Story: Strangers in the Garden.

Noah was running late. He was driving as fast as he could without breaking the speed limit. He was pretty sure that the traffic light had been turning orange. Only pretty sure, admittedly, but he was running late. Juliet had reminded him, had asked him if he’d remembered to pick Alex up from the party. He hadn’t wanted to leave her but she’d insisted. Anyway, the doctor had said that she needed to rest. It was at times like this that he felt that she judged him. Or, if she didn’t, maybe she should. He couldn’t help it that he still cared about her more than he cared about her son. He hoped that in time he would learn to love Alex like he was his own. But he had to admit to himself that it hadn’t happened yet.

He made a left turn and was struck by the number of trees that lined the road. This was a nice area; he’d never had a reason to come here before. It was the birthday of one of Alex’ classmates. Noah had forgotten his name. Not that it mattered. The surname was Williams and Noah would go in, grab Alex, and take him home. He slowed down as he counted the numbers on the houses. 12. 14. 16. He turned onto the driveway and parked. He would go inside, say thank you to the Williams, and make a swift exit. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with Alex. Or, for that matter, what he was supposed to tell him. He’d never been left alone with him for any extended period of time. This was all new, and it didn’t sit well on his shoulders. What would he make for dinner?

He rang the doorbell. From where he was standing he could hear the sounds of kids having fun. It must be coming from the garden. He had been sitting in the car with the air-conditioning on and had almost forgotten how humid it was today. The more he thought about it the quicker beads of sweat started to form on his brow. He heard a loud splash. Jesus, did they have a swimming pool?

The door was opened by a skinny red-headed woman wearing a loose fitting white dress. She looked as though the heat hadn’t affected her at all, which didn’t surprise Noah as a wall of cool air hit him.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Sorry, yes, I’m Noah. I’m here to pick up Alex”

She smiled and beckoned him inside. He wiped his shoes on the doormat, conscious of the white carpet that stretched out towards the kitchen that was visible at the end of the hallway.

“You’re early,” she told him. He wasn’t, but he apologised regardless. “Oh, it’s no bother. Come on, would you like a beer? Or some juice, if you’re driving?”

He thought seriously about accepting a beer before deciding to be sensible.

“Juice would be great, Mrs Williams, thank you,” he said. She grinned.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Noah, you’re not one of the children. Please, call me Vivian.” He smiled at as she bared her white teeth, glaringly white against the dark red of her lipstick. She beckoned again with her dextrous hands, and he followed her through to the kitchen. Everything was so clean, it was difficult to imagine that one child had been here, let alone an entire party. From the kitchen window he could see children milling around, chasing each other. At first glance he couldn’t see Alex.

“So, you’re Juliet’s new boyfriend?” she asked. The word ‘new’ riled him but he did his best not to show it.

“That’s right,” he said. “Two months, now.”

“That’s just great,” Vivian cooed. “We all love Juliet so very much. She’s such a wonderful woman, I’m sure you agree.”

He did, and nodded to show that he did. She handed him a small, clear plastic cup filled with something that looked sticky. He took a sip and put it back down. The juice tasted like apple-flavoured sweets. A grey-haired man who was verging on pudgy, wearing a jumper that was slightly too tight, came in from the garden, putting an empty beer bottle down onto the side with a clink. He smiled at Vivian, which pushed his red cheeks back and up, then held his hand out.

“I heard you come in,” he said, like he was letting Noah in on a secret. Noah wondered whether that was a loaded statement before the man smiled and said, “My name’s Frank. I’m Vivian’s husband.”

Noah extended his forced smile and shook Frank’s hand.

“She giving you the Spanish Inquisition?” asked Frank with a grin, and Vivian playfully swatted him with a dishcloth.

“No, not at all,” said Noah, aware that he was ruining the joke. But he didn’t want to be here, didn’t actually care at all, he wanted to grab Alex and get out. He looked past Vivian’s hair and out of the kitchen window. He thought he could see Alex in the distance; he saw him running behind some bushes.

“We were very keen to meet you,” said Vivian. Frank moved closer to her, putting one hand around her waist, pulling her towards him. Noah had not heard of these two before being instructed to go and retrieve his girlfriend’s son. And he thought it was high time he did what he had come to do.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t want to be rude, but I’m in a bit of a rush. Is Alex in the garden?”

He thought he saw the briefest glimmer of displeasure cross Vivian’s face, but it was gone just as quickly. “Of course he is,” she said. “Where else would he be?”

Noah moved past Frank, muttering apologies, or perhaps they weren’t even that, and went out of the back door into the garden. There was indeed a swimming pool, small but there nevertheless. He scanned the small groups of screeching children, each of their voices cutting through his head like a scalpel. He hadn’t even felt this headache coming on. Alex wasn’t in any of these bunches. Noah looked towards the bushes at the end of the garden. He saw a small girl’s face peer out and an unmistakable look of guilt cross her face as they made eye contact. The girl disappeared back into the undergrowth and Noah walked quickly over towards her.

