Thursday, June 24, 2010

'Nothing to Lose' by Alex Flinn

I recently read Nothing to Lose by Alex Flinn, and was hooked from the first chapter. What made me pick up the book, actually, was the premise (i.e. the setting). It's not everyday you find a book that's set in a carnival, and that setting has delightfully endless potential to tap into.

The story is about a seventeen-year-old boy, Michael Daye, whose mother remarried after Michael's father died. She married a renowned lawyer whom everyone thinks is too respectable to do anything wrong - including abusing his new wife.

Michael tries to make his mother leave him, but for the financially stable life Walker provides for mother and son, his mother is resolute against leaving Walker. Michael finds himself unable to do anything but watch over his mother in case his stepfather hurts her again. She's not allowed to leave the house or pick up phone calls unless it's from Walker, and Michael hates what Walker's done to his mother, but there's nothing he can do.

Finally, he decides that his mother chose this life for herself, and therefore doesn't need him anymore. He leaves home and joins the travelling fair, where practically everyone there has a secret of their own, but the thing about the carnival that Michael likes is that no one asks questions.

But what his fellow carnies don't know is that Michael is on the run - from the law. His mother was convicted of murdering Walker, and to protect her son, she tells him to run as far as he can, so far that no one would suspect his involvement in the murder.

A year later, the truth starts to catch up with Michael, and soon everyone in the travelling fair has gotten wind of Michael's past, forcing him to leave the carnival lest he implicates them too.

Flinn's prose is light, tight and fleet-footed, thereby keeping up the pace of the story. However, she doesn't compromise on the emotional element of the story. Michael falls for a fellow carnie, Kirstie, who is also running away from her own problems at home. And as a writer who's recently just started experimenting with writing from the male point-of-view, I learnt quite a bit about how a guy might see a girl and subsequently fall for her. Michael's more sensitive than my Drew (from Lambs for Dinner), but less so than my Jerry (from Red December Skies), I feel. Over the past year that he's on the run, he's forced to be independent and guards himself well against people, but doesn't lose the ember of sentimentality that is congruent to his protective streak over his mother.

So Michael, in the end, has to choose between returning to Miami to defend his mother or tell the truth about what happened that day she killed Walker, or stay on the run with Kirstie. The twist at the end put a smile on my face, because it was well-delivered and delightfully shocking. The decision Michael made in the end - leaving Kirstie - didn't sit quite well with me, because I'm a sucker for romantic happy endings, but Flinn delivered a hell of a novel, for sure. Even at only 200 over pages, it made for a quick but highly rewarding read, well-paced and that also made sure every scene and description was relevant.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Short Story - Open Season


He had been hunting for days now.

Nobody ever said hunting was a walk in the park, but at least someone could have informed him about the job prospects: bone-weariness and going for days on end without food. Right now, all he wanted was a burger, a beer and a long cold shower.

No. He couldn’t think of that now. He had to focus. Nothing was more important right now the hunt. The errant soul was always a step ahead of him. He had to think of a way to outsmart and outmaneuver it, bring an end to this. It didn’t help that the soul was indifferent about wasting lives in this game. The longer it took for him to track it down and send it on its way, the more people were going to die.

He had veered too far away from civilization. Was that a good or bad thing? He’d attract less attention, for sure, when he had to perform the exorcism. But he doubted the soul would show up here. Where was here, anyway? Not a soul (well, figuratively speaking) could be seen, and the only thing he heard was … the chugging of a train.

He saw the girl before he spotted the railway tracks.

He could tell if she was alive. She was just lying there on a discarded old green couch, right in the middle of the train tracks.

It struck him as strange – and he was accustomed to strange – that a girl would be lying on a couch on a railway track. So it had to be a trap, then.

Except, what if it wasn’t? Stranger things had happened, hadn’t they?

His brand of saving people didn’t usually involve hauling random girls off train tracks – not unless there was something supernatural involved – but even if the tracks were defunct now, he couldn’t exactly leave her lying there.

