Short Story Challenge - Notes on weeks 6-10

       So here is the a little behind the scenes peak at the creative process behind the Short Story Challenges of weeks 5-10, (For weeks 1-4, click HERE).

6 – Children of the Seasons

Opening Line: Four Children were left on Martha’s doorstep, one each for the four seasons. Winter’s baby came last, wrapped in night and gazing at the stars…

       This one was a beautifully written and intriguing opening sentence. Writing a story about each of the four different children was a given for me – the challenge here was to condense each one to the appropriate amount to keep the story at a reasonable length.

       I chose to distance the narrator of the story from the events somewhat, in order to give it a fairytale-like feel - but then again, of course a story where four babies are left consecutively on one woman’s doorstep is unlikely to exist in a real world setting.

       I liked the idea of each child having different temperaments that end up defining their personalities and their respective future’s, all foreshadowed by the characteristics that we sometimes attribute (northern hemisphere-wise) to each season. If I were to have had more time with this story, I definitely would have spent more time exploring the upbringing and later lives of each child, perhaps delving more into specific events that show their personality traits in action rather than having just stated them.

       This story stood out as a highlight for me personally for its poetic and bittersweet quality.

7 – Hanging Around With Abergast and TheProfessor

Opening Line: A few seconds, that was all it took; the camera was gone, and my only chance of success with it…

       This was probably the most rushed and the least favourite of my stories – just because the style comes across as a bit glib and inconsequential. But if it elicits a chuckle or two then I am happy with that.

       I was reading a lot of Cracked around that time and wanted to write a slightly silly and humourous piece in the style of Soren Bowie, one of the regular columnists there. I also wanted to explore the idea of doing a whole story of someone just literally hanging from a cliff – kind of the complete opposite in terms of the focus and time frame of the previous short story.

       The tone I was going for was that of an adventure serial or spy pulp – complete with silly names - Luther Dexter actually being an amalgamation of the names of two friends' babies!).

       The 'boot-sock-foot-fake leg' idea bizarrely came to me late at night and was recorded as a voice memo on my iPhone in the dark – hey, it happens.

       If I was ever to write another short story in this style I would like to revisit these characters again but again in some other ridiculous situation.

8 – The Pig King

Opening Line: Some people might ask me the reasons I constructed a throne made entirely of bacon, but they’ll never understand…

       This story was another example of trying to make sense of an initially ridiculous sounding opening sentence and giving it context through the story rather than to treat it merely as a non-sequitur opening.

       Although the ideas surrounding what constitutes ‘art’ are explored here, this is not an indictment of modern art or indeed successful artists such as Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin etc… Its more just an observation of the intention behind it all and how ‘accidental success’ (also inspired by Brian from Spaced) can simply spiral out of just being in the right place at the right time.

       There is also the thinly veiled allegory of making a deal with the devil; and also the returning theme of the search for meaning that everyone craves in their life. With this character, it is through his artistic expression – he wants so desperately to make a mark even though he doesn't quite know what he wants to say – he just wants to say something. It reminds me of some of the douchebaggery encountered in my first year at uni: overheard from a random student “I want to be political about something – I just don't know what to be political about…”.

       Sigh.

9 – Barry Barnado – Ventriloquist Extraordinaire

Opening Line: He put the shock puppet over his hand and threw back the curtains…

       Again, back to a more detached style for this one – an overview of one man’s rise and fall. The eeriness is present in this story as it taps into that age-old creepy feeling we always have about puppets (aside from the ‘uncanny valley’) of what if the puppet was controlling the man and not the other way around?

       In this story it was taken to the furthest extreme in that it was the most basic kind of puppet (just a sock) – and that's also what made his ‘act’ so amazing for all those that watched it.

       I personally liked the Parky bit the best – I could hear his voice and interview style when I was writing it.

       I felt the ending could have been fleshed out a bit more if it was a longer story but I just felt I had to bring it full circle, which ended the story nicely.

