Beginning – the hook

I’ve said it a number of times, but it’s worth repeating: beginnings of stories and novels are important. They’re the hook for the reader. 

Many film directors appreciate this too. Pull the audience in quickly and then never let go. I’ve sat through a number of movies where the start was inauspicious, plodding, revealing nothing about the characters, the environment or the story theme – and then found that eventually the story (at last!) takes hold. Nowadays, that leisurely approach rarely works in the written word. The audience, the reader, needs to be sucked in by the first paragraph or two. He or she isn’t going to invest precious time in something that doesn’t intrigue, excite interest or raise questions.

That doesn’t mean the writer should spend ages on the beginning, honing it, striving to ‘get it right’ – the beginning might well not resolve itself until the work is completed.

I’m pleased to announce that I have signed a contract with Crooked Cat Publishing for Spanish Eye, a collection of short stories about Leon Cazador, private eye. The image is taken from the Crooked Cat Facebook page announcement (it isn’t the cover): https://www.facebook.com/crookedcatpublishing

Spanish Eye makes a great companion volume to my book Blood of the Dragon Trees, set in Tenerife, also published by Crooked Cat.

These stories were previously published by Solstice, but the contract expired; an extra short story has been added, so now there are twenty-two first person tales, a couple of them award-winners, all of them previously published in magazines (though lengthened in most cases). Here below are samples of a selection of beginnings from the collection (this post would be too long to include all of them!).
 

Relic Hunters

Angel Ramos held his breath as he carefully unlatched then lifted the ornate lid off the rosewood box. A distinctive smell emerged like a palpable thing, together with a fine miasma of dust that floated in the sunbeams slanting through the hotel window. It was the aroma of old parchment or vellum that harboured the dust of centuries.

Night Fishing

Dusk fled quickly, as it does out here in the south of Spain. The warm night air was humid and still. The full moon’s reflection glinted from the calm Mediterranean. Behind me, cicadas chirruped but I barely heard them as I was concentrating on the little fishing boat out at sea, with its nightlight casting a circle of white around the stern. From the cliff top, I watched the three of them through 10x50 binoculars, and my fears were confirmed. Old Salvador Molina needed his strong sons to haul the net in because it seemed to contain a heavy object. My heart sank.
            Sometimes, the night of unreason lurks in dark recesses, waiting to cloak the good earth, and it would seem that even this honest fisherman was not immune to the importuning of this evil night.

Grave Concerns

The mass grave by the roadside was not the first in Spain to be unearthed in the last four years and it wouldn’t be the last. On each side were carobs and bright yellow and blue wild flowers, a tranquil contrast to the macabre sight before us. Men in the trench wore gauze masks over their mouths as they lifted out human bones and strips of clothing and placed them reverently on a length of tarpaulin. Behind them stood an idle mechanical earth-digger, while beyond the fields of rosemary and artichokes rose the rugged mountains, mute witnesses to what had happened about sixty-seven years ago.
        
Off Plan
I was wearing a false moustache, grey coloured contact lenses, and my hair was dyed black. My brother, Juan, wouldn’t recognize me. In fact, I had difficulty recognizing me. I was no longer Leon Cazador but Carlos Ortiz Santos. Sometimes it was necessary to wear a disguise and take on a fake name to hoodwink the ungodly. This was one of those times.

Endangered Species

He had large eyes, big ears and, surprisingly, his middle finger was very long on each hand. “He looks cute,” I said, lowering the photograph of the little aye-aye. His hair was black, and he had a long bushy tail. His eyes seemed to be expressing surprise at finding himself in a cage rather than the diminishing rain forests of Madagascar. Perhaps the daylight conditions affected him, too, which wasn’t strange really, as his kind is nocturnal. “But,” I added, shaking my head in mock concern, “my fiancée wants something a bit more exotic. Know what I mean?”

Big Noise

“You’ve come to the right person, Mr. Santos!” Darren Atkins said, speaking louder than was necessary in the tapas bar that overlooked the Plaza Mayor. “My product is the best on Spain’s south coast, take my word for it! I’m the big noise around here!” Every sentence tended to end with an exclamation. This self-styled important person was big in other respects as well. Even when I use my real name, Leon Cazador, rather than my undercover alias of Carlos Santos, I stand six feet high in my open-toed sandals; yet Atkins was a couple of inches taller than me. His Hawaiian-style short-sleeved shirt bulged because he had big muscles and shoulders. Because he had shaved his head, his big ears appeared more prominent and tended to press forward like little radar. I wondered if that feature prompted him to go into the acoustics business.