As he grew closer he heard several distinct laughs. He recognised one of them as belonging to Juliet’s son. He’d heard it when Alex had been excused from the dinner table to watch TV. He pushed his way past some branches and found himself in a small clearing. Four boys and two girls were standing in a circle.

“Alex?” he asked.

The children all turned to face him, and he felt the strangest instinct to take a step back. Then he saw what they standing around.

The crow was dying, but was clearly not quite dead. Its beak was slowly opening and closing. The wing moved up and down torturously, you couldn’t call it flapping. A trainer he recognised pushed down on the animal, producing a desperate noise. He heard that laugh again. He looked up at saw Juliet’s son. Alex was looking at him, challenging him. He pushed his foot down again and that same awful noise pierced the air.

“Alex. Come here,” said Noah.

“Why?” asked Alex.

“Come here, right now,” Noah said, putting as much authority in his voice as he could. Alex did not move. Noah reached over and grabbed the boy by the arm. Alex cried out in outrage, looked Noah in the eye, and stamped down hard. There was a crunch and the man and the boy both looked down at the red and black mess under Alex’s shoe.

Noah didn’t think about what he did next. He slapped Alex, hard. He had no control over himself. He didn’t compensate for the boy’s size. Alex toppled backwards and landed next to the dead animal.

“Jesus, Noah!”

Noah turned to see Vivian and Frank standing, both red-faced and shocked, staring at him. Alex started wailing. He stood and ran to Vivian's side, who hugged the boy close to her and made comforting noises. The other children scattered.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Frank.

Noah ran. He pushed past the two adults, ignoring both of their cries of displeasure. He ran through the groups of children, who had stopped playing and turned to see what all the fuss was about. He ran back into the house, through the kitchen and the hallway, and out of the front door. He ran all the way to his car.

As he drove away he checked the rear view mirror to see if anybody had followed him to the front door. Nobody had. He was alone as he drove, too fast, away from the house.

------------------

Hello again.

So here is, later than planned, my new short story. Not much to say about it, really. I suppose you can make of it what you will. I was determined that it wouldn't take any sort of supernatural turn, and I'm pleased that it didn't.

But it's still fairly unpleasant, which is a challenge I will take for my next story. I'm not saying that I will write a pleasant story. Because I can't guarantee that. What I will do is write a story that's not UNpleasant. So let's see what I can do with that. It may take a little longer, but I'm working on another writing about writing post. Promise.

Otherwise, I've got some ideas for The Novel that I'm going to try and put onto paper over the next few days. They might not all be winners, but the more I think about the characters, the more I want to write them. That's a good sign.

I'm still reading The Blue Book by A.L. Kennedy. She's a very clever writer and it's written in a very distinct, deliberate style that I found took me a little while to get into but it's very good.

Having ranted about how much I like Jack Ketchum, I went to see The Woman at FrightFest, which he co-wrote with the director Lucky McKee. I was...impressed. It's the kind of film that produces a visceral reaction, and that's always something I'm interested in. I'm still thinking about it several days later. I would say that it's not for everyone. God, no. There will be a review up soon at www.fohnhouse.blogspot.com which, as you probably know, is where you can find my film ramblings.

Hope you liked the story.

A rather delayed post

In which there is an apology, some grovelling, some chatting about plot, and praise for Jack Ketchum's Off Season.

Hello all,

I'm very sorry about the fact that I've not updated in a while. It's been preying on my mind. Well, when I've not been sleeping, or busied with both welcome and unwelcome real world preoccupations. I know, it's been two weeks. What excuses can I possibly have? I was busy over last weekend, flaunting my press pass for all it was worth at Empire Bigscreen (though it couldn't get me into Drive) for the entertainment blog I write for (Look! Here's a link! www.fohnhouse.blogspot.com), and I started a two week unpaid internship on Monday. But I said I wouldn't talk too much about personal stuff, and here I am, grovelling, and without a story. Useless. And even now, I have to close this window and do a two-hour writing exercise for a different internship....

And I'm back. I do apologise. Again. But let's move on. We can talk about writing a bit. Which I said I'd do at some point.

One aspect of writing that's been particularly interesting to me lately is plot structure. Pretty big area, I know, but there's a lot of snobbery surrounding plot-driven fiction. I've always been a bit ramshackle when it comes to plotting, which will come as no surprise to readers of this blog or people who know me personally, and as I moved from short story to novel writing it became a more serious issue.

I have a great, great respect for writers who can plot well, both in prose and television. I find myself watching The Wire (a poor example as it's a bench-mark I will never, never reach) or the old TV series of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and Smiley's People (ditto) and wondering how on earth did they keep all those strands together. Off on a slight tangent, the ability to write running jokes in comedy is something I marvel at, particularly in Arrested Development. I bring that show up mainly because it gives me an opportunity to have a flashback to some of my favourite AD running jokes. It'll probably never happen but I would, maybe just once, like to write something that someone would describe as "labyrinthine". Partly because it's such a wonderful word.

No, I think what I'm writing at the moment could best be described as "sprawling". I've decided to follow up my first person non-published novel with a multi-character effort. As I slowly move forward, I'm becoming increasingly anxious about how I'm going to tie everything together. Wait, that's not quite right. Not just tie everything together. Tie everything together WELL.

