Apr
30

Holiday Reading

Only three days to go!

I’m seriously ready for my break now and it’ll be great to see C and M. I haven’t seen them in around eighteen months but more on that later in the week. This post is about other things. For today I must compile that all important, critical, make or break item: the holiday reading list.

This crucial document is more than just a shopping list, like a good compilation record get it wrong and it can ruin the whole break. On the one hand – because it’s an English speaking country – the risk is lower as I can always buy more and on the other it’s higher – twenty-nine hour flights do not as yet offer an in flight library.

So here’s my draft list:

King Rat by China Mieville
Singularity Sky by Charlie Stross
The Yiddish Policeman’s Union by Michael Chabon
The Man Who was Thursday by G. K. Chesterton
The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth by Malcom Pryce
Fresh Fields by Peter Kocan
Brasyl by Ian McDonald (Yes, I haven’t read it…stop sniggering at the back)
The Ghosts Brigade by John Scalzi
The Complete Short Stories by Franz Kafka

That’s it for now. Of course, I’m a terrible impulse buyer when it comes to books and so I may wind up with a larger haul.

What do you plan on reading on your holidays this year?

Apr
28

Commuter Capers

Top five comedy commuter capers, go on – I dare you:

5. Next time a free paper is slapped into your chest arm bar the free paper pusher to the ground and tweak him a la Mister Miyagi. Helps your defence later if you yell assault as the paper hits you.

4. Dramatically swoon to the floor, drawing maximum attention the next time someone walks into you or cuts you up.

3. Next time someone with hygiene issues sits next to you remove a can of deodrant and spray the air around you. Use of phrase “For the flies” optional.

2. As everyone rushes to the train to board dance down the platform performing the corect steve tyler moves to classic cheese rock Walk This Way.

1. Next time some one invades your personal space cough loudly, explosively and spraying as much vapour at them as you can without actually spitting on them. Then talk loudly to your companion or mobile phone about how your TB is really a lot better and you hardly bring up any blood these days. Hand wipe to space invadee’s garment is optional.

Apr
26

Illuminations reviewed

Over at The Fix, Alvaro Zinos-Amaro, has undertaken the not inconsiderable task of reviewing every one of the stories that went into Illuminations (featuring amongst others me) and the results can be read here. It’s quite flattering to have a reviewer (and a fellow writer if I’m not mistaken) take time out to look at nine of your stories.

Anyway, take a look and judge for yourself. For me the sun is shining, my head has cleared, I have plenty of food for thought, and I spend nowhere near enough time in my garden.

Apr
25

Friday Flash Fiction: Precious

I was vaguely surprised to realise this is my forty-second FFF entry, really – given the number – it should be a comedic reflection on the meaning of life but sadly that’s not what I wrote. Hope you like it anyway, feedback – as ever – is welcome. Here goes:

Precious
By Neil Beynon

The door pops open without warning. It cracks loudly against the wall like a gunshot and causes Sarah to jump, spraying dishwater across the kitchen. There’s a low cursing from the doorway; she slips one rubber-covered hand around the textured grip of one of the knives she’s just cleaned.

#

The sheets are still warm and damp. She watches him pulling on his underwear in the netted light as she enjoys the feeling of warmth on her bare skin, the warm glow in the pit of her stomach. It seems like the afternoon is cast in chocolate; a sugar coated moment ready to melt into a gooey mess without warning and flecked with guilt.

#

The air from the open door is cold and Sarah’s skin is a chain mail of goose bumps as she moves towards the intruder, the faint smell of dishwater and wet rubber following her like a fetid cloud. There’s a man in the hallway so ancient he looks like he’s crawled out of the grave, he leans on the wall, one age stained hand cast to the heavens and the other gripped around the banister rail for the stairs. His silver haired head is bobbing up and down as he tries to regulate his breathing.

#

“I have to go now,” he says.

#

“Are you ok?” asks Sarah, forgetting about the knife.

#

“What’s this?”

#

The man looks up. His face so creased with age it’s barely recognisable, but she does manage to place the person who stares out at her from that paper-thin ancient hide. A face she’s seen every morning for the last thirty years, a face that only this morning was framed with hair only flecked with silver, whose flesh was smooth, firm and fleshy even though you would not call it young.

