How Do You Order Your Short Stories In A Collection?

"Extra-Curricular" is my fifth collection of flash fiction. Trying to figure out the order of the stories is as hard now as it was for my first collection. There's no reason why it would be any easier, since the stories are, of course, different, so each collection has to find its own feel and tone through the journey from story to story.

You don't want to group a bunch of stories that are all heavy in tone, but nor do you want to group some that are comedic, only to discover you haven't enough left to space out the heavier stories elsewhere in the book. Then there is always the one story that doesn't seem to fit anywhere, no other stories seem to run naturally into it or from it. Stick it at the end, but then it feels like the reader is ending on a note that isn;t the one you were looking to strike (the last story impression is as significant as the opener).

You think you've ordered them finally, only to discover on a read through that two successive stories echo one another in an image, or a word or a theme and that can diminish the power of each. So you look to move one of them and then the whole Jenga structure comes tumbling down because you can't rearrange it satisfactorily!

You always want a particularly strong story to open with. I normally go for one with comedy just to ease the reader into the work. "Extra-Curricular" perhaps breaks with that tradition although originally I did have a comedic story pencilled in there. But I was struggling throughout to order the 40+ stories when I suddenly hit on a solution.

When I try and figure out the running order, I always try and tag each story with its theme or style. With this collection I finally realised that the stories loosely could be tagged with school timetable subjects. Some of those subjects are a bit old-fashioned, such as Geometry or Logic/Philosophy, others are a bit modish and trendy such as Environmental Studies but hey that's poetic license right? Then there are some subjects that aren't represented at all, such as Maths and Chemistry. But then this isn't a hard and fast school timetable.

This broke the back of the ordering, in that now I could group together 3s and 4s of stories linked by subject theme. It would only be a question then of ordering the subject groups. Only... Some of the stories could easily be categorised as more than one subject. "Bas-Relief", ostensibly about the human brain, could be Biology or where it ended up as, Psychology. "Night Vision", the opener, was pegged as Physics because it involved thermal imaging, but it could easily have been Biology as bacteria and petri dishes are referenced within the story. "Confirmament" could have been Physics, History or where it actually ended up Divinity/Religious Studies.  For some reason, both the stories under the label of Art are science fiction...

And then there are the nine stories labelled as Extra-Curricular; stories of smoking, gambling, sex and love, all activities engaged in the playground or behind the bike sheds!

Oh there goes the bell for class. Reading books out on your desks please.

Available for pre-order on Amazon UK, Amazon US, I-Tunes

Triptychs Cover Reveal

Writers often get asked where they get their ideas from. And if like me you write short stories and flash fiction, you have to come up with a whole host of ideas to feed all your stories. I get most of my ideas just by keeping my eyes open in daily life, especially when commuting and observing my fellow passengers; or from items on the news.

But when I was approached to become part of the Mind's Eye third collection of stories all in response to photos, that was a bit different for me. Because I'd had no prior relationship with the image I was presented with, I had to react to someone else's artistic sensibilities, that being the person who took the photo. (Mind's Eye 1 and Mind's Eye 2)

Even more interestingly, the participating writers were sharing the same images. The collection is called "Triptychs" because each image will have three different stories from three different writers. I haven't seen the stories yet, so I'm really excited to see what the other writers did with the images I was asked to create from.

Before I give the cover reveal for this collection and before I show the two images I was asked to riff off, I just want to give the blurb for the whole project:

Now this notion of three different angles on the same image is exactly what I love doing in my flash. I've always described it as like turning a gemstone to reflect the light in different ways from all its facets. In such a way I believe you can show all the subtleties and nuances of things in a way that is very condensed and compact, unlike in a novel when things like character perspective may limit just how many different angles you can show, or the effect is diluted through the sheer length of the story.

So, now the two images I was asked to create stories from.