These worries have made me nostalgic for less ambitious projects, and have had me trawling my laptop's archives for the first time I tried to write a novel. It was set over three days, focused on a few main characters, and was aiming to be short, sharp, and brutal. I was skimming through it a couple of weeks ago, pondering whether it would be worth going back to it, expanding it (it only weighs in at about 50,000 words), when I finally started reading Off Season by Jack Ketchum. It was lent to me by my friend Martin who said that the plot of what I was writing reminded him of this novel. I quickly realised quite how much work would need to be done my misshapen effort to get it into the same genre. The novel does what I was feebly trying to do, but so much better.

I really have no business comparing my writing to Mr. Ketchum's, so I'm not going to. But the most basic plot synopses are superficially comparable in that both involve a group of people going to a cabin only to be brutally attacked by local monsters. Mine are supernatural, and I reused them for my subsequent novel, and continue to reuse them ad nauseam because I like them. Ketchum's, however, are all too real. Let's chat about Off Season a bit, because it deserves to be talked about.

The plot is this: Carla and her sister, their respective beaus, along with Carla's ex and his girlfriend, head up to a cabin in Maine. Unfortunately, there's a large and nasty family of savages in the woods that see them as quick and easy prey.

Ketchum doesn't waste any time. Off Season is a short book and the limited space serves it incredibly well. We only just to get to know the characters, and get to like a couple of them, before the figures in the woods burst in and start to tear them apart. It doesn't slow down until it stops. The only respite from the nail-biting tension comes from the scenes with the local law enforcement. However, it's not much of a respite as they are moving in the right direction, just not quickly enough. One of the novel's masterstrokes is the humanity of the creatures who are hunting our heroes. They're not vampires or demons, they're people gone wrong who are looking to fill their pot. They're also going to have some fun doing so. If you want a lesson in economy of prose and how to punch your reader in the gut you should read Off Season. (Thank you to Martin for lending it to me!)

So, coming back round to our plot discussion, Off Season isn't Smiley's People or The Wire. From the brutal opening sequence, it moves like a bullet from a gun: in a straight line and damn quickly. While that sort of plotting could be called simplistic if done badly, Ketchum uses it to great effect. If you can keep momentum and keep your grip on the throat of your reader, the straight-forward plot can be thrilling.

Right, that's all for now. I'm working on a short story for you, hopefully it should be up soon. I'll do my best to make the updates a bit more consistent. And before I go, take a look at AL Kennedy's new book, The Blue Book. This is a good looking book:

Story: Send in the Clowns

The circus was closed for the night, and the last wailing child had been ushered out of the big top. Puzzled parents got the little ones safely into their cars and drove them bawling back to town. As the carnies set about dismantling the equipment and throwing sawdust on what the kids had left behind, the clowns went back to Bo’s trailer for a drink. As Jojo, Abe, Red, Emmett, Chazzie, Bebe, and the others found a seat in the cramped space with customary skill; Bo reached into the cupboard above the sink and pulled out a bottle of bourbon.

“I swear,” he declared, “kids used to want to come see the clowns.” He took a slug and passed the bottle on to Jojo, who wiped Bo’s red make-up from the bottle before putting it to his lips.

“You want a bit of fear, Bo, a bit of fear to make them excited,” Jojo said, forever in search of a silver lining.

Bo scoffed. “Did you see the look on their faces, Jojo? That wasn’t excitement. That was terror.” Red, the oldest of the group let loose a hacking cough and spat a wad of phlegm into the first handkerchief of his multicoloured chain.

“It’s the horror films. They make ‘em think we’re all monsters” he grunted, stuffing his handkerchiefs back into his roomy left pocket. As the make-up smeared bottle was passed around the trailer the clowns continued to bemoan this sorry state of affairs. Where was the wonder? Where were the happy smiles? What had happened to the fun?

When the bottle had come full circle and returned to Bo, he took a long gulp and stood up straight, the roof of the trailer flattening his green wig against his skull. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I didn’t become an entertainer, an artist, to frighten the piss and sick out of small children. I say we do something about it.” A murmur went around the trailer. Jojo, sat at Bo’s right hand, looked up at him.

“What, exactly, do you suggest?” he asked. Bo grinned.

“We take the fun to them.” As the clowns leaned closer in interest, Bo produced another bottle and told them his plan.

Louis the barker was finishing his cigarette by the entrance to the big top when he saw the door of Bo’s trailer open, and the entire clown troupe pour out. He watched without much interest as they piled into Bo’s Ford KA with their usual dexterity and heard their whoops of excitement and laughter as the KA sputtered into life. He could hear Blue Oyster Cult start up on the car stereo as they drove away from the big top, off the heath, and towards the town. Louis sniffed and dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his boot. He didn’t have time for their antics tonight. Tess d’Urbearded-Lady said that Butch the dog boy had given her fleas and had come complaining to him about it. He hated these small towns. Nothing good ever happened in a small town.