#

Steve is pointing at a gold chain hanging from the hook inside the cupboard door that is open because she left it open. On the end of the chain is a crystal medallion wrapped in fine silver, it is delicate and in the darkness of the cupboard it seems like there is light trapped in the crystal.

#

“Ken?” she whispered. “But…what happened…?”

#

“It’s just a trinket,” she says. “Something Ken gave me when we first moved in together.”

#

Sarah rushes to her husband who is eying her warily from his position in the hall. She places the knife on the dresser then moves to his side, taking his arm and leads him to the sofa where she helps him sit down.

#

He picks it up and moves into the light of the window. The crystal is still glowing although it’s harder to see.

#

“What have you done?” says her husband, his voice broken and frayed like old rope.

#

“It’s beautiful,” he says turning it one way then another, watching the light bounces off the walls.

#

The words are like a sink full of cold dishwater being poured over her. She moves to the armchair, perches on its arm instead of sitting properly and does her best to look casual. She really is uncertain what he means. There are so many things he could mean. But deep down she knows. She’s worn it like her own chain for so long.

#

“You have it,” she said. “A gift to remember me by.”

#

“Done? I don’t know what you mean.”

#

“Won’t he notice?”

#

Her husband doesn’t answer. He merely stares at her. The phone rings.

#

“He never checks it, he’s not bothered besides he gave it to me,” she replies. “It’s mine now. You have it but keep it safe – it’s a precious thing – there’s only one in existence.”

#

She rushes to answer it, relieved to be away from his gaze. She closes the front door as she does so, an absent-minded afterthought.

#

“Thank you.”

#

“Sarah?”

“Steve?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Look Sarah, I had an accident.”

“What do you mean? Are you alright?”

“Yeah I’m fine, it wasn’t that kind of accident. I…I dropped it.”

“Dropped what?”

“The medallion. It shattered, it’s ruined…Sarah…are you there?”

The click of the receiver returning to the cradle is louder and more final than it should be but the house is silent save for the hiss of his laboured breathing.

#

“Don’t thank me,” she said pulling him back to the bed. “I want more than that.”

#

The world spins, a kaleidoscope of bad wallpaper they never got round to replacing, a doorway, the kitchen and Ken hanging in the doorway staring at her again. Not even Steve’s firm thighs, easy green-eyed gaze and warm calloused hands could prevent the single stabbing feeling of anger she cast his way.

There’s something in Ken’s hand.

“What. Did. You. Do?” asks Ken.

“I’m so sorry Ken,” says Sarah. “I didn’t mean it.”

#

She watches Steve walk down the street from a crack in the door, wide enough to allow her to see but narrow enough to stop anyone seeing that she is only wearing a small shift she threw on to see him out. His hand is in his pocket, guarding the gift she has given him but her eyes are on him as he walks down the street. As he disappears she casts a look at her watch. Ken will be home soon, she’d best get dressed and on with stuff.

#

The blade glints in the afternoon sun, shattering the light and scattering colour across the walls as Ken shuffles towards her, hands trembling with age or rage – there’s no way to tell. She backs up against the wall; the gloves on her hands leaving wet stains on the paper that will never come out.

“Didn’t mean what?” asks Ken.

Apr
23

Review: The Philosopher at the End of The Universe By Mark Rowlands

The Philosopher at the End of the UniverseI used to have this deal. I like to keep myself well anchored outside of the world of genre by reading widely – I also enjoy variety – and so I used to read at least one non-fiction book a month. I haven’t done this in ages but for various reasons I thought I’d start again.

Anyway, that’s how I came to be reading The Philosopher at the End of The Universe. A light introduction to the broad themes of modern day philosophy using science fiction films to illustrate the main arguments.

It’s a pretty broad canvas that Rowlands takes the reader on, from the nature of reality, through why you should be moral, to do you in fact really exist and can you actually be held responsible for your own actions. There’s a fair range of movies in the discussion including Total Recall, Terminator, Lord of The Rings (in the latest edition), Aliens, Blade Runner and Minority Report.

The book’s premise is a good one. Science fiction often deals with philosophical themes and arguments even with such sugar-coated films as Star Wars or steroid enhanced, fight fests like Total Recall. The prose style is clean and has a welcome smattering of humour although some of it not as funny as perhaps the author intended.

