stress. Take my advice – don’t ever get stress. It isn’t any sort of fun at all. So once more writing (and pretty much everything else) had to get put aside. Hopefully I’m at the tail end of that little adventure though, so hoping 2013 will be a far more productive year!

Title image courtesy sarchi

So… it’s been a while. But I’m back! Kind of. Struggling to find time to maintain the blog as much as a I would like, but I am still writing! There are few secret, exciting projects come along, the first of which I can reveal to you here:

It’s a novella!

It’s called Biter!

It’s got a creepy kid on the cover!

This is a gritty, “real world” take on the vampire story. The protagonist is an 11 year-old problem child, rapidly running out of schools to be kicked out of, with a thirst for fighting and an abusive step-father. The antagonist is his new classmate, a boy who calls himself Kostek but is far more (or less, if you like) than he seems.

Update

Biter is now available for sale from:

Amazon.com
Amazon.co.uk

Apologies for the blog looking like it’s died, I am merely on a brief hiatus. As I type this, my two-month year old baby boy is slumbering on my chest – shhh! As many you will probably know, parenting a screaming, puking baby doesn’t leave an enormous amount of time for anything else. Particularly writing. So for now at least, I am admitting defeat and concentrating on the important stuff. Fret not though! I will return to the blog and to writing – I’ve got a variety of exciting projects that I want to share with you all so remember to check back in a few months for my resurrection!

Title image courtesy zapthedingbat

This story comes my writer’s group. We given the story prompt: “Butter, cat food, beans, eggs, bacon, gin” and this is what I came up with. As you’ll see it’s not my usual fare at all but hopefully still quite enjoyable!

Butter

“Sorry,” says Mylo, withdrawing his arm from the cooler section. “You go ahead and take it.”

The girl blushes for a moment and pushes her pinkish-blonde hair back nervously. “No, you were there first. You should have it.”

It’s the last block of butter in the shop. With all this crazy snow, deliveries have started to slow down and the normally bright, well-stocked supermarket now looks like the eve of an apocalypse.

“You’ve got flour and greaseproof paper in your basket – you’re clearly making a cake,” continues Mylo, hoping this observation comes off as witty rather creepy. “You take the butter.”

“Okay thanks,” says the girl, cracking a grin worth a thousand blocks of butter. She takes the butter and departs, leaving Mylo to wonder how he’s going to make his own cake.

Cat food

Even the shelves of the pet food aisle are looking bare. Panic buying. Claire reaches to the back of a shelf, the tips of her fingers barely touching one of the few remaining cans of cat food. She curses her short stature – why couldn’t she have inherited dad’s genes and been a good six foot high?

“Excuse me,” she says turning to another customer further down the aisle, preparing to do that most horrific of acts and ask a stranger for help. She loses track of the sentence though because it’s him again – the same guy from the fridge aisle. A pack of mouse feed is held in his hand; his eyes diverted, clearly trying to appear not to have noticed her and look like some sort of stalker. Ironically he still seems like he could indeed be stalking her but his blushing cheeks say he at least is slightly ashamed if he is. “Could you? The cat food – I can’t reach it.”

“Do you have a cat?” he asks as he retrieves the elusive tin of Felix. “That’s a silly question isn’t it. Why else would you be buying cat food. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” replies Claire. “I actually don’t own a cat.”

“You don’t?” A glint of panic enters his eyes.

“No!” Claire fails to resist a giggle at his expense. “I’m just looking after my friend Lucy’s. She’s been away in Korea for a few months so I’m cat-sitting for her.”

“Ah right,” he answers, passing the cat food to her.

“What about you?”

“No I don’t own a cat.”

“That’s not what quite what I meant. What sort of a pet do you have?”

“Oh right – the mouse food. No I don’t own a mouse either. It’s for school. I’m a school teacher – this is for Mr Noodles. He’s the class hamster.”

They both laugh then stand awkwardly for a moment.

“Well… good bye then,” says Claire.

“Bye. Good luck with the cake. Not that I’m saying you need it!”

Baked beans

She was nice, thinks Mylo to himself as he ponders what to have for supper. Why can’t I talk to girls properly? I can talk with kids fine and their parents and guys down the pub. But why not girls? Especially the pretty ones. Beans on toast – that’s what I fancy. Beans on toast. I should have asked her out – hang on, I don’t even know her name. Can’t go asking a girl out if you don’t even know their name. Can you ask a girl out in the supermarket? Is that allowed? Here’s beans, that’ll do me nicely. Now what else do I need? I’ve still got to sort out that cake for mum’s birthday, can’t go buying her another shop-bought one again. Not that there’s any of those left. If I bump into that girl again then I’ll definitely try and find out her name.

