Ramblings of a Serial Killer

I’ve killed off short stories in the hundreds; stuffed their rotting carcasses into dark nooks with nary a backward glance. I’ve hacked and slashed words with the impunity of a serial killer, and razed worlds like an unforgiving god. Cast them into the abyss and never looked back. Easy.

But the novel, aah, what a different beast it is! It fights dirty. The two main characters—Wren and Cy—make me pay for the wrongs I’ve done them: taking them on needless journeys; giving them pointless back-stories; creating traits that downright didn’t suit. They mocked my attempts to reason with them – they knew best. But I’m stubborn, and as they traded conspiratorial whispers at the back of mind, poking and nudging me toward the right path, I ploughed on.

Each time I gutted a draft, they sighed with relief; each time I severed a chapter or two or six, they goaded me to be harsher (they can be mean). And after the murder and evisceration of four drafts, I’m finally at a place where Cy is happy to move forward; Wren, reluctantly so.

blood spatter

“You had to work for it,” Cy told me, “it was the only way you were going to get us right.” His smile, as always, is never fully realised. “Experience is a brutal teacher.”

Wren snorted and gave us both the finger; her trust issues run deep.

With time in the Black Friday Wager very quickly winding down, I made the decision (although it was blindingly obvious) that I wasn’t going to win the bet with my mate Marty Young (read his stuff – it rocks!) to get this first draft finished. It’s a bitch; I don’t like losing bets, but it’s been far from a waste.

When I break it down all autopsy-like, I’ve written a total of 149,496 words; two in-depth character sheets (four pages each—longhand); chapter summary/outline (six pages—longhand), and one page filled with a stream of curse words (possibly my best work). The two words I’ve failed to write, however, are: The End. But that’s okay, I know where Cy and Wren have come from, I know where they’ve been and where they’re going. They don’t quite know all that’s in store, but if they’ve taught me anything, it’s that they won’t make it easy.

Novel writing is new to me, and the learning curve has been incredibly steep, and at times seemingly insurmountable. I hated and loved it in equal measure; I raged and cursed, floundered and despaired, but the stubbornness that drives me forward (and drives my husband to incoherency) meant I could butcher my drafts then pick through the remains and rebuild.

bloody pen

Not all of those 149,496 words were crap. There’s some great stuff in there, bits and pieces that I’ll use in later chapters; other sections I’ll rework to fit this new incarnation; parts that are quintessentially Cy and Wren.

Don’t get me wrong, this killing spree hasn’t been easy – at the time, each slaughter of the next draft has felt like a massive failure on my part. But one of my writing pals, Devin Madson, (read her work – she paints with words), told me I was lucky I could see it wasn’t working and could cut my losses and begin again; that I didn’t drag it out and waste both time and words. In my head that makes sense, in my heart, it’s like a dagger.

It wasn’t just my characters and their voices that had me struggle with my novel; work cut into my writing time, but I don’t begrudge that. I love being an editor; I love helping others with their work, their stories and their characters – it’s why I chose to get my qualifications so I could provide the best advice and expertise I could to those who love to write as I do.

As an editor, I’m trained to see where others’ novels require work: pacing, clarity, cohesion et al. This doesn’t, however, transfer to my own work – like I tell my clients: you can’t have objectivity with your babies. It’s insane to think you can.

And when the time comes, when I finally type: The End, (then do at least two rewrites – I’m a perfectionist, sue me), I will engage beta readers, then rewrite…and rewrite, and possibly rewrite again, before finally passing it on to an editor – someone who has the objectivity I no longer have.

It’s taken six months for me to fully comprehend the scale and heartache involved with writing a novel, but it’s been six months well spent. Do I wish I’d been able to get this “first” draft done? Hell yes. Do I wish I could have typed: The End? No doubt! Do I wish it was Marty buying me books instead of me buying him scotch? Yes (but I love Marty, so it ain’t all that bad). But the big question is: have I grown as a writer? And the answer to that is a big fat YES. And that, I reckon, is worth more than a bottle of scotch.

gone-writing

Running Scared

How did you spend your Friday night? I spent mine being lurched at by zombies and chased by clowns. S’true. My buddy Jason and I were crazy enough to take on Running Scared, an 8km horror-based obstacle course. That’s right, 8kms. At night.

