For this week's blog shout out Jonathan Hill tells about his 100 Word Reviews blog:
I love reading and writing fiction of all lengths. It was last year when I encountered drabbles for the first time. Defined as 100-word stories, these are a challenge to write but so satisfying when they work. I ended up publishing two books of drabbles, 100 One Hundred Word Tales and Beyond 100 Drabbles, the latter with fellow author Kath Middleton. As a self-confessed culture vulture, I also enjoy writing reviews for films, theatre and books. It suddenly occurred to me that I could combine the drabble and the review and write… a 100-word review, which is the basis for my blog, www.100wordreviews.com
We live in such a fast-paced world and most people do not have the time to wade through lengthy reviews to find their next piece of entertainment. 100-word reviews are so good because they can give a real flavour of something and take less than a minute to read. The reviews can be challenging to write and occasionally frustrating. Sometimes you have to miss out some of what you want to say. But, because of that, it makes you focus on the most important aspects and there is no room for beating about the proverbial bush. If something doesn’t work you just have to come out and say it. I believe reviews restricted by word limit in this way have a greater tendency to be transparent and honest.
My favourite post? That’s impossible to say! I enjoyed writing them all. The most satisfying reviews, to me, are the ones for things I never expected to enjoy as much as I did. I recently saw the film Gone Girl with no expectations whatsoever and it blew me away. I couldn’t wait to get my thoughts down in a review.
My most popular post? Again, it’s hard to say. They all seem to take turns in being liked, shared and tweeted. It’s great to see blog readers taking something from my reviews.
I believe the best blogs are the simplest so I intend to keep it crisp, straightforward and easy on the eye. I haven’t ruled out plans to set up a linked Facebook page and Twitter feed. Nor have I ruled out the possibility of guest reviews. These are all options for me to consider, time permitting. For now, though, it’s liberating being able to share my thoughts with the world.
Wednesday, 10 December 2014
Tuesday, 9 December 2014
Tuesday Tease - Dining Out Around the Solar System by Clare O'Beara
Clare O'Breara provides this week's Tuesday Tease with an excerpt from her collection of stories 'Dining Out Around the Solar System'.
Our editor George mentioned out of the hearing of other media representatives that he was intending to run an article on the SS Richard Montgomery shortly. The civil servant may have thought it was just another revisiting of an old theme. But George did not elaborate and the civil servant did not want to give the impression that there was more to the issue than the casual reference would have suggested. So George had done his duty.
We published.
Front page main headline, which in zine parlance is the splash; four inside pages.
AHOY NEPTUNE! ESTUARY BOMBS TO BE CLEARED
Don’t blame us for the headline, that was a sub-editor’s job in most cases, and they were always aiming to grab attention.
We covered everything from the Heathrow congestion and planned new airport to the bird sanctuary interview; from the explosives off the Isle of Sheppey to the specialist off-planet team arriving to provide expertise.
The turn of the year meant that small pleasure craft would no longer ply the Thames Estuary. Where I would have picked summer for better weather, the worse weather meant fewer members of the public and small boats, a decided advantage when dealing with thousands of tonnes of explosives.
“You should know that.” Pietr sounded serious. “You guys find a great story like this in some different zine, it gets taken away from you and handed to me. You might get your names as researchers on the bottom. You find this story as a freelancer, what do you think happens?”
“We sell it?” Myron asked.
“You go to jail,” said Pietr.
We were invited out to the working boat. Myron and I looked at Pietr.
“I’m not getting on any boats,” he said. “If you want to go, I believe these people will take good care of you. I’ll sit here with binoculars, if someone can find any.” One of the bluer of the workers promptly went and got him a pair, which had a removable adaptation to fit Neptunian shaped eyes.
Myron and I went happily along with our new friends. They took us to the marine engineering firm’s Portashells which were near the edge of the water. The engineers assumed that we had clearance and invited us to come in and get into drysuits. The water was cold and the wind-chill was increasing, and we would fare much worse if we were wearing normal clothes.
A RIB is a rigid inflatable boat, and this has an engine at the rear which pushes the nose up and out of the water as it bounces along at a great speed. This was a good-sized one and I realised that it must have an antigrav component because it never sank in the water though the team of Neptunians got on with us. The marine engineer steering it took us out to the dive boat, a large – to our eyes – vessel over a mile offshore. We sat back and gripped the rope lacings along the sides and breathed in salt spray air, grinning foolishly at our friends and each other. The RIB engine was so noisy that we couldn’t really talk but we were relishing being right down at water level, streaking across the Thames estuary, heading for the most dangerous boat in the world.
