A short review: Part II - the story continues...

To recap on Part I...

I had dozed off, again. It was becoming a habit – power napping, so someone had told me once. Still, when it happened, this time, I was ready. The onslaught of flashing lights appeared before me. Yet, despite my readiness, the psychedelic, whirling, swirling bustle of colour still challenged my senses. Each time it seemed the same, yet different; different enough to enthral me.

Was I becoming addicted?

Whatever “it” was, “it” drew me forward. I had no power to resist this inescapable fall though the rushing, gushing river of light. Addiction! “It” carried over the rock-strewn precipice of a white-water rapid. Only there was no river; no rapid…

And when I landed I still found need to pause for breath.

I waited.

I was not waiting long. The gatekeeper had clearly seen my approach. Again, through the darkness that erupted before me, I sensed the movement. I knew that the blackness would only fade to a dark, impenetrable grey.

‘Hello,’ said the voice; the same squeaky, inquisitive voice as before; ‘…you again.’

You recognised me? I replied.

‘Not difficult, really… if you think about it.’

‘I don’t,’ I said.

‘Most visit here late at night – or in their lunch times at work. We don’t have too many like you.’

‘Like me? You mean my ability to stumble upon you during the middle of the evening.’

‘Yes. When others are either watching peak-time television – all that crap programming…’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘…or messing with their friends on Facebook, or whatever.’

‘Whatever. Those social networks… I’ve tried them.’

‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? said my squeaky voiced inquisitor.

‘I mean, they’re OK…’

‘I sense a but…’

‘But…’

‘I was right!’

‘But can anyone really have over a thousand friends? How does that work?’ I said. Then, when my inquisitor didn’t respond right away, ‘…it doesn’t for me.’

‘They can’t… work, I mean. Think about it. It’s a matter of control. And to be a little cynical about it… it’s no more than outsourced market segmentation. He or she who controls a network of contacts has the capacity to influence them. Or to sell that control. The internet is no more than a mesh of outsourced market segments sold on to the highest bidder. Have you ever thought about what you are doing when you sign up to a social network?’

‘Yes… giving away my privacy.’

‘Too damn right, my friend… your privacy and your rights. You have something of value. You lot have your ability to influence others. And you just give it away. Philanthropists… that’s what you all are.’

‘Hypocrite,’ I announced. ‘… and I told you before, you are not my friend.’

‘And I told you, you are talking to me – and here, in this space, that gives me the right to call you a friend.’

I wasn’t going to win that one. A change of tack… ‘Are you smiling?’ I asked.

‘Cool,’ said squeaky, ‘you got that… here in the dark? I am impressed. Maybe you are not like the others.’

‘So, you hypocrite of a squeaky gatekeeper, what are you hiding down here? You still wanting me to join in? I tell you, social networks don’t work for me.’

‘We’re not a social network, they promise nothing in return for your soul… What are you? A writer? Yes, you are, aren’t you?’

‘What if I am?’

‘See, you think these networks are the answer to your dreams… You sell your soul to them… and what do you get? Bombarded by the uninterested and the uninteresting. It’s all “you scratch my back I’ll scratch yours”. And there are a lot of back scratchers out there looking for an itch.’

‘Cynic.’

‘Never suggested otherwise,’ said Squeaky.

I decided on attack. A challenge. ‘Go on,’ I started, ‘what’s different about this place? Aren’t you just after my details? You just want me to register somewhere… so you can sell them on? How do you handle privacy issues here?

‘No issue. And no, we just want your soul, David!’

“David”. I rocked back. The sound of hearing my own name squeaked by the unseen hypocritical cynic of a gatekeeper to – well, to God knows what – shook me. I’d been struck dumb. But, gradually, the power of speech returned.

‘How…,’ I was unsure how to respond. ‘How…,’ I stumbled with my words.

‘How did I know who you are?

‘Y y yyes,’ I stammered.