Bacon

What’s wrong with you Claire? The first guy you’ve met in months who a) Doesn’t try to grope you, b) Is easy on the eyes and c) Is actually single and available. Well, you’re just assuming that. There wasn’t any ring on his finger but that doesn’t mean anything. Why did you even notice that Claire – what is wrong with you? You don’t know this guy’s name but you have managed to note his marital status. Get a grip. Just go home, make the cake for Lucy’s coming home party, have a bath and then spend another night alone. You’re going to be alone forever Claire. Oh I need comfort food. A fry-up. That’ll cheer me up. Sausages – got some at home. Bacon – here we are. Fried mushrooms – oh I can go without mushrooms. What else? Eggs. Eggs! I’ll need eggs for the cake as well!

Eggs

Claire gives a long sigh of relief. Sitting slap-bang in the centre of the egg shelves is one solitary, final packet. At least one thing is going right on this awful day. Claire goes to put the carton in her basket then thinks it best to double-check the contents. Opening the carton, Claire can’t believe her eyes – two of the pockets are empty and of the remaining four, three are cracked. A long, primal growl of anguish escapes from her lips and she flings the carton back onto the shelf.

A sudden feeling of unease seizes her then. She becomes aware that she is not alone on the aisle, that someone else was there to bear witness to her little outburst. It’s going to him isn’t it? The young, charitable school teacher.

“Hello again,” says Mylo from further down the aisle, giving a little wave.

“Hiiii,” replies Claire, longing for the ground beneath her to open up and swallow her away. “Sorry about that.”

“Are you after eggs?” says Mylo, approaching.

“Yup. None left though! Cake ruined.”

“Well… I was going to make a suggestion actually. This might sound weird, in fact it already does,” says Mylo, stumbling over his words. “But I’m going to suggest it anyway and then if you want, you can scream and call security and I’ll run away right?”

“This does definitely sound weird.”

“I know. But you need eggs right? To make a cake.” He lifts a carton of undamaged eggs from his own basket. “Well I need butter… to make a cake as well. It’s my mum’s birthday tomorrow. So how about we… make a cake together? Then we can half it?”

“Oh, I never thought you’d be making a cake as well!” says Claire. “I’m so sorry – here, you take the butter!”

“Or you could just have the eggs. I don’t mind honestly.” Mylo can feel his entire face burning with embarrassment. “Or if you wanted to make the cake together and… maybe have dinner together as well?”

“Dinner? Like a date? Are you asking me out?”

“Well no… I mean sort of… if you like? My name’s Mylo by the way.”

“I’m Claire. I’d like to have dinner and make a cake with you Mylo, that sounds really nice.”

“Great! Oh. Erm. I’ve only got beans though I’m afraid.”

“And I’ve got bacon! And sausages at home. How does a fry-up sound?”

“A fry-up sounds amazing.”

Gin

“Hey, what about something to drink? Should we get some wine or something?” says Mylo as they are making their collective way to the till.

“Yeah that’s a great idea,” agrees Claire and so they head towards the booze aisle.

As with almost every other aisle though, the booze section is near empty. There are no bottles of wine at all.

“Oh dear,” says Claire. “What else do you like to drink? I’m not really one for beer I’m afraid.”

The two of them continue along the aisle fruitlessly till finally reaching a lone, green bottle.

“Gin,” says Mylo.

“Gin,” echoes Claire. “Could we drink gin? Is that a first date drink?”

“We could just pretend that it’s wine?”

“I’ve got lemonade. We could mix the two and pretend we’ve got champagne?”

“Champagne eh?” smiles Mylo. “This date is sounding better and better.”

They both laugh, eyes glimmering in the artificial light. Then, hand in hand, with a basket balanced on either side, they head off for cake, beans and fake champagne.

Title image courtesy lamentables

I hadn’t seen Rufus in years, not since high school in fact. He was marginally taller but otherwise had changed little from the picture I had of him in my mind – freckles and dimples, a divot in his chin, nervous smile.