Duty Bound

A mountainous landscape populated by dragons strode out of the swathes of sauna steam and approached me. Hiroki Kuroda was tattooed over his entire torso and down to his wrists and calves. At a glance, he gave the impression that he was wearing long johns; instead, he was a walking exhibition of yakuza body art. Ray Bradbury’s Illustrated Man sprang to mind, but this was no fantasy. As a member of the yakuza, a Japanese criminal organization similar to the Mafia, Hiroki endured hundreds of hours of pain simply to show that he could. He waved with his left hand. The little finger was missing at the first knuckle.

Burning Issue

Landscape defines some towns and cities. And even the people and the small mountain town of Cocentaina were perhaps typical. So I thought as I drove Jacinto Alvarez and his wife Puri along the A7 on our approach. The town had been under siege more than once in its history and I reflected that that was how the Alvarez couple felt right now.

Pigeon Hearted

Fireworks in daytime are not particularly spectacular, but that doesn’t deter my Spanish compatriots from setting them off. The clear blue sky was momentarily sprayed with silver and red stars as the single rocket exploded above the town square. Minutes afterwards, a profusion of colours darted above our heads, but this display wasn’t the transient starburst of more pyrotechnics. The palette that soared in the sky came from garishly painted pigeons released from patios, balconies, rooftops, and gardens. In the next few minutes, the number of male birds increased to perhaps seventy.

I hope they've given you a taster for the book, due out later this year!

The late Elmore Leonard famously stated ‘never begin any story with the weather’. He meant get into the character or the action immediately. I’d agree with that – though there are other considerations. Raise a question that the reader wants answered, create a visual image that lodges in the reader’s head. The above examples probably do some of that, I believe.
 

So, that’s the end of the beginning – for now.

 

 

Revelation in Safi Sanatorium, Malta

Here's an extract from Chill of the Shadow (previously Death is Another Life): Maltese-American Maria Caruana, investigative journalist, and Sergeant Attard are interviewing a patient in Safi Sanatorium, Malta.

The matron shook her head and smiled condescendingly. “The doctors don’t believe her ravings – vampires indeed!” She eyed the wan Elena. “That’s more of a central European folklore tale than from the Mediterranean, or so Dr. Soldanis says.”

            “I see.” Attard introduced Maria and added, “Miss Caruana would like to ask Elena a few questions. Is that all right?”

            “Please yourself, Sergeant. But you won’t learn anything new. She’s barking.”

            Though she was incensed by the matron’s attitude, Maria let that last comment go and leaned forward to make eye-contact with Elena. They began by chatting about clothes and family. After a few minutes, Elena seemed comfortable talking. Maria continued to probe gently.

            Haltingly, Elena told her story about the wedding and the honeymoon in St. Paul’s Bay, and of that terrible night. “My Carmelo fought the creature so bravely...” She sighed. “But nobody believes me! They think I killed my Carmelo!” she ended forlornly, her hand going back to the neck-wound.

            “I believe you,” Maria said earnestly.

            Behind Maria, Attard whispered, “Try getting a description of the man – the vampire.”

            She nodded. “I know the memory hurts, Elena, but we must find this monster, and lock him away. Can you tell me what he looked like?”

            Screwing her eyes tight as she thought, Elena said, “He was tall, very tall. He towered over me – and he had gray eyes, eyes that seemed to shine. And a – a hooked nose. V–very pale skin–” She cried, shaking, and clasped her arms round her bony frame, as if trying to hold in what little self she had left. “Smooth, gentle hands. Black hair, swept back – long and curling at the neck, I think...” She started, grabbed Maria’s arm, her fingers digging in. “His face! I’ve just remembered!”

            “What about his face, Elena?”

            “Carm threw that vile bat at him – it cut his cheek!” She shuddered, eyes wide and red-rimmed. “There was so much blood! He must have a scar–” And Elena touched her right cheek. “Here, it bled so much!” She shuddered at the memory.

            Experiencing a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach, Maria said in a voice that had suddenly grown deeper, “That’s very good, Elena. Thank you.” She stroked the distraught girl’s tear-streaked cheek and unthinkingly touched her own. Then she stood up and turned to Attard. “When did this happen?”

            “A month ago.”

            “So his scar wouldn’t have healed yet?”