Gravel crunched under his boots as he inched his way over to her, hand poised on the hilt of his dagger.

She was young, perhaps in her early twenties; her skin still had the silky, elastic quality endowed by youth. Her pink chiffon dress was shredded and stained with dirt at the hem, but other than that, she didn’t seem to be hurt. Her head lolled over the armrest. She was too pale to be alive, but her lips hadn’t turned blue yet.

He tapped her arm. Too cold. “Miss?”

No response.

He felt for her pulse and discerned a faint but sporadic throb under her translucent skin.
In the distance, the chugging was louder now. When he looked up, he could almost spot the train through the unnatural mist that had descended at noon. He couldn’t tell how far away it was, but judging by the sound, he probably should get off the tracks now.

When he picked her up off the old couch, he hadn’t expected her to be that heavy. Or maybe he was just weak from so many days without fuel. But it felt almost like she didn’t want to be carried off.

The train wasn’t just a silhouette now, but an unstoppable creature of steel, belting steam and careening their way.

The girl stirred. She lifted her head and winced, bringing her hand up to her neck.

“Hey,” he said, keeping an eye on the incoming train.

“Who are you?” She swiveled her head around. “Where am I?”

“Look. I don’t have time to explain” – the train whistled; steam wafted over to them – “but right now, we have to get off this track.”

She grabbed his hand, swift and unyielding. Blinking, she revealed eyes the color of blood. Before he could react, she had heaved herself up from the couch and rammed him onto it, all in a fluid motion.

“It’s open season, hunter.” Her voice was low, womanly, but the monster was in her eyes.

She was too strong for him. He couldn’t move an inch from the couch, and his senses were screaming as loudly as the train that was speeding his way. In less than ten seconds – fifteen, if he was lucky – he would be roadkill.

“You’ve been hunting me for a long time, haven’t you?” She tilted her head coyly. “Well, here I am. Do as you please.”

Perspiration leaked from him. He struggled for his dagger, grasped the hilt.

The girl saw what he was doing and smirked. “It’s not the girl you have to kill. You do know that even if you kill her, I’ll just find someone else, don’t you? So go ahead, kill her.”

There was nothing else he could do, no weapon, no means of wasting the damn soul. Meanwhile, the face of the train had grown into a wall, ready to slam into him.

And then something occurred to him. He plunged the dagger into her side, grabbed her and leapt off the tracks, just as the train roared past him in a whirl of clattering metal and hot wind.

He waited until the metallic monster had hurtled past before yanking out the knife from the girl. “Yeah, well,” he said, like there hadn’t been any interruption at all. “I think the girl was dead to begin with, thanks to you. You were only keeping her alive to set up this trap.”

She stared down at the wound in her side. There was no blood, just tar-like substance that crept out. Ectoplasm. The sight gave him satisfaction like nothing else could.

“That’s not possible,” she rasped. “Mortal weapons don’t work on us.”
“Isn’t it? It’s a special knife, bitch, tailor-made to wipe out pesky souls like yourself. You did a real sloppy job of setting up the trap, though. You tampered with the pulse, and the girl’s cold as ice. Next time, why don’t you impress me better?”

She couldn’t squeeze in a retort in time. All around him was ectoplasm, a steadily growing pool of it. Great, he thought, not another pair of jeans stained with ghostly filth. He wiped down his dagger, and laid the body amongst the waist-high grass. Just another job, he told himself. It’s just another job.

Now, for that burger, beer and nice cold shower.

Friday, June 18, 2010

I'm approximately 500 words away from completing the first draft of Lambs for Dinner. And now I wish I hadn't written it so quickly. I had such a blast writing it!

What really spurred me on was Drew's voice. I enjoyed writing from his POV, because to me, his voice was pretty distinct. So much so that I could hear him even as I go about my quotidian activities.