“How are you doing?” I asked him then launched into the usual recital of my own life after high school. Started studying law but dropped out and ended up in music production, worked with some big, big names in the music biz. Married Jen, you remember Jen, maybe you don’t actually. Had two daughters, our little angels, good as gold. Finally I asked him: “So what about you? What have you been doing?”

“Oh you know,” he shrugged. “Still the same.”

“The same what?”

He hesitated for a moment. “Still at school.”

“Ha ha – another one of you nutters who went and became teachers! You’re braver than I am, I can tell you! I think Martin Telford went into teaching as well.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Rufus continued. “I’m still at school. I never left.”

I continued to grin, trying to work out the joke. Of course he’d left school – he had been at the graduation ceremony and the leavers’ party afterwards. Or had he? Now that I thought about, I couldn’t picture him having been there; perhaps he’d never turned up.

“I don’t get it Rufus, we left high school over ten years ago.”

“Yeah, not me.” He undid his jacket at this point so that I could see that he was indeed wearing our old school’s blazer and blue and white striped tie. I laughed but only because I couldn’t think of any other way to react. Inside I was starting to feel a little off-balance, that sensation in a dream when things just stop adding up.

“What the hell are you talking about Rufus,” I said, harsher than I had intended. “I don’t see or hear from you in years and now you spin this nonsense on me? I mean what the hell?”

Some passers-by had turned to look at what the commotion might be. Blushing, Rufus steered me towards a nearby bench, took a deep breath and started back at the beginning.

All through our time at Canderwell High, the head teacher had been a Mr Brookes. Brookes had dressed and acted like some hotshot investment banker, all braces and pinstripes, and personality-wise was simply a horrendous human being. Whilst you could begin to sympathise that most other teachers were just acting towards their pupils’ own good or were stressed or misread situations, not Brookes. He was genuinely evil. He would pick out kids and berate them for the most ludicrous of reasons, a slight twinkle in his eye all the while. There was always a nervous queue outside his office, trembling at the yelling from within. Even the other staff seemed uneasy in Mr Brookes’ slithery presence.

Myths had been built up around the infamous head teacher by us kids – apparently he had shouted so much at one kid, the boy had wet himself and insisted his parents move him to another school the following day. Or there was the rumour that Brookes still kept a cane in his office and would sometimes bring it out to practice long, arcing swishes against imaginary school children. One myth that had completely slipped from my mind though was the “Price of Escape” – a tale that each year a few unlucky kids would be unable to graduate from their final year because they had supposedly damaged school property at one point or taken too many suspicious sick days. The guilty would have to complete a day of laborious cleaning around the school as well as supply Mr Brookes himself with a hand-written apology as penance before being allowed to officially leave the school. I had never actually known anyone who had lived through this ritual first, or even second, hand and had just dismissed the whole thing. But for Rufus, it seemed, the Price of Escape had become a reality.

Aged 13, he had broken a window in the art department – entirely by accident albeit whilst mucking around. He had taken a berating at the time and his father had ended up footing the bill. The crime had not been forgotten by Mr Brookes though and on our final day of high school, he had called Rufus into his office. Mr Brookes quietly reminded Rufus of the situation and how a full, written apology would be required before Rufus could graduate. Rufus had politely replied that he would be doing no such thing and walked out, heading home early. The next day however there was a phone call for him from Brookes and the next day as well and then letters started to arrive – all highly aggressive and demanding the necessary apology. This campaign lasted all summer, methodical and unrelenting. The situation started to grate, not just against Rufus, but his parents as well who found it to be the latest in a string of topics to fight about. By the end of the summer, Brookes had not relented, Rufus’ parents were in the early stages of an ugly divorce and Rufus had had enough. Instead of looking for a job or applying for university, he waited till the first day of term, put on his tie and blazer and went back to school.

The teachers were initially bemused at his arrival, sitting cross-armed and awaiting to be told what classes to attend but soon Brookes arrived to witness Rufus’ defiance first hand. The head quickly concluded that if Rufus would still not apologise then he would simply have no option other than to repeat his final year. Unwilling to back down, Rufus accepted. That day he went to all the necessary classes, taking notes and answering questions. He came back the following day and did the same, and the next day, and the next. It was a laugh – he knew a few people in the lower year so fitted in quickly. But a year later and the situation had remained unchanged, Rufus was still at school whilst his classmates were once again preparing to graduate.