            The matron had been attentive throughout. Now she said, helpfully, “Most likely the scar would still be pronounced. If there ever was such a person, of course. Vampires, werewolves, goblins, many of our inmates have seen them all, I can tell you! Some even think they are these creatures!” She made a sound at the back of her throat, as if about to spit. “You’d think in this day and age they wouldn’t believe all this superstitious nonsense! Our doctor says the myth of vampires all started in the Middle Ages when the medical profession was inadequate – they couldn’t really determine death properly. Sufferers of catalepsy and other strange ailments were consigned to a premature burial. Grave robbers often found the graves scratched and bloodied by the poor person who’d been buried alive.”

            “Is that so?” Maria responded woodenly. Shaken, she walked to the window. Elena’s description of her husband’s murderer could fit almost anyone. Yet the image Elena conjured up closely resembled Michael Zondadari – even to the scar on his cheek. His scar was still fresh.

            “Anything wrong?” Attard asked, his tone full of concern.

            Her mind in turmoil, she composed herself and turned, shook her head. “No – it’s just this place,” she whispered, truthfully enough. “It gives me the creeps.”

            For some reason best known to her darker inner self she kept quiet about her thoughts and fears concerning Michael Zondadari. She would not betray him. Had he hypnotized her? No, she was convinced that her thoughts were her own – though now she was doubtful if her heart was.

            “Can we leave, please? I need fresh air.” Absently, she touched her mother’s crucifix around her neck.

- Chill of the Shadow by Nik Morton (p140)

Available as a paperback and e-book from Amazon here

H.G. Wells and Mickey Spillane

What have the following authors got in common?

Aileen Armitage, Isaac Asimov, Tracy Chevalier, Charles Dickens, George MacDonald Fraser, Stephen King, Elmore Leonard, Gabriel García Márquez, J.B. Priestley, Annie Proulx,  Georges Simenon, Mickey Spillane, Jim Thompson, J.R.R. Tolkein, Anthony Trollope, Mark Twain, Mary Webb, H.G. Wells, Oscar Wilde, Jacqueline Winspear.

H.G. Wells

 

Mickey Spillane

 

They’re all mentioned in Write a western in 30 Days…

Why? They haven’t written westerns!

Writers should read as well as write. That’s a given.

Naturally, they should be familiar with their preferred genre. But to expand knowledge of fiction writing, to learn, always learn, it’s essential to read outside the genre as well.

Almost all published authors can provide insights into the handling of emotion, conflict and atmosphere; they can show how scenes come alive, how description draws the reader into the fictional world. Some of their personal stories can inspire, such as Aileen Armitage’s and Asimov’s, while others will show writers that the pitfalls faced are not new, they’ve been encountered and overcome before.

As several reviews stipulate, Write a western in 30 Days – with plenty of bullet points isn’t simply about writing a western. It’s a very useful guide about writing genre fiction.

 

UK

http://goo.gl/GxsBcd

COM

http://goo.gl/ZjbC6R

FFB - THE BEAST WITHIN

Published in 1992, this book by Adam Douglas is sadly out of print. (You don’t want to pay those dealers’ silly high prices found on Amazon for a new copy; I mean, a paperback for £116!) The Beast Within is also a popular fiction title, I counted at least twelve books using it post-2000.

This non-fiction work is subtitled ‘A History of the Werewolf’.

 

Lycanthropy, a condition in which the patient believes he or she to be transformed into a wolf, is one of the oldest – and oddest – afflictions in psychiatric literature.

Douglas’ researches range far and wide, covering such subjects as ancient cave-paintings, Greek mythology, Celtic sagas, Christian culture, modern psychiatry, and the cinema, in Europe, India, the Cameroons and beyond.

 

Prior to being hijacked for horror movies, the werewolf (man-wolf) was a powerful symbol to evoke fear of the beast within each person, a potent creation at the dawn of history, when superstition held sway; wolves were not the only creatures people ostensibly transformed into, but they were the most ‘popular’, mainly because at the height of the werewolves’ significance they were plentiful in Europe, and feared.

There were stories of beneficent werewolves, but they were swept away by the hegemony of the church and witch-hunters in the Middle Ages, to be replaced by the familiar monstrous creatures that signify disorder and deviance.

 

And when these werewolves were linked with the demonic host of witches and warlocks that sprang up in the late mediaeval and early modern era, their fate was sealed – they, like their true animal brethren, were hounded to virtual extinction.

This is a fascinating, serious and diligent study of the stuff of nightmares. Recommended.

Note: The shapeshifter archetype beloved of shamanism not only encompasses wolves, but also bears, snakes, cats, birds, buffalo, deer and dragons, among others. See Deerdancer by Michele Jamal (1995).

