Launching Pangea

Pangea is here! Or, more accurately, Pangea is all over the world.

Vanessa reading ‘Breakdown’

As hinted at in the title, Pangea: An Anthology of Stories from Around the Globe is a collection of stories written by writers from far reaching corners of the world – 25 writers from 13 countries, in fact. I went to its UK launch last Thursday, at Blackwell’s in Bristol, and heard award winning contributor Vanessa Gebbie read her beautifully written and wrought story, ‘Breakdown’; a tragic tale about Tom, a breakdown man – breaking down. The stories in Pangea feature a range of different voices covering themes of loss, identity and entrapment, and order versus chaos, with ’Breakdown’ fitting into the ‘loss’ category.

Tom reading ‘You’re Dead’

I was also gripped by ‘You’re Dead’ read by author, Tom Remer Williams; an unsettling story slipping nicely into the ‘chaos versus order’ theme.

 But as well as being hugely impressed with the worldwide spread of authors and range of voice and style of the stories in Pangea, I’m also impressed with the huge choir of voices announcing its launch – even Nokia have got in on the act! Obviously the internet plays a vital role, but who wrote the score and conducted this choral symphony? I asked Sarah Hilary, author publicist, to tell me a bit about the stories behind the global spread of Pangea‘s promotion.

Sarah Hilary

Hi, Debs, and thanks for hosting this leg of the Pangea blog tour. You’re quite right about the choir of voices, and I like your symphony analogy (we had our fair share of bum notes along the way, but it’s good to see – or hear? – it all coming together now). You’re right, too, about the internet playing a vital role. However, my part in the publicity came about as a result of living in Bristol and meeting up with Rebecca Lloyd, one of the editors. Since Rebecca also lives in Bristol, she suggested we meet up and as we chatted it struck me that I could do something to help promote the anthology. There are really important stories in Pangea (and some light relief, too, such as my kitsch offering, LoveFM) – they deserve a wide audience. Talking with Rebecca, I discovered that I felt pretty passionate about this. Small presses are great, and thank goodness for them, but it was clear that if Pangea was going to get the attention it needed, we the authors would need to take charge of promoting the anthology.

With so many authors involved, I relied on the internet and social media to get things going. Quite a few of our authors aren’t online, however, so there was juggling to be done. Luckily, everyone had email so I was able to establish contact and discuss how best we could involve everyone in the campaign to get Pangea noticed, talked about and read.

Our authors are a fascinating bunch. Joel Willans, for example, works for Nokia and writes features for their hugely popular blog, Nokia Connects. Thanks to Joel, Pangea reached an audience of around 8million online, on 18^th July. That’s simply astounding, by any standards.

 Then there’s Caroline Robinson who lives in a caravan on her own croft in the Scottish Highlands, and blogs about her cats and chickens. Our authors really do span the globe, and their stories do something wonderful – they bring the world close,  for everyone.

Thanks very much, Sarah. And I defy anyone to read ‘LoveFM’ without going straight back to read it again – and discover its subtleties!

Rebecca Lloyd

You can read more about Pangea: An Anthology of Stories from Around the Globe (Thames River Press); its inspiration, evolution and exexecution, and find out where to buy it from here.

‘Twisted Tales: Flash-fiction with a twist’ A new anthology from Raging Aardvark Publications.

(And I’m pleased to say ‘Twisted Tales’ features one of my stories!)

What do Hemmingway, Kafka, Chekov and Lovecraft have in common (other than they are writers?) They wrote powerful stories in what is now coined Flash Fiction, so while there’s nothing new about the short-short story, National Flash Fiction Day is being celebrated for the first time in the UK and has been adopted around the world in a buzz of excitement.
Amongst the workshops, seminars, readings and write-ins arranged by writers groups, universities and recognised authors, are a collection of anthologies set to launch this week, and Annie Evett, from Raging Aardvark Publications is delighted to present ‘Twisted Tales’, an anthology celebrating Flash Fiction. These short, sweet snippets of stories have the ability to tempt the imagination, tantalise a reader and pose questions, form the heart of a great flash fiction. ‘Twisted Tales’ was born out of the need to showcase Flash-Fiction in its own right and a desire to present writers whose first love lays within the short story.
Far too long has society been indulged with the excessive word-count. Annie believes that it is time the short story and all its derivatives demand their rightful place back into readership.
This collection explores the twisted existence of love, family and relationships as characters seek a sense of self and identity. It’s filled with a mixture of stories, some which will make you think, others smile and tales which will have you reaching for your security blanket. Each story is under 700 words and has a twist or surprise in the end.
‘Twisted Tales’ includes both established writers alongside emerging authors. One of the heart-warming outcomes for Annie in undertaking this project was receiving emails from thrilled contributors who were excited to launch their careers within this Anthology. The support and encouragement for this project she continues to receive is fantastic and much appreciated.

