Ghost Story published again

Another quick post to say that Ghost Story has now been published on virtual writer.net (see link below). Think I need to write a new short story now!

www.virtualwriter.net/fiction/fiction.asp

Umbrella Stories

Just a quick post to say that Ghost's Story has been e-published. You can find it on www.umbrellastories.com under 'Flash Fiction'.

Ghost's Story - for Hallowe'en

I’ve been trapped here for a long time. A long time. I know this because after a while I forget how to define an hour, a day, a week. It feels like I’m contained under water, and all I can hear is the waves lapping at my ears. My vision is blurred. I see objects, people, but not detail. I forget detail. Can you miss something that you have forgotten? I remember words I once used. Stair. Vase. Key. I forget to what they refer. A strange world to which I am no longer connected.
I try to break free. I scream until the water around my head almost drowns me. I try to reach out, grab something or someone, but they cannot see or feel me. I wonder if they cannot see me in the same way I cannot see them. Just moving, man-shaped haziness. I have tried to call out: ‘help me, I am trapped; I do not know the way out’, but they do not hear me, and I fight against the current in my own sphere to be heard.
The paleness goes on forever. I can see only a short distance around me. The rest is obscure. I am numb for the most part. I do not feel my body. I am transparent, weightless. Sometimes I feel prickles where my arms would be, and this brings me comfort. If I focus hard enough, I can sometimes move things on the other side, small things, like a book or a glass. This also brings me comfort. Perhaps if they see that it has moved, they will rescue me from this translucent prison. I am afraid of sleep, and yet, at times I will it. I have been here for a long time.
All is still until:
I am suddenly awakened by a powerful emotion I had thought I had forgotten. It is fear, crippling fear, and it engulfs me. I am pulled forward through the partition (I am free!), and I can look down and see my body, dressed as it once was, in brown crinoline. And I am running, running down the great staircase in my home, running and trying not to look back. He is close, I can sense him. He mustn’t catch me. I am terrified by what he might do if he reaches me. I run, knocking over a table with the edge of my dress. I hear the porcelain vase smash behind me. I look back. I know I should see him, but he is not in sight. I do not slow however; it could be a trick. I can sense that he is near, perhaps just around the corner, waiting for me to stop, catch my breath, so he can have me. I see the door to the pantry, and then I am confused. I am inside, though I do not recall opening the door. I turn to check that the door is now locked and the key within sight, that he cannot get in, that I am safe. Once I lock the door, I know that I will be safe forever. It is not locked. I reach up to the lock, try to turn the tiny key, but an invisible force snatches my wrist away from the door. He has entered through the kitchen, one step ahead. He thinks I have betrayed him, but I plead and cry to him that I have not. “I am true, I am true”, I call out, not looking at his face, although I feel his eyes burning into me as his phosphorus grip burns my skin. He has a mallet in his hand, I see that, and I know, I know that if I stay there for a second longer, he will have me. I struggle to free my arm and turn, yanking at the door and then running, running down the corridor, through the hallway, the sound of broken porcelain beneath my feet. I run up the staircase and turn into the corridor and then stop suddenly. Something is different. Where is the damp, musty scent from the drapes at the window? The soft smell of burning from invalid grandmama’s fire one floor above? And then I look around and see. This is not my house. It has changed. I see unfamiliar people –a man, sometimes a little boy, a woman – all wearing strange clothing, all looking at me. I can see the details; the way the man’s moustache curls at the ends, the boy’s freckles, the woman’s fine lines around her mouth and her eyes. I see the detail, and it is overwhelming. And they can see me. And then I remember, and I start to call out: “help me, I am trapped”, but before I can finish my sentence, I am pulled backwards once more into the blue.
The fear has gone now. The red heat of panic subsides. My prison has pulled me back in, and emotion and hope is left behind in the other world. I am numb again. The water gushes back and I am still. I’ve been trapped here for a long time. A long time.

Wooo!

I'm being productive again! Yay! So, I think I've finished my scary story for Saturday - it's a ghost's story - and I've started writing (in my head if not on paper) the short story that I am hoping to submit to Tripod, a new magazine showcasing writing from Leicester, Derby and Nottingham. My story is going to be about Mouse, one of the teenage boys from my "Hoodie Leicestershire youths" play. I'm not sure as yet whether to write it as a first person narrative, or write it in third person. I'm leaning more towards writing it in the third person, simply because I overuse the first person, and second person is practically impossible (oh, unless I wrote it as a 'day in the life' or something: "you go outside for a fag. It starts to rain"...). Also Mouse, as his name suggests, is very quiet, so it would be unrealistic for him to write some great gushing story about his day/week/etc, when he is in fact introverted, not communicative in the slightest, and not very bright. Anyway, my story will follow Mouse on a typical day at school (or not as the case may be) and looking forward to the highlight of his day, which is to sit in the cold with his mates in Shilton rec (that's "Earl Shilton recreational ground" to most people). Why that is the highlight of his day will come apparent to those reading it as his day progresses. Poor Mouse. I'm going to take a photo of the reccy next time I go home, if the youths don't chase me off, so I can post it on here and remember what it looks like. I used to spend most evenings one summer sitting on top of the skateboard ramp with my mates (no serious skater would use it), but I think Mouse and co will take over the castle in the middle of the park. It seems more fitting somehow to have them camp out in a castle. The deadline for submissions is 1st December, so I have plenty of time to have a really good go at it (unless NaNoWriMo gets in the way). It should also feed back into the play that I'm writing and make characterisation stronger.

Scary Story

I am writing a scary story for Hallowe’en at the moment, and I’m finding it very tricky. Mainly, this is because of my tendency to repress any sinister thoughts I have, as I tend to have nightmares and ‘daymares’ for months afterwards if I don’t. Therefore I am finding it hard to imagine anything horrific to write about. It’s like I’m peeking through my fingers to see what’s inside my head. Stupid over-active imagination! For example, after watching a particularly scary episode of Doctor Who once, I actually ‘saw’ a creepy little boy in my hallway. Being afraid is one thing. Having your fears manifest themselves into visions is quite another. Perhaps I should seek medical help…