Fruit of the Wise

The meal with a peel

Bananas and banana plantations figure quite a bit in my novel Blood of the Dragon Trees. During a visit to Tenerife, we visited a banana plantation, and gleaned much information from there; and also took several photographs. Here is a brief article I wrote, previously published, about the banana.

 

For the last ten years the banana has been the UK’s favourite fruit and it isn’t surprising to understand why.  It’s easy to eat, comes in its own bio-degradable packaging and is good for you. 

Driving virtually anywhere in Tenerife you’ll see the sun glinting off what look like huge man-made lakes – yet in fact they’re covered enclosures devoted to these exotic plants – the biggest plants in the world.  One eighth of Tenerife is covered in banana plantations. 

Banan is the Arabic word for finger, which is what the fruit resembles – and, what’s more, a clutch of bananas is called a ‘hand’...  The Spanish call them platanos, although this means “plantain”.

The banana was probably the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden; the Tree of Paradise in the Koran is also a banana.

Bananas were originally found in Java, South East Asia and India and this is where Alexander the Great encountered them in 327BC.  The fruit moved with primitive commerce and was established in Africa by AD 500.  By the first millennium it was in Polynesia where the people believed that human beings come from unripe bananas and gods from ripe ones.  As a creation belief, that’s pretty ripe...

Learned men in India used to rest in the shade of banana plants while they refreshed themselves with its fruit; thus it’s also called “the fruit of the wise men”.

The first banana plants were taken to the Canaries in 1402 by Portuguese mariners from the Africa.

In 1516 Thomas de Berlanga, a Dominican Friar, took the banana plant to the Caribbean and it soon spread to central and south America. 

Its first British appearance was in 1633 at a herbalist’s shop in London. 

In 1836 the Royal Horticultural Society presented a medal to Sir Joseph Paxton who developed a new variety of banana, naming it the Cavendish – the family name of his employer, the Duke of Devonshire.

Late in 1882 Sabin Berthelot introduced into the Canaries the Chinese or Cavendish banana originating in the Himalaya valleys, often called the ‘dwarf’ banana.

In 1887 the Canaries were a popular place for health cures of the rich.  While recuperating, a woman took a fancy to the fruit and her husband, Scotsman Edward Wathen Fyffe, noticed that the ships of the Elder Dempster line were returning to the UK empty, having delivered their cargoes.  So he used the ships to import bananas.  In 1901 the first refrigerated shipment arrived in UK; the fruit was still considered a luxury.

The United Fruit Company of New York eventually became a majority share-holder in Fyffes.  Unfortunately, at the time of the Wall Street Crash, United Fruit decided to close down the more expensive Canary banana export business in favour of the cheaper “local” Caribbean and Central American banana exports to Europe.  Fyffes’ operations in the Canaries were wound down, closing completely in 1936.

Ten years later, on 30 December, 1946, the first post-war shipment arrived in Britain.  The Land Army distributed one banana to every child and it’s highly likely that several older readers can still remember that little luxury today.

Also just after the Second World War, General Franco – who had been Captain General of the islands – introduced a mandatory regulation into the food rationing scheme throughout Spain.  One kilo of Canary bananas was to be purchased by every card holder each month.  Until then the banana was not widely known on mainland Spain.  This dictatorial move not only supplemented the country’s diet with a healthy food product, it saved the Canarian banana business from collapse.  Today Spain is the principle market for Canary bananas.

This most popular fruit is not a tree but a giant herbaceous plant.  It’s hermaphroditic, that is possessing male and female flowers on the same stalk and reproduces without pollination taking place.

The rhizome (like a large bulb), from which the plant grows, takes about eighteen months to produce the first bananas. It needs well drained ground, lots of water and it’s very susceptible to wind, hence they’re very often kept in breeze block covered enclosures.

When the plant flowers it’s in the form of a large spike growing out of the centre of the trunk and it quickly turns downwards as it opens.  The male flower, a red bud at the end of the spike, quickly dies.  The female flowers clustered around the stem form the actual bananas. The pistils are removed from the tips of each banana which then gradually turn up to the sun to fatten.  Each plant produces a bunch of bananas weighing an average of thirty kilos.

The plant’s rooting system is constantly producing new offshoots and when the original or parent plant is four months old these new shoots are cut away with the exception of one which is allowed to grow alongside the parent.  After a further four months this procedure is repeated and two months later the parent plant flowers and produces fruit.  After harvesting, the parent plant is cut down leaving the first and second generation offshoots which are now two and six months old respectively and the cycle’s repeated.

