Update.

The rewrites on my novel, The Land of Midnight Days, are going really well. The advice and feedback I’ve received from both my workshop group and my potential publishers have been concise, clear and amazingly helpful. I’ve now cut three unnecessary characters, reduced the number of points of view and yet still increased the overall word count.

I’ve also changed my target audience from Adult to Young Adult. Even though at first I wasn’t too keen to write for a younger audience, I’ve now come to realise  perhaps that’s where my strength lies, especially since trying my hand at Flash Fiction and found writing for children much easier. This doesn’t mean to say I’ve allowed my standards to drop, young people can be very insightful and don’t appreciate being served up “secondhand” goods. I want to write quality fiction and give my potential readership every pennyworth of value for their money.

I don’t want to be another JK Rowling, although I wouldn’t mind her success, I want to be different and perhaps appeal to a slightly wider audience. There’s magic, mayhem, twisted relationships, romance, hate and love, contained in my book and if it turns out not to be one hell of a read, it won’t be from want of trying.

For more short stories, articles and novel extracts, go to:

http://www.katejack.co.uk

My cat’s just thrown up on my bed!

Much as I love my cat, Meg, she can be quite disgusting. I’d just settled down to do some re-writes on my novel, and was well into my stride, when I was distracted by the most godawful noise. Retching, her head darting back and forwards, my sweet little kitty brought up her entire tea. Was she ill? I hear you ask. No, says I, she’s just a gannet. Honest to God you’d think she never got fed, such is the speed with which she consumes her food.

To add insult to injury she then takes a crap, filling the room with the fragrance of eau de poo and finishes up by legging it into the kitchen and overturning the bin!

Cats, love ‘em, loathe ‘em? What do you think?

For more short stories, articles and novel extracts, go to:

http://www.katejack.co.uk

Fingers crossed.

 

At long last I have a stab at becoming a published author. I heard last night from a company I’d approached that they are interested, subject to some re-writes, which I’m more than happy to undertake.

So the hard work begins and I’m really looking forward to it. Can’t wait to sink my teeth in and make The Land of Midnight Days the very best it can be. Wish me luck and keep your fingers (as well as your toes) crossed for me.

For more short stories, novel extracts and articles, go to:

http://www.katejack.co.uk

Memories for sale.

Mailfus was desperate for new memories, he could no longer cope with the ones he had. The gods alone knew he’d tried,  but it was no good. Snippets from his past crowded his conscience with their incessant haranguing, filling his head with blood soaked images.

Stumbling along the narrow, cobbled street he elbowed his way past gentry and peasants, who regarded him with the contempt reserved for drunkards.

After a short while he could go no further and paused to lean against the whitewashed wall of an inn. As he stood there Mailfus felt something soak through the sides of his worn out shoes. He looked down to discover he was standing in a pool of piss, doubtless tossed out of the window above. He started to curse, but then stopped – he had more important things to worry about.

His heart hammered in his chest and his throat felt red-raw. The illness wasn’t real, it was all in his mind. Mailfus knew that, but couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was dying. Not possible, he was only twenty summers old, but felt nearer fifty. He chewed his bottom lip. His patron had warned him of this.

‘Most hire-men can kill without a qualm well into their old age, but for some the memory sickness overcomes them and they die in agony.’

 He’d laughed at the time, pouring scorn on those too weak to fend off their fears. Even so, some of what his patron had said penetrated even his dull wits and when Lord Weavegold held out a card between two be-ringed fingers, Mailfus had taken it.

‘Keep it safe,’ his patron warned. ‘It may be the only thing between you and insanity.

The mocking smile on his thin lips had scared Mailfus, but he’d not allowed it to show.

Pushing himself upright, he retrieved the now tattered card from his tunic pocket. Sweat poured down his forehead and into his eyes, as he peered at the faded writing.

“Memories for sale, guaranteed fresh and wholesome.”