Advice from Greenhouse Literary Agency: How to Write the Breakout Novel

1. An inspired concept: Don’t start writing until you know you have a really, really great idea. Work out your pitch BEFORE you start writing.


2. Larger-than-life characters: A major tip is to get to know your principle characters and their backstories so well BEFORE YOU START TO WRITE that you don’t need to explain them, or invent them, as you go along. Rather, you are so well acquainted with these people from the get-go that you can let them reveal themselves as you drip forth in measured and varied ways their personalities and their pasts.


3. High stakes plots: WHAT DO YOUR CHARACTERS STAND TO WIN OR LOSE?

4. A deeply felt theme: There needs to be something DEEPLY FELT in your story that will stay with your reader after the last page is turned. Something that gives us a newly perceived truth about what it means to be human.


Here's me checking off this list. I only just came across it today, and I read it with Lambs for Dinner in mind.

Lambs for Dinner was inspired by Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse. After reading it, I knew I wanted to write a story where a character sees himself as the Steppenwolf, 'a beast astray who finds neither home nor joy nor nourishment in a world that is strange and incomprehensible to him'. In him is a duality of nature, Man and beast, both of whom are in constant enmity. The character cannot live with both of them caged within him. There are two groups of people he comes into contact with: one is attracted to the beast in him, his raw primal power; the other attracted to the Man, the one with the boundless capacity to fight for those he loves.

With this idea came Drew. I didn't have to explain or spend too much effort illustrating him to the reader. I just let his voice do the work, along with his behaviour.

I tried to keep the writing tight this time. Looking back on Red December Skies, I realised I spent a lot of words on a single issue, spent too many words layering my writing. I don't know if my writing seemed too cumbersome as a result, so I needed people to help me read it and tell me what they think.

So I tried to make every sentence and word count this time, for Lambs for Dinner. I tried to make them contribute to moving the plot forward, or revealing something about the character. And I tried to incorporate more action, less description. I figured the character's voice was more important than waxing lyrical about the stars.

I'm actually starting to plan my next novel. It's going to be an urban fantasy, involving water spirits and possession of bodies. And coupled with my recent reading diet, I had a dream - a nightmare, actually - last night, where my dad was possessed and completely changed into somebody else. He paid no attention to me, and was all dark and sinister, and my friend was about to warn me about him being possessed when she was mysteriously killed. When my Dad knew that I'd learnt of the truth, I had to run from him, along with a group of friends that my dad and other possessed people were trying to kill. Even magic circles didn't help.

Yes, it was a complicated and surreal dream. I woke myself up, with hot tears flowing down the side of my face. In short, it was a nightmare.

But hey, who cares, when I've thought of the way to get started on my Shiny New Idea, eh?

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Short Story - The Secret

People had been speculating on the secret behind those walls for years. But no one ever had any solid idea. Soon, the Secret turned into a myth. People fantasized a monster trapped in the old brick-and-mortar building down the narrow street.

But there really was nothing to it. Because I was the Secret. And there really was nothing much to me. Sure, I screamed sometimes, and threw things around. But in that quiet little alley, no one could really hear me. Right? Unless maybe I wanted to be heard.

I was tired of being ignored for so many years. It was worse now that the building had been abandoned. It used to be a school, so it never got too lonely. But after the fire, the city authorities decided the building was too ramshackle to serve any function. They were thinking of demolishing it – they probably would have, if not for some of the older residents who claimed that the building had historical value and would fight tooth and nail to stop the council from getting their paws on it.

You’d think there’d be more of us around, after the fire. Instead, the hallways became emptier. Dust settled, thickened, over the years, and I was trapped in this miserable draughty place as always. It was the worst during the colder months. Loneliness sucked even more warmth out of you, and that always put me in a foul mood.

This year, the council finally succeeded in obtaining the permit to demolish the building. The building’s troop of protectors had significantly decreased over the years, and because of my bad behavior, some of them had even decided it was best for the building to be torn down.