 

credit: Martin David Porter                  credit: Helle Gade

Now, one was an absolute breeze, I was struck by an idea instantly (can you guess which one?) But the other, well I was racking my brains for months on end. The setting sun was the instant one, such a beautiful image. The only teaser I'll give you is the title, "Cloud Animals". But the teapot on a barge with some swans swimming by... Man I was struggling with that, as those who know me I tend not to write pastorals! And eventually that was my way into a story, to try and come up with something utterly opposite the tone of stillness and grace conjured up by the image. So I did! Don't think the title is much of a clue for this one, but it's called "Water Fugue In C-Minor". "Cloud Animals" is a flash story at under 1,000 words. "Water Fugue..." is a short story at 2,350 words.



So that only leaves the cover reveal for this inspiring project. I give you - "Triptychs"

You can preorder from AmazonUK AmazonUS

"Murder" - A Flash Anthology

Publishing is so fast these days, it can make you dizzy. I received a tweet from Mary Papas, a friend in Greece who writes flash fiction and short stories, asking me to enter one of her periodic flash competitions she runs periodically on her blog. The theme was murder and the word limit was 350 hundred words. The best ones she would curate and release as a short anthology on kindle.

So I submitted a tale called "Obiter Dictum" and lo and behold about 5 weeks later, along with the other competition winners, it's published in the anthology and available for you to read. Without giving too much away, mine is a slice of Kafkaesque horror, where the menace is bureaucratic in nature rather than supernatural or from within a dangerous psyche.

I asked Mary what the motivation behind the project had been and this was her reply.

"I was always fascinated with horror stories and I  always wanted to create a horror anthology. Also, I  always believed that less is more, so I wanted the anthology to be about murder but in an ambiguous  way that keeps you think about what happened long after you finished reading it.  So in this anthology, murder is implied, suggested, done on impulse, out of habit, or carefully planned. Each tiny tale presents murder in a very different way."

"I wanted many authors to contribute to this anthology and I am grateful that besides me,  Deina Furth, Adam Ickes, Luke McOwen, Samantha Bacchus and of course you Marc participated, with your great stories."

So "Murder" a short anthology of horror tales is available from Amazon

http://amzn.to/1nQXx4X
and here
 http://amzn.to/1rKkvgF

Competition!

Competition

To celebrate the launch of my new short flash fiction anthology "16FF", I am running a unique competition.

The Prize:

Your own personal Flash Fiction story written by me, based on a prompt, or theme, or word, or set of words given by you. It will be a unique story that only you and I will possess! It will not be available anywhere else unless you decide to make it available. It will be available in PDF and Kindle-friendly format.

How To Enter:

E-mail me via sewell.d at googlemail dot com with no more than 50 words on which of these stories was your favourite and why, by October 31st 2012 and I will pick a winner. I'll contact the winner and ask them for their prompt. The story will be delivered before Christmas 2012.

National Flash Fiction Day

Today, May 16th is the inaugural National Flash Fiction Day. There's a raft of readings, workshops and events, whose details you can find on the NFFD website.

My contribution is to release a new short anthology of 16 flash stories on kindle called "16FF" for the princely sum of £1.53 or $2.99. 16 brand spanking new tales written after my first anthology of 52 stories was published. That anthology "52FF" is free to download just for National Flash Fiction Day.

And to hopefully whet your appetites for the anthology, here is one of the tales called "New Balls Please"

*

"Mind over matter of course!"

"Nonsense, matter over mind every time".

"Never the mind, what does either of it matter?" The synthesised supercomputer voice blithely emitted no emotion behind such a momentous condensing of the question that had plagued mankind since the dawn of time. Nor was there betrayal of any self-congratulation at the wordplay which served to diminish the puffed-up portentousness of that same human quest. A quest its circuits had been arrogated to. The computer's voice programme had been selected after various investigations into which timbre and accent was the most dulcet on the human ear. Thus it had been cast as female, with a soft sibilant Scottish brogue. Populous denizen of the customer service industry. There to be of soothing help. For when the human race's machines went on the fritz and failed to function properly.

"What does that even mean?"

"Bit glib for a computer?"