In the small town of Lidlock, at Number 5, Cedar Place, little Sara had been put to bed an hour ago but still lay wide awake. Her parents had told her that clowns were nothing to be scared of. They weren’t bad people. They were just trying to entertain her. Still, lying alone in the darkness, she saw clowns in every dancing shadow on her bedroom walls and curtains. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and told herself that it was all in her mind. The clowns were in the circus, back up at the heath. She was safe here. She started to drift off to sleep.

There was music coming from outside. Almost inaudible at first, but steadily growing louder. Music and laughter. Sara knew that she should stay in bed. She knew that she shouldn’t look. But somehow she couldn’t help herself. She crawled out from under the covers and went to the windows, pulling the curtain back just a crack.

Sara’s bedroom window, like many bedroom windows in the little town of Lidlock looked out onto the town square. The town square was little more than a glorified roundabout, with a modestly sized fountain of a modest mermaid in the centre of it. As Sara stared into the night, she saw the source of the music; a small car careening around the roundabout at a dangerous speed. The car screeched to a halt and the doors opened.

Sara watched in terror as a seemingly endless number of clowns poured out of the car. There was no way that they could have all been inside. Under the streetlights their paint-caked faces seemed to glow in the dark. She watched as they staggered and swayed, laughing raucously. A fat clown in a red wig dropped the bottle he was carrying and it smashed on the road. He turned his face up to the night sky and cackled. She watched as one of them, wearing a blue wig and blood-red makeup smeared on his mouth, turned and saw her watching. He saw her and he grinned. His maw was missing several teeth, and the few that remained were stained a dark yellow. He raised his hand and extended a finger, pointing at her. Sara screamed.

Standing in the square, trying to get some kind of routine started, Bo started to question the wisdom of his plan. Obviously there was no way to back out now. And it had been a good idea. Still was. They probably should have gone a little easier on the whiskey. Chazzie was trying to juggle but was just embarrassing himself. Red was leaning against the side of the car, having a coughing fit. They hadn’t changed the CD, which meant that Blue Oyster Cult was still belting out of the stereo. And even he knew that Emmett shouldn’t grin like that at that kid in the window. Jojo called out his name and pointed to one of the houses. The front door was open and a tall man in a dressing gown was approaching, holding what looked like a cricket bat. Bo put out his hands and started to explain, but the man didn’t want to listen. Instead he lifted the bat and hit Jojo over the head, hard. Jojo crumpled to the floor. This was all wrong. Bo braced himself for a fight and was raising his fists when something hard hit him in the back of the head and everything went black.

Sara’s father would never be higher in his daughter’s estimation. Her dad had not only been brave enough to go outside and face the horrible clowns, he had beaten them. Then the police had come and taken them all to prison. Well, some of them. Some of them left in an ambulance. Sara’s dad and the other dads were heroes.

The next morning Louis stood outside where the now-dismantled big-top had stood. He waited for the clowns for an hour, then dropped his cigarette neatly by the other stubs, crushing it under his boot. He could always find other clowns. Small towns, he thought. Nothing good happens in small towns.

------

Hello there.

Some of you have read this story before. I've been doing my best to write new material for this blog, but there's been a bit of progress on my longer projects recently so I thought I'd cheat and put this little piece up.

It was originally written for a "reading out loud without seeming like a nervous wreck" workshop on the Warwick MA Writing course given by super writer AL Kennedy. I find reading aloud difficult, nerve-wracking, and unpleasant. So, I thought I'd write something funny. And it got a couple of laughs, which was lovely.

This story was also inspired by being told by one Lucy Amsden that clowns aren't scary. Apparently it's a popular misconception (which I share, because they certainly scare me) and she should know, she studies them. So I thought I'd write about misunderstood clowns who mean well but suffer because of their image in pop culture. I'm pretty sure I gave her the story for her birthday, so it's technically hers. She probably won't mind. On that note, I suppose this is as good a point as any to thank Lucy and her fella (and my old, old friend, from the times before I could form words) Guy Dorey for providing me with everything a writer needs during the difficult novel writing period: many mugs of tea, good food, quality sofa time, reassurance, a fire, and a kind of sloe gin.

There will hopefully be another (new) story soon, and some of that writing about writing I promised. I hope you enjoyed this one. I'm working on my rather shapeless novel, which is slowly getting going, and a pilot script which could be a lot of fun.

Oh, I found the cure for my reading out loud nervousness. It's a glass and a half of white wine, in case you were wondering.

Oh, and finally, finally, Guy's brother Max is a builder of theatre worlds but is also a very talented illustrator. He works with Adam Z. Robinson on an excellent blog of dark short stories called Tales From the Red Barn. Check it out! http://talesfromtheredbarn.wordpress.com/ For those interested in Max's theatre stuff, his blog is here! http://cardhousetheatre.blogspot.com/

This is my writing hat. It reminds me I should be writing.