Where would I go if the building no longer existed? Maybe someone would come to collect me. Maybe that mightn’t even be so bad.

They sent only one man to observe the building before proceeding with the demolishment. He arrived without much fanfare, though people crowded to watch him enter the building. I observed from behind the second floor windows. (I’d learnt throughout the ages that sunlight cast an illuminating glow upon us. Some keener-eyed humans had spotted me before, and it was prudent to keep to the shadows.) I couldn’t see his face, only his mess of brown curls that appeared slightly golden in the sunlight.

Downstairs, Edna, the old lady who sold apples at five for a dollar down the street, had stepped forward to address the man from the town council.

“Those walls hide a secret, young man. I wouldn’t disturb it, if I were you.”

He shrugged. “Someone’s got to do the job.”

He ignored further finger-pointing and murmurings, and unlocked the wooden doors with a huge brass key. I remembered the headmistress used to keep it around her waist. Good old Headmistress Coy.

I decided to head downstairs to welcome the visitor.

It felt odd to have a stranger enter the building after so many years. If anyone should come through those doors, it ought to be the children of the old school, not some random man from the town council. And he didn’t seem put off by the stench of mildew and rot, or the layers dust that swirled in the slim shafts of sunlight that peeked through. That made me mad, for some reason. People had feared the Secret behind these walls, and he was ambling through as though he were house-hunting.

I let loose a keening wail, and banged on the old piano (which had survived, since the fire was put out before it spread from the second floor) for good measure. Most of the stuff here had been wrecked by now, thanks to me and my fits of anger.

The man whirled. “Someone ought to tune that piano.” He shook his head like it was a real tragedy. And then he turned to face me. “I don’t suppose you know how to, or you would have done it already.”

It took me a while to realize he was addressing me. “You … you can see me?”

He cocked his head. “Why wouldn’t I be able to?”

“Because you’re human. You’re – you’re alive.” I said that with no small amount of jealousy.

“And you’re … not?”

“That sounded vaguely patronizing. Do I look human to you?”

He nodded, like I had confirmed a notion of his. “So you must be that poltergeist.”

“Am I.” People had terms for everything these days. “And what exactly is the job of a ... what was that?”

“A poltergeist? Basically to be a general nuisance to everyone. They scream, they wail, they throw things, damage them – they do all that when they’re not even supposed to be around anymore.” He shrugged.

That didn’t sound too nice.

“But I can’t help being around. And this is the only place I can be.” I pointed an accusatory finger at him. “And aren’t you supposed to be afraid of me? I am a ghost, after all. People call me the Secret.”

“Only because they’ve never dared to enter this place. They’ll find that all they’ve feared is a pestilential ghost who’s got a horrible voice and can’t tune a piano.”

I banged on the piano. The notes jarred and reverberated around the room. Even I winced.

“I can’t leave this place.” It surprised me how forlorn my voice sounded, so I banged on the piano again, though not quite as hard this time. “So you can’t tear this place down. I wouldn’t know where else to go.”

“You could come in here.”

“In where?”

He jabbed his thumb at his chest.

I laughed. “That’s a rather pitiful way to woo a girl.”

He rolled his eyes. “You flatter yourself. I’m making you an honest offer. I’ve got three souls in this body now. They came pretty willingly.” Shrugging, he added, “It’s your choice,” before going over to scrutinize the old grandfather clock. He stared at the grimy glass case with his back facing me. I knew he was waiting.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What’s the catch?”

“It might get a little cramped, being in a body with three other people – sorry, I mean souls. But you’d be able to do things again. Human things.”

“And you are in there somewhere?” I gestured to the body.

“Naturally.”

I didn’t see what was so natural about that. But think about it – another shot at being human again! Not technically alive, but as alive as I could probably ever get. No more being stuck in a cold, empty building, wishing for some noise and warmth and laughter. I could even taste one of Edna’s apples.

“How do we go about doing it?”

