So, I have a few family members-in-law who also write. My brother-in-law entered a story for AllAboutWriting and was chosen as one of the top writers for May.
Go see his story on http://allaboutwritingcourses.com/resources/monthly-exercises/may-2012/. It’s the third one down – by Riaan Els.
Well done, Riaan! We’re looking forward to your next one. 😀
Her feet plunk-plunk-plunked sullenly on the metal stairs to the basement. They always sent her. Every time. She stood on the step in front of the door for five breaths and then flicked on the light switch. Not that it would help. She heard the tink-tink of the light warming up inside. Not that it really mattered if the light was on, though. It was always the same in there.
She counted another five breaths.
Her skin started crawling in earnest as she pushed the door open and the fluorescent light spilled out. Though the basement was really just a small, dusty study with stacks of boxes along the walls, it exuded a level of menace that is generally reserved for childhood nightmares.
Just get the photo album, Millicent Antoine, she thought to herself. Just–
Something cold and wet slithered up her leg. She felt a shriek building up in her throat before she could get herself to look down. It was already just over her knee. She forced her eyes open. The whole floor was a churning mess of eyes, teeth and slimy brown tentacles, one of which was wrapped around her leg. The scream tore loose and then the light flickered and died.
When she opened her eyes again, she was curled into a foetal position. The light was flickering on and off, still tink-tinking. There was a patch of warm wetness spreading from her crotch.
I need to see my shrink, the flashbacks have started again.
When someone says that they read fantasy, what they typically mean is that they read high, low and/or epic fantasy. These three have some common denominators (though the rules may be bent for some of the other subgenres): The story is set in something akin to mediaeval times or the dark ages, there is an element of magic involved, there is a main hero, heroin or band of heroes leading the storyline.
High Fantasy
In a High Fantasy setting, you typically get a lot of magic and magical races. Think Lord of the Rings (JRR Tolkien), The Sword of Truth (Terry Goodkind) and the Diskworld books (Terry Pratchett). There are magical races everywhere and almost every second character is either of a magical race or possesses some kind of magical item or ability. Magic and magical races often even determine the culture and societal dynamics of the worlds the stories happen in. Dragons might be overlords or a slave race. Orcs may be a powerful ally in the subterranean reaches. Elves and men may have formed an alliance (when don’t they???).
Low Fantasy
In a Low Fantasy (or Hedge Fantasy) setting, magic and magical races are rare. These books often use the one magical being as the main character or have a magical object at the core of the plot…because the magic is so rare. These worlds are typically more ‘realistic’ and often based more closely on actual mediaeval day-to-day realities. Some Low Fantasy stories even follow the mundane lives of unimportant people (though they often have important roles in the bigger picture). The Farseer Trilogy (Robin Hobb) and A Song of Ice and Fire (George R Martin) are good examples.
Epic Fantasy
In an Epic Fantasy story, the level of existence is often upped to a new level. Your main character may be a demi-god or a similarly powerful creature. The story will revolve around a battle of the gods or kings and other great rulers shaping the very world and reality of others. Some examples are: The Lord of the Rings (JRR Tolkien), The Belgariad and The Malorean (David and Leigh Eddings) and The Rose of the Prophet (Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman). Naturally, Epic Fantasy and High Fantasy often get mushed together with great success.
***
Something that may be important to remember is: Each story is a unique blend of different subgenres. No subgenre stands purely alone. Only successful blends in subgenre ever make it big out there, though.
A pair of quicksilver eyes flicked dismissively over the breathtaking view of EL Tianne’s Enchanted Valley. Pherr had been there a myriad of times before, searching out the Fairy Queen’s help. He waited silently as the minute sentinel, who had spotted him only moments earlier, whizzed down into the mysterious depths of the Charmed Forests. Impatience stirred within him. His fingers felt like tightly wound springs, ready to uncoil. His muscles tensed in anticipation of the Portal to the Hendecagon. It felt as if the time was racing out of the hourglass. Clouds moved by swiftly.