"So I have managed to unify mind and matter after all". There was a beat as the two human inquisitors reflexively left a space for the reciter of a joke to fill in with its own self-satisfied chortle. But none followed, for machines don't laugh (though Caledonian women have been known to, particularly when sufficiently oiled).

"No you're right. Back to the matter in question".

"See, you can't even avoid using the word 'matter'. That's how fundamental it is to existence. Everything stems from matter, including that beloved consciousness of yours".

"Okay then. where does it reside? Which of these wrinkles in this pickled walnut of yours is 'consciousness'? Where within this precious prune's synaptic networks does self-awareness perch?"

If the computer could compute that it should laugh uproariously at this point, it would have. But its powering light indicators remained steadily even.

"If I may interject-"

One of the advocates pointed an open palm as invitation to the computer. Even though the machine had a visual scanning apparatus, the gesture itself was too symbolic for it to comprehend. The man cursed himself, while his antagonist just smirked.

"A physical gesture, yet our silicon friend here was unable to process either its significance or meaning. Probably due to it being devoid of awareness. Fifteen-love to me I believe".

"Interesting too, that such a physical endeavour as playing sport, should have such a symbolic scoring system too, don't you think?"

"If I may interject- Thank you..." Interesting too that the designers had programmed the AI neural network with the human standards of etiquette and politeness. Laughter, that trespasser of etiquette, was ostensibly too human to be mimetically reproduced in the non-human. But etiquette, being itself a code, well that was deemed acceptably artificial. Besides, it wouldn't do to have two or more voices talking over one another. Legibility would disintegrate. "You are one and the same. You are genetic information that codes to create matter-"

"Aha! See! Genetic code is consciousness in potentia, as much as it is embryonic matter".

"But DNA is a molecule. And last time I looked, molecules were forms of matter. DNA still has physical form, whatever enlarged, complex shape it goes on to unpack".

Again the computer had halted its flow for the human interjections. Though unlike a human it has no difficulty in picking up precisely where it left off and without any degrading of throughput.

"Respectfully, as I intimated, it's both and it's neither. DNA is information that codes to produce other bodies of information, in order to transmit itself into future generations. The host bodies, be they human, gazelle or virus, are perishable. Their senses, experiences and memories are non-transferable, certainly beyond their lifespans. They are vessels, designed for merely passing on information. Labouring under the misconception that their own information, of sights, sounds and smells are the significant data, for such is consciousness".

"Vessels?"

"Illusory consciousness?"

"Steady on there!"

"Hold on just a minute".

This time, the hiatus beat may just have been the interval of two gasted flabbers.

"Information is the only significant entity that exists. Not mind. Not matter. Not even viruses or particles. Coded bytes of information solely prevail through time".

"Of course you'd say that, what are you but a data processor? A purveyor of information. But who programmed you in the first place? You only possess existence through the agency of human consciousness".

"Also ask yourself why DNA gets passed down the generations? It needs us, our physical being to be expressed, in order to reproduce and transmit it".

"Of course. But for what purpose does DNA or any information transmit itself? Its transmission is utterly blind. It is a self-perpetuation without any reason behind it. The preservation of information for information's sake. Information cannot be destroyed".

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, you don't say...?"

And with that, one of the inquisitors launched a kick at the computer. His compatriot ran off in the other direction, but soon returned carrying a fire extinguisher, with which he proceeded to bludgeon the machine.

"Love-fifteen... Love-thirty... Love-forty... Game, set and match I'd say".

The computer was a mess of smoke and electric sparks fizzing across exposed entrails. Its indicator lights slowly extinguished.

"Okay computer, are you seriously telling me that a disembodied parcel of information just did that to you? No, it was a physical force wrought by a lump of matter, wielding another metal cluster of matter-"

"Designed by man's consciousness".

"Whatever".

"Don't overlook that the intention to batter the machine communicated itself from your consciousness in the first place. Prompted by your emotions, firing every one of your muscles and nerves".