Story: Eliza is a Witch

Our parents had been told that Eliza Belmont was a witch. It was a Wednesday evening and the PTA had decided to go en masse to the nearest bar for a drink to smooth over any disagreements after their bi-monthly meeting. I don't know what Eliza Belmont was doign there, but she decided to take the opportunity to tell everybody. She tapped a spoon on her wine glass and waited until everyone was quiet, cleared her throat, and spoke louder and clearer than anyone had heard he speak before. She told the assembled adults that she was a witch. Dad told me that there had been an awkward pause after she’d spoken, then a couple of laughs. The laughter spread. Then Bobby Creed’s stepfather had slid into the booth alongside her.

“If you’re a witch,” he said, “let’s see some magic.”

Dad said she didn’t even blink. She just lifted her hand off the table and clicked her fingers. Bobby Creed’s uncle’s head dropped straight onto the table with a smack. He didn’t ever lift it again. She pushed him out of her booth and stood up. Everyone took a step back. Eliza closed her eyes and every glass in the place shattered. There was all kind of screaming and yelling. Shards of broken glass were stuck in people’s hands, and Shirley the barmaid suffered a hailstorm from the broken beer mugs that had been hanging over the bar.

“Quiet,” said Eliza, and everybody was. Dad said he didn’t feel like he had a choice. Neither did anyone else.

“I said I’m a witch,” she said. “I’m telling you this for your own good. I’m telling you this so you’ll know to leave me alone. There won’t be another warning. This is as clear as I can make it.”

And with that she turned and walked out. She left a twenty dollar bill on the bar for Shirley.

I was still awake when Mom and Dad got home. They usually came in to say goodnight. But that night I heard them climb the stairs, go straight to their room, and close the door. I heard their hushed voices coming through the wall but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

The next morning they told my brother Jason and I about it over breakfast.

“You boys know Eliza Belmont? Young lady who lives down on Foxwood Street?”

We nodded.

“You boys need to stay clear of her. Understand?”

“Why?” asked my brother. At thirteen he was four years older than me, always a little readier to challenge my parents on whichever issue happened to present itself.

“She’s a witch,” Mom said simply. Dad turned to look at her and she shrugged. “What? It’s better that they know. We agreed. They need to know.” She turned to us and I could see in her eyes that she meant to be heard. “You keep away from her.”

Before we could ask any more questions we were ushered out of the house and onto the school bus. The bus was quiet that day. The bus had never been quiet, not a day that I’d ridden it.

It wasn’t until after school that I heard the name mentioned again. I was looking for Jason to see if I could hang around with him and his friends after school. He usually let me, as long as I kept my mouth shut and didn’t tell anyone what they got up to. That afternoon I found him behind the library, talking to Mike and Eddie. Eddie was tall, a little round, and decent to me, but Mike was short, skinny, and mean. Whenever Jason let me tag along Mike made it clear that I wasn’t welcome. Most of the time he’d tell me so. It was Mike that spotted me first.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked, and Jason turned round.

“What are you doing here, Ollie?” The surprise in his voice told me that they were planning something. Something they didn’t want anyone to know about.

“Just seeing what you guys were doing,” I said, as casually as I could.

“Bring him along,” said Eddie. “We could use a look-out.” Mike hawked a glob of phlegm at the ground and Jason nodded.

“Fine. Come on, squirt.” I tried not to let them see how happy this made me.

As they walked down the street I stayed about a foot behind them. That was very important. Any closer and they’d lower their voices and stare at me until I retreated. I heard Eliza Belmont’s name mentioned several times. If I’d had any sense I would have run home, or tried to convince them that they should let it go. But that wouldn't have made any difference. It might have made them more determined to do it.

We made a left turn onto Foxwood Street, walked past three or four houses and then stopped. I knew whose house we were looking at. It looked just like all the others. The only thing different about it was that the curtains were drawn. We could see that the front door was firmly closed behind the screen door.

“What do you think?” asked Eddie. Jason scratched his chin.

“If she’s home, we leave. If she’s not, we go inside, take a look.” He turned and put both hands on my shoulders. “If you see her, you fuckin’ yell. Understand?” I nodded. “Good. Let’s go.”

Mike smirked at me. He liked that I was staying behind. I watched them creep carefully around the side of the house and out of sight. I stood there, shifting my weight from leg to leg. I waited for what seemed like forever. After a while I realised that I desperately needed to pee. If they didn’t get back soon I’d have to abandon my post or piss myself. As I looked around to see if there was anywhere I could go I heard a whoop. The three boys were running towards me, each with big grins plastered on their faces.

“Did you go inside?” I asked. Jason ruffled my hair.

“Sure did, squirt,” he said. “Hey, I got something for you.” He handed me a small silver clock. I turned it over in my hands. The back of the clock was engraved, quite simply. To my Eliza. I smiled up at my big brother. I knew what he’d done was wrong, but what was I going to tell him?

On the walk back they talked about how easy it had been, how the house hadn’t been creepy at all. They talked about what they would have done if Eliza had been home. I did notice that we were walking a little fast than we had on the way there. Then Eddie and Mike left and I walked home with my big brother alone. The rest of the evening couldn’t have been more normal. We had dinner, we were asked about school, we watched a little TV, then we went to bed.