The course was set up at the Sydney International Regatta Centre at Penrith, and trust me when I say the foot of the Blue Mountains is cold once the sun goes down, but Jase and I were ready to get our run on. Mustered around the start line were zombies shuffling about competitors, a bunch of dancing zombies (yep, it was Thriller time), and all interspersed with some iconic horror stars: Freddie Kruger, Jason Voorhees, and Pennywise, to name a few.

Me and Jase

After registering and signing two waivers (that kinda gave me pause), we were given a race number, headlamps, and directed toward the start line. At 8pm we began, first tackling a maze. I’d have to say, that was probably one of the best parts of the ‘run’. We made our way from freaky room to freaky room: a bathroom reminiscent of SAW, another that had overtones of Deliverance, and a harlequin room whose strobe lights messed with my head, but once through, it was time to run.

Now, 8kms isn’t that far really, especially on a straight course with flat ground, but that wasn’t what we faced. Scaling a pyramid of haybales (much higher than it sounds) started us off before it was time to drag ourselves across a river via a line of life-buoys (dignity and elegance be damned). We were wet now, and we were cold. It was also where I discovered the tights I’d worn weren’t really conducive to running when wet. Ah, well, it was only water.

Did I mention it was cold? But on we jogged. Now, I understand the idea of the run was to introduce a fear factor, but neither Jason nor I quite got that. At one stage, we were chatting as we walked (I can’t run 8kms non-stop, sue me) and we were suddenly distracted by two camera flashes to our left. Immediately to our right, a chorus of groans rose from a pile of zombies hidden near the track. We paused a moment then continued our chat, much to their disappointment.

zombies

Our next obstacle… well, it was more super-slide. “Keep your feet up,” one man told us. Confused, Jase and I began to slowly walk down the plastic wondering about the warning when our feet went out beneath us and in almost perfect synchronicity we fell backwards and slammed our heads against the ground. Head-lamps went flying as we sped down the hill and into a nasty looking pit of sludge. Feet up!

It was gelatine-based slime and it sucked at your sneakers as you tried to walk out of it. You couldn’t shake it free. It clung to us in all the wrong places and it felt like we’d shit our pants. We commando-crawled back up the hill (and we were filthy) before tackling our next obstacle. We had to traverse rope netting suspended between two shipping containers. Best way? Barrel-roll. Now, I don’t know what went wrong but I somehow managed to hurt my nose; on the plus side, Jason said it showed him how not to do it. Laugh we did, long and loud.

And on we ran. It was dark, the only light we had was from our headlamps. Zombies lurched from copses of trees, clowns jumped out as us, but the fear was more from what the next step would feel like in our crappy-pants than what went bump (or groan or scream) in the night.

Now, we could hear the squeals of others as they were surprised and scared, but it never really got to either of us. Were we inured to it because we’re horror writers? Nah. I think it was more exhaustion that got to me, and we really could see them coming. The obstacles did test your co-ordination and staying ability, and the 8kms (in those pants) felt like 80kms.

We waded through more slime, crawled under blood-covered obstacles and manoeuvred through a twisting canal filled with tyres. It was here that a zombie grabbed my ankle. Normally, this would have made me jump, but I was cold and tired and too busy laughing at our ungainliness.

Two and bit hours later we crossed the finish line. Tired, filthy, and still enjoying a laugh.

Overall, we had a great time and a great laugh. Not quite the fear factor we’d imagined, but that doesn’t matter. The amount of effort and attention to detail put into the event by the organisers was brilliant. The actors did an amazing job portraying their characters, and the general vibe of the whole thing was fantastic. I had a blast, and I know Jason did too.

Finish line

Things I learned:

  • Sliding down hills should be done on your arse, not your feet;
  • When barrel-rolling over rope-netting, duck your chin into your chest (no, really, this is a must);
  • Slime in your pants… just no; (and why my kids walked funny when they crapped their pants as toddlers);
  • Laughter can get you through anything, especially synchronised head-slamming;
  • Clowns are scarier when they’re alone. And silent. Just staring;
  • When the zombie apocalypse hits, I can outrun those buggers (bring it on! Ahem);
  • Muck and slime can get into places it has no right to be;
  • Nothing beats a hot shower.