I did feel some of the essays – particularly the one on personal identity – failed to follow up properly on the theories covered – I found myself going “Yes but…” a lot. Also, none of the science anecdotes were followed up with any reference or further reading recommendations – a shame but I guess ready access to the internet could overcome this.

The most recent essay on The Lord of The Rings was actually the weakest essay. It was added as a way of bringing the book up to date and of talking about cultural relativism. I know the Lord of the Rings is a recent film hit but really there is no context where The Lord of the Rings could be called a science fiction film. It’s a fantasy film. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea but Star Trek has a really good example of cultural relativism in its treatment of the Klingons over the arc of the films and through a single example in Star Trek VI.

And I’m sure even better more hardcore SF examples can be found with a bit of digging.

The book was a worthwhile read. I think if you’ve never read any philosophy and are seeking a light introduction then this is an entertaining walk through the major themes. However, you’re liable to get a bit frustrated if you’ve done any kind of prior reading in this area.

So it’s a bit of a mixed bag on this one. I think it probably achieves its aim but it irritated the hell out of me in the process. Then again I did read to the end – not something I do for all non-fiction.

Apr
21

Weymouth

Well, been a bit quiet around here hasn’t it?

Sorry about that. As mentioned last week I’ve spent the weekend in Weymouth working on The Woodsman. G was there for a photography course in preparation for a wedding she’s shooting later in the year and I tagged along in the hope that being sans internet, sans London, would enable progress.

I’m pleased to report it did and progress has now increased back up to it’s former pace. Last time I left them Anya and Akyar had just been dropped – quite literally – in it. And you have no idea what I’m talking about and so lets move on…

The trip also enabled me to start building up content for the website when I’m away in New Zealand and so there will be something here even if I don’t have internet in the hotel. I am of course hoping for internet as part of the fun of having a blog is posting about one’s travels:

Weymouth itself was nice. Pretty much your standard English seaside town. It has a fantastic beach that runs right round the bay and a front that is lined with Georgian guest houses giving the town a pleasing sense of history. There are a couple of interesting memorials including one to Anzac troops who fought at Gallipoli and convalesced at Weymouth.

The weather was pretty awful on Saturday but I still ventured out as I’m quite partial to walking along the coast. I was glad I did so as it gave me a chance to see some of the most incredible sport – parasurfing – and some of the coolest stunts I’ve witnessed in ages. Parasurfing is basically where you attach a parasail or kite to a surf board and use the wind to surf along, it’s faster and more agile than wind surfing allowing awesome jumps. That’s one I wouldn’t mind giving a go. In warmer weather.

On Sunday the weather was much improved and I found myself enjoying the local chips on the beach in the sun and then it was back to the smoke for work – where I am now.

I also did a fair bit of reading and so you can expect some reviews to parachute in here over the next few days. For now I’m going to imbibe my own body weight in coffee.

Apr
18

Friday Flash Fiction: Territory

As long as I’ve been doing the Friday Flash G has been asking me to write a specific type of story. On weeks where I find myself clawing for ideas the answer from her is often: do that one I want you to do…or words to that effect. And so finally I have.

This week’s story was written for G – belatedly – for the occasion of her birthday.

Feel free to provide feedback in the comments.

Territory
By Neil Beynon

You, my subjects, ask where I have been in your simple tongue, bewildered by my glorious reappearance and my newly acquired battle scars. You look fearful at what creature was bold enough to leave such welts on your master. Are you safe? You think. Should you run? But the glint in my eye and the sharpness of my tongue silences such worries even as it casts my mind back over the darkness I’ve just walked across.

#

As soon as the great fire lord dove below the horizon I was up and about. The cool dark my preferred time, there was no moon it being the silver one’s time of rest. A dark night, good for secrets, good for trysts and made for hunting.

And hunt I did. Over fields, fences, rivers of stone and water to the woods. All across my realm I roamed. I fought and killed a burrowing beast in the woods; it had a tail twice as long as itself and tried to run but there is no escape from my swift blades. The blood was warm and sweet.