“See you next year?” Brookes had asked Rufus with a slight grin, laying down a renewed challenge.

Rufus went and travelled during the summer but came back in time for the new term. This time, members of staff started to complain but Brookes quickly suppressed such undercurrents. Rufus decided to take a few new subjects, seeing that he might as well take the opportunity to broaden his horizons. The routine began again.

The situation had gone on for so long now that every passing day, week and year made it harder for Rufus or Brookes to back down. After a few years Rufus had to be withdrawn from sitting with the main classes, studying himself from textbooks and receive the odd private lesson. He was however, gradually becoming adept in every subject the school ran. He had developed a friendly relationship with the teachers, even helping some with marking or preparing new course material. In the evenings and weekends he worked stacking shelves or in a local meat-packing plant. Along with the money he got from two embittered parents, he managed to rent a small flat and live a fairly comfortable, if lonely, life.

“So that’s that,” he said finally and shrugged.

“So you’re really telling me,” I said, struggling to put the words together. “That you’ve wasted the past thirteen, fourteen years of your life just to make a point to that twisted, old git?”

“I can’t let him win now,” replied Rufus.

I did something then that may have seemed cruel but I honestly did it for the best of intentions. I slapped him. Hard. The sound carried on the still air and when Rufus turned back, a crimson handprint was clearly visible against his pale skin. I’d forgotten what it was like to hit somebody – the experience was both nauseating and strangely intimate.

“Nobody’s going to win, you bloody idiot,” I said. “You’ve both lost – you and Brookes. The only thing you can do now is walk away and live your life. He’ll still be there, miserable and despised but with no control over us anymore. Just forget about him!”

Rufus just stared back at me.

“You were my friend once, so I’m doing you this kindness now,” I continued. “Don’t you go back to that school tomorrow, don’t you dare. I’m going to phone them up tomorrow and if you’re there then I swear I’ll phone up every newspaper I know and tell them this story. Do you understand?”

He got up at that point and without another word, just walked away. I tried to call him back but he didn’t respond.

I didn’t call up Canderwell High the following day as I had threatened to do. I’d lost my nerve and didn’t want to face the reality that Rufus might indeed have still been there. So I just left it at that. I’d done enough damage I reckoned.

* * *

It wasn’t until a couple of years later that I answered my door one Sunday afternoon to find Rufus standing there, grinning. He looked a world away from last time – hair cut short, trendy shirt with a tee underneath. No school uniform.

I invited him in and as we waited for the kettle to boil, Rufus thanked me. Although he’d been furious with me at the time, it turned out I had provided him with just the push he needed. He hadn’t gone back to Canderwell the following day after all or the day after. He’d gone and done a few courses at college whilst he figured out what he wanted to do with his new found life. He’d actually considered teaching but couldn’t face the thought of stepping foot in another school. Instead he’d leveraged his unique understanding of the education system to become an editor, and occasional author, of educational textbooks, a career he was thoroughly enjoying.

I told him I was happy for him, relieved even. He said he was too. He looked happy, back on kilter. It had taken him a few years longer than the rest of us, but Rufus had finally made it out of Canderwell High.

As some sort of conclusion, I should tell you what became of Mr Brookes at this point but the fact of the matter is, I don’t know. I never bothered to find out.

Title image courtesy hellosputnik

Now this is the point in the year where I should really be setting myself some writing objectives for the year ahead. I did this last year and got on quite well. I’m going to sort of do the same thing this year but these will be more like vague targets rather than hard objectives. If I don’t manage these ones then I’m not going to cry too hard. Why? Because I’m lazy. No, just kidding. Because my wife is pregnant. She has been for some time but I’ve trying to pretend it wasn’t really happening. The bump is hard to ignore now though, especially when it kicks you. In less than four months, if all goes well, I’ll be a father and there will a small, living, breathing human in this world that I’ll have to look and try not to ruin. Already our house and my head is filling with items and words I never thought I would need to know. These are strange times for me. The writing will have no choice but to take a back seat.

So now excuses have been made, I shall go ahead and list what I am hoping to achieve:

Find an agent for my novel The Mechanician’s Apprentice
The novel is nearing a point where I feel confident showing it to agents or publishers, the sort of people who might sneer at it or might (if all the planets are aligned) actually decide to do something with it. I now know what sort of book this is and how it should be marketed (it’s a two-part, young adult, steampunk adventure where understanding science is the key to survival). I’m also working on a shortlist of agents and have already invested in some professional tutoring on how to submit a query letter.