I was woken up by my mother shouting. I thought that I might have missed the bus, but the clock told me that there was more than enough time. Dad stormed into my room, ran to me and grabbed me by the shoulders.

“Where’s Jason?” he asked. I told him I didn’t know. The telephone rang and my mother answered it. Seconds later she was calling to my father, saying that Mike’s parents didn’t know where he was. Then Eddie’s mom rang asking if we knew where Eddie was.

I stayed in my room while all this was happening. I sat on my bed. I knew what had happened. By the look on Dad’s face when he came back into my room, I could tell that he did too.

“Get dressed,” he said.

I’ve never felt shame like I did standing outside Eliza Belmont’s screen door while my Dad rang the doorbell. She answered it quickly. She’d been expecting us. I thought I could see just the tiniest trace of a smile. She spoke before Dad could open his mouth.

“They’re gone, Mr. Deakin. Where they’ve gone they can’t get back from. You should be grateful I left you with this one. I did tell you. I told all of you. Mr. Deakin, I only told you last night.”

She looked down at me. When I’ve dreamt about that moment I’ve remembered her eyes as being furious, or tearful, or gleeful. But the simple fact is that it was patience that I saw. And I’m sure that in her opinion she’d done me a tremendous favour.

“Now, you have something of mine, don’t you, Oliver?”

I’d brought it with me. I reached into my coat pocket and took out the small silver clock. She took it from me and turned it over in her hands, looking at the inscription. The smile grew, then disappeared completely.

“Thank you, Oliver. Goodbye, Mr. Deakin.”

She closed the door. I could hear Dad starting to cry as we walked home.

That night, when I couldn’t hear my parents arguing anymore, I got out of bed, put on my jacket and my sneakers, and crept out of the window. I walked quickly and quietly. I knew where I was going. I knocked on Eliza Belmont's door. After a moment or two it opened.

“Hello, Oliver.”

She came out onto the porch dressed in a long black coat. As she looked down at me I could see that she was wondering what to do with me. After a moment or two she took a step forward and closed the door behind her.

“I was just going out for a walk, you can join me if you like.”

I nodded. We walked in silence for a couple of minutes. I was a little surprised when she finally asked me a question.

“Did you come to ask for your brother back?”

I nodded.

“I can’t do that. I couldn’t do that. Not even if I wanted to. Would you like to know why you’re still here.”

She didn’t wait for me to nod.

“If I took you as well, who would be left to tell people what I can do, what happens? I told your parents. You know that, don’t you? I told everyone.”

She gestured at the houses that lined the street. Not a single house had a light on. I wondered how many people were actually sleeping. As if on cue I saw an upstairs curtain twitch in number 41.

“They were all told. But this still happened. So now, you can tell them. Because you know what I’m capable of. Here we are.”

I saw that I was standing in front of my house.

“Go to bed,” she said. “And tell people what happened to your brother.”

I told people. I didn’t have to, everybody new. But I told people anyway. Our family packed up and moved away about three weeks later. As far as I know, Eliza Belmont is still there. I hope she’s been left alone.

----------------------------------

Hello.

So, here's another one. This was a bit of a Comfort Zone story. People who've read my stuff before will know that I write about witches quite a lot. Well, I like writing about witches. And while I've got a lot of time for evil witches and ethereal witches, I really like witches who just get on with it. Admittedly this story isn't my most original work, but I was quite taken with the idea of a witch who told everyone who and what she was.

There's also the matter of the American setting. It's been a while since I tried this. I apologise for anything that doesn't ring true, but it just sounded American in my head. Or what I think American sounds like. If any Americans are reading this, it's set in an area that you don't know very well. It's a small town in....that area. You know the one. They sound a bit like Brits there.

Eliza Belmont may return, or be transplanted to THE NOVEL IN PROGRESS. I like her no-nonsense-ness. I also like her name.

Just a quick note about names. I'm not good at making up names for my characters. They're quite a useful procrastination tool ("Look, I can't do any more writing until I figure out what he's called!"). In the past I used to just cull names from my CD collection, now I've resorted to cribbing surnames from characters in era or area appropriate films. However, Eliza comes from not one, but two songs (Myla Goldberg by The Decemberists and Where the Wild Roses Grow by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds), and Belmont is one of the roads I grew up on. Eddie and Mike just seem like the names archetypal American teenage kids would have if they weren't going to make it to the end of the story/film/whatehaveyou.

That being said, every now and again a character will spring to life with a full and decent name. Doesn't happen very often, but it's nice when it does.

Hope you liked the story.

In which I apologise for the long wait and give you a scary poem for children

Hello,

I hope the story below is alright. It took a while to write, I'm very much out of practice with the whole short story writing thing. The nice thing about writing novel-length stories is that you get to postpone the ending until you can really come up with a good one. With short stories, wow, they come round fast. But hey, at least you can end on an ambiguous note and there's slightly less of a feeling of disappointment for the reader. Probably.