My next prey was a winged beast that rested on the stone river but I did not fare so well in that for the creature was huge and unwilling to go quietly. See the cut upon my shoulder from the fell beast’s talons but know that it carries far worse from my swift work though escaped it did.

Near the brick temple I met Lady Tora. She seduced me with a flash of her bright green eyes, the cheeky almost insolent tilt of her hips and her sleek, crow black, coat. The lady is a witch. Our union rang out across the darkness attracting the attention of feral primates who cast water at us in their insolence. As my lady left, bored of our dance and unwilling to risk the cloying fluid that destroys balance, I resolved to attack. To make the wild apes mine. The cunning monkeys had locked the doors against me and I was too exhausted from my lady’s appetites to gain entry.

I slept for a while in the cool and the dark.

My energy returned, I patrolled my borders, as is my want as the darkness draws to a close, checking I had marked them properly. There were rumours of an intruder, another nightwalker hunting my kingdom. At first I thought it was a joke: Another? After last time?

Surely not.

Then as another long tailed beast fell beneath me, further information extracted with a minimum of fuss – the creature hardly bled at all, I smelt him. On the gentle breeze a musky scent that is not my own, it is more pungent, wilder and marked with the length of his journey. It wafts from the near by fence. He is near.

I dropped into the caged field with ease and there was my quarry. Frozen, eyes on me, shoulders hunched and ready to pounce as I moved slowly closer. There is no talk between us; this is no accident. This is a challenge. Bold, daring and insolent.

It is he who makes the first move, leaping at me with skill and poise. Yet I have not kept my kingdom through idle banter and I answer every blow. I add a few of my own with the precision that is my trademark for I dislike waste.

Through the remainder of the night we fought: two ancient warriors in an epic struggle. Across the land we wrestled for superiority, all the creatures of the kingdom watch us – even the winged ones. As the fire lord returned, my victory was complete, my opponent limping across the stone river to the west, the one that marks the end of my lands.

#

And so my servants I return. You may bring me some more of your excellent wine – the creamy white one that tastes nearly as sweet as blood. And I dare say I could manage some of that metal fruit’s meaty filling, if you have any.

Quickly now. I don’t have all day.

Apr
17

Rejection

There has been considerably less blogging activity than I would have liked this week due to the day job being a bit needy at the moment. Anyway, I’ve wanted to post about this for a little while because I continue to be surprised by writers who moan about being rejected.

Now I don’t mean “feeling low because I just got rejected” because that is a perfectly reasonable reaction, although you’re much better off thinking “Rejected? Pah, now I must write the ultimate story to prove them wrong!” – this is a productive reaction. No I’m talking about the: “How dare you reject my masterpiece! I must now tell the world how stupid you are.”

Because to be frank, that last reaction is a sure fire route to never being published at all.

Why? Well, I could wax lyrical about how it’s unprofessional, how it shows a lack of realism around the way both small press and main stream publishing works – I could even tout that really irritating argument that every successful author has been rejected at least once. All this is true. But I fear it misses the heart of the matter.

That being it’s just plain rude to gob off about being rejected.

Why? Well put yourself in the shoes of the editor for just a moment, forget how brilliant your manuscript is or how x-ray like your insights are, and just think of yourself as an editor. Because you’re a successful editor your contact details are listed in a number of places including The Writers and Artists Handbook, a few online directories relating to fiction writing and your publishers site. You receive a few hundred submissions a week, more – it’s fair to say – than you could possibly ever read and a fair few of which can’t be immediately dismissed due to incorrect formatting*.

Now you’re a busy guy/girl. You have stuff to do beyond just reading the slush pile, you have existing authors to keep happy, lists to manage and books to produce – you have no time to waste. Ergo you do this when you have time.

The editor does not know you, does not care that you spent two years on your novel because bluntly most of the people submitting will have spent large amounts of time on their work; they don’t care that your work is good – lots of people are good, their is no shortage of good. All they care about is does your book represent the largest commercial opportunity for their publishing house that happens to be a business and not a public service for writers.

Oh and they have to make decision in the next half an hour because they’ve got wall to wall meetings the rest of the day.

So this person who has so little time, earns less than many public sector workers and has probably gone through many even leaner years on their journey to editor – this dedicated person who does the job more or less for the love of books – reads your stuff. They don’t feel the book has a place on their list at that moment in time and so they reject it.

