National Short Story Day Story

In honour of National Short Story Day, here's a story of mine which first appeared in Transmission magazine in 2007. Hope you enjoy it!

Can you spare a minute?

Daniel stands at the top of Market Street, just down from the corner; JJB Sports behind him, BHS opposite. This is his pitch; his spot. This is the best place.

He clutches the black plastic clipboard close to his chest and watches the groups of people walk towards and past him. Some see him early and cross the width of the pedestrianised area to avoid him. Some don't see him at all and walk close by. Either way, few stop. Undeterred, he offers his call to each one who comes near enough.

"... just a few minutes?..."

"... spare a few minutes?..."

"...can you just?..."

"...a few minutes?...."

"...spare a?..."

"...can you?..."

"...minutes?..."

"...it'll just take a sec."

Some brush past him. They see his shining eager face, his cold fingers creased round the edge of the black plastic clipboard, the other hand reaching out, imploring, and they keep their heads down and walk on.

Some glance at him and then away, quickly, as if he has some kind of disease which could be caught simply by looking at him.

Some look up long enough for him to catch their eye, but then they smile and shake their heads and keep moving, putting distance between them.

Many others, whether they look up at him or not, utter their own mantra in this traditional call and response, with all the rote dullness and precision of catechism.

"...sorry, no time..."

"...I can't spare any..."

"...no time..."

"...have to be somewhere..."

"...maybe on my way back..."

"...five minutes ago..."

"...can't at the moment..."

"... I haven't got the time to spare."

But every once in a while, one stops. He tilts the clipboard away from his chest and explains what he wants. They give Daniel his few minutes and, he likes to think, they go away feeling better and lighter for doing so. He feels he's doing them a service and each one he is able to help makes the whole thing worthwhile.

Daniel stays at his pitch longer than he should. He stays through rush hour and out the other side. The people on the streets now are a mix of those going home after working late and those heading out for the evening. In either case they have no time for him.

With a resigned shrug of his thin shoulders, he turns and starts to walk away from the bright lights and towards the lesser-travelled parts of town. The buildings he passes now are older, more worn, their facades crumbling and stained. Some of them have their windows boarded up but, as he walks down the road, more and more of them are bricked up, revenants of the window tax. Mist gathers and the tarmac becomes broken under his feet, rough cobbles emerging from under. The sound of the city dies at his back and the clump and thud of his boots on the ground becomes more noticeable. The streetlights soften and start to hiss. A horse goes past pulling a coach as Daniel turns into a narrow alley between two warehouses. He walks its length to the small wooden door at the far end. Candle-light glows from the window as he grasps the handle and presses the catch. The door opens with a soft creak and the smoke from the woodstove billows out past his face, carrying with it a smell of watery stew.

Daniel steps into the room and closes the door, he turns and places the wooden board he's carrying onto the worn table. An old woman, his mother, stands at the stove and stirs a large pot. She looks over and smiles at him, pleased to see him home. He smiles back and raises his eyebrows in a question. She shakes her head and goes back to her stirring.

Turning his attention to the room's other occupant, Daniel steps forward to see him better in the firelight. His father's bed, nothing more than a wooden pallet with a rag-stuffed mattress, was moved downstairs when he grew ill, to bring him nearer the warmth of the fire. He lies, propped up in the bed, wearing all the clothes he owns, most of them reduced to rags themselves, merging him with the mattress below. His gaunt face peers out from atop this mass, old and lined, but smiling and expectant.

"Danny, lad. You're back. Did you get me some?"

Daniel nods. "Yes, Dad. I did. "

His father licks his lips and some saliva dribbles down through the cracked flesh of his lips. Daniel feels vaguely disgusted for a moment, but then realises that he can see the wall through the edges of his father's face, ragged edges where he is starting to fade, and the feeling is replaced by one of urgency. He pushes his hands into his pockets and brings them out again, full. He opens them and shimmering jewels fall slowly onto the table top like insubstantial glass snowflakes.

He gestures to them. "It's the usual kind of thing, Dad."