Write a novella
You know how (if you’re a writer) you have a list of ideas that you want to write and it just keeps getting longer and longer? Well I’ve got one idea that’s being sitting permanently at the top of that list for well over a year now. I’ve been holding it back to concentrate on the novel but feel the time is right to have a crack at it. It’s dark, it’s modern and is built atop one hell of a twist. It’s also based on one of the short stories you’ll have seen on this site. I’m not going to tell you which one though.

Writer another novella
Yes that’s right, it’s same objective twice. I’ve got a few other burning ideas lingering in my mind that are longer than short stories but probably not as long as novels. I’m not actually sure which one will work out yet but my current favourite is a supernatural drama set during WW2. Also, should I somehow manage to write these two novellas, I’m going to self-publish one as I did with The Thief of Sleep and the other I’ll try marketing around and seeing what sort of avenues there are for publishing that length of work.

So there we go. It’s going to be a tough year. A tough, tough year. Expect to see a lot less of me on Twitter and the blogs but know that somewhere, somehow I will still be writing. Even if it’s only my dazed and confused mind.

But wait – there’s other stuff happening this year!

I’ve signed up for an online writing course! This was one of my objectives for last year but I managed to miss the start of the few courses I liked the sound of. So this year I was hot of the marks and got myself signed for 10-week Creative Writing course organised by the University of Strathclyde. This kicks off on Monday and I’m pretty looking forward to.

I’m going to a new writer’s group! I moved house just before Christmas (more bedrooms, you can guess for yourself whether or not this was motivated by the bump). This sadly meant that I moved away from my old writing group that I had been going to for a year and loving. It does however mean that there is a brand new writing group that meets just down the road from me to try out now! They seem to be a lot more organised, have workshops and social events and even a resident Writing Fellow. Wow! So that starts next week as well on Wednesday so there is yet more writing experience coming down the pipeline for me.

So what about the rest of you? What writing objectives are you hoping to achieve and what potential hurdles stand in your way?

Title image courtesy sarchi

Clay sat bolt upright and coughed a handful of worms into his hand. He could feel more wriggling half way down his throat. He tried to reach down and retrieve but found them to be just a little too far. He swallowed the little buggers down for the tummy juices to deal with instead.

The moon was a spoon, silvery and scratched. It drew outlines of his surroundings — low brick walls, marble statues chipped by age. He was still somewhere in the Great Garden. This was no use to him.

Clay pondered getting up and having a wander, give his eyes some practice, but already he could smell the men hunting for him. Soon enough they’d be here with their torches and looking glasses. And he caught a damp, hairy smell as well — they’d brought dogs this time as well. Clay cared not for dogs.

Clay turned and pushed his fingers, the nails long ripped away to nothing, down in the cold soil. They sunk quickly; he continued to push till he was buried to the wrists. He made handholds in the earth and pulled himself further in. It was like swimming through the worst water ever; each stroke exhausting. With one final gulp, his head slipped under.

* * *

Clay felt chill air against his fingertips and pushed till he was free of the earth once more. He had dug without deviation and so should now be on the opposite side of the sphere. Here the sky was waxy, yellowy, full of promise. The grass under his knees was still moist. He was near a gravel path, neatly lined with sandy coloured pebbles.

Somebody was humming and that somebody now strolled into sight. It was a girl. A woman. A woman girl. She looked somehow different from the others, her face broken in a permanent grin.

Clay crossed over to her. “I like your teeth.”

“Hello there! I’m Sophie, how are you?”

“They say I’m called Clay,” said Clay, chewing on a baby slug.

“You’re all mucky — what a mess!” laughed the girl.

“Been digging. Digging is what I’m good at.” Clay decided that he liked Sophie. She smelt like warm camomile and was interesting to look at.

There was a rumbling and both Clay and the girl looked up to see the shadow of another sphere approaching theirs. It’s surface was covered in water and as it neared, it began to rain gently down upon them.

Clay, accustomed to such events, kneeled and sunk his hands into the earth to hold on but already Sophie was being lifted upwards by the other sphere’s pull.

“Oh I’m not sure I like this!” she called, flapping her legs back and forth. “Help me Clay! Help me please!”

Clay did try, stretching up and to grab at her nearest foot but the red sneaker just slipped off in his hand and then the girl was out of reach. The rain began to ease up as the other sphere retreated once more.