You explode.

How do you think it feels when the author of the unsolicited manuscript they’ve taken time to read and consider then posts about how much of an arse the editor is for rejecting what is clearly the next literary sensation? Do you really think when you send in your next lovingly crafted creation they’re going to look at it?

That’s my point: context is everything.

Now, some of you will be saying “but editor x was really rather rude and so deserves to be flamed”. I’m not suggesting that editors are saints, like any other field of human endeavour it will be populated by heros, zeros and everything in between. However, it’s worth bearing in mind that what is often mistaken for rudeness is just the bluntness of the harrassed and time pushed in trying to provide feedback for the writer. If an editor is genuinely rude just don’t submit to them again, it’s not hard and if you genuinely have a masterpiece they’ll kick themselves when you’re published by someone else. Especially if you make that other publisher loads of money.

My last point, and it’s one that some people struggle with, is this:

If you cannot place yourself in the shoes of an editor, cannot manage that basic level of empathy around a role that is very close to what you as a writer must do on every story you write, then perhaps you should stop. I’m serious. Writing well requires good characterisation, good characterisation requires insight and insight requires empathy. If you can’t manage it for an editor then what chance do you have of writing convincingly?

Editors, like all the other people who actually produce and distribute the books we read (sales, marketing, production), are not the enemy:

Do Not Abuse Them.

* This does happen but there is a wealth of info online for formatting your work for submission.

Apr
14

Murky Monday

It’s been a strange day thus far. I awoke – it’s fair to say – in a bad mood having slept quite intermittently but then due to a speedy writing session I was feeling quite good. I had done something. My commute was also reasonable – seat secured, an absence of nutters and a good forty minutes of reading.

The fact that I randomly saw Keith Chegwin running on the spot as I waited on Waterloo bridge was the real beginning of the weird. The morgue like atmosphere of my office another string to the strange – several people on courses or leave means the usually frenetic – I like frenetic – atmosphere has dulled to a tepid: well I see your point but…

And now the weather seems to be on some kind of random selection: hail earlier, then sun, now grey again.

A shame really as I’ve had a great weekend. We had house guests – friends of G’s from Uni – and The Party. The Party went well although I noted with a kind of sadness that we seemed to have reached the age at last where attendees no longer stay where they drop, all partied out, but instead return to their own abodes to rest. It had to happen sooner or later. A good time seemed to be had by all and G had fun – that was after all the point.

I also caught up with my sister – E – who I’ve not seen in a while. She just got back from Cape Verde where it seems she had a great time; not including a dodgy tummy and got to hand over her copy of Illuminations – now available from WHSmith, Blackwells and Foyles (ownly the later two of whom can spell my name). I hope she enjoys it.

I’m hoping to get a fair bit of writing done this week and to that end will be falling off the world around Friday to get some done. Although I’ll be locked up in a B & B there will be some scheduled posts to keep you entertained.

And that’s it for now.

Apr
11

Friday Flash Fiction: Pixies

Ok. I went slightly over. As ever please feel free to comment. Here goes:

Pixies By Neil Beynon

The thing looks at her looking at it. Its skin is the colour of Jane’s father’s battered and faded leather jacket, as wrinkled and crumpled as one of his shirts. Its heavy lids blink over wet black, jet black, orbs that must be eyes, whilst the thing’s spindly digits grip her mother’s shoulder.

Her mother seems not to notice as she sleeps in the armchair. The rhythmic sound of her snores almost in time with the rise and fall of its chest; Jane can’t move. There is blood trickling down one side of Jane’s head from the fall but she makes no move to stop the flow because as she came into the living room – holding her head – she’d seen the creature.

There on her mother’s shoulder staring at her in mutual recognition that it had been seen when it shouldn’t have. Slowly it wiped the sticky grey substance it had been pulling from her mother’s head on the shoulder of her cardigan, staring at Jane throughout. Daring her to move.

Slowly Jane backs out of the room. As the door closes behind her she lets out a long breath that she wasn’t aware of holding and runs to the kitchen. Splashing water on her face she looks out on the garden. Nothing strange there: just freshly cut grass, a sky so clear it was stark in spite of the blueness and a faint breeze that moves the white blossom of the cherry tree.