You can download a free pdf copy of ‘Twisted Tales’ here.

Flash-Fiction South West Anthology:

This arrived yesterday and I must say it’s a beautiful piece of work. What’s more it’s filled with 53 beautiful pieces of flash fiction - and one of them’s mine!

All thanks to Rachel Carter who arranged, co-ordinated and generally oversaw and bore the headaches for producing the anthology of flash-fiction from writers all over the South West of England. ‘Kissing Frankenstein & Other Stories’ is available from Amazon and here.

The anthology was produced as part of the National Flash-Fiction Day celebrations; inaugorated, arranged and directed by Calum Kerr, Writer, Editor and Lecturer in English at Winchester University. Pop over and take a look at the National Flash-Fiction Day website, and join in all the fun on Wednesday, May 16^th 2012? And you can read pieces of flash during the entire day on the Flash Flood Journal. What more could you ask?

World Book Day

I had a wonderful afternoon on Thursday (World Book Day), reading a number of my stories to the lovely people at the Headway Charity at Frenchay Hospital in Bristol. They invited me to share the event with the fantastic Bristol poet, Rosemary Dun reading her poems, which was great because it’s the first time I’ve done a public reading – although I have been recorded reading ‘The Black Widow’ for broadcast on ‘My Word Radio’, which you can also hear here!

Recently I guest-blogged on Susan Howe’s ‘the long and the short of it’ and mentioned how reading stories aloud requires considered momentum, vocal expression and a degree of acting to convincingly become each character, and also how stories – often referred to as a writer’s “baby” – can take on a life of their own. Once a story has achieved some sort of success, such as winning a competition, like children they have a tendency to shoot off in all directions long after leaving the metaphorical womb. Once “out there”, even when you think they’ve finished growing, they go on offering more and more exciting opportunities – as evidenced by my invitation to read at Headway. I thoroughly enjoyed my time there and so, I’m pleased to say, did the audience!

A River of Blood (Flash Fiction No. 7)

(This story was in the final six shortlisted for the Swanezine 2011 Short Story Competition)

Blanche sat up in bed staring at the wallpaper opposite; at red roses playing on a pale blue sky, till they slipped out of focus and merged into a river of blood. Savouring sweet tea she closed her eyes and indulged in the warmth of the mug between her hands. Suddenly Matt stirred. Blanche flicked her eyelids open. Matt groaned. Blanche’s fingers gripped the mug. Matt turned … and his breathing resumed the rise and fall of waves on a sleeping shore.

As the sun streaked the sky early morning red, Blanch carefully placed her mug on the bedside table, lifted her legs from the bed and swore that one way or the other, by the end of the day, she’d have caught Matt red-handed.

“Where are you off to?” Matt’s voice muffled from beneath the duvet.

Blanche froze, dead still, her toes gripping the soft pile of the carpet. “I told you,” she said, “I’ve got a dental appointment in Exeter,” she lied.

“Hhmph,” Matt muttered and went back to sleep.

Upton Standing was always busy on a Thursday, even this early. It was Market Day and the wide, cobbled street in the centre of town thronged with stall-holders setting up stalls, shopkeepers hurrying to work and early morning shoppers searching for bargains amidst brightly coloured canvas canopies. Blanche fed on the scent of fresh baked bread, and herbs and spices dancing with the fragrance of flowers packed into deep green buckets. She paused at the flower stall, before scurrying into the book shop behind and positioning herself in front of a shelf. She pulled out a book and waited, casting constant glances through the window. Minute after minute ticked by, and book after book slid from the shelf in her pale hands.