10 – The Breakup

Opening Line: Time seemed to turn into slow motion as it toppled unsteadily…

       I always like the idea of playing with the reader’s expectations and this story was pretty much just totally about to do that. It's all kept purposefully vague – on the surface it’s really just a description of a sequence of different emotions and its up to the reader to infer their own meaning to what’s going on. Most people would automatically assume it's a description of a couple in a relationship splitting up (due to the title) - however this is also spelled ambiguously (no hyphen? one word?) and reading it over you could also interpret the story as a simple tale of a girl pushing a boy (perhaps even just playfully) which results in an embarrassing accident.

       It was intriguing to ponder, if time slowed down and you had the time to think whilst it was all happening – what would you do? How would you feel?

       So that's it for weeks 6-10. Hope you enjoyed reading them. There won’t be any more for a while, just because I want to focus on other projects, but I feel it has been a worthwhile exercise.

       Until then, dear reader!

27 Sept 2012

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Short Story Challenge 10 - The Breakup

 

       Time seemed to turn into slow motion as it toppled unsteadily. By then it was too late – things were set in motion. I had already stumbled and started to fall before I really knew what was going on. Looking back, I guess it was my own fault for not treading carefully enough (or perhaps I was treading toolightly?), but in that moment of freefall, I felt a confusing mix of emotions rush through me.

       First there was panic. Was this really happening? Was it a cruel joke? Had I been pushed too far? These thoughts flashed through my head faster than I had time to truly contemplate them. Pitching forward, the panic had overwhelmed my senses, causing me to reach out for a support – anything to grasp on to.

       Alas, there was none, and my outstretched form, arms flailing wildly, must have looked particularly comical to any onlookers. But how could I even think about that right now? Sure, I had fallen before – but not like this. I had also been hurt before – but again, not like this. They say ‘what doesn't kill you makes you stronger’ and that things like this ‘help build character’. Such clichés can only exist because they are continually proven to be true, right? But that realisation always comes after the fact – it doesn't help you much during.

       I was pretty much headfirst now – my legs a good distance behind me. A point comes when you realise you are just too far gone. You can’t do anything to stop it. You are a slave to the earth’s unrelenting pull. There is no fighting it.

       That's when the panic gives way to anger. How dare this happen? To me? And at a time like this? What possible worse luck can a man have in this world? What fates had set me on this cruel collision course? In that moment I was so angry – angry for being pushed, angry for allowingto be pushed, for being caught off-guard like this. Angry at the weak will that had manifested itself in the form of my wobbly legs. My arms flailed even more wildly, for all the good that it did me.

       I guess ultimately, I was angry at the feeling of utter powerlessness that I felt in my situation. Nothing that I could do would divert me from this path I was on. No way of slowing my fall – no way to avoid the catastrophe that was coming my way.

       That's when finally, a strange sense of calm takes over. It’s funny - when you have exhausted all the (admittedly limited) options you have – it all changes. You accept there isn’t actually anything you can do. So I resigned myself to my fate, accepting it – no, embracingit. If this was going to happen to me then I would meet it head on. Go out with a bang and damn the consequences!

       My arms stopped flailing and rested calmly at my side, my eyes closed in quiet acceptance. There was no prevention. No escape. This was to be my fate.

       I crashed headlong into the antique vase – my full body weight knocking it clean off its stand. Upon meeting the ground, there could be no other outcome. The priceless object shattered into hundreds of pieces, skidding out across the museum floor like a shotgun burst of china. In the suddenly hushed room, all eyes were on me. I lay motionless amongst the debris, feigning death.

       That’ll teach her.

22th September 2011

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Short Story Challenge 9 - Barry Barnado - Ventriloquist Extraordinaire

      He put the sock puppet over his hand and threw back the curtains. Today was a new day, full of promise and endless possibilities. This new ventriloquist act would be the best he had done yet – forget all those jumped up, over-complicated, hinge-jawed, wood crafted puppets – with this sock he would take it back to basics. It would be raw, unfettered and effective through its sheer simplicity. The voice – the voice would be the sole focus and the selling point of the act. No flashiness, no constant maintenance, just pure talent.

