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Showing posts with label parade. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parade. Show all posts

Friday, 5 May 2017

Writing - more background to published short stories (5)



My first published short story is featured in this fifth collection (I Celebrate Myself): ‘Hover-jack’ was based on observation, as I’d travelled on the hovercraft to the Isle of Wight and also spent a week at sea in a conventional diesel submarine. At the time, spy fiction was still in vogue. The periodical, Parade, featured several crime and adventure short stories and I was relatively successful placing seven submissions up to 1973, when their policy altered, abandoning stories. Over the years, the market for adventure stories dried up.The printing history for this collection ranges from 1971 to 2014.
            ‘I celebrate myself’ was originally going to be the start of my novel Pain Wears No Mask, featuring a female New York cop who becomes a nun. I subsequently transposed her to England, and dropped this particular beginning; she can now be found in the republished version, The Bread of Tears. The story is loosely based on an actual event in New York.
            I’ve always enjoyed writing twist stories and ‘Two birds with one stone’ was one of those; ‘Wall of conflict’, ‘Final demand’, ‘The merger’ and ‘The man who had a date with the past’ all fell into this category, too. Usually, the ending is the engine for the story, and often springs from a news item. Coincidentally, the name Torrence in ‘Two birds’ is used by another character in my psychic spy novel Mission: Prague. Some names do persist, invading the subconscious. ‘The man who…’ is the only story of mine whose title was altered by the editor. Yes, I’d reduce the frequency of ‘had’ now, and I should have shown the cat, since it was mentioned. While I think I managed the characterisation in the limited word-count reasonably well, and built up the suspense, I suspect that the ending is probably obvious. In 2011, I reworked this theme in a different setting and created a double twist ending for a longer story (‘Silence’, to be found in volume 3 of the collected stories, Visitors).
            In the 1970s I was a big fan of Alistair MacLean’s adventure novels and always fancied writing a thriller set in the arctic; I didn’t get round to that, but settled for ‘Tooth-walker’, anyway.
            I’d snorkelled in the Red Sea but never managed to take up scuba diving. However, the underwater beauty I encountered prompted the story ‘Wreck hunter’, though again with a twist.
            ‘An interrupted journey’ featured in an unpublished spy novel of mine written in the mid-1960s. Then, Adam Strong worked for an adjunct of MI6, International Enterprises, which appears in the first Tana Standish psychic spy novel, Mission: Prague. Some ideas are so tenacious, they survive.
            I wrote ‘The busker of Torrevieja’ specifically for the international writing competition held in the town. It won a prize.
            ‘The newly-weds’ was a story that gestated for a few years, attempting to create a dramatic situation out of something relatively normal.
            ‘HBT’ was written as a response the vast leaps in anti-aging that are taking place. With a twist!
            ‘Lucky with cars’ was entered in a competition where each 1,200-word story had to be based on 5 photos: a key, the words ‘emergency exit’, a ladder, a park bench and a petrol station. I opted for a humorous crime tale, and it was a runner-up and published.
            I wrote ‘The Geordie Flier’ in response to a competition; it didn’t win, but it did eventually find a home – as did the hero…
            ‘Not so bare, after all’ began as a section in the previously mentioned US-based cop-nun novel. I’m never comfortable writing in vernacular, as I reckon it’ll never be correct. I’ve left this as it appeared in the magazine, for what it’s worth; perhaps the motto should be: avoid vernacular like the plague!
            This is a short story from St Anselm’s Hostel for the Homeless, Charleston, South Carolina, which is run by an order of nuns, presided over by Sister Hannah. Two out-of-print novellas feature Sister Hannah – A Sign of Grace and Silenced in Darkness.
            Sister Hannah was my first incarnation of the nun who used to be a cop. I transposed the stories from New York and Charleston to Newcastle-Upon-Tyne and London and renamed the main character Sister Rose.
            From time to time I like to set myself a writing challenge. ‘The museum of iniquity’ was a playful whodunit in 1,000 words, with apologies to Jeffrey Archer for using in the text 36 titles from his novels, short stories and plays. This was my 100th short story published.
            ‘Sleep well, my darling’ is an ‘adult’ short story due to the treatment of its sexual content. It’s strange how murder and violence are not frowned on as much as sex. In this whole book, there’s only one f-word, and it’s in this story. It found a home, appropriately, in a noir anthology.
            In my stories, invariably the villains get their comeuppance. I wanted to attempt a more conciliatory view with the stories ‘Give me a chance, will you?’ and ‘All my life’, the latter a piece of whimsy and a play on the pronunciation of Don Quixote.
            ‘The catch’ was written for a competition with the subject ‘American private eye’ and it won third place.
            ‘Bank on it’ was another competition entry which had the beginning ‘That morning I could find nowhere to park…’ I didn’t win, but it provided me with a story that found a home.
            ‘“What is suspense?”’ was a writing circle prompt and I had fun playing with this, attempting to explain what suspense in writing is, and including it in a suspense story!
            The moral here is, if you’re a writer, enter competitions, and even if you don’t win, you will have produced a piece of work that could go elsewhere; true, it might need altering to fit a suitable market; but the hard work is done.
            As a bonus, I included ‘Winter’s mourning’ – its title being a play on words. It’s a spy story with betrayal and murder at its root. I suspect it would not find a place in any current periodical, so I was indulgent in including it in this collection; forgive me.