He picks one up and gazes into it. It looks like a large diamond, but compresses between his fingers like jelly. In its heart there is a shimmer, which resolves into images of a man sitting at a desk, waiting.

"A couple of minutes waiting for a computer to boot up."

He drops this one and picks up another containing a woman in a coat. "Just over six minutes waiting for a bus."

A third, a man standing, staring into space. "The photocopier needed to warm up. Nearly a minute."

He drops the three fragments of time and looks back up at his father. "The usual. Nearly six hours in all." He picks up another, this one much larger than the others. "This was a three hour exam."

"Only six?..." His mother has turned from the stove, her face fallen.

"Only?" says his father. "It'll do me, and it doesn't matter what kind of time you've got, son. It's all the same to those of us who need it. And wasted minutes can feel like years." He reaches up to the tabletop and grabs a handful of the jewels. He squeezes them between his fingers and the light in the heart of each bursts and flows over his hand like water from a sponge. Slowly, the light fades as it soaks into his skin; skin which is now a little younger, a little firmer, a little more there.

Daniel looks around the room and sees the candles have been replaced with gas lamps, the window has thick curtains to keep out the cold, and his father's bed now has an iron frame with a proper mattress.

His father takes the second handful and squeezes them. The lamps become electric bulbs, the bed a floral divan on thick plastic legs. The pot his mother is still stirring is sitting on the electric ring of a cooker. She looks around, still trying to keep the disappointment from her face.

"Nineteen sixty or so, I'd say," his father comments. "Not bad at all." He looks up at Daniel. "But we'll still need more tomorrow."

Daniel nods, but then can't hold it anymore and breaks into a smile.

"What?" his father asks.

"Maybe not," Daniel replies. Struggling to hold his excitement he reaches into his inside pocket and brings out a jewel the size of a cricket ball.

His mother, having turned at the sound of Daniel's excited voice, gasps. "That looks like..."

Daniel nods. "It's a whole day."

His father reaches out a hand towards it, but pulls back, almost afraid to touch it. "How...?" he asks.

"A woman gave it to me. It was a day not of wasted time, but a day she no longer wanted. It was a day of sharing, a day of wonder. A day of beauty." Daniel can feel tears catch in the back of his throat. "It was a day of sitting, watching the clouds move over hills, of watching flowers open and turn their heads to follow the sun, a day with a box and a ring. A day of love and laughing and joy." He falters for a moment as he remembers the woman's tale. "But she lost the one she shared it with. She no longer wanted it, and when I told her what it would be used for-"

"You told her the truth?" his father asks.

"Yes. I told her about you and us and -" he gestures round the room, "- all this. And she gave it to us with her blessing. It was such a beautiful day that with her loss, it brings her nothing but pain and suffering. The thought that it could bring us as much joy as it used to bring her, was all she wanted to know. She gave it willingly and left with a smile on her face and a weight removed from her heart."

His father looks up from his bed with tears in the corners of his eyes. "You know what this means, don't you, son?"

"Yes, Dad. I do. It means we can finally go home."

Daniel presses the giant jewel, coloured with the greenest of grasses and the bluest of skies, into his father's hands and together they squeeze it, feeling it burst between them like an overripe peach, its juices surprisingly warm and soft. The bright light crawls over their fingers, growing brighter, up their arms and out, over their bodies and over the room, covering everything; brighter and brighter until all that remains is light.

Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow...

Well, if you've been keeping up, you know that I've been a busy old bee. Selling the book and working on Gumbo Press have taken up a lot of my time - along with the usual round of teaching/marking/living etc.

It's now fewer than four weeks since its arrival, and the first edition of 31 has all but sold out (2 copies left, if you're interested... Buy online now!). This was at least partly thanks to the interest of the audience at the Bugged reading who bought all the copies I had with me. I have other readings coming up, so have ordered a second edition. The first of these readings is my customary visit to the Bad Language at the end of April, but this will be followed by two guest slots - one for a writing group in Oldham and another for an open-mic evening in Cheshire, and a couple of other possible appearances, about which more as I have it.