My Friday night was awesome. How was yours?

002

Review: Topsiders (Scott Tyson)

I very much enjoyed this read but I’m going to begin this review with a disclaimer.

It’s fair to say quite a few of my reviews will have a disclaimer of sorts; as a writer, I have a lot of writerly friends and colleagues who pen the genre I love reading, so there’s bound to be cross-overs from time to time. Scott Tyson falls into the cross-over category. While I’ve worked with Scott on another project, I was not involved with either the pre or post-production of Topsiders. Yes, that is me mentioned in the acknowledgements, but that was for providing general advice of a writing/editorial nature. My only knowledge of the Topsiders story was based solely on the back-cover blurb. I did not receive a free copy of the book – I buy the books that fill (overfill?) my shelves, and do so gladly.

topsiders

Okay, now that we have the disclaimer out of the way, let’s get on with this review. Oh, and big-arse spoiler alert here: I’ll be talking about the end of this story so if you don’t want to be tainted look away now…now I said! Stop peeking through your fingers!

Topsiders is a tale of twos: two worlds, two families, two journeys and two protags. Told through the eyes of father (Bill) and son (Mathew), we follow each as they embark on separate (though intertwined) quests into an abandoned house by the river. You know this isn’t going to end well.

The story started a little slowly for me; the small glimpses I had of the goings-on in the house made me want to be there, not reading of the dynamics between the adult-couples, or the jostling hierarchy of 14-year-old Mathew, his just-older brother Guy, and love-interest Claire. Don’t get me wrong, the characters are well-drawn and believable, I just wanted to get into that house… or rather, beneath it.

As we’re told this story from two points of view, we know that overly-cautious Bill isn’t so keen on investigating the house, but provoked into doing so by his estranged wife Judy, and lured by his lust for family friend Helen (despite Helen’s husband Phil), Bill plunges into the darkness of the house. When the parents go missing, Mathew, Guy and Claire (Helen and Phil’s daughter) head up their own search party.

Tyson does well to flip between the two parties. Access to the world below is through a tunnel hidden behind a picture in the bathroom – our first glimpse of this is done remarkably well, which only heightened my belief that we needed to get to this point sooner. The tunnel is creepy, and you know they shouldn’t enter, but they do (as we’ve all done things we know we really shouldn’t), and here we really see Bill’s cowardice come to the fore.

Mathew and Claire soon follow suit, determined to find their parents and the now-missing Guy. Tyson creates tension here, and his use of monsters-hiding-in-darkness fear is done very well (sometimes what is unseen is more frightening that what is). Bill, now alone, is at a crossroads – he’s seen (kinda) what lies below and he wants out, but Mathew’s arrival forces Bill’s hand.

Once both arrive at the heart of the monster’s home, the horror of what really lies beneath is shown in its total brutality. There are parts of this story that aren’t for the feint-of-heart, but I liked that Tyson didn’t shy away from brutality – this is a horror story and horror happens.

Once in the cavern, we’re shown the true heart of all involved: the monsters, Bill, Mathew and Judy. Tyson shows us that sometimes there’s not a lot of difference between those that live below and the ‘topsiders’. It’s a hard ending, but there’s a truthfulness to it that made the story all the more enjoyable. There’s a Laymon-esque quality to Tyson’s story – a collision of worlds that is honest in its brutality. I don’t want to spoil the ending of this story, but let me say that Tyson doesn’t soften that blow but delivers it how it must be delivered.

My main issue with the story was its slow beginning, and I think part of that goes to the world Tyson’s created beneath that house – this is where the true story lies, and I think the relationships explored at the beginning could well have been given to the reader while the topsiders were underground. I believe it would have amplified their dynamic. I wanted more of that world, and those trying to survive in it (monster and topsider alike), especially when you take into account that last chapter.

Tyson has left this open for a sequel, and given the point of view of that protag, I would gladly read it.

On a Goodreads scale, I give this a 4 out of 5 stars.