A scowl creased Mailfus’ brow. “Wholesome,” who wanted that? Then a new surge of his own memories filled his head and he clutched at the sides of his hair and staggered on up the road in search of the Memory Smith’s shop.

***

Silas Idlefort checked the cauldron hung above the flames in the cavernous fireplace. The green, bubbling contents gave off an acrid stench. As he stirred the virulent liquid and then began to decant it into small glass bottles, the old man’s mind was filled with thoughts of his daughter.

Isis had been a warrior maiden, a member of the king’s elite corp. A tear rose to Silas’s eye, as he recalled how proud and splendid she’d looked in her armour, which had gleamed like silver in the early morning sun.

The call came all too soon and she marched off to war; what returned bore no resemblance to the beautiful woman she’d once been. She’d never reached the battlefield but had been poisoned by an unknown hand on the eve of the army’s embarkation. To add insult to injury, her body had been mutilated by the killer hired by the king’s sworn enemy, Lord Weavegold. An unknown hand? Silas shook his head. He was skilled in small magic and had managed, by dint of great effort, to discover the identity of her murderer – much good it would do, for where would he find the filth? There were a myriad of places such a one could hide.

Silas clenched his fists. That was all he saw now, waking or sleeping, Isis’s ruined face, with its nose split open and her ears notched, as if she’d been a prize cow, marked by the man who now owned her life.

With a hand that shook, Silas picked up a bottle and raised it to his lips. The liquid would drive away the sludge of nightmare and replace it with happier memories of better days, but did he want to forget?

‘No!’ The bottle shattered against a nearby wall.

Silas glared at the spreading stain. He would not succumb until Isis’ death had been paid for. But when would that be? His thin shoulders slumped in defeat as he rested his hands flat on the counter. The day of vengeance would never arrive.

He was startled from his musings by the sudden jangling of the bell above the door. Someone almost fell into the shop. Silas grimaced, he was in no mood for yet another drink filled sot wasting his time. Graybeard he might be, but he could still see this fellow off.

The “drunk” straightened up, his features obscured by the shadows of the large and dusty room. It wasn’t until he staggered towards the counter, where a candle burned, that his face was revealed.

Silas’s eyes widened.

‘I-I need to buy new memories,’ Mailfus gasped. When  there was no response he dragged a hand across his mouth, then said, ‘My wife and children died last month from the plague.’

Silas nodded. ‘I see. Such a great loss for you.’ He stared at the wretch before him, his thoughts passing like quicksilver through his brain.

Liar! Thief! Murderer!

A smile forced its way onto his lips as he reached beneath the counter. He placed a bottle, filled with a wonderful silver liquid that swirled and sparkled, before the customer. He uncorked it, held it  beneath the hire man’s nose; Mailfus inhaled, eyes closed in ecstasy.

‘What is it?’ he murmured.

‘Your dreams, your future memories,’ Silas replied.

Mailfus grabbed the bottle, raised it to his mouth and upended it.

As he watched the man’s eyes bulge from their sockets and the veins stand out from  his forehead, Silas knew he would find peace at last. All the pain and torment he’d suffered and all the pain and torment his daughter must have suffered, had been distilled into the silver liquid now coursing through Mailfus’ body.

Strange it should look so beautiful and yet be so deadly.

Silas stepped over the writhing form of Mailfus. Time to summon the asylum keepers. He hoped they had a cell strong enough and deep enough to hold the creature now locked in fear and pain from which he would never escape. The strongest potion in the world would not release him.

Silas had made very sure of that.

For more short stories, novel extracts and articles, go to:

http://www.katejack.co.uk

That one perfect moment.

That one perfect moment that comes perhaps once in a lifetime and fills your day with a glorious flow of absolute splendour. It may be fleeting and it may never happen again for a long, long time, but when it does lock it away somewhere deep inside and when your life seems blue, take it out and hold the precious jewel of blissful memory.