I Celebrate Myself - Collected short stories volume 5


Available as a paperback and e-book from Amazon here

Other books in this series are:



Gifts from a Dead Race – Collected stories vol.1 (science fiction, horror, fantasy, ghost)
Nourish a Blind Life – Collected stories vol.2 (science fiction, horror, fantasy, ghost)
Visitors  Collected stories vol.3 (westerns)
Codename Gaby – Collected stories vol.4 (historical)                               

Saturday, 21 February 2015

Saturday Story - 'The Courier'



THE COURIER

 

Jon Teiffort

 
‘Calm down, Brooke! Are you sure Harlmann’s rumbled you?’ Dent snapped irritably, h is professionalism grating on Brooke’s raw nerves.

Brooke swallowed the lukewarm espresso coffee. His weak blue eyes scoured the deserted Wimpy restaurant. ‘I’m not – it just adds up. Shortly after I slip out a sample of FL3 for you, Harlmann convenes an urgent executive meeting!’ he explained edgily.

FL3 was the codename for Portable Cutting Equipment Limited’s new liquid chemical to power their revolutionary lightweight portable thermic-lance called ‘Fire-lance’.

Nervously, Brooke loosened his collar. ‘I don’t like it…’

Dent’s stony grey eyes narrowed. ‘You’re doing this because of what I’ve got on you; you’re committed. It’s not a case of what you like – it’s what I want!’

Brooke paled as Dent’s gravelly words sank home.

On becoming the Development Manager for PCE he had celebrated during his wife’s absence and unwittingly committed the indiscretion Dent had traced – or engineered. He had no choice but to go along with Dent.
 
‘Stop worrying!’ Dent said. ‘The way I see it, if Harlmann had anything concrete, you’d know by now. Maybe he suspects a leak in your security and wants to clamp down hard…’

‘But wouldn’t that make access to the FL3 formula almost impossible?’ He wanted to get out – and quick!
 
‘True. Still, the sample you smuggled out should prove valuable on its own – without the formula.’

‘You’ve no further need of my … services?’ Brooke queried hopefully.
 
Dent’s lips curved thinly, eyes flickering. ‘Not so fast.’ Brooke’s heart jerked. ‘We could still get a bonus from PCE: kidnap Harlmann before tomorrow’s meeting and demand a ransom for his safe return…’
 
Taken aback, Brooke gasped, ‘Kidnap?’ The very word sent cold shivers down his slightly yellowed spine. ‘What’ll you do to him?’
 
‘A simple abduction job. I’ve done it before. He’ll be all right. Then I’ll ring the executive meeting and demand the ransom, suggesting you as courier.’ He smiled sweetly. ‘What could be easier?’
 