Clay felt sad to see his new friend slipping away and felt scared for what she might encounter alone on the other sphere. He had to go with her.

Up on his feet, Clay tried jumping as high he could but to no effect. There was a cherry tree nearby so he ran to that and began climbing. The rain had stopped completely now but he could still feel some suction from above. He reached the highest branch, squeezed his eyes shut and leapt upwards.

He felt that old sensation in his stomach and knew that he was falling. It hadn’t worked. He waited for the impact of the ground against him. He waited and continued to wait. Odd — the tree hadn’t been that high had it? He opened his eyes just in time to see grey waves racing forwards to embrace him.

“Cway, Cwlawy!” Clay’s head resurfaced above the water and he saw Sophie treading water nearby. “Clay!”

The water tasted like poo and smelled even worse.
“Clay I can’t swim,” called Sophie and Clay did his best to reposition himself closer to her.

“Neither can I!”

“What are we going to do Clay? My legs are getting achy!”

Clay looked around them, there was no sign of land or anything to hold on to. Perhaps this entire sphere was covered with water. There was nothing else for it, Clay decided to do what he did best.

“Pretend to be a stone,” he told Sophie.

They both took deep breaths then tucked their knees under their arms, allowing themselves to sink. Beneath the water was a murky void. Occasionally shapes twitched in the grey.

The moment Clay felt himself touch the bottom he made Sophie grab hold of his ankle and started burrowing. The seabed was made of soft sand that they slipped quickly under. Once they were deep enough, with aching lungs, Clay slithered back around above them, using his back to plug the hole and form an air pocket. They gasped with relief and sucked hungrily on the dusty air.

Clay dozed for a while. When he awoke, Sophie was sobbing.

“Why are you sobbing Sophie?”

“Oh Clay! I want to go back home. I want to see my little kitty again. But instead we’re stuck here in the dark and we can’t go back up or we’ll drown!”

Clay didn’t know what to say so licked he away her tears. They tasted like buttercups.

“You two tickle.”

“Why did you say that Clay?”

“I didn’t say that Sophie. I thought maybe you had said it.”

“It wasn’t me. I didn’t say it either Clay. That’s a bit odd isn’t it?”

“I think that it is” said Clay.

“Why is it odd?” asked the sphere. “I think you two are odd.”

“I’m not odd” said Sophie uncertainly into the gloom.

“I am” said Clay.

“I might spit you out now if that’s okay?”

Before either could reply, the earth around them start to vibrate and streams of sand began sliding around them. Then, flung forwards by a force unknown, Clay and Sophie were hurtling through sand then water and then air.

They struck ground again with a thump.

Looking up they found that they had landed before a row of gravestones, weathered by time and uneven in the ground. The nearest read: “Here lies Carson the Fibber. Eat dirt.” The sky was still dark here, only a few stars twinkled.

“Oh no,” said Clay, rubbing his sore bits.

“What?” Sophie asked. “Are we still on the wrong sphere?”

Clay shook his head. “No. We are back where we came from. Only we’re in the Great Garden, which isn’t a good place for me to be.”

Somewhere beyond the hedgerows and gatherings of mausoleums, hounds began to bray and howl. They knew he was here.

“We should go away from here.” Clay grabbed Sophie’s hand and started off down one of the avenues. There were too many bodies buried in the ground to risk burrowing here. Clay had once, unintentionally, dug up into a grave and had had to fight himself free as the cold bones tried to snatch and grab hungrily at him.

As they ran, the paths and hedgerows shifted around them, making it impossible to judge if they were making progress or not.

“There it is! There’s the Clay!” called an angry voice and they turned to see Clay’s pursuers had caught them up at last. The men wore dusty trench coats, their bodies beneath, bound with yellowing bandages. Two dogs had been unleashed and were sprinting forwards, showing off their glistening fangs.

When Sophie and Clay turned to run once more, they found a brick wall, riddled with ivy, had sprung up. They were trapped.

“Catch it! Bind it with rope. Burn it with fire!” called the men. The hounds had come to a halt before their prey, taking turns at snapping at the terrified pair. “The Clay must not be allowed to continue existing!”

“Clay — what did you do to make them so angry?” Sophie asked.

“Do you know the Book of Broken Promises?”

Sophie shook her head.