 

Within hours of leaving the plantation the bunches of bananas reach the local packing stations where they’re washed, graded, cut into hands and boxed and sent en route to dealers.

A banana contains about ninety calories and is exceptionally rich in potassium, a nutrient which promotes energy, protects against strokes and other diseases, and vitamin B6, which is good for the nervous system, and folate, essential for proper tissue growth. So if you want to boost your energy level, unzip a banana rather than take a glucose drink.

Amazon.co.uk - http://goo.gl/fsLk3X

Amazon.com - http://goo.gl/wHQpQp

 

The long tale of the Adventures of Super Scoop the Penguin

Long before Pingu (1986), there was Super Scoop. At the outset, he didn’t have a name. He was just a drawing of a penguin, along with a sketch of sheep (!) that Jen put on her letters while we were courting. After a while, I started drawing the penguin in different situations, slipping on ice, swimming, birthday cards etc. Slowly, it dawned on us that this character had the potential for a children’s story, so Jen began writing the adventures. In the second episode, the penguin gets his name, and thus Super Scoop was born. Six adventures were written, and I illustrated in colour a few scenes from each episode. We tried getting children’s publishers interested, but the response was less than enthusiastic, one actually citing Watership Down, stating that anthropomorphic animals don’t sell! I approached Penguin Biscuits and the makers of a super scoop ice cream, and sent off the drawings – fortunately, I’d made black and white photocopies because the drawings mysteriously got ‘lost’…

B&W copy of one of several lost illos

Then we were married and shortly afterwards I was drafted to Malta, taking Jen with me for a two-year tour.  I worked in the cash office of RN Hospital Mtarfa, just across the valley from Rabat. (The island inspired me to write a vampire novel set there, though its gestation took several years thereafter!)

Super Scoop’s first adventures were read over the BFBS Malta radio by Jen in 1975.

 

On our return to UK, we intermittently attempted to evoke interest in the character, but had no success. I wanted to establish some kind of publishing history for Super Scoop, as I thought he was quite a unique creation. I was serving in Faslane, Scotland, and edited the establishment magazine, so I wrote and drew the Super Scoop adventures as a black and white comic. It seemed well received by the families stationed there…

Faslane comic...

Leapfrog forward to 2003 and Super Scoop appeared this time in a full colour comic strip in the monthly magazine, the Portsmouth Post.

Beginning again - in colour...

 

He featured every month thereafter until that magazine’s demise in 2007. His adventures involved dinosaurs emerging from icebergs, an attack of leopard seals, encountering humans (scientists), shipwrecked polar bears, a friendly arctic tern, a long-lost relative, a journey to the centre of the earth, and fun with pals and even snowflakes. The strip is laced with humour, too.

Since then I’ve approached some children’s publishers and their interest is astoundingly non-existent. I say ‘astoundingly’ because I’ve shown and read the Portsmouth Post comics to our five-year-old grandson and he not only remembers the stories in great detail, but asks for them again and again – despite being strongly attracted to Angry Birds and Batman online games (under supervision!) His response is everything we hoped it would be – but clearly Jen and I are in a minority and publishers know best!

So I’m now thinking that rather than let these adventures gather dust in a drawer or sit unloved on a computer disc, I’ll self-publish, even if it means the illustrations won’t be in colour.

Watch this space.

Editing tips - LET’S TALK

‘Speech helps to define your story’s characters… The fact is that dialogue reveals character; it moves the story forward much faster than narrative, and can impart information more economically than several paragraphs of exposition. Direct speech dramatizes events, while indirect speech merely reports them. The spoken word engages the reader.’*

A great deal is made of the use of ‘he said’/’she said’ and the many alternatives. Truth is, there are times when none of them are necessary. Authors love their characters’ names and tend to over-use them at the drop of a speech. But that can become tedious for the reader.

When there are only two characters in the scene, rein in character names; and judge whether ‘he said’/’she said’ is required at all. The tone, context and choice of words should indicate who is speaking, particularly if there's verbal fencing going on.

Here’s an example from an early chapter in Blood of the Dragon Trees – and ‘said’ is only used once.

 

Story so far: Laura finds a broken ivory figurine on the floor and knows there’s an intruder. It's her POV; she guesses who it is, too.

Perhaps she should have felt threatened as Andrew Kirby stepped out from the bathroom. He was, after all, a virtual stranger. But she was remarkably calm.         

He was dressed in a pale green shirt and chinos. Laura pointed to his desert boots. ‘A few grains of soil gave you away, Mr Kirby.’