‘You don’t think you found this site by accident do you?’

I reeled…

Go on, you want to know what’s here, don’t you? Whether we can help you or not? You’re hooked! I can tell.

‘I still can’t see anything at all here, it’s too dark’

And suddenly, there it was again. The window opened in front of my eyes. The flash almost blinded me. The same loud unwelcome tune struck up, its discordant notes filling the air. The window beckoned me. It called me forward as the deafening music dulled my senses.

Déjà vu.

‘Go on,’ said squeaky ‘enter, you know you want to.’

But all I could think of was how the hell had they got my name. I stared in disbelief as my hand reached out. My fingers seemed to hover over the window. Then it was gone. The discordant tones silenced. Relief.

‘Still chicken!’

‘Then you’re no friend of mine.’

‘Too late, David, this is my world. Remember, you do not matter in my world, my friend! Do you have a Favourite?’

This was scary. I had not been prepared for this. More déjà vu. ‘I’m not going anywhere I don’t want to.’

‘You are here now. All friends have favourites,’ squeaky added. ‘Just click there, in that little box. Accept me as a friend and favourite. Forget about Facebook… sell your soul to me, David.’

I had to get out of there. How did I do it before… I struggled to remember. A dim source lit an otherwise meaningless swirling darkness. And, in the shade, there appeared the series of stepping stones again. They suddenly made sense. Buttons. Buttons to click on and explore this site further. No.

Déjà vu. I remembered. I took the step backward. Light replaced dark. I could see again. Gone was the dark impression – the absence of light. My focus returned and I could see my outstretched hand. I squeezed the mouse.

Click!

To be continued… ;)

Miss Part I?

A short review…

I must have dozed off. All of a sudden, flashings lights appeared before me. A psychedelic whirl of colour challenged my senses, drawing me forward, inexorably. I felt as though a rushing, gushing river was carrying me down-stream. To what, I thought, to fall over the rock-strewn precipice of a white-water rapid?

It came to an end. I paused for breath.

From the corner of my limited field of vision there was a movement. I sensed it, rather saw it directly. It was dark and my eyes had not adjusted properly from the bright visual onslaught of the past moments.

‘Hello,’ said a voice. It emanated from the direction of the movement I’d sensed. The tone of the voice – for I still could not see, let alone focus properly – was inquisitive, the inflexion just so; it was not a frightened voice; neither was the voice threatening in any way, as if I’d invaded some sacrosanct space. ‘You are the fourth today.’

‘Fourth? Fourth what,’ I asked. Curiosity on my part was leading me forward, into the unknown. Not something I had ever been keen on in the past. I rarely took risks. I would even baulk at the thought of venturing from my small apartment, walking down the street to buy provisions. Such a potentially hazardous excursion required much careful thought, analysis and the plucking up of the requisite courage. But: “why I was here, now”, and “why was I taking such a bold step”, were questions that hadn’t entered my head.

‘You are the fourth visitor today,’ said the small voice. Yes, small; despite the fact I could not see the speaker, I felt able to add a size qualification. Small, yes. Small, as in quite squeaky! Indeed, if I had believed in talking mice, I could have easily imagined that the speaker before me, in the shadows, was a mouse.

The voice continued. ‘You can’t see me, can you?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘…it’s dark here.’

‘That’s the idea,’ said Squeaky. ‘Just enough light to entice – no more.’

‘Where is here?’ I asked

‘Exactly’

‘Exactly, where?’

‘Exactly here, my friend.’

‘You’re not my friend. I don’t know you. I can’t even see you…’

‘But you’re talking to me!’

I had no quick or clever answer to that one. I changed tack. ‘I don’t like this place.’

‘Give it time. You will get used to it.’

‘What if I don’t want to?’

‘But there is so much here to see.’

‘Where, I can’t see anything at all.’

‘But this is just where you land… when you visit. Splash! So to speak.’