The girl at the flower stall, dressed in crimson flowered frock and shoes with heels that would give Blanche vertigo, began slicing ends from the stems of cream coloured roses with the quick flick of a sharp bladed knife, before placing them artfully in a bucket. She looked as pretty as a rose herself, Blanche thought; a dark red rose with a rich red bloom caressing her cheeks.

Suddenly Matt appeared, wearing his pin-striped suit and a smile Blanche hadn’t seen for … oh … so long! Her breath stopped. He strode up to the flower stall. Blanche pushed her fingernails into the cover of the book gripped tight in her hands. The flower girl sliced the creamy head off a rose and smiled up at Matt, slipping it into his buttonhole. Matt bent to kiss the forehead of the thief who’d stolen his smile, and then bent lower to kiss her lips; her deep red lips.

Blanche’s heart pounded and the blood drained from her face. She pulled for air and grabbed the bookshelf. She mustn’t lose control; the control she’d clung to this last week of waiting; the week since she’d discovered the red rose in Matt’s lapel when he came home from work, late.

“What’s this?” she’d asked.

“A rose,” he’d said.

“Where from?” she’d asked.

“The flower girl in the market,” he’d said.

Blanche had seen the flower girl before.

Blanche eased herself from the bookshelf and forced her legs forward. Somehow she made it through the shop, outside, and on to the cobbled stones of the market place. But Matt had gone. She pulled a bunch of ivory blooms from a bucket, drew deep on their sweet perfume and approached the flower girl, still slicing stems, with the shadow of a smile still lingering on her lips and the bloom of love still kissing her cheeks. Blanche held the flowers out as if to have them wrapped in pretty pink paper, but her foot kicked out; quick-sharp and sudden, catching the flower girl’s stiletto heel and toppling her to the ground. She’d lost control. That was all. And high-heeled shoes and cobbles were never a wise combination.

Blanche bent, swiftly stretching out her hand. “Help!” she cried weakly, as the flower girl’s blood-curdled cry faded to a pale whisper, and a satisfying warmth seeped past the steel blade and caressed her fingers.

A crowd gathered. Matt rushed forward and stopped, his eyes wide but no words came from his gaping mouth. He fell toward the flower girl. Blanche reached out as if to catch him. And dark, red drops fell from her hand, splattering onto granite cobblestones like rose petals on tombstones, until they merged into a river of blood.

A Cure for Writers’ Block (Flash Fiction No.6)

First, a word of explanation. As part of the fantastic Bristol Festival of Literature in October, the lovely Tania Hershman hosted a fun exercise for curing writers’ block. Tania asked the writers who took part in the Citywide Story event, including Bristol author of ‘Where’s My Money’, Mike Manson and crime writer Gerard O’Donovan, to chose phrases from six different books, including cookery books and technical manuals. We then had to write a piece of flash fiction in fifteen minutes, prompted by one of the phrases and attempting to incorporate as many as possible (whilst taking care to avoid copyright infringement). It was great fun and this is my attempt! (The six chosen phrases are in bold.)

A Cure for Writers’ Block Exercise
‘We can do it in the woods’ by Deborah Rickard

"We can do it in the woods," he said, sneaking off into the undergrowth. Moist wisps of misty air caressed the ground and a damp, decaying odour crept up my nostrils. This was more than nature's ooze spewing from the earth, I thought.

Suddenly he slipped on what I tried to reassure myself was nothing more than a piece of discarded chicken skin. As he fell he just missed a crack opening in the ground amidst a tangle of weeds. Random shots of hot, wet air spurted hither and thither just like the multi-directional steam nozzle on my coffee maker. I stopped. And went cold – and hot. So hot that steam must have oozed from me just as it did from the ground. So hot I felt as if my skin lifted from my flesh.

"It's too creepy here," I said, all passion gone. "Why can't you take me to the fancy restaurants Suzie’s boyfriend takes her?"

"But we must worship the fear!" he cried, pulling me down into the weeds, the steam and the raw scent of death and decay.

"No good will come of this," I muttered, mumbling through chattering teeth and trying to find some loving feeling.

"No, no," he whispered. "Good will come from our union. We will go beyond genetics!"