As if these weren't enough, Gumbo Press has been taking off. The website has been built, designed and redesigned. Exciting ideas have been formulated and, as of writing, we already have over 40 submissions with 11 days still to go before the deadline. Winning Words asked me to write a blog entry for them about it, which will hopefully help promote the first issue of the magazine.

In the midst of all this, and my return to teaching at Winchester next week, I have taken on another project. Crazy? Me? Possibly.

Following on from the success of CalFlaWriMo, without which 31 wouldn't exist at all, I have decided to do something similar, but with longer stories. So, my latest plan is to write 15 brand new short stories (not flashes) of no less than 1500 words each, before the end of May. It may kill me, but it's got to be worth a go.

I started the first one on Friday, 15th April. It was a story which had been working around in my mind for a while, so I had a pretty fair idea of how it was going to go on the page. I was wrong.

I have obviously got so used to the quick fix that is flash-fiction, that the mental muscles that work on the longer form of the full short story have atrophied. It took me over 4 hours to get the first 1000 words done. I knew the story, but a combination of old-fashioned resistance, being daunted by the task, and just trying to remember how to write one of the damn things, held me back. I realised, as I struggled with it, how much more you can put into a short story, but also how much more you HAVE to put into a short story. In a flash, character, setting, even plot, can be implied rather than described. In a short story, all of these elements have to be there in actuality, but you also have to keep them short, and to the point. Just as with a flash, there is no room for spare words. Every single one has to serve the story, but in a longer story, the job of picking your way through them is so much harder.

Anyway, long story short (no pun intended), I crested the half way point and picked up speed as I came down the other side. The story ended up at around 2700 words, with the last 1700 only taking 1 hour. Job done, one down, fourteen to go.

This morning, I sat down to write the next one. This was based on another idea which I have also been mulling over for a while. I thought it might be easier, but no. The resistance kicked in, and this time I have ground to a halt after little more than 150 words. There was even an hour break as I tried to find the right name for my character, without which I couldn't complete the first sentence.

Maybe I'm trying to hard. Maybe I have too much else on my plate to tackle this at the moment. Maybe the deadline is just too far off and the panicky adrenaline hasn't arrived yet. Whatever, I'm not going to give up. My goal with this project is to make my brain and my spirit bend to my will, so that writing one of these stories starts to feel as easy as writing a flash. And I guess that's why I'm doing it.

So, wish me well. And if you see me at a reading, and I look tired and lost, just leave me, I'll be fine.

Workshop opportunities

Vanessa Gebbie, a writer of excellent short stories and flash fictions, and the person who introduced me to flash fiction in the first place, is running some courses which would be well worth attending.

The first will be at the Anam Cara Retreat in Co. Cork, Ireland, for one week from the 28th May. Entitled 'Short Fiction: So Much More Than It Seems…' it promises to be a wonderful week. More information can be found at http://www.anamcararetreat.com/index.php/workshops/68-short-fiction-so-much-more-than-it-seems.

If you can't make that, then she is also running workshops, masterclasses and one-to-one sessions at this year's Winchester Writing Conference. More details at http://www.writersconference.co.uk/.

All things post-Nano

I've been rather quiet for a while. The last stages of NaNoWriMo kept me busy, but, as you know, that finished nearly three weeks ago. So, what's the news? I hear you ask.

Well, I finished the 50,000 words required by NaNoWriMo on 28th November - 2 days before the deadline - but I have yet to actually finish the book. Without the external deadline pushing me on (plus the embarrassment of failure after all my going-on about it) it just hasn't been a priority. Plus, I already know in my head how it all ends, so the impetus to find out by writing has also dropped away. Add to that the burden of teaching and marking and it just hasn't been done. Which is not to say that nothing has been done with it. Thanks to pressure applied by my partner, Kath, I have completed all but the final chapter and the epilogue, and over the Christmas break I hope to write those too.

So what next for the Nano-book? Well, once it's finished I plan to do a quick clean-up on it, and then I'm going to send it off to anyone who wants to read it and give me feedback. If you think you might like a look, drop me a line and I'll add you to the list.

In other news, I've had more stories accepted - two in Flash and one in the delinquent - and have been doing some other writing of flash fictions.