***
EL Tianne, queen of the Fairy, tapped her delicate fingers on her armrest. The Lifeglass before her was emptying far too rapidly to her taste. What is taking Pherr so long? she thought impatiently. The Fairy Queen chafed at the circumstances that forced them to use other means to get him into her domain. He had explained it carefully to her the last time he had come: he would not be able to open the Eleven Gates when he brought the New One through. His power would be sucked dry… Her sentinels were all instructed to report any sign of the Mystic’s arrival.
A miniature bolt of lightning flashed in the Lifeglass. The Sand was becoming liquid. Blue-silver.
She felt her sceptre’s smooth surface. The Seven Keepers channelled their awareness of the imminent commencement of the Hendecagon through the connection she had cast on it. Their combined forces pushed readily against her magic.
The large doors of the throne room burst open. A haggard looking fairy plunged through the entryway.
“The Mystic has arrived, O Queen!” she cried and fell to the floor.
EL Tianne reached for her sceptre and opened the Eleven Portals to the Hendecagon. The Seven Keepers released their combined force. The air began to shimmer and waver. The light bent at peculiar angles, making the air appear to be liquid.
Calmly, a dark figure stepped through the Portal.
“We must hurry,” his voice whispered into the turbulent air. He reached out his dark hand to the Fairy Queen. Blindly she thrust the Lifeglass into his open palm, their hands touching briefly. The glass shuddered in his hand. More lightning flashed across its surface. The liquid Sands were almost entirely gone.
Pherr glanced once at EL Tianne’s face, her violet eyes told him what would come.
He stepped back into the Portal. It closed behind his back – the familiar simultaneous pressure and release reassuring him that he would make this jump. He could see the eleven planes, their portals’ glowing incandescence. His hand was clamped securely around the fragile Lifeglass…the Sand was no longer in sight.
TO KEEP READING, GO BUY THE FULL VERSION OF THIS SHORT STORY ON SMASHWORDS!
<<This is a short story I wrote when I was 17. It was for a Junior City Council competition. I won the Prose division.>>
So, fantasy… It’s this neglected and mostly looked-down-upon genre that only a small group of geeks and weirdoes like, right? In fact, many shops don’t even allocate dedicated shelf space to it at all.
Well, let me tell you. It is not that small. Seriously. If you get right down to it, fantasy has an amazing spectrum of literature within its scope. Some of the classics – like Gulliver’s Travels – even fall under this overarching genre.
Fantasy is a broad term encompassing any work of fiction that has within its themes and elements anything that does not coincide with current reality as we know it. This means that even literature that contains speculation about the future is fantasy.
Yes, it certainly includes the mediaeval type fantasy with dragons and magic (e.g. The Lord of the Rings and games like Dungeons and Dragons). But you’re forgetting about the other big guns: Dark (or Supernatural) Fantasy – vampires, werewolves and other things that go bump in the night – like Dracula, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Underworld, and Science Fiction, like Star Trek and Star Wars.
And then, there are the smaller guns…and what a range of them there is!
Essentially, you can break up fantasy into three subdivisions:
Past Present Future
Under “Past”, you get the forms of fantasy most people immediately think of when you say “fantasy”.
Under “Present”, you get (what I’d like to think of) the more hidden fantasies. These works of fiction, as my classification here suggests, is set in the present. It is also set on Earth as we all know it today.
Under “Future”, you get the forms of fantasy most people prefer not to link to magic too much.
It is also rather important to note that many of these genres can be and are often mixed. In future posts, some of these sub-genres will be explored to give you a better idea of what each of them entails. 😀
It is amazing how easy it is to get distracted from your life’s work. The Internet is littered with sites that are designed to make you spend hours on it. From webcomics to meme sites to just plain information sites, they all munch up your time and, before you know it, it’s a week later and you did absolutely nothing to make progress.
Then there are all kinds of other responsibilities that also get in the way, like laundry and cleaning the house. I mean, everybody has to wash the laundry sometime.
And, guess what, if you work from home in any form or fashion, many people think it’s a pretentious way of saying “I actually just lie around doing nothing all day and I really want you to invent things for me to do”. This means that you suddenly have all kinds of demands on your time that would never have been there if you were working in an office (away from home).
Don’t get me wrong, I know I have a choice in the matter. I really can just say no. But, it’s just so nice being wanted that it gets really hard to put my foot down. And who can say no to a free lunch?