“Well I read from it. No one’s supposed to even look at that book, let alone open it and read what’s inside!”

“And what is inside?”

“Broken promises.”

The men were almost upon them, the spaces where their eyes hid piercing into the fugitive and his young friend. Two of the men were rolling an iron wheel forward, chains at set points around the rim as if designed for binding a man to.

“I don’t know what to do Sophie,” said Clay. “I’m sorry that I brought you here. We might be going to die now which is unfortunate.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Sophie and started to cry but the tears that ran from her eyes did not look like normal tears. Each was a different, bold colour from the last and they sparkled a little. Then Sophie began to clutch at her stomach and winced her face. “Oh no, no, no.”

“What is it? What’s happening to you?” asked Clay and when his woman girl friend looked at up him, her eyes were filled with stars. She was a Dazzler.

Sophie looked at the approaching men then opened her mouth, vomiting forth a stream of rainbows, small fizzing comets and dancing little bolts of lightning. The wave of Dazzle spread out and struck the men full on, the light and colour and sound tore at their clothing and their bandages began to unravel about them. Whatever had been lurking beneath, quickly evaporated away. They tried to scream but all that came out was “la, la, lahelala.”

Soon Clay had to look away and when he finally dared turn back, some hats and flickering torches on the ground were the only evidence the men had ever been there. The dogs had become transformed into Shar Pei puppies, happily play-fighting with one another. A few stars still sizzled on the ground and some of the nearby bushes glittered a little.

“I’m… sorry about that,” said Sophie, tenderly getting back to her feet and wiping the glitter and spittle from her lips.

“Don’t be,” said Clay. He’d never seen Dazzle happen first hand before, had only ever heard stories. “That’s quite a trick.”

“I can’t always control it. We were lucky today but not always. I’m on my seventh kitten now.”

“Maybe you need some around to help you control it,” said Clay, taking her hand. Where her tender, still fizzing skin met with his, hardened and mud-streaked, they almost seemed to even other out.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Sophie. “Maybe what we’ve been needing all along is each other.”

Overhead, the rising sun and setting moon bled into one another, painting the sky with streaks of vivid pink and purple. Nearby, birds were beginning to chirp.

Clay grinned broadly. From behind one of his broken teeth, a worm squiggled out.

Title image courtesy aaronescobar

So wayyyyy back at the beginning of this year I set myself three writing-related goals that I intended to achieve by the end of the year. Some were more ambitious than others and I will now summarise how I got on.

1. Complete my novel So yeah, this didn’t happen. I got a lot done in the first half of the year and ground through the first half of the novel, even managing to send that out for some beta reading. And then I got distracted. Fortunately one of my distractions was The Thief of Sleep but it did mean The Mechanician’s Apprentice has gone another entire year still evolving on my hard drive and in my head. I still feel optimistic though, initial feedback has been good and/or very useful, I have a much better feeling for what sort of a novel this actually is now (it’s actually two). Next year I feel I’ll be ready to start sending queries out to agents and seeing what happens from there!

2. Take some formal writing training This did and didn’t happen. I had originally envisaged this as either going on some sort of classroom course or doing distance learning over a number of months. I didn’t do either, mostly because I couldn’t find anything that I thought would definitely be right for me. A few things seemed like they might work but the cost involved was a bit too high to take the chance. Instead I joined a local writer’s group. You could argue that this wasn’t “formal” training but it was really the first time I’d allowed other people to sit and openly critique my work (as in going through it with pen and providing line by line suggestions of improvements). This year my writing as come leaps and bounds and I really do merit most of it to those wonderful people in my writer’s group! I’m marking this one down as: success.

3. Become a published author This was the one I thought would be most difficult to achieve and it was. I’ve spent the year firing short stories off to various publications and having very little success. But success did come! Towards the end of the year I received word that one of my stories, Chemicals had been selected for an anthology of Scottish writing titled The McCollection and also another short called The Way of the World has been made available for sale by Ether Books, an exciting projects that sells short stories via the iPhone. And of course I published my own collection of short stories called The Thief of Sleep. Self-publication has been a lot tougher going than I was expecting but has been an exciting project from which I’ve learned a lot. Again: boom – success!

So I managed 2/3 which personally I’m thrilled with. Would I have made such good progress without having set myself these targets? Probably not. So I guess the most important thing to do now is start thinking about my targets for next year!

Title image courtesy bensutherland