I've also been doing some readings for the Bugged anthology, and one for the Bad Language anthology, all of which have been very rewarding. I even managed to end up on Radio Lancashire/Radio Manchester's Late Show last week, being interviewed about Bugged and writing in general for about 40 mins.

So, all in all, it's an exciting time in my writing life. When I get round to it I shall blog about all the things I learned from doing Nano - of which there are many - and about my plans for 2011. But that's for another day. Today, I shall just use the approaching end of the year to bask in the successes, and send out many thanks to all of you who have helped and supported me.

So, Kath, Elaine, Jo, Ness, Mike, Ian, Daniel, Angi, Liz, Carrie, Mignon and Becky, this blog's for you.

Words, Words, Words.

You will hopefully be pleased to know that at the weekend I learned that another of my stories, "2o Words" has been accepted for the Bad Language anthology, to be published later in the autumn. Beyond the obvious pleasure at having a story accepted, I am pleased that this story in particular has been picked up as it is one of my personal favourites.

It has this position for two reasons. First, it was the story which broke my creative logjam and led to a productive summer of writing. From Jan to Nov 2009 I wrote nothing creative at all. After that, although I started writing again, the pieces I created came from prompts rather than internal inspiration. Ideas were not swimming around in my head, but the desire to write was still there, so I would sit down and jump-start my brain with a trigger-word, phrase or image. I've written about this process earlier when talking about Flash fiction, so check back if you want to know more about that.

Anyway, "20 words" simply came to me one day in late spring, when I wasn't thinking of anything much. I was in the shower, actually, and suddenly the opening line was in my head. I then got the chance to do the thing which had eluded me so long, that thing which makes writing so exciting, which was to hurry up what I was doing so I could get to the computer (still dripping!) and start to write because the story was coming, like a premature baby, forcing its way out ready or not.

The other reason I like the story is that it aims to the core of what I feel writing is about. It shows rather than tells, it asks the reader to make their own decisions and to provide their own input, and it concerns the importance of words in our lives. The story tells, in only around 300 words, the story of a life through the important words uttered by a man over the course of that life. What is key for me is that these are not large, long, important words, but the simple building blocks of everyday transaction and communication which, in context, can change everything.

As such, this story, the first product of my recharged battery, shows how important words and language are in describing and changing our lives. As you can tell, I like it

If you're intrigued and want to read the story, the Bad Language anthology will be out later in the year. I will put a note up here when it's out, or you can keep a track at their website: http://badlanguagemcr.co.uk/.

Beautiful Baby Competition

Please tell me it's pretty, please don't tell me it's ugly. Look, the ears are symetrical and the eyes are such a pale blue. The hair is so fine and blonde and the skin so soft and pink. The sentences are balanced, the words well chosen and the plot finely honed. Please tell me you like it.

For years I have been telling my students that sending out short stories for publication is like showing your baby to the world and asking for kindness. Your writing is so personal, and so close to your heart, that sending them out is like leaving your baby at the creche for the first day and hoping the other children will play with them.

Okay, maybe I'm going a little over the top, but it is nerve wracking!

In the last couple of weeks I have had a story I am particularly fond of rejected. Entitled 'Palimpsest' it was written as a flash fiction, but then honed to make sure all the layers could be read, one through the other. I sent it out in Februrary and it has only just come back, so - with so long to dwell on it - I had innured myself to the possibility of disappontment. It still stings, as all rejections do.

However, at almost the same time the lovely people at Bugged - the eavesdropping project I have waffled on about in previous posts - have accepted a different story, also written as flash fiction and entitled 'The Four' for publication in their anothology which comes out in mid-October. And that eases the sting and warms the heart. They liked my child enough to put his photo in the gallery!

Surrounding these two events I have been researching and reading and editing and rewriting and sending out stories to a variety of places. Over a dozen have gone out in the last week. I know most of them will come back to me to be sent out once again for adoption. But some of them - I hope! - will find good homes where they can grow and prosper. I will, of course, keep you posted.