Click here to buy Dining Out Around the Solar System from Amazon US / Amazon UK
About the Author:
Clare O'Beara is a tree surgeon and expert witness, and a former national standard showjumper. She has qualified in ecology and includes environmental issues in some of her stories. She serves on the Royal Dublin Society Forestry and the Environment Committee.
Clare is an award–winning writer of fiction and non–fiction, whose journalism work has been published in more than thirty countries. Her credits include Mensa Magazine and Mensa International Journal.
2013 - Winner, Print Journalism in Ireland's National Media Awards.
2014 - Winner, Arkady Renko Short Story Contest.
She lives in Dublin with her husband and cats.
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| Click on image to buy from Amazon |
Dining Out Around the Solar System
by Clare O'Beara
We published.
Front page main headline, which in zine parlance is the splash; four inside pages.
AHOY NEPTUNE! ESTUARY BOMBS TO BE CLEARED
Don’t blame us for the headline, that was a sub-editor’s job in most cases, and they were always aiming to grab attention.
We covered everything from the Heathrow congestion and planned new airport to the bird sanctuary interview; from the explosives off the Isle of Sheppey to the specialist off-planet team arriving to provide expertise.
The turn of the year meant that small pleasure craft would no longer ply the Thames Estuary. Where I would have picked summer for better weather, the worse weather meant fewer members of the public and small boats, a decided advantage when dealing with thousands of tonnes of explosives.
“You should know that.” Pietr sounded serious. “You guys find a great story like this in some different zine, it gets taken away from you and handed to me. You might get your names as researchers on the bottom. You find this story as a freelancer, what do you think happens?”
“We sell it?” Myron asked.
“You go to jail,” said Pietr.
We were invited out to the working boat. Myron and I looked at Pietr.
“I’m not getting on any boats,” he said. “If you want to go, I believe these people will take good care of you. I’ll sit here with binoculars, if someone can find any.” One of the bluer of the workers promptly went and got him a pair, which had a removable adaptation to fit Neptunian shaped eyes.
Myron and I went happily along with our new friends. They took us to the marine engineering firm’s Portashells which were near the edge of the water. The engineers assumed that we had clearance and invited us to come in and get into drysuits. The water was cold and the wind-chill was increasing, and we would fare much worse if we were wearing normal clothes.
A RIB is a rigid inflatable boat, and this has an engine at the rear which pushes the nose up and out of the water as it bounces along at a great speed. This was a good-sized one and I realised that it must have an antigrav component because it never sank in the water though the team of Neptunians got on with us. The marine engineer steering it took us out to the dive boat, a large – to our eyes – vessel over a mile offshore. We sat back and gripped the rope lacings along the sides and breathed in salt spray air, grinning foolishly at our friends and each other. The RIB engine was so noisy that we couldn’t really talk but we were relishing being right down at water level, streaking across the Thames estuary, heading for the most dangerous boat in the world.
Click here to buy Dining Out Around the Solar System from Amazon US / Amazon UK
About the Author:
Clare O'Beara is a tree surgeon and expert witness, and a former national standard showjumper. She has qualified in ecology and includes environmental issues in some of her stories. She serves on the Royal Dublin Society Forestry and the Environment Committee.
Clare is an award–winning writer of fiction and non–fiction, whose journalism work has been published in more than thirty countries. Her credits include Mensa Magazine and Mensa International Journal.
2013 - Winner, Print Journalism in Ireland's National Media Awards.
2014 - Winner, Arkady Renko Short Story Contest.
Top 500 Reviewer: Amazon.co.uk.
In 2013 Clare independently published seven books of crime, science fiction and romantic suspense. In 2014 she published four more. Clare reads extensively and reviews books for Fresh Fiction.com. She contributed a story to A Pint And A Haircut (Lon Dubh, 2010), an anthology in aid of Concern's Haiti fund.
In 2013 Clare independently published seven books of crime, science fiction and romantic suspense. In 2014 she published four more. Clare reads extensively and reviews books for Fresh Fiction.com. She contributed a story to A Pint And A Haircut (Lon Dubh, 2010), an anthology in aid of Concern's Haiti fund.
She lives in Dublin with her husband and cats.
Sunday, 7 December 2014
Two Weeks Left to Enter December's Short Fiction Contest
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| Attribution: Bobamnertiopsis and Immanuel Giel |
http://thecultofme.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/december-short-fiction-contest.html
There's no entry fee and the winning story will received a £50 Amazon or PayPal prize. There are prizes for second and third place as well.
The winners from November's competition have been announced and you can read the the stories here:
http://thecultofme.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/november-short-fiction-contest-winners.html
Sunday Story - Not Dead, Not Dead by Anita Dickason
Anita Dickason's story 'Not Dead, Not Dead' won third prize in April 2014's short fiction contest.