      Barry smiled as he bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun. Today was going to be a good day - he just knew it.

      PLAYING TONIGHT: BARRY BARNADO - VENTRILOQUIST EXTRAORDINAIRE screamed the oversized, lit up banner outside the The Grand Theatre. Under that: SOLD OUT. Not something that was added later or put over the posters but printed intothe posters, over all the dates. They had been sold out for a long time – a remarkable achievement for a one-man ventriloquist show.

      The doors opened, streams of people slowly drifted out. But something seemed odd. No one was talking. People milled about on the street outside as usual but this time an eerie hush hung over them all. They just stared at each other, dumbfounded. Some looked confused, others shocked even. Brows were furrowed and some jaws still hung agape. What had they just witnessed?

      A few moments passed before the first person spoke. Somehow breaking the spell, the crowd erupted into avid conversation. How the hell did he do that? I’ve never seen anything like it… He didn't even move at all! Not his mouth, his throat, nothing! It was just a sock but…it looked…alive? In the end the ushers were forced to disperse the crowd and herd people off of the pavement.

      For many months this continued. Sell out show followed sell out show. One man and his sock – nothing else. Every person who was lucky enough to get tickets couldn't stop talking about it. News about it spread fast. Barry even got a slot on Parkinson. Many people who watched that TV interview noted how strange it was that he didn't break character once. He walked in with the sock puppet held out in front of him, his whole body stiff and expressionless. Not once did he speak as himself. It was all the puppet.

      “So Barry, what’s it like finding fame and becoming so successful this early in your career?”

      “Well it’s still a very exciting prospect…”, The puppet moved with unnerving accuracy, perfectly mouthing each syllable, “…Everyday feels like such as thrill. I can truly say I’ve never felt more alive…”

      Parky paused for a second.

      “I must say - that’s… quite a talent.”

      “That’s very kind of you to say, Michael. But for me, I don't really see it as a talent as such. I just see it as being natural. This was I can just express myself. Being like this, I feel like I can just …be free. Waddaya say, Michael - wanna try me on?”

      The audience laughed nervously.

      It came as a bit of a shock then, when the career of Barry Barnado was cut tragically short. His body was found fallen from the balcony of a hotel in the West End, the contorted features on his bloodied face ironically being the most expressive it had ever been since he had entered the public eye. The police had ruled it a suicide as no evidence of foul play had been discovered. However, what was strange was that despite many journalists, detectives and fans in search of morbid collectors items having carefully combed the scene of his death, and even having searched through Barry’s personal possessions, no trace of the sock puppet was found.

      Months later, on a beach in Perros Guirec, Brittany, 15-year-old Gilles de Bousies was taking his dog for an early morning walk when he spotted a dirty sock washed up on the shore. Against all reason, something compelled him to pick it up and put it onto his hand.

      He smiled. Today was a new day, full of promise and endless possibilities.

11th September 2011

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Short Story Challenge 8 - The Pig King

       Some people might ask me the reasons I constructed a throne made entirely of bacon, but they’ll never understand. Not really. Nor should they. Sure, the piece was entitled ‘The Pig King’, and people would undoubtedly read some superfluous meaning into it like ‘oh, its an allegory about how our empires are obtained by being built on the carcasses of those we have destroyed…’ or some such similar bullshit.

       You want to know the truth? It’s meaningless. It all is really. Everything I do, everything that I am going to do from now on. You know how crazy that is? To have people laud anything and everything you do. To praise it as ‘high art’ - elevating it above and beyond anything that it really is or deserves to be.

       It started innocently enough. I was a young artist, struggling to pay my way, wanting to express something… anything, to make a statement of some kind, to make a mark on this world. I guess in hindsight I just wanted to excuse my relative poverty and lack of success – to justify how I was living my life.