In amongst all this story work, I have also been working on my novel. I have re-read it, and given it to my girlfriend to read and comment on too (Thanks, Kath!). If you think it's bad having someone read a story, ask them to read a novel. This is far more personal than asking for compliments for your baby. This is asking for your soul to be evaluated. Thankfully, it seems to pass muster (the book, that is, I can't comment on my soul), and now I am onto the work of rewriting and reworking into the second draft. After that, and maybe some more tinkering, it will be time to send that out into the world too. You'll know when that happens as I will be online every five minutes, sharing my worries.

Sometimes I ask why I put myself through this torment, but it's the age old thing. If I write a story and show it to no-one then it might as well not have been written. Only when a story is shared and read does it really exist. And so, it's not so much sending the child out into the world, having a manuscript accepted is the very act of birth itself, giving life to something new.

So, I shall go back to my gestation and let you know as and when the brood increases. I shall push and I shall do my best to remember my breathing. If you'll just hold my hand, mop my brow, and ignore the screams, I think we can get through this.

The Waste Land

Last week I gave myself a 'writing day'. I didn't answer emails, I didn't do any of the little writing or editing jobs that I often tinker around with. It was a day to do nothing more than write new work. On that day I managed to write 5 completely new and individual short stories. Today, I gave myself another writing day. And the result?

Nothing.

Despite having a list of prompts, I have not been able to find my way into writing a single new story. My motivation has disappeared into the garden to catch some rays, and my inspiration has gone with it to keep it company.

I'm not worried, though. Any writer will tell you that sometimes this just happens. It's all very well putting aside the time to work on your magnum (or minimum) opus. And sometimes the brain will rise to the challenge. But sitting down, with no plan of what you intend to write, and hoping for the Muse to pay a visit, is a very hit and miss affair. You sit and look at the blank page and wait for your brain to bleed and nothing happens. Some emails get answered instead, maybe; a phone call or two are made; you finally pay those bills, and some vitally important games of Solitaire are played, but nothing gets written.

However, this is the time when the bane of a writer's life can be his salvation. You've set the day aside for creative work, but no creation is happening. Time to get to grips with the editing. Even more than the writing, it is the greatest cause of displacement activity, but when you enter a creative wilderness, it can give you focus and direction.

So, today, instead of creating new works, I am rewriting, redrafting, and editing old ones. I'm getting to grips with stories which just need a polish and some which were never really finished but put aside for another day. Today is that day. And the wonderful thing about this, is reconnecting with your old work, seeing where you have been before and you can already feel your brain brewing new potions to spring forth the next time you try to prime the pump.

So, today isn't a wash out, and maybe, just maybe, if I try for another writing day later in the week, the words will flow like wine. (But hopefully without the cliches.)

A little something...

(This was one of the stories written last week for the Bugged project. Thought you might like to see it. Any comments more than welcome.)

Persona
By Calum Kerr

"Oh, God, I'm so nervous."

Lizzie could tell her friend wasn't making it up. Janet was literally shaking. The coffee cup was rattling against it's saucer as she tried to put it back down, some of the foam and coffee slopping over the edge. She reached out and took the cup from her, putting it back down, and then took hold of her friend's hands, trying to still them. They felt cool and a little sweaty.

"Look, it'll be okay. It's only a job interview. It's not life and death." She rubbed at Janet's hands trying to warm them and remove some of the moisture. She had always thought that the phrase 'cold sweat' was simply a cliché, but now she had found it's origin in fact. "You'll go in, you'll wow them, and you'll get the job. No worries."

Janet gave a nervous laugh, a strand of her dark hair coming loose from the band that exposed her face so severely. Lizzie wanted to tell her to take it off, to let herself go a little, to stop being so controlled and confined. In the days since she got the letter inviting her for interview, Lizzie had watched Janet become more and more tightly wound, letting her nerves take her over until there was nothing recognisable left of her confident, easy-going friend.

"I just want this job so badly. It's such a wonderful chance. Good pay, good prospects, the chance to meet all kinds of people and to travel. It's just so important and I know I'm going to mess it up." Janet's voice was not only shaking in time with her hands, there was an edge of hysteria to it that would guarantee that her fears would come true.