The story below didn't offer up one ending. I had about five different ones. A couple of gruesome ones, one fairly elaborate, and a couple that were just awful. I have to credit my good friend and collaborator Martin Parsons for helping me to get to the one I finally used. I do like it. I was determined to write a non-horror story (although it is a bit, isn't it...), so the next story will probably be scarier.

Anyway, I won't say more as it's right below for you to read. To compensate for the delay, here's a scary poem for children that I wrote a long time ago but I still like. Until the next post, then.

The creature in the forest

Knows the road you take

The creature in the forest

Always stays awake

The creature in the forest

Knows you’re far from home

The creature in the forest

Knows you’re all alone

The creature in the forest

Doesn’t care if you’ve been good

The creature in the forest

Only wants his food

The creature in the forest

Thinks that this is fun

The creature in the forest

Will chase you if you run

The creature in the forest

Is an enemy of light

The creature in the forest

Lives to tear and bite

The creature in the forest

Knows the road you take

The creature in the forest

Knows you’re still awake

Story: In 37A

Joseph’s leg was going to sleep. He hadn't counted on waiting this long. He’d been sat in his car for about an hour, no, at least an hour. He should have been and gone by now. In and out. This was getting ridiculous. Finally he saw a shape move behind the glass front door of the block of flats. He grabbed the three shopping bags and was out of the car like a shot. He was across the street and juggling the bags around, trying to get one hand into his pocket, by the time the old man was hefting the door open. He looked up at the moustachioed gentleman in his heavy navy Barbour coat and smiled at him apologetically, making sure the bags looked heavier than they were. The man nodded, stepped aside, and let him slip by. Joseph was inside.

He moved quickly over to the lift, still carrying the bags on the off chance that the old man looked back. He saw an A4 sheet of paper sellotaped to the lift door. Out of order. Shit. Never mind. He refused to allow himself time to think. He would go up to the fourth floor as planned. He had been watching the couple that lived there. They should be out at work for at least another hour. That was the flat, that was that.

He considered dropping the bags but decided against it. Just in case. He started up the stairs, counting the floors in his head as he went. He fought the urge to panic. This was fine. It was just a broken lift. Nothing had changed. Third floor. Just keep going. Keep the head down. Look like you’re finding your keys.

“Hello?”

Caught between keeping going and stopping, he almost tripped on the step. Get it together, he told himself. Take a breath. He looked up. A thin, dark-haired woman, dark blue jumper, black skirt, standing by door 37A, one orange plastic bag in her hand, looking at him. She didn't seem to pose an immediate problem. He smiled. Keep moving.

“Hi there,” he said, and turned to go.

“You’re on the fourth floor, right?” she asked.

He stopped again. Of course there had been the chance that someone might see him, might want to talk to him, why was he fumbling? He was better than this. He was good at this. No backing out now.

“That’s right,” he said, with a grin that was friendly enough, a few teeth, but not so friendly as to suggest he wanted to keep talking.

“McGrath?” she asked.

He nodded. Maybe a mistake but too late. He was now McGrath. The woman smiled and he reminded himself that, pretty as she was, she wasn't smiling at him, she was smiling at McGrath.

“I spoke to your wife yesterday. I’m Lydia. Lydia Schwartz? She said that you’d both be coming for a drink. I guess she’s running late, but why don’t you come in?”

He made noises that he hoped were discouraging. Clock ticking. Time to get going. But she was having none of it.

“Please, come in and have a drink.”

He paused. She smiled again. It was a tough smile to say no to. Slightly fragile in that way that Joseph found very difficult to risk upsetting.

“Come on. You look like you could use a drink. Come on. I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll take offence if you don’t.”

And before he knew it he was walking towards her, walking right through the front door. How could he be so stupid? He would leave quickly. He could fake a phone call. Suddenly notice the time. Remember some prior engagement.

Maybe he didn't have to. As he slipped off his shoes and followed her down the corridor he told himself that there was sure to be enough worth taking here. Same area, same building even. Better to take advantage of this situation, not go chasing after a plan that was completely wrecked. She wouldn't even have to know. He wasn't a violent man, there was no need for any of that, was there? No. He would wait until she was out of the room, then he would grab a couple of things and go. Easy.

“Hello?”

She was staring at him. She’d been talking to him and he’d let himself drift. This was no good. This was not helping.

“Sorry, I was miles away,” he said, and smiled. Aiming for reassuring.

“I just asked what I could get you to drink.”

He asked for tea. No need for anything to muddle his head. He was muddled enough already.

“Great,” she said, “I’ll make a pot. Do you want to come and take a seat in the kitchen?”

He didn't but couldn't see any way around it. He followed her into the kitchen and sat on one of the flimsy-looking wooden chairs as she took off her coat and threw it over the door. As the kettle grumbled into life she turned to look at him, one hand on her hip. It might have been something about the way she was standing or the way that the light was hitting her but he was finding it difficult to keep thinking clean thoughts. It was the nervousness, he told himself. It had him all jittery. He couldn't be preoccupying himself with this now. He was here to do a job. In a way she should count herself lucky, he thought. He wasn't a violent man. And he certainly wasn't the kind of man to...well, he would never do that. The fact that he even thought about thinking it made him uncomfortable. Was he an intruder? He’d been invited in. Forget it; he was just going to grab a few valuables and leave. Make the best of a bad situation. Quick sip of tea. The back of his tongue felt bone dry. It was that nervousness again, creeping up from the stomach, right up to the back of the throat.