He shrugged. ‘Ironic, really. I’m into earth preservation and here it goes, giving me away!’

‘It’s no joking matter, you know.’ She was serious, despite his smile. ‘Breaking and entering – it’s a serious offence in Spain, too.’

          
He nodded sombrely. ‘Indeed it is. If the culprit is handed over to the authorities, of course.’
         
‘Have you any explanation for being here?’
     
‘Selling encyclopaedias, but couldn’t find the door?’
          
Laura shook her head.
        
‘Chasing my pet cat–’
         
‘No.’ She wondered if that stray was his, then shook her head.
          
‘Hopelessly in love with you?’
           
She felt the colour rise in her cheeks. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ She leaned back against the desk, fingering a broken fragment of ivory. ‘This piece would have been valuable to sell, I’m sure – if you hadn’t dropped it.’
           
His mouth gaped open. ‘A thief? You think I’m a common thief!’
           
‘Are there any other kind of thieves? Is a common thief somehow worse than a gentleman thief?’ She shook her head. ‘I would never have believed I’d be discussing semantics with a burglar!’
           
‘Now I’m a burglar!’
           
‘If the cap fits–’
           
He walked towards her.
           
She edged away.
           
He lifted his arms wide, palms open. ‘My intentions are honourable, Miss Reid.’
           
‘What? Towards me or–’ she said, holding out the ivory piece, ‘– towards poor Felipe’s broken fisherman?’
           
There was a strange intensity in his eyes, something she had not noticed before. For a moment she feared his presence, his musky nearness. But only for a moment.
           
He reached out to the ivory in her hand and she anticipated his touch.

- Blood of the Dragon Trees (p43)

 

* – Write a western in 30 days.

CHARACTER ASSASSINATIONS

Recently, I encountered a post or two on FB about killing off characters in books. Some authors shy away from it, while others embrace the concept.

Naturally, it’s going to be subjective. And I wouldn’t want to raise any spoilers by mentioning ill-fated characters by name.

I’ve just finished E.M. Forster’s Where Angels Fear to Tread. Forster was in his early twenties when this was published (1905). He kills off a main character by page 100 (in a 160 page book). The death was necessary for the tragic plot.

In the midst of life there is Death.

Not only literary fiction opts for the tragedy of a main character dying.

James Clavell did it most powerfully in his oriental epics, Tai-Pan and Shogun. These deaths were all the more shocking after wading through hundreds of pages with the tragic character.

David Baldacci did it in his first novel, Absolute Power (though the screenwriters decided not to kill off their star, so changed that aspect in the movie!) This was quite a surprise when I first read it; it worked, but jarred and pulled me out of the story.

Arthur Conan Doyle attempted killing off Sherlock Holmes, but he had to bring him back from the dead due to popular demand – in the days before pressure groups, fan clubs and fan websites!

And we mustn’t forget that Cervantes killed off Don Quixote, (I’ve mentioned him by name because I feel that anyone who has heard of Quixote also knows his fate).

Neville Shute kills off his main character right at the outset in Requiem for a Wren. This works, as we know from the beginning. The title helps, too! So there’s no sense of being cheated, though the ending is moving as the reader mourns a life lived.

George R.R. Martin is quite ruthless with his Game of Thrones characters – but the deaths he depicts reflect the violent mythical society he’s writing about. And, what’s more, the deaths echo through the hearts and minds of the survivors in subsequent tomes.

Most famously, J.K. Rowling killed off a number of main characters. She wrestled long and hard over a few nights when the necessity of these deaths proved inevitable. Necessary deaths, otherwise, the threat doesn’t seem dire enough, real enough, for those who survive.

I killed a main character in Bullets for a Ballot. Because I wanted to write a tragedy that happened to be a western. And I’ve done it again in next year’s release, The Magnificent Mendozas.

There are countless examples, I’m sure.

So, I would advocate not to hesitate about killing off a main character, so long as it isn’t gratuitous.

In the final analysis, however, the majority of readers tend to want the hero – or heroine – to survive at the end. There’s a sense of feeling cheated when you encounter the death after travelling through thick and thin for many hours and pages.

A Night to Remember - the answers!

The answers: There you go - all in red.

Thanks for the feedback. It was quite a bit of fun to incorporate so many titles!

 

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

The thin man stepped down off the big bus as it pulled into the bus-stop of the snow-bound   metropolis.