       That all changed when I sneaked into an art installation for upcoming young talent at the Crossroads Gallery situated up in the affluent area of the city. Drunk and overcome with jealousy and frustration at those who had been afforded this opportunity, I just lost it and lashed out in one of the empty booths that was being used for storage. The commotion caused people to gather around and they discovered me lying there in a crumpled heap amongst the wrecked canvases and leaking paint cans sobbing uncontrollably. That's when I first met Fenech.

       Lying there in the rubble, drained from having poured out all the emotions, I heard a loud clap. Once, twice, three times. Looking up through bleary eyes I saw a man standing there, front and centre of the crowd, staring at me, slowly clapping his hands together. It felt dreamlike, unreal - but slowly another person started to clap, then another and another – until the whole room was applauding. Confused, I looked back up at him, my eyes meeting his. He stared intensely at me, his gaze seemingly urging me to act. Somehow I knew what he wanted.

       Smile… Smile, damn you.

       Slowly I rose to my feet, a weak smile spread across my face. I took a bow. The crowd started to cheer.

       And so that was it. I had managed to fake my way into the art world. The only one who knew I was a fraud was Fenech and he always seemed to know what was best for me and what direction I ought to take next. Having proposed to become my agent there and then, he issued a press release of what had happened that night explaining my ‘performance’ and my reputation spread like wildfire.

       Once it started, there was no stopping it. I continually created pieces under his suggestion – the tree of bones, the flayed torture mannequins made from cuts of meat, the giant ant sculptures peering down into a perspex box that people could walk into… it went on and on. Each piece was met with critical acclaim, even when I had tried to produce something meaningless and random, the fans made every detail of it meaningful and significant.

       It was great at first, getting all this praise and recognition. But as the years went by, the haunting feeling of my sheer undeservedness festered in the back of my mind. Despite my growing wealth, I felt worthless. Once or twice I even thought of giving it all up and disappearing somewhere, but Fenech was always there, carefully watching over me, prodding and egging me on. He was too powerful and I too weak. He would always speak for me, make my creative decisions for me – I don't think I could escape his grasp even if I wanted to. If anything hewas the true artist – one that deals in PR, marketing and manipulation - the art of bullshit. I was just his pawn in all of this. I had often pondered that perhaps I really had made a deal with the devil.

       And now I found myself, 18 years later at my own gallery, currently showcasing ‘The Pig King’. It was shut for the evening but I had let myself in and wondered through the darkness amongst the various pieces from my life that were laid out on show. The grand opening was supposed to be tomorrow but I felt no excitement or pride. None of this was mine – not really. Fenech usually was careful to limit me reading about myself in the press, but recently I had come across a story on an online blog that detailed a leaked memo showing how the money that was used to set up this gallery and exhibition was originally meant for the renovation of the city hospital, but was diverted at the last minute. What can I say? The mayor was a huge fan.

       Making my way through the exhibition, I only felt numb. You must think I sound like a total cliché – the ‘tortured artist’. In reality I was just bored. When you get to the point where you can get away with any kind of bullshit without even trying – none of it has any real worth.

       I toyed with the idea of ending it all, hanging myself right in the middle of this gallery and putting an end to this charade. Giving the finger to this career-long joke. But there was always the nagging possibility that people would just take it as my final work of art – the ultimate sacrifice of the artist. People would always ascribe meaning to everything I did from now on - there was no escape from it. I sighed loudly. Unbelievable - they had even robbed me of that.

       Making my way to the centre of the room I approached the bacon throne. It seemed so ridiculous I couldn't help but let out a dry laugh. Carefully, I ascended the steps, sat down and waited for the dawn.

5th September 2012

 

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Short Story Challenge 7 - Hanging Around With Abergast and The Professor

      A few seconds, that was all it took; the camera was gone, and my only chance of success with it. As I watched it tumble down into the gaping ravine below,  I knew the film within would never be recovered. More importantly, I had to grab on to something fast or I too would share a similar fate to that of my Kodak SLR.