I was beginning to get lost in the mood when probing fingers reached from the dark earth, and pulled at my hair.

National Flash Fiction Day

Have you heard about National Fiction Day yet? The idea was recently launched by Calum Kerr and it has already attracted a lot of attention. Flash Fiction worthies such as Tania Hershman, Vanessa Gebbie, David Gaffney, Kirsty Logan, Valerie O’Riordan, Nik Perring, Jonathan Pinnock and more, have already pledged their support.

Everything is gearing up to the Big Day on May 16th 2012 and if you want to know more, you can keep in touch by signing up to the mailing list at nationalflashfictionday@gmail.com or visiting the blog at: http://nationalflashfictionday.blogspot.com/. At some point in the future a website will be launched but you’ll hear more about that in the newsletter.

Happy Flash Fiction writing!

Cazart 1st Prize Winner: The Black Widow (Flash Fiction No.5)

I’m thrilled to say this story (below) won first prize in the June 2011 Cazart Flash Fiction awards and will be published in their anthology. You can buy the anthology here.

 

THE BLACK WIDOW

A silken web slips across my face as we emerge from the wood, dense with oak and scrub. I step out of the mass of mangled ivy curling round my ankles and stop, dead still, smoothing the back of my hand across my cheek. There’s nothing there. Jake gives me a look.

“Spider’s web,” I answer his unasked question, and a shiver shimmies up my spine.

“Hurry up!” he grumbles. “We’ll be late for tea,” and he charges on through the long grass to the velvet lawn.

I stand a moment, looking up at the Georgian house across the green expanse, watching the windows aligned in proud symmetry on its stone façade observe me with disdain. Inside, the chink of teaspoons on bone china would be punctuating the murmur of subdued chatter, and delicate pastries would be being served on three-tiered cake stands as a string trio sighs softly in a corner.

I can’t tell Jake about when I used to come here before – though Rory and I had been too nervous to cross the threshold of the hotel, too naïve even to ask if we might have tea. We were newly married and merely wandered in the wood and danced in dappled sunlight, while birdsong serenaded our lovemaking and the umber scent of trees and dark earth bound us tight together. We would laugh and dip our toes in the chill waters of the pond, hidden behind the banks of hawthorn and cow parsley, and roll in the long grass here on the edge of the wood. We were happy … for a while. But then the pain began. And then the poisonous tendrils of ivy twisted and turned and crept like a noose around his neck, stealing his breath, and his life. And it was over.

“Come on!” Jake yells impatiently from across the lawn. “I haven’t paid a fortune to stay in a first-rate hotel and get messed up by sodding weeds and mud!” He brushes his hands briskly over neatly pressed trousers. “You’re so weird! Why can’t you show some appreciation for God’s sake?”

I linger in the long grass a moment longer, casting a backward glance at the wood and the memories before stepping forward, promising I’d return. And bring Jake with me to weave a rope of woven ivy around his neck. Just like I did before.

I’m Back!

As many of you will know I’ve had a short sabbatical from social media due to family circumstances. While I’ve been gone, I’ve been truly amazed at the friendship and support of so many lovely Twitter and Facebook friends, some of whom have continued sending caring messages from time to time, and I’d like to send them all my huge and sincere thanks. In this sad and distressing time these rays of light brightened my days.

Something else that gave me a lift was when I learned I’d won first prize in the Cazart flash fiction competition in June with my story ‘The Black Widow’ which you can read on the Cazart website, and above this post.

I only started writing flash fiction a few months ago as I’d previously thought; Flash fiction? What’s the point? There’s no time to get involved in the plot or characters. But, of course, that’s the art; pulling the reader in, holding them and leaving them with a sense of fulfilment, of having been taken away – and perhaps left with something to ponder – in just a few words. Not only do I love writing it, I love reading it. I’ve recently enjoyed dipping into Tania Hershman’s anthology; The White Road (Salt Publishing) on those myriad occasions when you want a complete reading experience in a short time.

So, I’m back, maybe less often than before due to ongoing commitments, but back. In a few weeks I hope to take my novel up again and begin the fourth (!) draft, but in the meantime I shall continue indulging in my new passion; flash fiction. And thank you, once again, to all those lovely people who sent such thoughtful messages.