The man turned. “It’s a simple procedure.” Nodding at the clock, he said, “We wait for the clock to strike twelve. On the twelfth note, you place your fingertips on mine, and think of the most delightful memory you’d take with you to the end of the world.”

“That’s it?”

He nodded.

We were minutes – no, seconds – away from twelve noon. I bid a hasty goodbye to the people crowding outside the windows, and took a step towards the man. My eagerness must have made me seem desperate, but I didn’t care anymore. When I became almost human, nothing else would matter but the taste of an apple, the kiss of the sun, and feel of my feet on the ground. I stared at the clock. The pendulum couldn’t swing fast enough for me.

Finally, at the eleventh note, he closed the gap between us. He smiled, lips stretched across his face, as he held out his hand. My fingers shook and I pressed them, like vapor, against his.

I oozed into his body, starting from my fingertips. It felt like a long ride through a narrow, stuffy tube. There was hardly any air, but I began to feel the throb of warm blood around me. It was the headiest sensation I had experienced in a long, long while.

But I soon realized he was lying. Those souls hadn’t entered willingly. They wouldn’t have if they’d known what it was really like.

Because there weren’t just three other souls in here. In here, it was a mass of noise and wails, clawing fingers and helpless gazes. And I couldn’t tear out of these walls, anymore than I could the walls of the old building.

It was a new hell I had stepped into.

“Haven’t you wondered why none of the children who’d died in the fire showed up eventually?” The voice was a deep rumble that boomed all around me.

I peered behind his eyes, the only windows to this flesh tower. He was grinning at his reflection through the dust-caked mirror on the mantle.

I should have known. I should have known better than to believe what those people said about the Secret. They knew nothing.

They thought I was the Secret, when the real Secret was him all along.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Short Story - Bright Yellow Eyes


We waited for the storm, but it never came.

Instead, we were stuck with clear skies with stars winking down at us. The air was balmy, a skin I needed to tear free of, and every street was ablaze with orange lights.

It was the sort of nights we hated. Because everyone was wide awake.

Well, technically, not everyone. The children were still sent to bed at ten o’clock, latest. Adults, though – them of the vacant stares and cynical twist of the lips – they stayed up as late as they could, indulging in the freedom they thought night offered them.

Priffin and I bided our time. It didn’t take very long, usually, to grab one of them. We didn’t like calling attention to ourselves – it just wasn’t our style. Get in and get out, as they say. I’d even go so far as to label ourselves compassionate hunters. (Although Priffin disagrees, but he does concur that what had to be done must be done.)

We’d been waiting on the balcony for some time, taking our time to choose the least conspicuous one for the night. Downstairs, jazz music from the al fresco restaurant would have put me to sleep if I could sleep. It was too oily, too smooth, for my taste. But Priffin loved it, preferred it to the thumping hip-hop that I listened to.

“I see it. That one, over there!” Priffin hissed, getting up from next to me.

I yanked him back into the shadows. “Be careful!” Then I craned my neck in the direction he’s pointing. “Which one?”

“The young one in the red dress.”

The young ones always put up a struggle, but the kill was almost always worth it.

“Too obvious. She’s wearing a tight red dress.”

Priffin turned his yellow eyes on me. They flashed like a warning sign. “So?”

I sighed. He had so much to learn. “So, it means she’s the sort who enjoys attention, even seeks it. Such kinds don’t make for good prey. Too many people will notice.”

Priffin pouted. “Fine.”

I took a second look. “The one with her will make a better choice.”

He didn’t wear a suit, or even a crisp shirt, like the other men present. All he had on was a mangy grey t-shirt and jeans. He probably had no idea he was going to end up in an al fresco restaurant with the girl in the tight red dress and fake lashes.

He was strong, yes, but of course they were always no match for us. He would put up a struggle, but nothing that we wouldn’t be able to handle. Such men had few friends, too, and had a tendency to disappear for long periods of time. Nobody would realize he was gone until much later.