Brooke’s stomach churned. ‘What about me?’ he demanded warily.

‘No trouble. Obviously, I’ll emphasise no police. I think Elmsby on the coast would be an ideal rendezvous spot. I’ll arrange a speedboat to get you to France in no time at all.’ Dent raised a gnarled finger, added, ‘With your share of the ransom money – minus the boat-fare, of course…’

Brooke sighed, relaxed in the hard plastic chair. It sounded reasonable enough. ‘You’ve timed the demand just right,’ he remarked, admiringly. ‘The end-of-month salaries are due and PCE has at least £20,000 at hand in cash…’
 
Dent grinned. ‘Well, we won’t be greedy, let’s settle for £15,000.’ With that amount of money he would be glad to desert wife and firm!
 
Brooke was sweating heavily under his pin-stripes as the large pine-smelling conference room filled with members of PCE’s executive. Agitatedly smoothing his greasy dark hair, he eyed the studded door, fearing Harlmann would turn up and denounce him after all.
 
The telephone’s insistent blaring ring startled him. For an instant he hesitated, then grabbed the receiver.
 
It was Harlmann’s throaty business-like voice: ‘The meeting’s cancelled, Brooke. I’ll speak only to you and the Chief Cashier.’
 
Lips trembling as he spoke, Brooke informed those present of the cancellation. As they departed, amidst a drone of mumbling, he faced the cashier.

‘Harlmann’s been kidnapped,’ he whispered.
 
Head cocked to the extension phone, the cashier’s bespectacled sharp features crumpled in shock. ‘They – they want £15,000!’
 
Slowly, Brooke nodded. Then Harlmann said haltingly, ‘They want you to deliver it at the North Crossroads outside Elmsby at 11pm tonight.’
 
‘Tonight?’
 
‘And no police,’ Harlmann warned.
 
The cashier wavered and Brooke’s pulse threshed maddeningly. ‘What – what can we do but agree?’ he asked persuasively.
 
‘Yes.’ The cashier nodded. ‘It’s Mr Harlmann’s money… I just hope he’ll be all right…’
 
With his wife away visiting relatives, Brooke felt uncomfortable fondling the ransom money in the solitude of his Edwardian home.
 
He switched on the radio to drown the silence. ‘If only I had the guts to run off now, with the lot,’ he mused as the bleeps of the nine o’clock news sounded.
 
‘… further peace moves are expected soon… The body of the man found by police this evening in a burnt-out car outside Elmsby has been identified as millionaire Benjamin Harlmann, the well-known founder-owner of CPE. Cause of death has not been established but foul play has not been ruled out… Next of kin have…’

Suddenly Brooke’s mouth dried up. His spine tingled: a double-cross! Dent was likely trying to frame him for Harlmann’s murder! He’d better get out fast, before Dent arrived for the money and fixed him for the frame up.

His ears pricked, detected a roar of cars. Police sirens wailed, freezing him to the spot. Two Panda cars braked at his feet, splattering his trousers with gravel. A deflated sinking sensation contracted his stomach.

So Dent had informed on him. Then he mustn’t want the money; probably content with having the FL3 sample.

In the drab confines of the small interrogation room, Brooke slouched over the bare table and confessed: he had no intention of being charged with Harlmann’s murder.

‘Well, that’s very interesting, Mr Brooke,’ Inspector Green observed.
 
At that moment his Detective Sergeant raced in. ‘We’ve picked up the other man, sir!’
 
Brooke smiled sanguinely. So they’d caught the murderous swine! He thought as the door swung open.
 
Then his mouth dropped wide in disbelief.

‘I’m no ghost.’ Harlmann sneered, fingering his bandaged head. ‘Dent took everything that might identify me – wallet, chequebook, clothes labels, car…’ he explained. ‘He intended killing me all right. I tried struggling, he left me for dead.’ Flushed face grimacing, he sat down. ‘Naming you as courier sounded suspicious,’ Harlmann went on, ‘so when I came to I rang the police.’
 