Jane doesn’t believe in daytime drinking but sometimes you just need to. She pulls a small bottle of brandy from the cupboard, pours a liberal measure into a white porcelain mug. Liquid fire to burn the image from her mind.

Jane pulls the stool out from the breakfast bar and sits down. She is concussed. That’s it; has to be. The fall has her seeing things. If she just sits down for a few minutes she’ll be fine. Perhaps a cup of tea in a moment – she thinks flipping the kettle on; the rattle of the element on water roaring in her ears reminds her that she actually really hurt herself.

“Oh get me one as well love,” her mother calls from the living room.

A beat for thought, for things unsaid.

“Sure,” she replies.

“What happened to you?” asks her mother from the doorway.

Her daughter does not look at her; instead she stares fixedly at the kettle as it boils. “I had a little fall, knocked my head,” Jane replies.

“I’ll say,” says her mum. “Let me have a look.” Her mother turns Jane’s head so she can check her eyes. The creature is once more idly pulling stuff from her mother’s head, occasionally placing it in his mouth.

“Oh it’s not too bad,” says her mother. “These things just bleed a lot. Do you have a…urm…”

“…plaster,” her daughter finishes without thinking.

“Yeah and some…err…”

“Iodine.”

“That’s the stuff Mary,” her mother replies.

“Jane,” says Jane.

Her mother blinks.

“Jane,” she says. “Of course.”

But it’s an act and not a very convincing one.

Jane gets up, pushing back the stool as she does so, and moves to the cupboard near the back door; pulls the medicine box from the cupboard then hands her mother the plasters and iodine.

“Would you mind?” Jane asks.

“Would I mind what dear?”

Jane takes the iodine and plasters back. “Go sit down,” she says. “I’ll bring your tea in now.” Her mother walks back into the living room, the creature casts Jane a look just before she turns the corner. Jane can see her own reflection in its eyes.

#

The tea slops in the cup as she carries it into the living room but her head is pounding too much for her to be careful, the plaster is pulling too much on her skin. I’ll have to redo it, thinks Jane to herself. Her mother is asleep again.

The creature is still there.

It’s settled into the crook of her lap now, its head resting on her rising and falling chest as it throws the grey stuff in the air – it’s rolled it into a sphere so it resembles a dirty ball of string. It doesn’t pay any attention to Jane.

Jane can’t help staring. Absently she places the tea on the mantelpiece before movement deserts her once more; the creature senses her burning gaze, returns it. It places the ball carefully to one side, standing on her mother’s lap; it’s still only about twelve inches high.

Jane wants to run away but she doesn’t. A long time ago now. She walked in on her parents one night after a bad dream, she wanted to run away then and couldn’t; just stood there, mouth flapping open and shut in shock at the fleshy awfulness of it. This was worse.

Slowly it reaches for the ball, raises it to its mouth and takes a sticky bite. Then a second. Then a third. The sound of its masticating lips echoes.

“Don’t,” says Jane, quietly.

The creature continues, failing to acknowledge her other than slowly raising its free hand and extending the middle digit as it chomps, flashing yellow teeth that look to have been filed into points.

Jane stares at the upturned finger. Blinks at the meal it’s enjoying. Realises she is no doubt concussed but unable to really give a shit. The room – like the world – is suddenly very clear.

Jane grabs the creature by the scruff of its neck; it shrieks so loud her ears buzz and ache for hours. Yet no one comes to see what is happening, her mother sleeps on. Jane swings open the back door. Its still shrieking as Jane punts it high over the garden wall and the fields beyond; the screaming is abruptly cut short by a crunching thud.

#

It feels good to settle into bed. The sheets still have that freshly pressed, cool, crisp hotel feel to them; it’s a relief to rest her still bruised head to the pillow. Sleep won’t be long in coming, indeed Jane can feel herself slipping slowly down the well right now. Her limbs are already asleep. And she is receding into her own skull.

So quickly she barely hears the door creak open a few inches, almost misses the gentle slap of leathery skin on the wood floor and the gentle pull of something climbing the sheets.

Outside the blossom is scattered on the night air like white confetti across the landscape. And all that can be heard is chewing.

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