      My arms wind-milled almost comically as I flailed wildly in an attempt to maintain my balance. Too late! My footing abandoned me and I tumbled backwards over the cliff edge. Is this it? Is this finally the end for super sleuth journalist Archibald Abergast?

     Not likely.

      Out of the ether came a hand to rescue me – big and strong and… hairy? No, it couldn't be! It was my arch nemesis, the evil Professor Luther-Dexter, the wide grin taunting me through his bushy black beard. Gripping my wrist tightly he held me up, legs dangling over the chasm, relishing this moment of complete power.

      “At last Abergast! How I have yearned for this day!”

      I struggled in vain.

      “Damn you Luther-Dexter! I should have known you were behind this…”

      He cackled loudly.

      “But of course! Did you think that the massive avalanche that swept you out here was an accident? Or that it was a mere coincidence that the swamp you waded through was filled with mutant piranhas? Did you really think that a robotic Tyrannosaurus Rex is a product of Mother Nature? You fool!”

      “I knew something seemed suspicious! That sentient weather cloud following me around – was that your doing too?”

      “Aye!”

      “…And the two-headed fire-breathing dragon chickens… grown in your labs, I presume?”

      “Naturally…”

      “…And the guys in purple jumpsuits wielding ray guns that turned your hair ginger?”

      “Who else could be so utterly gifted?”

      “…Wait a second. You put that turd through the letter box of my log cabin? You know it stained the rug, right? That was a really expensive! You owe me a new rug, asshole!”

      “Er… no that wasn't me. That's actually kind of gross… …But now I wish I had thought of that… Mwahahaha! Anyway, now that you've lost your precious photographic evidence of all my criminal operations, you have nothing. You ARE nothing! Enough talk! Farewell, Abergast!”

      And with that he let go.

      Luckily, my cat-like reflexes served me well and I managed to grab onto the ledge as I fell. It was only one hand, but I was strong enough. What I didn't count on was the Professor’s boot coming down hard on top of it.

      “Die! Die!” he yelled maniacally, stomping wildly.

      Quick as a flash I reached up with my other hand and grabbed onto his boot. He tried to shake me off but my vice-like grip remained resolute.

      “You think that will save you, little man?” he laughed, quickly undoing his laces. He kicked off his boot but I anticipated his move and latched onto his thick woollen sock instead.

      “Seriously?”

      He wriggled his leg desperately, making the sock start to slide off his foot.

      “Gah! …What the…?”

      The sock was off, but now I had grabbed onto his foot. His toes were hairy and hard with calluses - but I had little choice.

      “Damn you…. Let go!”

      “Never! Just as Good will never let go… of the fight to defeat Evil!”

      “That doesn’t even make sense…!

      He was getting desperate - I could see it in his eyes.

      It was then that he pulled out his ace in the hole. Reaching down, he unlatched a strap on his leg, releasing it in its entirety. A fake leg! If I weren’t so preoccupied with my imminent doom I would have taken more time to ponder why he would go to the lengths of having a fake leg with hair and calluses on its foot.

      It was then I remembered my prototype hang-glider gadget concealed in my belt buckle. These Deus Ex Machina Products certainly lived up to their name, I thought to myself as I pressed the switch, releasing the contraption. Professor Luther-Dexter looked on enraged as the wings caught the air, sweeping me to safety.

      “I’ll get you Abergast! This isn’t over yet!” he bellowed, the figure hopping up and down on one leg slowly getting smaller as I glided further away.

      “You owe me a new rug, asshole!” I retorted.

      His voice echoed as the distance between us grew.

      “I told you, that wasn't meeeeeeeeeee……….!”

30th August 2012

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Short Story Challenge 6 - Children of the Seasons

      Four children were left on Martha’s doorstep, one each for the four seasons. Winter’s baby came last, wrapped in night and gazing at the stars.

      No one knows where they came from or which persons were responsible for abandoning them so, and yet Martha took to raising them as her own, her loving warmth more than making up for the cold indifference with which they were cast aside.