 

 

Death of a Novel

After a lingering illness of insentience and lassitude, we regret to inform you of the death of Novel Draft Two. It slipped into the Black with relief and without fanfare. May it never see the light of day again.

The “deadline” for the draft of my first novel is approaching at what seems to be warp speed (I can’t actually confirm that with like… math and stuff, ‘cause, well… it’s math), but I guarantee it’s true.

Last December I chucked my first draft in at 52,000 words (no, that’s not a typo) and started again, pumped and ready to go. Five days ago draft number two bit the dust at 26,000 (yep, that’s 78,000 words in total – novel length), and started again. I’m nothing if not consistent.

The problem with the story wasn’t the fact that I was leaning more to the side of ‘pantsing’ than ‘plotting’, but that the story had no soul. It wasn’t my characters or the world they lived in, it was the way I was imparting my characters’ story. I was bored, and if I’m bored with the storytelling, then so will any potential reader.

I won’t lie; it’s been a struggle. I’ve been plagued with self-doubt, petty jealousies, and outright apathy – dark moments that made me want to give it all away. Not just the novel, but writing as a whole. It’s a terrible place to be, and while it usually only lasts a few days, it feels like an eternity when you’re living it, and it feels like there’s no way out.

Storytelling isn’t easy; it’s more than just sitting down and spewing out words. Not everyone can do it. On my good days, I like to think I can do it well. Well enough to keep at it. Perseverance, stubbornness, quintessence, call it what you will. Writing is an intrinsic part of me – the good, the bad and the ugly.

So where does that leave me? Two thousand words into the third draft and with two main characters who have a story they want to tell before they’re lost to history. A story of gods and monsters, survival and betrayal, hope and hopelessness in a savage, unforgiving world. I like them, warts and all, but they don’t care that I do; they are who they are and they make no apologies for it.

Here’s a little taste by way of introduction:

If Wren knew one thing, it was the world was dying and she wasn’t one for being long in it. She’d defied enemy and gods alike, and sooner or later, one would stake their claim and into the Black she’d go.

Crouched in the shadow of the Kanaku Ranges, she slit the wood rat from tiny cock to tiny throat, scooping out its innards and plopping them into the pan. They sizzled, stinging her nostrils and watering her mouth. The rat’s blood sautéed the offal quickly and her gut grumbled with impatience. She chose the heart. It tasted like metal. Metal and dirt. Still, food was food. She’d seen others eat much worse.

And debut number two:

The aroma of roasting deer teased Cy’s tongue as he busied himself with the defences along the north ridge, but it was the tournament that weighed heavily on his mind. The first rounds would have begun. Candidates would be sweating in their armour, the women demure behind intricately-bejewelled veils. Seven women; the last of breeding age left in the Ranges.

Cy punched the log into place, taking pleasure in the radiating pain. No girls born in over a decade—and she’d been a sickly child, strange of face and mind—and three more women lost in childbirth this past year. They had a legion of soldiers in the making, but no wives to mourn them. His name should have been called; the deal had been struck. But here he was fucking about with wood when he should have been earning his legacy. He would leave tomorrow, past the sanctuary of the mountains in search of a womb.

I feel a lot more confident with this incarnation, I can see their stories much more clearly, and both Wren and Cy seem comfortable in their new skins (I think Wren may have smiled, but she swears it was a grimace).

So enough dilly-dallying for now, it’s time to get these two moving – they have paths they’re itching to take and they don’t suffer malingerers.

Right then, where’s my coffee…

 

 

Review: Before They Are Hanged (Joe Abercrombie)

I’ll be completely honest, I went into Before They Are Hanged with pretty mixed expectations (I believe I actually gave a long-suffering sigh when I took it from my bookshelf). If you’ve read my review of book one in Joe Abercrombie’s The First Law trilogy, you’ll know how often I almost gave up on this series. If I hadn’t made it to those final 150-odd pages of book one, I’d never have picked up the second book in this trilogy.

I was wary, sure, I’d been burned with book one, and this was a longer book (although not by much), and my resolve to finish all books I start meant this could become tediously frustrating.