Well, here I am. Last week was a total bust in the realm of “getting my novel a little further”. Time for re-commitment to my writing. Time to get serious!
Just a note: I got a request from my hubby that I split the story posts and the essay posts more strictly. From now on, all posts logged under the category of “Stories” (see right panel – it should be in the middle-ish somewhere) will contain only stories or links to stories that I have written.
All posts that are essays on writing will appear under the category of “About writing”.
So, yes, the post below contains the same link from the previous post.
GOOD NEWS, EVERYONE!
I got the good news this morning that I got second place in a competition I entered last month. It appears that it was close and I almost won. Go check out A Gift of Love (the story by me – Natalie Myburgh) on the AllAboutWriting site.
(In case this didn’t come across: The image of the rose is for my flash fiction entry linked above.)
When entering competitions, you always have to keep in mind: You are writing for an audience. Depending on the audience’s likes and dislikes, you may or may not hit the mark. Unless the competition you’re entering requires a specific genre, you are left with what you know about the judges.
For instance, I’m hoping to enter a competition hosted by Elle magazine this month. What do I know about Elle? It’s aimed at upscale ladies. It’s about fashion and make-up. The way I see it, the readers are people who care what other people think of them.
So, with that in mind, I can rule out science fiction and fantasy because of their strong association with “nerds” and other outcasts; even dark fantasy (your typical vampire/werewolf/witches fiction, like Ann Rice and Bram Stoker) won’t fly here; I can rule out western, action and horror because these are typically more masculine genres (and considered barbaric by the more refined ladies); and I can also definitely rule out war stories.
Next up, since this competition has a word limit of 1500 words, I have to stick to stories that won’t involve much explaining of the setting (once again, thoroughly ruling out fantasy and science fiction).
All of this boils down to me sitting with the most popular genres: romance, comedy and mystery (or, like my mother calls it, “whodunnits”). That might illuminate to you why the stories I have posted so far are of the non-fantasy, non-science fiction persuasion.
Now, if I were writing for a fantasy and science fiction competition, this whole consideration flips on its head. My readers expect to read about a world they know nothing about. They expect magic. They are enchanted by the differentness of the world they are reading about. The plot can actually be much simpler, because you have to give more information about the setting.
But, before I go off on a tangent about the differences in genres and approaches to them as a writer (I will definitely post about this at some point), let me get back to the reason for this preamble:
GOOD NEWS, EVERYONE!
I got the good news this morning that I got second place in a competition I entered last month. It appears that it was close and I almost won. Go check out A Gift of Love (the story by me – Natalie Myburgh) on the AllAboutWriting site.
(In case this didn’t come across: The image of the rose is for my flash fiction entry linked above.)
“Mom, I’m an assassin.”
Her mother laughed as she folded a pair of pants and put it in the laundry basket. “Were you killing mosquitoes with your pillow again?”
“No, Mom. I haven’t done that since I was in primary school.”
She shook out a pair socks before she started rolling them up. “Flies?”
“I kill people. That’s what assassins do – kill people for money.”
Her mother looked up, now a little upset. She stopped rolling the socks she was holding. “Baby, don’t make jokes like that. You know I don’t like it.”
“Mom, I’m not joking.”
Her mother pulled herself up to her full height. “That’s it, Tebogo. Stop it! You’ve gone too far with this. Ever since your father died, you’ve been trying to get attention in all the wrong ways. I’m not playing along with this.”
“Then don’t play. Because I’m not playing.” Tebogo looked out the window. “You remember when I said Uncle Vusi had left the car here for you as a gift? I paid for it with money I got for killing my third mark.”
“No.”
“I bought a rifle the other day when I said I was meeting with Mpho after school. I keep it in a bag under my bed. You know, that red one?”
Her mother’s face was ashen when she looked up at her. The older woman sat down abruptly. “No.”
“Someone had to take over Dad’s work…after he was taken out. Did you think that all the money was still the insurance paying out?” Tebogo laughed.
Her mother sprang up again. Now her face was darker, redder. “Get out! Get out of my house! Get out! Get out! Get out!”
Tebogo looked at her. Her hair was done up again. New extensions, Tebogo realised. She probably bought it with the money from last week’s mark. The dress too.
She stood up. “I’ll send you the money in the old insurance envelopes I’ve been using.”