Brooke sank defeated in his chair.
 
‘Driving down to deal with you,’ Harlmann went on, ‘Dent discovered some relatively new properties of FL3. It possesses an alarming instability when constantly vibrated. As he carried the stolen sample in his car, the motor’s vibrations must have set it off.’
 
Staring incredulously, Brooke shuddered.
 
‘Actually, I learnt of the instability from the lab yesterday. That’s why I called that urgent meeting. To warn everyone concerned.’
 

***
 
Previously published in Parade, August 1972 under my joint-penname of Jon Teiffort.

Copyright Nik Morton, 2014

 ***

A handful of short stories were a combination of ideas and prose between a friend, Neil Robson, and me. We settled on the fairly simple anagram of ‘joint effort’, and the fee was split 50/50.

***
Naturally, looking back over this now, some 42 years later, I know it could be improved. A certain magazine style was considered necessary to tell a tale in 1,000 words, so genre fiction short-hand prevailed in the writing. Still, I feel it holds up as a story, of its time.

If you enjoyed this moral tale with a twist, then you might like my collection Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat Publishing, featuring Leon Cazador, private eye in 22 cases, 'in his own words'.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Saturday, 31 January 2015

Saturday story - 'The man who had a date with the past'

Cold revolver - Wikipedia commons
 
THE MAN WHO HAD A DATE WITH THE PAST
 
 
Nik Morton
 

His thick-veined wrinkled hands raised the gilt-framed photograph from the old sideboard’s bottom drawer. ‘Well, another year nearly over, Detta,’ Cosmo Pontiferi whispered to his wife, Bendetta. ‘Tomorrow’s the big day.’

Lifting pale brown eyes from her crochet-work, she smiled softly. ‘Yes, our thirtieth…’

Cosmo scrutinised the picture of the fourteen-year-old dark-haired boy. ‘Do you think he will come?’ He didn’t wait for her answer. ‘It’s been so long…’

Absently, he fingered the folded letter in his shirt’s breast-pocket. Their son, Emilio, who had left home shortly after the photo was taken, had just written, saying he was returning for their anniversary. ‘I keep a promise, Papa,’ he had written simply.

Carefully placing the picture on the sideboard, he tried controlling his trembling hands.

Thank God Detta didn’t listen to gossip, he thought, eyeing her hunched in her creaking rocking-chair.

Recently, the rumours had had more substance. Thinking about it, he felt his weak heart flutter. Nothing too definite yet, but it seemed that since the Syndicate retired him they had learned that he hadn’t been as devoted to their ‘business’ as he would have had them believe.

It was true, he’d always managed to hold back quite a substantial sum of all his transactions for the Syndicate – unbeknown to them.

The fear of discovery and reprisals had always hovered in the back of his mind. He had thought the risk worth it when younger – and the excitement had thrilled him.

The Syndicate had a very good retirement pay organised for the faithful. He had genuinely wanted to level with them – but couldn’t.

He had been grateful when they retired him and had hoped his past would retire with him.

Thankfully, he had kept Detta in ignorance. No matter what he’d done, provided they believed she wasn’t implicated she would be looked after as his widow…

Before this week, he would have quietly resigned himself to his ‘just deserts’ at the hands of their executioner. But since receiving Emilio’s letter, he found he didn’t want to die – at least, not until his son kept his promise.
 
The phone blared, derailing his train of thought. ‘I’ll get it,’ he whispered gently.
 
‘Hi, Marco, old buddy – long time no see?’ he greeted his old friend. Then his blood drained from his grizzled face. He almost froze solid as he held the receiver closer to his ear.
 
Marco hissed in an urgent voice, ‘It’s about those rumours, Cosmo… We’ve been good friends a long time – I wanted to warn you… My contacts reckon there’s a known Syndicate killer in town and it’s said you’re the Mark…’
 
Cold fear seeped into his aged frame. So it had come to this after all. He self-consciously eyed Detta, but she didn’t appear interested in his phone conversation.