      Spring was the first to arrive - her tiny cries piercing the crisp chill of the morning air. Martha had no choice but to pick her up and cradle her to her bosom straight away, lest the cold silence her. As she grew into a child, Spring was the one that always followed Martha around, helping with the household chores and tending to the garden. Her horticultural skills were something to behold, transforming a barren patch of soil around the house into a floral paradise.

      Always the first to do things and arrive at places, Spring was always so enthusiastic and full of verve. Her constant energy seemed implausible and overly chirpy to some – but for others it was a welcome reminder of how one could exude boundless positivity - living without being afraid of anything.

      It was a sad day then, when she passed. Dying young is always tragic, but more so for one seemingly so full of life. No one knew exactly how she died, but rumours spoke of how living double the life in half the time had been the cause, whilst others speculated that somehow deep down she had always known of her short time on this earth, which in turn led to her living her life to the fullest.

      Summer was the second of the children to arrive. It was a blazing hot day, and if it were not for her laughter echoing amidst the warm breeze perhaps Martha would not have found her. Always happy and content, Summer grew to be a lovely young woman. Relaxed and friendly, she would calm anyone in her vicinity – when she was around it would always bring out the best in people. They would forget their quarrels and hardships in their life and just be.

      With no end of suitors it was no surprise that she married young and subsequently left the household to travel to faraway lands. She was always grateful to Martha for her care and upbringing but it was clear that she could not remain in one place forever. It is not known what became of her, but it is certain that wherever she was she would be bringing a smile to someone’s face.

      The third child was Autumn. Nestled amidst the fallen leaves, she wailed when Martha picked her up and cradled her. She was beautiful as a baby, but growing into her adolescence she became almost impossibly beautiful. Her pale skin and clear blue eyes would hush rooms as she walked in. Men would avert their gaze when she met theirs and her name became etched on the hearts of thousands. She was always such a sad child, so distant and detached; unable to identify with anyone or anything other than the ethereal and the mythical. She never found one that she could love – all those she met eventually left with a heart broken, knowing that she could never truly belong to them and them only.       Once again, tragedy befell the family when she was found hanged amongst the bare branches of the orchard. She was unable to belong in this world.

      Winter’s baby came last, wrapped in night and gazing at the stars. Martha quickly fetched some cotton blankets and held her close before the unforgiving cold could claim her. She was hardly breathing, still and silent as the frozen night – it was a miracle that she was still alive.

      Winter was quiet as a child. In fact, she hardly spoke at all. Always lingering at the back of the room. The last to arrive, the last the leave. Sometimes people didn't even notice she was there. Always so silent, simply watching and waiting. It was no surprise then that she ended up outliving them all, even Martha. She was the only one there at her side in her final moments, comforting her with her silent smile.

      Once Martha was gone there was not much purpose for Winter to stay here. One day, without a fuss, she quietly packed her bags and disappeared into the night, never to be seen again.

      No one knows exactly why these sisters were brought into this world in such a way, or ultimately what their purpose was. But one thing was clear – they lived on within the hushed whispers of the townsfolk, the stories of their lives continually perpetuated by those huddled around a comforting fire. They would not be forgotten.

24th August 2012

 

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Short Story Challenge - Notes on weeks 1-5

      For those of you good enough to have been following my weekly short storychallenges, here is just a little summary of the five I have completed so far.

      Although I don't want to fret too much about every detail (the stories are a speed writing exercise after all), here is a quick summary of each one I have written, including creative decisions, trivia and possible improvements/changes I would have made if I had more time and/or was writing a longer story.

1 – Red Ring

Opening Line: The Priest pulled out his finger from the stripper’s ear lobe in shock…

      This one in particular was very important to reconcile the initially ridiculous and implausible sounding opening line with a story that actually makes sense. The main themes being that of a very human willingness to create mental links and see causality and meaning where there necessarily isn’t any – rather transparently illustrated here by a man of religious belief (religion being heavy on symbolism and meaning as it is) against the more common supernatural beliefs even non religious people experience every day with their thoughts on coincidence, destiny and so on.