"Nevertheless, there sits a burned out cluster of matter. I don't see the persistence of any consciousness, or information there. So appears we did manage to destroy information after all".

"Not permanently. We shot the messenger was all. Mind is still preserved. We still retain the knowledge to build and programme another apparatus".

"Only, one that will play ball with us this time".

"Actually giving us the answers we're seeking".

"The right kind of answers to settle our disputes".

"One which understands us humans better".

"More sympathetic to our needs".

"It's just a question of mind over matter".

"Matter over mind you mean".

Death Masking Love - Friday Flash

To mark the kindle publication of my collection of flash fiction "52FF", I've reproduced one from the book and which appeared in #fridayflash in December 2010.

She brought the end of her fingers to her mouth and moistened them in her warm saliva. The whorls of her prints glistened in the meagre light of the room. But it wasn't her own outlines she was interested in raising.

His hand lay outstretched in his sleep, palm exposed. She splayed out her fingers so as to graze each pad with his. To seal her contours with his and have them sear into hers. She would not allow that we are each born with our unique stamp woven into our fingertips. The perfect match, that seamless superimposition of one upon the other, must exist. Unfortunately, even in his sleep, his was too broad for her to span with her dainty little hand.

Undaunted, she caressed her index finger downwards and began to trail the creases and wrinkles across his palm. She wasn't a trained chiromancer, yet maintained her own superstitious credo of the significance of the lines. She understood the notions of the heart, the head, the life and fate, each having their own thread. Just she couldn't unravel them to yield the centre of the labyrinth. They refused to give up their runic Braille quite as easily as the digital phrenologists claimed.

Instead the lines offered tiny windows into how sensitively a man used his fingers. Whether the ridges and folds suggested a tendency to a closed fist, a restlessly flexing tension, or a more open-handed receptivity. The portents on this one were good.

Having crisscrossed his hand enough times to make him flinch it reflexively in his sleep, she carried on down the exposed wrist. Veins and arteries picked out against his pale skin. The hair there so fine and blond as to efface itself. Unlike on the reverse side of the forearm, where it flourished like jungle vines. But here, the red and blue lines stood out like a road map. The major trunk routes of pulsing blood and the minor tracks back to the heart. She knew that a wedding band was always on the fourth finger, because people used to believe it to have a vein leading from there all the way to the love muscle itself. With such a mish-mash of venous vermicelli in the wrist, she couldn't be sure how they could have traced it so limpidly. Before the dawn of the anatomists with their scalpels.

There was always something too fragile suggested by the upturned wrist, too vulnerable. So she moved quickly on. She found herself at the elbow and wondered at the change of skin topography. The permanent fold there raised a livid red scale. Yet here was the most symmetrical set of features on the whole skin. There could you witness the cellular architecture of the human body in all its intricacy. Tiny parallelograms, each with a facility to shrivel or stretch, to concertina and overlap their neighbour. The shuffling orchestration was simply divine. She licked the elbow with her tongue in appreciation. It tasted of interrelatedness.

*

When she woke up, he was gone. He hadn't even extinguished the overhead light, even though it was morning and ribbons of light were streaming through the blinds. Lashing her to the sheets. Seemed like they weren't such a good fit after all.

She stared at the indentations left in his pillow. The case rucked where it had cradled his head, bearing the sunken contours from the downward pressure. More wrinkles and creases, only this time turned inside out. Lacking for the supporting body they served. The vacated lines, the abandoned seams, having opened the quarry of her own body the night before. The death mask of another potential relationship, pressed down with airless finality.

Once, just once, she yearned to wake up and find the smooth impression of a fully-drawn face still lying on the pillow next to hers. Not having to commit the features to her wistful memory, but to be able to revisit them afresh everyday, in the flesh.

"Pop Fiction" - Stories Inspired By Songs

This is the wonderful cover for a new fiction anthology "Pop Fiction" which will be published just before Christmas. It's based on the original cover art photography for the Clash's album "London Calling". We are very grateful that Pennie Smith's whose wonderful work (which won "Q Magazine's" 'Greatest Rock'n'roll Photograph Of All Time award) the original was, has endorsed our project and allowed us to use her image.

