BWA update

I've added another couple of short stories to the Brit Writers' Awards now, making four. Plus a poetry collection 'Twist and Turn'.

2 days to go, and I'm working 12 hour days at the moment, with a fluey daughter and hubby... Ain't gonna get much more submitted, me thinks.
 
No news from A Darker Spirit so assume I haven't been shortlisted. Tant pis (that's French, like). Look forward to seeing what Tina publishes in the first issue though. All the best to her.

Brit Writers' Awards etc

The deadline for the Brit Writers' Awards is up on  Friday 26th Feb at 5pm.

So far, I have submitted two stories and have several more to add, plus a poetry collection, but their site seems to have crashed so maybe it's been overwhelmed with last-minute entries.

Lee Hughes very kindly told me about the Sword & Sorceress Anthology 25 so I have a fantasy piece all ready for that. Not allowed to submit until the 17th April though and they're very strict - don't want my knuckles rapped! Or worse, my story rejected because I was too keen and sent it too early.

Overall, I've been trying to get this year's competition calendar organised. I've got pieces ready to submit to some and ideas for others. I am determined to make 2010 the year I get paid for writing.
 
And then of course there's Bridport (quakes in shoes). I have no chance in hell, but you have to have a go, don't you. Good luck to everyone entering comps this year.

Rant and Rage

In an effort to turn negative emotions into literary inspiration I am listing my top three hates to see whether, by some kind of cathartic osmosis, they turn into characters or stories. Not that I'm stuck for ideas, I just need to dispose of these annoyances:

1. Coathangers. They have lives of their own. They catch on everything, and I hate them. They evoke a ridiculous amount of rage in me and many things have been torn or broken by me as a result. Answer: Anger Management? Never put anything in the wardrobe?
2. Toilet paper that doesn't tear properly. It means you have to fold it a different way, which results in a completely unsatisfactory wipe of the nether regions. Answer: don't buy Tesco own-brand, which gets thinner by the pack anyway.
3. People in my space. This particularly relates to OLD PEOPLE IN SUPERMARKET QUEUES. God, they annoy me. Right up my arse, nudging - always nudging me with their trolleys, pushing me forwards into the person in front, catching my clothes on their baskets. Answer: step backwards and tread on their toes. Be prepared to use my elbows. Aaaarrgh - why can't people respect others' space?

That's it. All done now.

Fissure by Lily Childs

Thanks to Matt Hilton, my latest disgusting tale 'Fissure' is now up at TKnC:

http://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.com/2010/02/fissure-by-lily-childs.html

New work

After feeling ill (nothing serious) for several weeks I'm pleased to have submitted a pretty gross piece to the splendiferous Thrillers Killers n Chillers this evening, as well as a flash piece, a full 'Telling Tales' fiction piece and a pome to TR Shaw's marvellous 'A Darker Spirit.'

Hope all is well with all involved.

Back to life...

I am... well, not WELL, but definitely on the mend.

Went back to the (Eastbourne) Towner's Dark Monarch exhibition today. Actually paid to go in this time, and it was still well worth it (apart from Damien Hirst's unicorn).

My 6-year-old daughter's been talking about targets and achievements. I have a built in defense mechanism that makes me uncompetative but when she told me her achievement target was to "not fall over in the playground" I thought, I can do do that! (we're a clumsy family).

PURE by Lily Childs (c)

‘Put the coins in the slot, lad.’

‘I don’t want to.’

The old man snatched the money out of Luke’s hand. He shoved it into the machine.

‘You want to see your mother again, don’t you?’

Trembles, painful and ugly shuddered across the boy’s chin. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded his head.

Dull music groaned into life. Inside the filthy booth the threadbare curtain juddered to one side leaving Luke to stare at a dark room through finger-stained glass. He waited, terrified by what he might see, scared stiff at what could have stolen his mother away from him.

And there she was. Naked, pale, expressionless. Lying across tattered sheets on a broken bed. She stood. Draping herself around a thin steel pole, she spun slowly, round and around. The boy’s eyes lit up, not seeing the holes in his mother’s arms or the bruises across her emaciated body.

‘So what do you make of her now?’ Luke’s father sneered, wanting his son to be appalled, disgusted.

The coin dropped. The time was up.

‘I think she’s beautiful’ Luke said as they left the booth, the final vision of his mother playing its way into his memory.

‘She’s a dancer.’

SEDATED

Send the message.
Go on,
Text it now
While your eyes are open
Seeing me,
Knowing me.

Before your senses dull
Wrap yourself
Around the phone,
Let your fingers
Do the walking
While you still have time.

Tick tock.
Send them away.
Tick tock
Raise my gun.
Tick tock
Too late
Tick tock…
They’re home.