Not Dead, Not Dead by Anita Dickason
http://www.anitadickason.com
The doorbell ringing at 4am was not what I wanted to hear after two hours in bed. The last three days had been hell, with little sleep and excessive cups of coffee. The reason: Amanda Hawkins, age six, three days missing. Following leads from the Amber Alert meant pounding the pavement, with an urgency of minutes passing with no success. Being the police chief was not always a desk job.
Flipping on a light, I step out my front door. Finding no one at my door did not improve my mood. Seeing a creepy and battered old doll leaning against the porch rail added more irritation. The doll was a child’s nightmare come true: tangled grey hair, dirty and cracked face, black eye socket with an eye missing and a ragged looking dress.
Not having time to deal with someone’s idea of a prank, I turn to walk back in the house. I hear a voice echoing in the dark: “not dead, not dead.” Looking back, the doll’s one eye seems to bore into my very soul. For a second I am disoriented, everything whirling around me. Following an urge I did not understand, I pick up the doll. Suddenly, I am no longer on the porch. The doll is pulling me through a fog laden tunnel. I have a momentary vision of the doll in a stark and barren room with peeling wallpaper and skulls hanging on the wall. Another child is there. Somehow, I knew the child had been abducted and tortured. The doll is hers. As the little girl dies, the doll changes from a pretty toy to the ghoulish figure I hold. The doll absorbed the horror of what happened to the child in that room.
The doll pulls me further into the tunnel to a street corner I recognize. I walked this street talking to the Hawkins’ neighbors. The street disappears and the tunnel ends in a basement. I see Amanda lying on the floor, hands and feet are tied. The voice repeats: “not dead, not dead.” Before I can reach her, I am pulled back into the tunnel. When my vision clears I am back on my porch still holding the doll.
At that moment I knew, with absolute certainty, where to find Amanda. I had talked to the owner of the house during the neighborhood search. Dropping the doll, I run to my car. I call for backup as I race to the location. When the search team enters the house, I immediately head to the basement. I find Amanda lying on the floor, just as I had seen her. She was alive and again I hear the voice, this time with a note of joy: “not dead, not dead.”
At home, I cannot find the doll. It is gone. As I ponder my incredible experience, for a brief instant I see the doll: desolate and alone, standing guard in a barren room of lost hope.
Sunday Story - Johnny Remember Me by Andrew Campbell-Kearsey
Andrew Cambell-Kearsey's story 'Johnny Remember Me' was second place winner in April 2014's short fiction contest.
Johnny Remember Me by Andrew Campbell-Kearsey
‘It’s your electrics, mate. You’re going to need the place completely rewired. It’s a deathtrap.’
John shook his head. The cash cow he’d inherited from his great aunt was fast becoming a white elephant.
‘It’s going to cost at least twelve grand,’ said the electrician before he left.
John remembered childhood stays at this seaside resort where “The Fright of Your Life” was the biggest tourist attraction in the area. He recalled the queues and helping out on the ice cream stand. His parents were concerned that spending time amongst the machines that were designed to scare the punters with their staring eyes and mechanically controlled limbs would lead to nightmares. But John had loved seeing behind the scenes as well as hearing the squeals and shrieks of shock and horror from the paying public.
A stocktaking of his inheritance showed that half of the models were beyond repair and that the remaining half required substantial work to get them functional again.
He longed to escape his IT job in the city but wondered whether this was a viable money-making option. His business self knew it was a huge risk. He worried that the public’s tastes had become more sophisticated when it came to horror. They demanded realism. But his sentimental heart wanted to resurrect the attraction as a way of recapturing his childhood memories.
John decided to spend the evening walking among the exhibits before he made up his mind. His friends had suggested throwing a party. They thought it would be cool to spend time there after-hours amongst the fake blood and pretend instruments of torture. But he needed time on his own. Besides, the place was a health and safety minefield.
He let himself using the huge bunch of keys the solicitor had given him. “The Fright” had been locked up for years and the natural spiders’ webs made the place look creepier than any special effects expert could manage.
He stopped at the refreshments counter. There were just a few popcorn kernels visible on the counter. The few working lights flickered. John lit his path with the app on his iPhone. The soles of his trainers stuck to the carpets in the hallway. He looked in at some of the rooms, whose names he recalled from his youth. “The Mad Dentist” had always been popular with shrieks from the hapless patients while he extracted teeth without anaesthetic. There was a door at the end without a name. Perhaps it was for storage. He tried the door handle. It was stiff but gave way when he applied pressure. He was in a small room he didn’t recall. There was a small mannequin of a girl in the centre attached to an electrical cable. He put the plug into the socket to see if the machine came to life. Her one lifeless eye appeared to stare right at him. She spoke with the voice of his aunt,
‘Why did you have to kill me, Johnny?’
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