Before they are hanged

Spoilers ahead, so read on at your own risk…

So, Before They Are Hanged…? Now this was a story I could sink my teeth into. Where book one had been a chore, I down-right enjoyed this story. With trilogies, I’ve often found that the second book is where the story falls down, flails, if you will; where the story becomes more of a way-station between books one and three. But Abercrombie takes the tension he’s built at the end of book one and (mostly) runs with it.

It’s a dark, punishing look at a world that’s on the brink of change. And according to the characters telling this story, it’s not going to be a change for the good. The Union is screwed, but they’re the facilitators of their own undoing. As a long-term ruling power, they’ve become lackadaisical, especially with their army, focussing more on pomp and ceremony than actual fighting skills, and it doesn’t take much for these weaknesses to be exploited.

For me, the story is carried by the characters. Abercrombie has really pulled his socks up with characterisation here – he’s challenged his characters to change, and they’ve bit back hard, resisting his push for it but undergoing it nonetheless. Ninefingers is still my favourite character (the Bloody Nine!), although Dogman and his crew are all very close seconds – I could happily read about their exploits, and their dialogue is excellent. Ferro took a while to warm to, but her harshness and dogged thirst for vengeance (regardless of self-realisation) endeared her to me.

Glokta is still the intriguing character he was in book one, but watching his edges being chipped away… this isn’t going to end well for anyone. The revelation (for me, anyway) were my feelings toward Luthar. I had no interest in this character in book one. He was a bland waste of space, and I had to consciously stop myself from skipping over his pages in book one (a hard task indeed). He starts off this way in book two, but his interactions with Ninefingers are some of my favourite. Luthar can still be a bit of a pratt, but if he’d have changed to someone of good character and compassion… well, that would have felt like a slap in the face as a reader.

The battles that take place within this book are grim, bloody and in-your-face, just as they should be. Abercrombie doesn’t shy from the horror, the ugliness, and the unfairness of war. Shit happens. A lot of bad shit happens. People die. Horribly. People live (also horribly). And those we want to live, die; those we want to die, live. That’s war. It’s not pretty. It’s not glorious. Abercrombie does it shitty justice.

There’s a lot at play here, and Abercrombie’s worked it well, giving us more of the characters and fleshing out the culture of this world and its roots. The Union is fighting (rather poorly) for its survival, but there’s war happening on all fronts here: Bayaz and Khalul, Glokta and Sult, Ninefingers and Ferro (sex/companionship as a battle), West and the pompous colonels, and all the internal battles of the main characters… it’s everywhere and I liked it.

There are multiple plot-threads in this second instalment but it’s not too messy. Each new sliver of information, each cross and double-cross adds to this ongoing chess game. They’re all playing – each character a king in their own game, but pawns in the games of others. It’s this… greyness of storytelling that kept me turning the pages – nothing is ever as black and white as it seems.

This isn’t a completely glowing review, as at times the pacing seemed a little off. There are times when Abercrombie really grabs you with his storytelling, then lets you go, asking you to wander around a bit while he gets his soldiers all in a row. I found that most of this was to do with what I like to call ‘politics-interruptus’. It’s the telling of what’s going on that drags at the book; yes, I understand there’s politics involved with this story, but we really did get our understanding of these machinations with book one (in slow, slow shovel-fuls), there’s little need to rehash it in book two. Give the reader some credit; we can carry the pseudo-religious-politico games through on our own.

Overall, Abercrombie’s written a fine second book in this trilogy. Before They Are Hanged was a story I wanted to keep reading, and while book three awaits, I’ll be taking a breather with another book before heading into the epic 700-pager that awaits with the Last Argument of Kings.

(On a Goodreads scale, I give this 4/5 stars).

 

Review: The Blade Itself (Joe Abercrombie)

I didn’t read anywhere near as much as I wanted last year (I’m talking for pleasure, not work), so this year I’m setting about turning this around. I’m also wanting to read more fantasy (of the darker kind), as the novel I’m writing has fantasy roots. Aaanywho, I picked up Joe Abercrombie’s ‘The First Law’ trilogy, and as I’m about halfway through book two, I thought I’d chuck the review of book one up here.