***
Tebogo’s mother sat staring at the open envelope in her hands. There was R10 000 in R200 bills inside. And a note.
You can use it to have the house repainted. The paint’s been peeling lately. Tebogo
<<A side note to non-South Africans: The South African currency is Rand. In case you wanted to check exchange rates, the international abbreviation is ZAR.>>
<<General side note: The story was meant to be no more than one page.>>
“So, you’re not going to take the sock off.” The balding man shook his head in disbelief.
“No.”
“John, you realise that it’s a little hard to take you seriously for the position if you wear a sock on your hand.”
John looked at the sock. “I really need this job, sir.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve got place for you at this company.”
“Please, sir. Please-”
“We’re done here, Mr Black.” The man’s suit pulled skew as he twisted towards the door. “Ms Epworth, you can call the next candidate!”
John stood up, picking up his cracked leather folder.
Back in the bachelor’s flat’s tiny bathroom a tired face stared back at John in the cracked mirror. Deep lines were etched under his eyes and the corners of his mouth were turned down. His shirt looked like he had slept in it even though he hadn’t…yet.
Better luck tomorrow, buddy.
With a sigh he carefully pulled the two elastic bands over his left fist. The red grooves in his skin tingled as the blood started circulating again. The sock came off next and with it the cocoon of hot air that had gathered around his hand. Carefully and slowly he opened his cramped fingers and transferred the two blocks to his right hand. They were slick from his sweat. He closed his fingers over them and pulled the sock over his fist.
“There, safe again, Janey,” he cooed to them.
The blocks had left dark indentations in his left palm. The marks itched even more as he started washing his hand on the threadbare facecloth stuck to the basin. He pressed down harder to scratch it with the cloth’s rough surface. He’d have to replace it soon. The glue was coming off.
With his supper consisting of a bowl of two-minute noodles in hand, he sagged onto the creaky old folding chair in front of the TV and pressed play on the remote.
There she was, smiling into the camera. “I’m standing here, in Nelson Mandela square, just a face in the gathering crowd…” Janey scratched her nose and continued with the script.
John smiled at her image and felt a tear leave a cool track down his cheek. She always did that. Scratched her nose at him on TV. “It’s so you know I’m thinking of you when I go away on assignment,” she would say with a pout when he taunted her about it. He wished he could see her pout at him like that again, but she didn’t ever do that on the recordings he had. And if he didn’t get a job soon, he would lose the TV and DVD player along with the flat. Then all he would have left of her would be the dice. At least no one could take them away from him.
A muted ringing came from a pile of clothes on the mattress. His stomach tightened and he felt nauseous. It sounded just like when she had called him that day. That day…
She had made him promise that day that he wouldn’t go to the casino while she was in Somalia, but he was at the craps table just after work. How could Janey expect him to stop if the next roll could be the one? He picked up the two red blocks and rattled them in his left hand. All eyes were on him. But, just as he was about to release them, his phone gave a muffled ring from his pocket.
That would be Janey. She had said she would call once they had shot the piece at the docks.
With the dice still in his hand, he quickly moved to a quieter spot and answered the phone.
“Janey!”
“Hey, babe.” He could hear her smile in her voice. “We just finished getting some footage on the docks. You wouldn’t say that there are pirates around here just by looking around here. It looks kind of normal.”
He laughed. “Just make sure Chav is looking out for you, I don’t want anyone stealing you away on the high seas.”
“We’re fine!”
“How long did you say you’re away for again?”
There was a pause and for a moment he thought she had lost signal. Then he heard loud cracks over the receiver and screaming. He pressed the phone to his ear.
“Janey? Janey! What’s happening?”
“Oh god, John! They’ve got guns. Oh no-“
Another shot fired.
“Janey? Janey?”
His chest clenched and he felt his knees giving way.
“Janey?”
In that moment he knew. He knew she was gone. The dice cut into his hand as he sat there shaking. He couldn’t let go. He couldn’t let Janey go.
* * *
He was going shop to shop on 4th Avenue in Parkhurst to ask for work again. They would give his hand one look and, when he wouldn’t talk about it or take it off, they would send him off. At the next corner he turned back into suburbia, having given up for the day. There was a small park off to the left.