Next to me, Priffin inched over to the railing to get a better look. It made me nervous, how flippant he was about being undercover. I had yet to teach him everything I knew, but the first thing I told him was to never leave any footprints (quite literally) behind. He might have needed another lesson to drill that into his head.

The man had no car, which confirmed my theory. Such men were the low-key sort that no one would miss very much if they were to disappear out of the blue.

We waited until he had packed the girl into a cab (she didn’t look too happy about that) before sliding back down the stairwell.

He had his hands in his pockets as he walked down the street. His hair was messy, but he didn’t bother straightening it. The air was too still – I hated it. If Ylanna was here, she would have been able to stir up some wind, or even bring the storm that was supposed to come. But as it was, she was a little preoccupied at the moment.

So I could only make use of what I had – which, frankly speaking, wasn’t much. The lights were too bright, the air too still, and where we were walking, it was too quiet. Anything could give us away. I had to remind Priffin not to slobber too loudly. His hunger was getting out of control.

We rounded a corner bookstore with a huge sign that screamed of a clearance sale, and then … ended up back at the restaurant.

He stopped. I stopped, held out a hand to stop Priffin.

When he turned, I drew myself and Priffin into the shadows.

“You can show yourself, you know. It’s not like I haven’t been waiting for you.”

There was a smile in his voice that almost lured me out, but I held my breath and stayed where I was. He was bluffing. No one knew of us.

“I know of your kind. You feed, and as you grow stronger, you take shape. And finally, you ask for a soul, for what is a vessel without a soul?”

People were staring at him, talking to himself, but he paid no heed. Instead, he looked in my direction with his hands still in his pockets. I shut my eyes, squeezed them tight.

“I can make a bargain, if you’re interested.”

He strode past me, knowing I would follow. I was roped by his musky scent of wood smoke, and was on his heels before I realized it. I didn’t know whether to hate myself for falling for his ploy, or to excuse myself. Priffin growled soft enough that only I heard. I didn’t know if the man did.

We arrived at a dark corner at the end of an alley. Alleys were my favorite.

I didn’t take off my hood even as I stepped out to face him. He seemed as unsurprised by my appearance as he was by my existence, which certainly intrigued me.

“You said you can make a bargain.” I kept my voice low, so he wouldn’t recognize it if we met next time. (Would there be a next time?)

He nodded and pulled out a silver dagger from his pocket. “The beast is mine.”

I looked down at Priffin, whose eyes widened. He stared up at me, not making a sound, then turned to growl at the man, “I’m not going with you.”

“It’s not your place to speak, beast.” He didn’t even spare a glance at Priffin.

I stuck out my chin. “Why Priffin?”

The man shrugged. “I have my reasons. Deal?”

I considered. Priffin was a small price to pay for someone’s soul. I wasn’t particularly attached to the beast, anyway, and I always had to share my kill with him. But he was my responsibility, after all.

“Not until I understand what you intend to do with him.”

“He’s just a brute. It doesn’t do you good to get too attached to him.”

I didn’t back away when he loomed closer, dagger in hand. A flint of moonlight glowed upon the dagger. I wasn’t afraid, even though I knew what that dagger could do to an incomplete vessel like mine.

Priffin was clutching the hem of my robe. A whine slipped out of him.

I didn’t feel the scream of my skin until the man was right before me. His breath burned as the dagger twisted. I sank to the ground even before I could make a sound. Priffin fled. Damn brute.

“You should take a leaf out of his book,” the man said, staring after the beast. “He only follows whoever has blood on his hands. He’s no compassionate hunter. I thought someone of your caliber would realize that.”

I could feel myself wrenched from the vessel. My hard-earned shell. How could I have lost it in a moment of compassion? Compassion was for humans. I should have known better.

Next time, I thought as I slithered down the nearest crack in the sidewalk. Next time, I’d build a vessel strong enough. Blood on hands and bright yellow eyes.