            A gust blew his hat off but instead of chasing it he stopped in his tracks.  By the time he remembered the head-gear it had gone with the wind.  He felt sickly cold.  His dark victory over the alien creatures at Barbary Coast, his last port of call, was hollow, he realised with an awful dread, as he looked at the woman in red who stood on the corner of Hanover Street under a diner sign-plate for "The Black Cat".

            He said, "Don't look now, but the blob of goo on the sidewalk is moving, just by your feet...!"

            Alarmed, she stepped back and glanced down.  And, against all odds, she avoided the goo that, cutting fast and loose, sprayed out at her.  She let out a piercing scream and fainted, falling against the wall.

            Within seconds he bundled himself and the woman into the diner, slamming the door shut behind them; the window panes rattled.

            When she came to, she said, "What am I doing here?  Who are you?  Who?"

            "Don't worry, you seem okay now, Mildred Pierce."  Her eyes showed surprise.  "I took the liberty of checking your purse, in case you needed medication.  I'm a doctor, by the way.  Elmer Gantry."

            Then she must have remembered, and shuddered.  "It's stifling in here," she said, and stood up to leave.

            He grabbed her wrist.  "That wasn't some dream, lady.  They're aliens out there.  On some incredible journey, I reckon, from here to eternity for all I really know. And they like the temperature high - in fact, some like it hot."

            She gaped.  "You can't be serious!  That - that goo - it can't have changed the temperature - "  Mildred stared out the window. 

            People passed, all sweating profusely.  "The whole city's in a heat wave - in December! Niagara's frozen over, for god's sakes!"

            At that moment a strange scrabbling distracted them both.  They turned, to stare at the dark at the top of the stairs of the diner. Something moved about up there, and it cast a giant shadow on the walls.

            A fly came out of that darkness and buzzed over their table. For the first time they both realised nobody else was inside the diner.  The fly landed and suddenly it started to grow and to change shape: in mere seconds it had transformed into a hand!  The hand was disembodied in the truest of senses, and it crawled sluggishly, fingers moving like a bizarre imitation of a crab.

            Dr Gantry laughed ironically, "Guess who's coming to dinner!"

            Mildred called out, "Dr - no!"

            And Dr Gantry crashed down his chair onto the beast with five fingers.  But it wasn't finished, it melded into the wood of the broken chair, began taking the form of Dr Gantry.

            He upset the table on top of the half-formed creation and hurried with Mildred to the rear of the diner.  "It's worse than the last time in Barbary Coast, lady, they're even more difficult to kill - they die hard."

            Gantry held her hands, said, "Look, lady, you've got to get out of the city, get help somehow, the National Guard... I'll lead them away."  She started to protest, eyeing the shape that now cast a long shadow, but he cut her off, pulled her round to face him, "Look who's talking, Mildred.  I'm of insignificance compared to all the people under threat out there!"  And he ran up the stairs, stopped halfway and turned, shouted, "Farewell, my lovely!" and rushed headlong into the shadows.

            His terms of endearment rang in her ears as she heard eldritch screams and shouts.  Slowly, she crept out the back door.  Wherever she looked, small puddles of goo shimmered amidst the melting snow. 

            Movement above startled her, but it was only a lonesome dove, landing on the building's eaves.  Abruptly, it screeched and feathers scattered and it was no more, instead the guttering of the building began to move with an intelligent purpose, the attached drainpipe snaking towards her!

            She ran, leaping over the goo puddles, miraculously dodging the gouts of alien spume that darted up at her.  As she ran onto Elm Street, she wondered about Dr Gantry.  Had he survived?  Her heart hammered, but not with the exertion of running.  In a different time and place, their meeting could have been a love story - or at least an affair to remember.  Instead, this was, she realised, a Nightmare on Elm Street...

 

A bonus for any instance of ‘It’, I guess.

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

A pastiche short story, homage to the 1950s private eye and science fiction movies.

              

 

It’s also a puzzle: find at least 43 film titles in the story!

 

by Nik Morton

 

The thin man stepped down off the big bus as it pulled into the bus-stop of the snow-bound metropolis.

            A gust blew his hat off but instead of chasing it he stopped in his tracks.  By the time he remembered the head-gear it had gone with the wind.  He felt sickly cold.  His dark victory over the alien creatures at Barbary Coast, his last port of call, was hollow, he realised with an awful dread, as he looked at the woman in red who stood on the corner of Hanover Street above a diner sign-plate for "The Black Cat".

            He said, "Don't look now, but the blob of goo on the sidewalk is moving, just by your feet!"

            Alarmed, she stepped back and glanced down.  And, against all odds, she avoided the goo that, cutting fast and loose, sprayed out at her.  She let out a piercing scream and fainted, falling against the wall.