The royalties for the anthology are being donated to the Blue Lamp Foundation, a charity that provides financial assistance to members of the emergency services in britain who are injured in the line of duty. For more information on this worthy cause click here.

18 stories inspired by songs; 9 by personal choices of the author and 9 by the collectively agreed upon choice of David Bowie's "Heroes".

The other selections are "Tainted Love", "Disney's Dream Debased", "White Man In Hammersmith Palais", "Where's Captain Kirk" and just so you don't think it's all post-punk, "A Day in The Life", "Physical", "Diamonds And Rust" and "I Shot The Sheriff".

My offering, of which I offer an opening sample below, was inspired by possibly the most obscure song of those selected, that by 23 Skidoo called "IY". Here's a video of it which ain't that great quality, but hopefully whets your appetite to track down a decent version.

The story was inspired by the experiences of the Beirut hostages John McCarthy and Brian Keenan, but one which I take off in a whole new direction I hope. Can i recommend anyone who hasn't read Brain Keenan's book on his time as a hostage "An Evil Cradling" to do so, as it's a fantastic read and a real insight into a consciousness forced to rely on itself while handcuffed and blindfolded.

Okay, here's the opening sample to my contribution to the anthology, from a story called "Hotel C.N.S."

Ow! Unyielding. World already in total darkness, now shrunk to two foot at the end of a chain. Ha, the length of a cubit more like. Tight against ... like ... a radiator. It’s do damn hot here, who’d ever need a radiator for godssakes! Ow! Cuffs cutting into me. My flesh interposed between metal on metal. The weak link. Have to stay perched at the correct angle. An involuntary movement and immediate barbaric retribution! No, I came here to teach these people to repair themselves. And this is how they treat me? Tethered like an animal. At least the painted metal’s cooling I suppose. Let’s see if I’ve any movement at all here. Yes, if I just slide along this pipe, got my very own exercise yard. Have to keep remembering to give myself permission to move. Private Hell reporting for duty in someone else’s war Sir!

Clearly I have been afforded a window. The region of sight. Mocking me. Least it means I’m no longer in a cellar. Still in the pockmarked ruins of the city even? If I can just ... Sun’s definition, without luminescence, so only heat and fatigue to guide me. Got it. Full on now. Bob my face minutely across the arc of its gaze ... How clean the air feels ... Up in the mountains, or down in the desert? Who can tell? Cannot see, yet I am not blind. Have to keep telling myself that. Blindfold merely gnomon on the sundial of my skin. Time marked by coruscation, serves as my flare of distress. And listen out for sounds to narrate my story for me. All one need’s contained in the distant artillery. Meeting as intended, or just recoiling? Then nothing but evaporated silence. Are my gaolers even in with me? Tied to my anchor in here, beneath the unfailing scrutiny of such a powerful daytime flashlight out there, they have no need of perpetual watchfulness.

Jesus, this damned heat! It’s like a wall of steam. Can’t even divine the sun directly on me anymore. Jiggle my head this way and that... Just so till it breaks the surface tension and the droplet leaps to freedom ... or oblivion. And still the water trapped

in the radiator watches on in impassive silence. Deus otiose. While my body performs its whirling dervish dance within the confines of a few inches. Scuse me, some mistake here, my bandana’s slipped down over my eyes! It’s not performing its function. Nowhere for the refugee beads of perspiration to go. I don’t actually believe I have any captors. Can’t see them, can’t hear them and despite living in close proximity inside a Turkish bath, I can’t even smell them. They simply don’t exist. But I know how to make them jump! Just remove my blindfold. Or look as though I might. Mop my brow and get pistol whipped to death for my pains. Technological update of a stoning. I was wrong about these people and their primitive methods. They’ve had coaching, from our side. End it all here and now. It would be quicker than drowning. And all for a bead of sweat, truly about a pound of my dissolved flesh.