So, here we go…

This is a 2.5 star rating, but I’m going to review this book as two parts because that’s exactly how it read to me – like two books… and sometimes even two authors, who put ‘The Blade Itself’ together.

I picked up ‘The First Law’ trilogy on a recent trip to my local bookstore. The sales clerk raved about it, and a quick check on Goodreads showed great reviews, so I was pretty excited to get started. Grimdark!

The blade itself

Here there be spoilers…

I have a like/hate relationship with this book. I began intrigued by the story, and with Logen Ninefingers especially (if it weren’t for him, and later his ‘merry’ band, I’d have thrown the book at the wall), but the further I moved into the book, the more frustrated and annoyed I became. The story started strong enough, Logen Ninefingers, talking with spirits, the Shanka – all good, then in came the world of the Union, and in particular Inquisitor Glokta and Captain Jezal Luthar – two very different peas in an almost farcical pod.

Glokta is an interesting character; once one of the Unions most famed soldiers, after 700 days at the “mercy” of the enemy, he’s a crippled, toothless shell of a man and now the best torturer the Union has. Abercrombie does well to make the reader believe Glokta is an old man; I was surprised to learn he was in mid-thirties. Glokta’s Practicals are also a nice touch to the man – Frost especially. At times, I was cringing at the amount of internal monologue Glokta has; less is more, and repetition can become tedious.

Captain Jezal Luthar is an awful parody. Godawful. The back of the dustjacket describes Luthar as a ‘paragon of selfishness’, but I found him to be lazily written. I’ve absolutely no problem with unlikeable characters, if fact, they often make a book, but Luthar is… well, did I say godawful? Especially when he’s marked against a character such as Ninefingers or Dogman, for instance (fleshed out and well-rounded). There’s room for shallow characters, but not room, I believe for shallow characterisation. Sure, he can really only go up from here, and there’s nothing BUT growth to be had, but Abercrombie shows he can write a great character, it’s more like he couldn’t be bothered with Luthar and that makes the book suffer in my eyes.

When I said farcical, that’s exactly what the Union is… with a few clichés thrown in for fun: a fat, dementia-riddled absurdity of a king; a ridiculously stupid crown prince more worried about fashion that his empire; the king’s guard (I’m talking 40-odd men here) who cower, whimper and almost piss themselves when their king is vaguely threatened (seriously? no one’s buying that); and a religious council (let’s call a sect a sect) who pretty much have their hand up the king’s bum like a puppet. Yes, I understand the need to make the Union appear as defenceless and gormless as possible, but this is beyond believability – I can suspend belief, I can, but c’mon!

sheldon1

The one man in the Union who does understand the ridiculousness (and danger) of the situation is Major West, a commoner risen above his station, much to the derision of the blue-bloods (yep, I see that cliché too). But him, I like.

350 pages in and it was a struggle; where was the story arc? Where was the plot? It was Ninefingers and his old crew that kept me turning the pages… well that and I’m stubborn. I was finishing this book, and I was going to be honest in my review.

Then something happened. The story finally kicked in. It had been wandering all over the place, almost as if it were trying to find its way. When Ninefingers, Bayaz, Luthar, and Glokta walk into the House of the Maker it was like they awakened the author. The writing (mostly) fell into place, and I began to see the story Abercrombie wanted to tell.

From here on in I read the book quickly; I was interested and intrigued, and even grew to tolerate the beige that is Luthar. The magic, both dark and curious, began to show its other hand, and the Eaters are a great creation. THIS is where the story should have begun. This is also where I realised the first 350-odd pages had been the longest character introduction I’ve ever read. From here, Abercrombie pretty much holds his own. The ‘Bloody Nine’ chapter is a bloody good read, and the scene where the Bloody Nine rises is a stand-out.

For me, the structure doesn’t do the story justice; I was close to giving up so many times but perseverance got me through. Thing is, a great read shouldn’t be about perseverance, especially when the last 150-odd pages were a good, and at times, a very, very good read.

I can’t forgive the amount of times ‘Er…’ appeared, though, I just can’t. Everyone says it. All. The. Time. If I’d have made a drinking game of it, I’d have been hammered a couple of chapters in. If I’d based the game on exclamation points, I’d be back in the mud. (Ping to the editors on that – less is more, less is more!!!!!)

drunk dog

Make no mistake, Ninefingers and his old crew carried this story for me; they were the only ones I was invested in.

