Thursday 21 July 2016

The Spider

Here's this week's Whimword entry. The crowdfunding thing is still going on, of course, but it's nice to take a break.

He paused for a moment on his way out when the spider caught his eye. It was only a little money spider, but there was something beautiful about it. He watched it, weaving this way and that through the bicycle's spokes, shooting tiny gossamer threads behind it. It was sort of mesmerising, the way it did that, building the web, one strand at a time. It made the bike come back to life for a second, healing it. He hadn't ridden it in years and the thing was so rusted, it was about to crumble into dust, but that spider...

"Come on," the officer called from outside. "I ain't got all day." He looked up at the doorway, but he didn't move. He wasn't done yet. He couldn't see the officer from where he was sitting, and if he closed his eyes, he could pretend he wasn't there. He could pretend it was just another day.

He thought about the day he bought the house. There were spiders then, too - hundreds of them, live and otherwise, cobwebs clinging to every surface, dust everywhere. No one had lived in it for a good twenty years and it was basically falling apart, but he loved it the minute he saw it. He could see the strong, steady bones of it, the life it could have again. It was a good house. Good things had happened there. He opened his eyes again and looked around the room. The bike was propped up against one wall, just the way it had been when Dotty was still there. He could still see her sometimes, at the very edges of his vision, laughing in the bedroom, watching him from the kitchen. But he could never turn his head fast enough to see her properly.

She'd loved this house, too. It was supposed to be their home. It was supposed to be forever. They poured so much of themselves into it, making it perfect, making it theirs. Oh well, he thought. There were bad things, too, of course - the things that had brought him here, brought him to this point. There was pain and sadness, anger and bitterness. There were things he couldn't take back, things he couldn't forgive. It was hot outside, the air breathless and full of electricity the way it was before a storm. But he felt cold all of a sudden. A shiver ran through him and he was back in the present.

"Buddy, come on," the officer yelled, his voice a little meaner. "It's time."

As he got up, he saw an unwary insect had flown into the web, its wings all gummed up as it tried to wriggle free. The more it struggled, the more stuck it became. It was only a matter of time before the spider got to it. He felt a little prickle in his eye as he watched the wretched creature.

"You and me," he said out loud. "We got a lot in common."

Thursday 7 July 2016

Dirigible

Here's another go at the Whimword challenge, and this time, it's on time! I must say, I enjoy this. It's good to make sure I keep writing while I do the whole crowdfunding thing

I wonder sometimes what the people on the Hindenburg airship thought when the whole thing went up in flames. I think it must have been something like what Andy was thinking towards the end of things. All happening in slow motion, or the 1937 equivalent. No escaping now. We’re going to die and it’s going to hurt more than we can bear and we’ll always be remembered as the people who died here. We were the triers, the doers, the adventurers and look what it got us.

I think the people on the ground, watching, must have been thinking something like what we were thinking while we watched him destroy himself. Rigid with horror. Powerless, but transfixed. Andy was an adventurer, too, or he was before…before. It was what I loved most about him. He was exciting. He climbed things. He jumped out of things. He crashed society parties. He sang, all the time, out loud. He danced like a wild man. Women fell at his feet. He lived.

No one could say for sure what changed or why, but somewhere along the way, the light went out in him. It didn’t happen all at once. It was more like a candle, sputtering, burning down to the wick. Giving up. He stopped living long before he died. He tried to brush it aside at first, tried to pretend it was nothing. He’d be fine, he said. Just a little funk, he said, that’s all. Happens to the best of us, he said, and then he laughed, and I believed him. We all did, for a while. But you can’t relight a candle when there’s nothing left to burn.

There was something apt about the way he went out. It was like he was trying to reignite himself. The difference between his ending and the Hindenburg, I suppose, is that it wasn’t an accident, no matter what the police report said. He stole his brother’s sports car, and crashed it, going a hundred miles an hour, into the side of a townhouse. He took out himself, the car and half the ground floor in one big ball of flames. It was almost impressive, if you didn’t stop to think about it.


Here’s to you, Andy, I guess. I loved you more than you ever knew. The trier. The doer. The adventurer. The doomed dirigible passenger. 

Monday 4 July 2016

My novel

It's time. I am now commencing banging on about this everywhere I can. I've already done it on my other blog. I've already done it on email and Facebook and Twitter. The novel is written. The crowd-funding page is up. You can find it here.

This has been a long time in the making but we're not there yet, so if anyone who reads this feels inclined to pledge, I'd be incredibly grateful. Modern times being what they are, it's now vanishingly rare for debut novelists to get big book deals straight out of the gate, so I've decided to go a different way.

I was sceptical at first, I admit, but I've seen the quality of the work that comes out of Unbound and I am heartily impressed. I only hope people are also impressed enough with me!

I must also add that I am already incredibly grateful to everyone who has helped so far. I'm truly humbled by your generosity!

By the way, don't forget this is the first draft and will be edited, but if you do pick up any little hiccups (like my mum noticed I'd said "jumble sale", which is a UK thing, instead of "rummage sale", the US equivalent) let me know and I'll make a note.