Suddenly a window opened in front of my eyes. The flash almost blinded me. A loud unwelcome tune struck up – discordant notes filled the air, distracting my attention. The window seemed to beckon me, to call me forward and the deafening music dulled my senses.

‘Go on,’ said the squeaky voice ‘…why don’t you enter that.’

I reached out. My fingers, as if detached, seemed to hover over the space the window occupied. Then it was gone. The music ended. Relief, I thought.

‘Chicken!’

‘You call me friend… then Chicken?’

‘It’s my world you’re in here. I can call you what I like. I can be who I like and I can say what I like. You do not matter in my world!’

I didn’t like where this was going… It was a dark world. ‘I’m not going anywhere I don’t want to,’ I said in defiance.

‘Touche! Well you have a point. I can’t make you.’

‘Why should I go anywhere in here?’

‘Because there is so much to see and do; if you don’t look, you will never know. Go on, try it.’

I wasn’t sure what there was here, in this new world I’d never visited before. ‘Have you a map?’ I asked.

‘A map? Maps are for sissies… and chickens!’

I thought I heard laughing. ‘But,’ I challenged, ‘if there is so much here in your world, and if I can’t have a map, then how do I find my way around?’

‘See those?’

‘What?’ I peered forward into the darkness. Rubbing my eyes I concentrated on my peripheral vision… shades of grey lightened an otherwise meaningless swirling darkness. And in the shade there appeared a series of stepping stones. Or they would be stepping stones, if they had lain horizontally – perhaps in that river I had been carried here on.

‘What do you see,’ asked Squeaky.

‘Rocks?’

‘Fourth today… and t’only one what chooses to call ’em rocks!’ The mock accent didn’t help matters – it was so false. ‘Well, you just go to one and look underneath.’

‘And then what,’ I asked. I wasn’t at all impressed with this: so little information to go on; so little to entice me. It was as if I had jumped down Lewis Carrol’s rabbit hole. I had an idea. ‘Are you a rabbit?’

‘No. And there’s no Mad Hatter here either. You’re not the first, you know.’

‘Not the first?’

‘Not the first to draw the Alice in Wonderland analogy.’

‘Not a little allegorical then?’

‘Not at all… the designer wasn’t that good,’ Squeaky said with a note of sarcasm.

‘Your world…,’ I started.

‘My world.’

‘So your world is not your own work then?’

‘No.’

‘Go on,’ I said, impatience beginning to strain my voice.

‘Go on what?’

‘What happens when I’ve got under a rock?’

‘More rocks.’ The smug snigger was a little too obvious.

‘So, no signposts? No real clues as to what lies behind all these rocks? I’ve been here… how long? And I’ve found nothing of interest, and been challenged by some Squeaky voice… not to mention being assaulted by loud tuneless music and enticed into further darkness. Not much of a trip this. For Christsake, you’re not even enticing me with some interesting allegory. Not much of a world, you’ve got here, is it?’

Then I did something I hadn’t thought of in the past minutes. I took a step backward. Light replaced dark. I could see again. Gone was the dark impression – the absence of light. My focus returned and I could see my outstretched hand. I squeezed the mouse.

Click!

Well, ask a fiction writer to write about web sites? You just don't know... :)

Just a Thought?

Well, here I go, straight into my first piece of Flash Fiction. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you do, I could be tempted to write more. Though I still think a short story should last longer that a pot of coffee!

:)

Just a Thought?

His eyes had been closed a while. Opening them slowly, he looked up. Immediately, he caught her gaze again.

She smiled. Her eyes shone with a brightness that sliced through the overcast day. They cut into his drab existence, as if a razor had been drawn quickly over the skin of a ripe peach – sweetness oozed; a perfume of palpable intensity flowed over his soul.

Who was she?

The train thundered down the track, continuing its inexorable progress. In one hour, he thought, they’d reach the end of the line... it would be over.