“So how are you finding the flat so far?” she asked.

“It’s lovely,” he said. “Really very nice”

“And does your wife like it? Are you happy?”

“She is. We’re very happy in it.”

She frowned. Her brow furrowed. Something in Joseph’s gut did an unhappy back-flip. Maybe his answers were too simple. Not enough detail. He took a moment to collect himself.

“Well,” he said finally, “We’re very happy. To be honest, though, we could be happier with the flat. It’s not quite as it was described to us. There’s...” and he thought of a good turn of phrase, “quite a lot to be desired.”

She bit her lip. The panic helped him think clean thoughts.

“How do you take your tea?” she asked, and he told her that just a splash of milk would be fine. She put it gently down on the table in front of him. He took a sip and burned his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Before Joseph could tell her that his scalded tongue wasn't her fault she grabbed his hand and continued. There was something in her face that he’d been too preoccupied to notice before. That smile wasn't fragile. It was broken.

“ I've invited you in under a false pretence.” She paused. “Am I saying that right? False pretences? There’s something I simply have to tell you. And I really don’t...I didn't know how to tell you but I simply have to, there’s no other way. Your wife has been sleeping with my husband.”

She paused for a moment, presumably to let the fact sink in. Joseph didn't know what to do. He tried to look shocked and confused. Not much of a stretch.

“I know, you've only just moved in and already he’s sticking his...I’m sorry, I know this is a terrible way to find out, but I just went up there to ask her what time you were getting home and the door was unlocked and I thought maybe you were already there so I went in to say hello and they were there and he was there and he was and she and they...”

She paused for breath. She took a gulp of air so big it Joseph thought he could sense it leaving the room.

“I knew he was unhappy but...I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m being so selfish. You've been...Can’t we just...”

She looked into Joseph’s eyes and he forgot everything. He stopped thinking. There was only her. The trembling, broken smile under the tears running from those big green eyes. Any control he had over the situation was lost forever when she reached out and took his hand.

There was a scream from upstairs. She took her hand away. It was a man screaming. Howling. She grabbed his hand again.

“You have to understand, Mr. McGrath, I had to do it. I couldn't let them get away with it. Get away with doing that to me, to the both of us? Don’t you understand? I was trying to tell you, trying to explain, tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing...”

The screamer from upstairs began to form words. At first they were indistinguishable sounds but they quickly made sense. He heard the word “dead.” Then he heard the word “wife.” He was suddenly aware that he had to leave. Right now. But something in her staring eyes kept him rooted to his creaking seat.

Her grip on his hand tightened. Her nails dug into his hand. He yelped as tiny pools of blood formed around her fingertips.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Hello there

So, yes, hello.

Hi.

As you may have gathered from the blog title, my name is Jonathan and I am a writer. I would say aspiring writer but I think that if you're actually writing then you're not really aspiring to it, are you? You're doing it. Aspiring published writer? Yes, OK, let's go with that. I'm an aspiring published writer.

What do I write? I've spent the last year or so writing a novel, and I'm currently working on a follow-up as well as a sort of script thing that will occasionally disappear from my list of things to do before bubbling up again. I mostly write horror. Or dark fantasy if you'd prefer. I do write in other genres, but I do find that a story I'm writing will often take a nasty turn.

This blog is here for a few reasons. Firstly, I'm envious of my friends who write very clever, very entertaining blogs, and I thought I'd like to give it a try. Secondly, I find I'm more productive when I'm working towards something. Being a naturally slothful person, I write best when I'm working towards a deadline, even when it's self-imposed. I've not been setting myself enough deadlines recently as, after enjoying a thorough round of rejections of my manuscript for my first novel, the little part of my brain that thinks that my writing is any good retreated off somewhere for a bit. It's back now, although it's a lot smaller and quieter. Sometimes it'll be laughing quite happily, then the smile will drop and it will go off to sit on the windowsill for a bit and it's all too clear that it suffered a great deal. Maybe it feels like this.

Maybe one day it will talk about it. The point is that I love writing. It's fun, addictive, and there's nothing quite like it. This blog will allow me to put at least some of what I write out there for people to see. Thirdly, I'd like to talk about writing. Not in a precious way, but in a nuts and bolts sort of fashion. Finally, I miss writing short stories. While I am in the process of working on a novel (and the script thing, which refuses to go away), there have been little ideas popping up that would be nice to do something with.

What this blog won't have is very much of "what's going on in my life". This is because what's going on in my life at the moment isn't really that interesting. What it will have is some stories. Some scary, some funny, some sad, and hopefully some that are all of the above. There may even be some happy ones. But I won't lie, they probably won't pop up that often. The first story should be coming soon. I hope you enjoy it.

Still not sure about the blog title. That comma...