So… here we are at the end of this review that will get two ratings: 1.5 stars for the first part, and four stars for the end. Nothing we learned in the first part, couldn’t have been given to the reader in a hundred-odd pages without losing any of the understanding of characters, culture and the history of the world Abercrombie has created.

I’ll start book two, and see how it goes. Though I’m now a wary reader.

Intimate Kisses

I received an out-pouring of birthday wishes today, which was wonderful, and always makes a girl feel special. So as thanks, I thought I’d give a little something back.

‘Intimate Kisses’ is a story I wrote a few years back for a tea zine (yep, you read that right) where they were looking for all things ‘tea’, and a friend of mine suggested to the publisher that a horror story would make for some interesting tea-time reading.

Subtle horror was the order of the day, and this is definitely one of my more tame tales, but…it’s just my cup of tea…

INTIMATE KISSES

Dirt-covered and chipped, the antique teacup protruded from the front yard of the farmhouse ruins. Fine cracks ran through the faded porcelain like veins, crimson specks hiding its true colour. The handle was broken and partially buried. Two of the cup’s feet jutted from the ground like gold fangs.

It was content to wait. Discovery was guaranteed. Always. Two centuries of intimate kisses ensured it.

The morning breeze carried the hint of jasmine over the abandoned lot as the sun stole moisture from the ground. A field mouse scurried through the grass. Nose twitching, it shied from the cup.

A goshawk swooped, silent.

The mouse squealed once.

The wind’s next breath carried voices over the rubble. Taunting. Teasing.

“Mamma’s boy! Mamma’s boy!”

The youthful scorn washed over the ruins, and as the catcalls and laughter drifted past, the cup waited.

Footsteps.

A curse beyond the broken fence.

A rock ricocheted off nearby sandstone.

The children’s words—“Mamma’s boy!”—hissed through the brittle grass. The ground trembled. Dirt fell from the porcelain exposing a tunnel into the belly of the cup. “Mamma’s boy! Mamma’s boy!” The curses stormed over the rim, twisting, scouring the memories of long-gone lips.

One gold-plated foot quivered; inched into the light. Caressed by the sun, it glinted.

Footsteps halted; changed direction.

Whispers churned within the teacup, its jagged handle ambush-ready.

Eclipsed by the boy’s shadow, the cup shook with the first brush of fingertips. The small, disfigured hand hesitated. The second touch showed the boy what he wanted to see. Treasure. Hidden treasure.

He began to dig, shifting dirt almost reverently.

Stubby fingers probed.

The handle curled like a scorpion tail.

The boy reached, nudged.

Dirt spewed over the rim and the tortured souls enslaved within the cup screamed in warning.

Flesh punctured. The boy flinched.

His sacrifice dripped into the cup, pumping tiny rivers of the boy’s darkest desires to its porcelain heart.

In one final push for possession, the cup clawed at the dirt with its feet, righted itself.

“Magic…”

The boy lifted it carefully, and as he blew dirt from his treasure, he breathed life, and the promise of death, back into the cup. Cradled in stained hands, the boy’s blood, infected with thoughts of his cruel mother, pulsed through the cup’s veins.

Mamma’s boy! Mamma’s boy! The voices of the other boys snarled through him, tormenting. Always tormenting.

The chant was silenced by a small voice, sweet and corrupted. “Mamma’s boy,” it crooned, feeding the boy’s rage and vowing revenge.

It asked little in return. Devotion. Obedience. The boy’s soul for retribution.

At that promise, the blood on the handle’s jagged tip bubbled amongst the screams of those forever imprisoned inside. A single speck of blood burst free from the tip and speared into the porcelain, reforging the handle.

The cup began a new chapter in its journey. It would visit horrors on all who had wronged its new Keeper, creating nightmares they would not escape. Their suffering would restore the cup to its former glory.

It would drain the life out of the boy’s enemies. One sip at a time.

teacup

(This beautiful teacup was gifted to me from the lovely Elizabeth Wayne)


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