He smiled a short, sheepish acknowledgement, not wanting to give the slightest impression that he was consumed by her presence.

Her smile… he’d never seen such a lovely smile. He had, of course! But, right now, at this instant, he held no memory of such another. It was the only thing he could focus upon – the only thing that seemed to him to be real.

She’d entered from behind him, walking the length of the near-empty carriage, before turning. She retraced her steps in his direction and, on catching his upward glance, she took the seat opposite his. Now she sat across the small table that separated them, smiling – as if she knew something.

Earlier, as she first took her seat, he’d averted his eyes – closed them. He’d allowed the rhythmic swaying of the carriage to draw him into its succour. As the heavy engine drew forward its tail of wanton, rumbling followers, the rhythm drew him into temporary sleep – the vision of the women’s face etched into his mind.

But now, though, he was awake. Awake to her attention, awake to the caress of that smile.

The women moved her arm with graceful ease, sliding her hand deftly within her purse, withdrawing her mobile phone.

He looked on, trying hard not to stare at her perfectly painted finger nails as she tapped out a text. He wished, not for the first time since she’d joined the train – for Christ’s sake, he’d even dreamed it – he wished he could summon the courage to speak. He wished he could ask her for the number of her telephone, so that he could, maybe, call her… if she didn’t mind?

But he looked on. Her beauty, the occasion, whatever… they conspired against him. He was struck dumb. “Please…,” he wanted to cry out.

The scenario played over in his mind as the train pulled into the station, the journey over.

He sat, transfixed, as the girl with the smile rose. She collected her purse and, stopping a moment, removed a card from a discreet silver case. She placed the card carefully before him, twisting her fingers until it faced him. She paused, holding his gaze once again in hers, and smiled a last smile.

“You asked for my number,” she said, and left the carriage.

The spell broken, he glanced down at the card: DR ALICE CRAVEN, MENTALIST, and the strap line: UNLOCK YOUR INNERMOST THOUGHTS.

Keeping ‘Em Short

An interesting thing happened on the way to this post. I’ve read voraciously my whole life, but I’ve never been much of a fan of the short story form. I don’t know what I was picking up before I started writing fiction but I typically found short story plots underdeveloped, with endings either too abrupt or too open ended for my taste (maybe both).

Recently, I’ve been working on an attitude adjustment. Conventional wisdom suggests that for first-time novelists looking to attract agent or publisher attention, literary credentials such as publishing short stories in magazines and anthologies can help move our queries up in the slush pile.

I do have an idea for a short story that happens to takes place here in Virginia, and while I’m noodling on it, I’ve actively started reading short stories again to better learn the form. Not surprisingly, I’ve had better luck getting into mystery short stories.

Laura Lippman is a new favorite, and her range often surprises me. Her stories can get pretty dark, which catches me off guard for another reason: have you seen the wholesome mugshot of her, with that broad, sunny grin, on the backs of her books? Could she really be writing some of those scary stories?

I’ve also been reading a lot of fellow authors from the Mid-Atlantic area, in particular, a series of anthologies by the Sisters in Crime Chesapeake Chapter, which I recently joined. I’ve greatly enjoyed what I’ve read from their first three collections. Their fourth anthology is out and the big launch party is this weekend (I hope to attend). And guess what? They’re calling for contributions to the fifth one. Only one requirement: the story has to be set in the Mid-Atlantic. Hm, maybe I should stop noodling and start writing?

Maybe you should too? Check out our own upcoming contest:

The Wicked team will be holding a unique contest this month. We’re asking our readers to try their own hand at writing short stories. Entrants submit a non-erotica short story under 3,000 words to wickedwriterz@yahoo.com by April 20th, 2010. First prize is to have your entry critiqued by three members on the team, the story will be posted here on the site, and you’ll be invited to guest blog with us in May! Second prize is a critique by two team members and to also have the story posted here on the site. Third prize will be one critique and an honorable mention.