Versatile Blogger Award

Thanks to my good friend, Elizabeth Currie at Wayward Lady, I’ve been awarded the ‘Versatile Blogger Award’. It doesn’t come free though. First, I must nominate seven other bloggers to receive it. Hopefully, that’s the easy bit. The difficult bit is (cringe) I have to reveal seven previously unknown (interesting, embarrassing, intriguing etc) facts about myself. Well, I’ve always preferred to get difficult things out of the way as soon as possible (Does that count as one fact? No? OK), so here goes:

1. I was a 1960s Bee Gee Bopper and somewhere, I’ve even got the badge to prove it. Even more embarrassing is that I fancied Robin Gibb. I think I thought that since I didn’t stand a chance with either Barry or Maurice (and I did with Robin?) I’d go for the least good-looking one. Sorry, Robin. Still – he proved himself a lovely person and worthy of my devotion over the years!

2. I’ve always loved music (don’t say a word about the Bee Gees) and wanted to play an instrument. So far I’ve tried, and failed, with violin, guitar, piano and … yes, even the recorder. No matter what the instrument, by the time my brain had processed what chord I need and where on the frets, keys or apertures I need to place my fingers, the audience has left the room. And don’t suggest I try singing instead, everyone’s left before the end of my first note.

3. I’ve a secret ambition to garden. But I’ve just looked out of the window to describe my latest achievements and noticed the Box cutting I planted last summer is now a sickly shade of yellow.

4. I’d love to tell you I’m one of life’s popular party people. I’d love to tell you that, but like my Box plant, after 11pm I turn a sickly shade of yellow.

5. As my children will tell you, I’m a constant preener. Not of myself, of them. I can’t stop my fingers brushing their hair into place the second I set eyes on them.
My children are all in the twenties.

6. I once mistook Lewis Hamilton for a W.H. Smith salesman (Sue Moorcroft, novelist extraordinaire and Formula (number) One Fan will wince at this one). I went in to buy a letter rack and, getting thoroughly annoyed with the crowds of shoppers who seemed to have nothing better to do than take photos and stand around chatting, I pushed my way through, perused the letter racks (itching to slap the huge presence apparently stuck to my shoulder with W.H.Smith superglue), chose my rack and looked round for a till. Ah! A pleasant young man in a suit! I moved towards him and held the letter rack out. He smiled, a very nice smile, quite a cheeky grin in fact, but I noticed there was no till on the table by his side, so with a loud sigh, I pushed him aside (I’m getting really annoyed by now) and strode across an inexplicably empty space; the huge presence still stuck to my shoulder. I reached the next crowd, contained behind a rope barrier. I looked at the rope, somewhat puzzled, and the huge presence suddenly stepped forward, saying, ‘It’s the till you want is it?’ pulled the barrier aside and ushered me to a girl at a till, chin in hand with longing eyes lounging on the man in the suit by the table. The penny dropped. It was a book signing! ‘Who’s the author?’ I asked (being a writer I was a little embarrassed at not knowing). ‘Lewis Hamilton,’ she said. I cast her a blank look. ‘The racing driver?’ she said, ‘The one you just elbowed out of your way?’

7. Ok, so now you’ve all had a good laugh at some of my most secret things, I’ll reveal my last.
I’m a softie.
Last week my partner and I drove along the M4 past a sign for Wooton Bassett. I looked at the words ‘Wooton Bassett’, and I saw elderly men in uniform saluting. I saw teenagers in jeans standing reverently, I saw men and women, mothers and fathers with heads bowed, I saw pushchairs with babies in and ‘bikers’ in leathers standing respectfully. I saw soldiers making their last journey home in a sleek, black hearse. I heard silence.
And as our car rolled on down the motorway, I tried to hide the tears rolling down my cheeks.

And the nominees are (and this was more difficult than I’d imagined. I’m dreading offending great blogging friends and how do I chose just seven?):

• Effie Merryl at Ephemera Blog
• Mandy James at Mandy’s Musings
• Clare Kirkpatrick at On Writing
• Rebecca E Brown at My Little Notepad
• Alison Wells at Head Above Water
• Rebecca Bradley at Life in Clarity
• Rebecca Emin at Ramblings of a Rusty Writer