"No, you're not," Lizzie tried to comfort, attempting to put a confidence into her own words that she was no longer feeling. It was hard to have to bolster someone who was so clearly falling apart. She glanced up at the clock and was surprised to see how much time had passed. They'd barely touched their drinks, but it was time to go.

Lizzie had planned to say goodbye and good luck to Janet here, but was worried that without her guidance, Janet wouldn't even make it to the building across the street where the interviews were being held. Where was the girl she had always known?

"Come on," she said, "It's time."

"Oh God!" Janet's voice was almost a wail, but she stood up and brushed herself down. Lizzie, although starting to be a little frustrated with her friend's pessimism, was proud of Janet as she watched her try to pull herself together. Janet's hands even started to shake a little less as she smoothed her skirt.

The girls stood, donning jackets and bags, and with a hand on her back to guide her, Lizzie helped her friend through the tables of the coffee shop to the door.

It was bright and sunny outside, the heat of the day a shock after dark, cool of the café. The pavement was busy with all the people who had no idea of the turmoil that was emerging into their midst. Lizzie led her friend by the hand, afraid that if she let go the girl would either collapse or simply turn and run. The traffic slowed in front of them as the lights at the top of the road turned red, and they moved out amongst the stationary cars.

Halfway across, Janet's hand came free, and Lizzie looked back over her shoulder to check on her friend. Janet was reaching up to her hair. Lizzie thought maybe she was going to tuck the errant strand of hair back under the band, but instead she grasped the band and pulled it free. She shook her head and her hair loosened out, spreading down onto her shoulders, curling round the edges of her face and softening its shape.

They carried on across the road, Lizzie only half aware of the cars they were stepping between as she watched her friend undergo a transformation. With each step she seemed steadier and her face warmed as the blood finally started to return to skin which had been on the green edge of pale for days. Janet straightened, her shoulders pushing back to fill the hollows in her jacket, and her stride lengthened so that the two girls reached the far pavement at the same time, neither leading, neither being led.

Lizzie all but gaped as her friend moved towards the doors of the imposing building and turned. She looked older, more mature, and more attractive than Lizzie could ever remember. All of a sudden Lizzie felt like a child in the presence of an important adult.

Janet took a deep breath and smiled. "Right," she said, with no trace of tremor in a voice which seemed to have deepened and softened, "let's do this." She gave Lizzie a kiss on the cheek, turned, and with a strong straight arm, pushed in through the doors into the lobby beyond.

Lizzie stood for a moment, unsure what had happened, then set off to find a shop to sell her a 'Congratulations on your New Job' card.

Under Pressure

I decided that today would be a writing day. Having taken part in the Bugged project, as mentioned in previous blogs, I had a raft of story prompts to use, and I decided to set aside one day to use as many as I could. I sat down this morning with ten of them and the intention to write as many stories as I could in the day.

Five stories later, I'm done. And I'm happy.

All of them were prompted by the overheard lines I wrote down on 1st July, and I have plans to send at least two of them in for the Bugged project to see what they think. Others will hopefully find publication elsewhere, once they've been redrafted and tidied up. I tried to make them as different from one another as possible: to change perspective, topic, character-types and language from story to story. Where would be the fun in repeating myself?

Did I notice any themes emerging? Well, there seems to be quite a lot of violence, but I'm not worried about that. It was just the way that the stories tended, I don't think it says anything too serious about me. (I hope.) But, more than that, there was a questioning of perception. All the stories seem to deal with how we see others, ourselves, and the world, and the preconceptions we bring to bear on them.

My plan now is to rewrite the pieces and then start sending them off. And, if you're very good, I might post one or two of them here, just to see what you think.

All in all I'm pleased with my day's work. I don't remember a day like this where I set myself such a task and then was able to follow it through. I wrote nearly 4600 words across the stories, which, while not my record for a single day's writing, comes a close second. And my previous best (just shy of 7000 words) was on a novel, so was quite different. It's something which I feel I should do again, putting myself under a specific pressure to be productive and varied. It felt really good. Maybe you should try it too.


(Today's title is courtesy of Queen, of course.)