Tag Archives: Short story

Published! My first short story now available, in The Infernal Clock

I am very excited (and nervous) to announce the first publication of one my short stories. My brain is a little all over the place, truth be told. I am as much daunted by the prospect as I am over the moon.

Here, let me pour out my mind soup, so you can see what’s going on:

I HAVE FINALLY ACHIEVED STARDOM – THE MUSE HAS SWEPT ME UP AND DELIVERED ME UNTO THE ANNALS OF HISTORY AS THE WORLD’S GREATEST WRITER – ummmm, steady on, what if my story’s shit? What if – actually – the first thing I’ve published is a steaming turd? – NO, IT IS A GREAT ACHIEVEMENT – oh shit oh shit oh shit – GO FORTH AND BE MERRY, FOR THIS MONUMENTOUS OCCASION NO DOUBT HERALDS FURTHER SUCCESS – every single literate English-speaking human has read it and they know my picture and they think I’m a total muppet and they’re laughing at my stupid face behind my back – IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO LAUGH AT SOMEONE’S FACE BEHIND THEIR BACK – oh God! What if my story is riddled with incongruous metaphors? IT IS A GOOD STORY, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, GIVE IT A REST – I will not give it a rest, it’s called humility and doubt, you overbearing prat, maybe I should just not tell anyone – NO, WRITE A BLOG POST AND SHARE IT ON FACEBOOK – but then people might read it – THAT WAS THE POINT, WASN’T IT? – I don’t know! – GROW UP – Oh shit oh shit oh shit…

Oops, let me just close the old noggin there.

I’m erring towards Mr Shouty Brain, though – after all, I did write to be read, so I really ought to tell people when I have written something, right? So I’ll post this, and then go and hide in the pub for three hours.

So! On with the self promotion…

Continue reading Published! My first short story now available, in The Infernal Clock

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Rejections are my hubris-humbling chums – but that’s enough now

I must have read it a thousand times: “You’re a writer if you write.”

For the most part, it’s true, if a little self-serving. Yes, we writers belong to a little club, whose only membership requirement is that you jot your vacuous thoughts down in word form. But there’s something missing, isn’t there? The other half of the writer’s symbiotic relationship.

A writer needs readers.

Suddenly the statement “You’re a writer if you write” seeks to obfuscate the fact you’ve failed to get published. Now there’s a worthy milestone.

Continue reading Rejections are my hubris-humbling chums – but that’s enough now

Fiction is hell

Fiction is hell.

Not one word will seep from my pitiful brain on to this accursed page. I don’t have a single idea worth the spirit-sapping monotony of 12pt Courier. My paragraphs are formatted to double-spaced lines, but you couldn’t tell – you’d need two lines.

Utter dejection.

It was all going so well. I’d read about creative writing; I even did a course.

Back then I was happy, naïve. Everything seemed sprinkled with potential; every real-life encounter manifested an event to be mastered; in every sunrise shone the promise of perfect prose.

Continue reading Fiction is hell

Third Life – Flash Fiction

Outside, thumping relentlessly on my windowpane, the ruptured Chiba sky pours its thick, sticky summer rain. I take a long drag on a knock-off Marlboro, synth-tobacco clinging to my throat with a taste like ozone.

The sky is a cold slab of television-grey, lit by the humming neon of the Shinjuku district as it slices through the smog from over a mile away. Sixty-five stories up and I can feel it – the Biz – far below on the streets, in the alleyways. The eternal hustle; a grey lawless economy, both sustained and frowned upon by the Zaibatsus who feed off its live-or-die vitality. In the bustle, amongst these thousands of hustlers, pimps, dealers, fixers, runners and marks, a hired door punk like me can feel God-damn alone. I need to get out, just for a few hours.

Continue reading Third Life – Flash Fiction

I’ll show you mine if you show me yours — a call for critique

Writers! I seek critique and offer my own unique services in return.

I propose a scheme, if you’re keen, in which we swap stories of similar length and critique the bejeezus out of them, before sending the mutilated corpses of our creative babies back to each other, weeping ourselves to sleep over the deluge of red ink.

I have three tales ready to be torn to smithereens, and suggest a straight swap with anyone who has a story of similar length (let’s say no more or less than 500 words’ difference?), to ensure we’re not exchanging a short story for a Tolstoyan tome.

All three are vaguely horror, while The Pumice Stone opens with a little bit of rude blueness.

Continue reading I’ll show you mine if you show me yours — a call for critique