            Within seconds he bundled himself and the woman into the diner, slamming the door shut behind them; the window panes rattled.

            When she came to, she said, "What am I doing here?  Who are you?  Who?"

            "Don't worry, you seem okay now, Mildred Pierce."  Her eyes showed surprise.  "I took the liberty of checking your purse, in case you needed medication.  I'm a doctor, by the way.  Elmer Gantry."

            Then she must have remembered, and shuddered.  "It's stifling in here," she said and stood up to leave.

            He grabbed her wrist, said, "That wasn't some dream, lady.  There are aliens out there.  On some incredible journey, I reckon, from here to eternity for all I really know. And they like the temperature high - in fact, some like it hot."

            She gaped.  "You can't be serious!  That - that goo - it can't have changed the temperature..."  Mildred stared out the window. 

            People passed, all sweating profusely.  "The whole city's in a heat wave - in December! Niagara's frozen over, for god's sakes!"

            At that moment a strange scrabbling distracted them both.  They turned, to stare at the dark at the top of the stairs of the diner. Something moved about up there, and it cast a giant shadow on the wall.

            A fly came out of that darkness and buzzed over their table. For the first time they both realised nobody else was inside the diner.  The fly landed and suddenly it started to grow and to change shape: in mere seconds it had transformed into a hand!  The hand was disembodied in the truest of senses and it crawled sluggishly, fingers moving like a bizarre imitation of a crab.

            Dr Gantry laughed ironically, "Guess who's coming to dinner!"

            Mildred called out, "Dr - no!"

            And Dr Gantry crashed down his chair onto the beast with five fingers.  But it wasn't finished, it melded into the wood of the broken chair, began taking the form of Dr Gantry.

            He upset the table on top of the half-formed creation and hurried with Mildred to the rear of the diner.  "It's worse than the last time in Barbary Coast, lady.  They're even more difficult to kill - they die hard."

            Gantry held her hands, said, "Look, Mildred, you've got to get out of the city, get help somehow, the National Guard... I'll lead them away."  She started to protest, eyeing the shape that now cast a crooked shadow, but he cut her off, pulled her round to face him, "Look who's talking, Mildred.  I'm of insignificance compared to all the people under threat out there!"  He ran up the stairs, stopped halfway and turned, shouted, "Farewell, my lovely!" and rushed headlong into the shadows.

            His terms of endearment rang in her ears as she heard eldritch screams and shouts.  Slowly, she crept out the back door.  Wherever she looked, small puddles of goo shimmered amidst the melting snow. 

            Movement above startled her, but it was only a lonesome dove, landing on the building's eaves.  Abruptly, it screeched and feathers scattered and it was no more; instead the guttering of the building began to move with an intelligent purpose, the attached drainpipe snaking towards her!

            She ran, leaping over the goo puddles, miraculously dodging the gouts of alien spume that darted up at her.  As she ran onto Elm Street, she wondered about Dr Gantry.  Had he survived?  Her heart hammered, but not with the exertion of running.  In a different time and place, their meeting could have been a love story - or at least an affair to remember.  Instead, this was, she realised, a Nightmare on Elm Street...

 

762 words - answers tomorrow!

FFB – The Great Divorce

Friday's Forgotten Books - The Great Divorce

Not the theological fantasy of C.S. Lewis (1945), but Valerie Martin’s book of 2003. Echoing the 1942 Lewton movie, Cat People, her book captures the moodiness, the impending doom and horror very well.

Three women’s lives are strangely linked by big cats.

Elizabeth is a beautiful Creole in antebellum New Orleans who mistakenly marries a wealthy landowner Hermann Schlaeger. Sometime later, Hermann is found dead, with his throat ripped out, and there is blood on Elizabeth’s mouth and fingers. She is hanged as a mad ‘catwoman.’

In the present, Paul is researching this strange historical event. He is married to Ellen, a veterinarian at the New Orleans Zoo. She is trying to contain an infectious disease threatening the brains of the zoo’s animals, including Magda, the black leopard. The divorce of the title relates to the breakup between the human species and the rest of nature, but in parallel Ellen’s marriage to Paul is on the rocks and they are facing the prospect of divorce.

The third woman is Camille, a troubled young keeper at the zoo, who finds herself falling into awful realistic fantasies where she is metamorphosing into a big cat.

A richly observed, often moving, sometimes disturbing, examination of humanity stretched taut until some individuals must snap. And of course an indictment of man’s destruction of nature and beauty.

Quite a powerful work.