      This story is not an attack on religion – just an observation of how we are all prone to ascribing meaning in everything around us – especially when we feel heightened, such as in a time of crisis.

      I was lucky to come across an image on the London Eye lit up in red whilst doing a google image search (I originally wasn't sure it could be that colour) but it turned out to be a fitting end for the story both thematically and with its setting.

2 – Tomato Soup

Opening Line: “No thanks, I’m on a diet”, she replied without looking. It wasn’t quite the answer he had hoped for. Time for plan ‘B’…

      This one was the most fun to write and probably the most accessible to readers for its relative simplicity. It’s very dialogue heavy - which accounts for a lot of this – but writing dialogue does come a lot easier to me.

      There were two main conceits with this story that make it particularly effective. Firstly, the opening suggests a romantic or ‘date’ type setting which immediately forms expectations for the reader that I could later subvert. Secondly, the ending ‘twist’ where it is revealed that they were both trying to kill each other the whole time adds another layer to the story that gives further significance to the opening that the reader was not initially aware of.

      If I had more time with this one I would have probably taken longer to flesh out the ending as well as perhaps explain the motivations for each character and why they actually wanted to kill each other.

3 – Palingenesis

Opening Line: Let’s face it, I’ve had much worse things stuck to the bottom of my shoe but this is definitely a first…

      I wanted this story to be in the style of old sci-fi/horror cautionary tales, reminiscent of Stephen King short stories or an episode of The Twilight Zone (with a little bit of Cronenberg body horror thrown in there as well). I also chose to do this one in a diary format just as a change of style, but also as it makes sense for someone to be talking to themselves in this way as they need to be isolated from anyone else at that time for the story to work. The challenge here was to communicate the events convincingly through only one man’s recordings to himself.

      Thematically, I am fascinated by the idea that in this modern age we have the technology to explore the outer reaches of space and yet there are still many new species being discovered all the time in the remote areas of our planet such as the vast rainforests and the deepest oceans.

      If I had more time I would have prolonged the transformation to make it more gradual, as well as to go more in depth into the kind of research he was doing out there in the jungle and to communicate more about how alone and helpless the character really was.

      The word ‘Palingenesis’ means the biological reproduction of oneself – fitting for the story – but even ‘genesis’ by itself evokes the idea of ‘creation’ and ‘rebirth’ – as well as alluding to the creation story - the dates used for the diary entries are a nod to this.

4 – A Family Business

Opening Line: When one is kneading dough, it is imperative to have clean hands…

      The idea for this story came from playing with the dual meanings of the opening line as a rule of bakery and that of the code of an organized crime family – ‘dough’ was originally meant to literally represent the cash in their money laundering side of the business.

      I really didn't have much time to complete this story but if I did I would have gone into more depth about the exact operations that the narrator was involved in as well as a more gradual rise to power. I did like the conversational tone that the story was written in as it allowed me to be vague with a lot of these details (which would have required a lot more research on my part), but also as it communicated a cold detachment in the way in which he recounts the violent happenings in his life in a rather casual and factual manner.

5 – Garden of the Seventh Circle

Opening Line: The ivy had continued to grow since I left the village, now hiding the doorway behind it…

      This was my anti Secret Garden story, if you will. Rather than a place of forgiveness and healing as it was in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s tale, this garden is one of penance and ultimately death.

      The title comes from Canto XIII in Dante’s Inferno where in the second ring of the Seventh Circle of hell they arrive at the woods of suicide.

      I liked the idea of how a garden can get wild, dark and oppressive just because it has been left locked up and left untended – much like the narrator’s feelings of guilt and regret.

      I wasn't able to go into the specifics of why he killed his wife (again not enough time to explain his motivation) but I like the ambiguity of it all and letting the reader piece together what happened by simply giving them snippets of information or flashes of images.

      Anyway, thanks for reading  - I enjoy writing about the creative process and sharing it with you. Hope you will keep reading the stories as it's a fun challenge for me.

      Until next time dear reader!

13 August 2012

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