Clammy hand gripping the phone tighter, he said, guardedly, ‘No, I can’t believe that, Marco. Why me?’
 
‘The rumours, friend…’
 
‘Not true.’ He forced an unconcerned chuckle. ‘Anyway, thanks for calling, Marco. I shan’t forget…’  Hanging up, he shuffled across to the apartment window. Dusk was already slithering across the city.
 
The vigil now begins, he thought. ‘It’s getting late,’ he observed absently. ‘I’ll follow you to bed in a short while, Detta.’
 
Wordlessly, she rose from her chair. On her way to the bedroom, she patted his weathered cheek. ‘Don’t stop up reading too late, now…’
 
And then he was alone, more alone than he had ever been in his life. Bristled chin determinedly set, he unlocked his desk drawer and removed an old .38 Colt. Slipping it into his tight waistband, he shoved the nearest armchair round to face the door.
 
He switched off the lights and sat waiting in the dark for his appointed executioner.

Dimly he recalled the other times he’d stayed up all night like this, on heists, etc… but then he’d been younger. He could hardly keep his eyes open and felt sure he dosed for odd minutes, only to be brought up with a jerk as the apartment block made its eerie night sounds.
 
His old heirloom fob watch said he’d been waiting two hours. He smiled. Detta hadn’t bothered calling for him to come to bed. Probably fallen straight to sleep, he thought, imagining her lying serenely in the next room.
 
Then he remembered he hadn’t locked the door after putting the cat out. Tiredly, he heaved his stooped body from the chair.
 
Harshly shattering the stillness, next-door’s tomcat screeched in sudden pain, as though it had been kicked down the stairs. Cosmo’s pulse raced maddeningly. The killer!

Standing as if transfixed with one hand on the gun and the other steadying himself against the armchair, he watched speechless as the brass door-handle slowly turned.

The door swung open on soundless hinges. His finger trembled on the trigger.

Tall, immaculately dressed, with lean tanned features shaded by a fedora hat, the stranger stood half-highlighted by the landing’s dull bulb. The grim stubborn mouth twisted into a kind of ironic grin as the hidden eyes scoured the blackened room. Large nimble fingers flashed to his breast-pocket.

Old and out of practice as he was, Cosmo moved with surprising speed. He raised his revolver and fired instinctively.

The man wheezed incredulously and doubled up. He stumbled backwards onto the landing and tumbled downstairs, arms and legs flailing. The clattering noise seemed sufficient to awaken the dead.

Tremulously, Cosmo flicked on the light and stepped to the doorway. The body crumpled to a halt at the next half-landing as Detta’s voice shrieked, ‘Cosmo! What’s going on out there?’

The pungent cordite choked his nostrils. He felt sick inside now. He could never hide this deed from her. Slowly, he descended the stairs, gun at the ready, just in case the corpse wasn’t quite a corpse.

His heart wavered as he laboured down to the unnaturally twisted figure. He was too old for this sort of thing, he thought, and smiled grimly to himself. But still a match for their much younger executioners, by the saints!
 
It seemed a century had passed since he’d done this, he mused, and turned the body over.

His head spun giddily. He stared unbelievingly into the vacant eyes of his son, Emilio, whose limp hand held a box of his father’s favourite Corona cigars.

* * *

Previously published in Parade, September 1972, under an old penname Platen Syder.

Copyright Nik Morton, 2014.

Again, another short story where every word of the allocated thousand must count. Yes, I’d reduce the frequency of ‘had’ now, and I should have shown the cat, since it was mentioned being put out. This was the only short story of mine where the editor/sub-editor decided to change the title; mine, 'The Reckoning' was not considered appropriate.
 
While I think I managed the characterisation in the limited word count reasonably well, and built up the suspense, I suspect that the ending is probably obvious. In 2011, I reworked this theme in a different setting and created a double twist ending for a longer story, to wrong-foot expectations.

If you enjoyed this tale, then you might like my collection Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat Publishing, featuring Leon Cazador, private eye in 22 cases.