A ray of early afternoon sun broke through the clouds, brightly illuminating the little swath of lawn with its swings, slide and merry-go-round. A pregnant mother was pushing her son on a swing. She swayed a little as the swing moved out of her hand. The little boy laughed as the swing tilted up. She smiled tiredly.
John watched them and wondered if he would ever laugh like that again. The carefree laughter of sheer enjoyment of the now. Even the mother, who was obviously worn out, looked happy.
Then the woman cried out, clutching her protruding belly. The boy stopped laughing and jumped off the seat to run to his mother as she sagged to the ground.
“Mommy! Mommy, what’s wrong? Is Thumi hurting you?”
She groaned as her body spasmed. “No, baby,” she panted as the spasm passed, trying to reassure him. “She’s not… I think your little sister is coming.”
John knew he had to help.
“Who’s that man, Mommy?”
The woman looked up at him as he came closer. She recoiled slightly when she saw his hand, but then her body spasmed again.
“Mommy! Mommy! What’s happening?” The little boy started crying.
The woman panted as her muscles relaxed again. She looked up at John, giving him a pleading look.
“Please, sir. I need to get to the hospital. My baby is coming.That’s my car there, by the side of the road. Please. I can’t drive like this.”
She turned back to her son before he could answer. The little boy was crying and clutching at her. She put an arm around him and tried to calm him down. “Come, Bongi,” she coaxed. “Show Mommy what the reporter lady did when we went to Madiba’s statue to see Daddy at work. Remember how you laughed?”
He looked up at her with big teary eyes. He reached with his finger and made a rubbing motion by his nose.
“That’s right.” She rocked him side to side. “She was scratching her nose at the camera.”
They had seen his Janey that day at Nelson Mandela Square.
He reached for the woman’s handbag that had fallen to the ground next to her and dumped its contents on the ground. He grabbed the key from the heap and ran to the car.
As they came hurtling around a corner, John tried to change gears, but his socked hand couldn’t grip the gear shift properly. He frantically punched his foot at the break.
Bongani gave a little shriek at the jerking motion and his mother grabbed the front passenger seat to stop herself from falling off the back seat.
“What are you doing?” her voice demanded from the back seat.
“I can’t grip the gear shift. I can’t shift the gears properly.” His voice was becoming strained.
“Why? What’s in that sock? Is your hand…normal?”
John looked at his sock hand. “No. I-” He looked at the sock. Why had he done that? Why was it so important to cover his hand like that? Was it really to keep the dice in his hand? Or was it Janey? Was he keeping Janey in his hand?
He looked to where Bongani was clutching his safety belt in the passenger seat. These people had seen Janey scratch her nose at him that day. The real Janey. Not just the dice he was holding when she died. The dice I will be holding when we die too if I don’t let them go right now, he realised. I’m gambling even though I never let the dice go. The car made an unhappy grinding sound as he struggled with the gear shift again.
“Oh god, you’re going to kill us!” she screamed. “Why can’t you just take off that damned sock?”
“I can’t! I promised my wife I’d never gamble again. I can’t let the dice go!”
“What the hell!? You can’t get us to the hospital alive because you’re holding dice? Are you kidding me?! Take off that stupid sock or so help me-!”
The car almost careened into a pole as he tried to shift gears again. He saw the woman struggle upright in the rearview mirror. Sweat glistened on her forehead, her nose was flaring and her eyes were wide with fury. “Listen, buddy. My husband was killed by bloody pirates while he was away on a business trip. All I have left of him is Bongani and Thumi. I won’t let you kill us because of some-”
John froze. His arm hair sprang upright. “Pirates? Was your husband Chav Mbana? Did he work with Jane Black?”
“Yes. How’d you know his nam- Aaaaggh!” She disappeared back down as the next spasm hit.
He bit down on the sock and pulled it off his hand with a jerk of his arm. “This is for you, Janey,” he said as he opened his dice hand. He flung the dice across his body and out the driverside window. They clattered against the side of the car for a split second and then they were gone.
The car stopped swerving and John shifted into the next gear. “Everything’s going to be all right, Mrs Mbana. I’ve got things under control.” He scratched his nose and smiled.
Natalie Rivener 