What makes a moment of perfection? Many things, I suppose, each person’s experience is different. For me it’s when my writing comes together and I believe that one day I can share my vision with others and they’ll love it, really love it. Or maybe it could be a sunset or sunrise, as clichéd as that might sound. To see the clouds flushed with different hues of pink and orange and violet. Or to hear a bird sing so beautifully it brings a tear to the eye and a thrill of pleasure to the soul. 

Perhaps a clear winter night sky, filled with tiny specks of light and a moon sailing serenely above the earth, its pale beauty casting a benevolent glow.  Whatever it might be, precious moments are made even more so by the sometimes fractious times we live in, when all seems discordant and harsh. Yet, beauty still abounds and all we have to do is make ourselves see it.

It’s there; all you have to do is look.

For stories, novel extracts and articles, go to:

http://www.katejack.co.uk

The shop at the end of Nowhere Lane.

The shop at the end of Nowhere Lane

By

K.A.Jack

Nowhere Lane was where all the kids went to play. It wasn’t really a lane; It was really a long, scrubby path that ran along the edge of the local park. One side was bordered with a wooden fence and beyond that was miles of open fields, stretching away to the horizon and a pale blue sky filled with white clouds. Daffodils waved their golden heads in the merry breeze and chattered softly amongst themselves about the arrival of spring.

 Mia stood at the top of the path, looking down its long length to where a group of trees stood. That’s why it was called “Nowhere Lane”, ‘cos it didn’t lead anywhere, except to the small wood. Mia knew it took only a few seconds to go through the copse and come out on onto the big lawn in front of the crematorium. Still it wasn’t hard to believe, from this vantage point, that another world existed on the other side.

 The daffodils chattered on, inviting her to join in their celebratory dance. She ignored them and looked down at the patchy grass instead. She loved fairy tales, especially those where you found yourself in another place or even another time. Her favourite books were: The Chronicles of Narnia, Alice in Wonderland, and Alice through the looking glass. Mia swallowed down her tears and told herself the fact her dad had made her throw them all away didn’t matter. He was right; she was too big to be reading that rubbish now. She was nearly ten and it was high time, as her father had said, that she grew up.

Eyes filled with longing, she looked down the lane again and wondered. Local rumour said there was a shop somewhere along here – a magical shop. That is to say not a place that sold tricks and cards and top hats with rabbits in them, but a proper shop that sold magic itself. Mia sighed. Only a very few had ever seen it and they were dismissed as being silly and stupid, but somehow she knew the stories were true, or at least wished they were.

You had to be special to see the shop, a certain kind of person. Mia hunched her shoulders. Her dad’s interpretation of “special” was that anyone who said they’d been to the shop at the end of Nowhere Lane was backwards or just plain nuts. He was probably right.

The daffodils were getting excited again. Their shrill voices rose in a chorus of pleas, as Mia began to walk away. She looked over her shoulder at the scatty flowers and stuck out her tongue.

‘I’m going,’ she said, ‘and I won’t come here ever again.’

 The daffodils stretched out their leaves in supplication, but Mia marched away, determined not to look back. And yet… and yet, her footsteps led her towards the woods, when she really wanted to go home. As she drew nearer the trees she could hear the tinkling of the bluebells, the chimes from their tiny blue heads sounding clear and sweet.  She could not resist their charm.

It’s the last time, she told herself and stepped inside the wood.

The ground was carpeted with fallen pine needles. Feathery ferns tickled her legs and birds sang high up in the branches, a chorus of welcome. Mia grinned, filled with sheer happiness. It was a feeling so rare and precious these days that she hugged herself, trying to keep it inside, where no one could get at it and take it away.

Then she saw it, the yellow glow from windows with thick glass that had circles at their centre. Smoke rose from a twisted chimney that looked like a stick of barley sugar. A green painted door, with a brass goblin as a knocker, stood a little way open. Mia looked around. The woods suddenly seemed different – bigger – as if, as if… Her grin broadened.

As she approached the door, the brass goblin winked. ‘Wotcha,’ it said and the door creaked further back.

As she stepped over the threshold, Mia’s eyes widened at the myriad of wondrous things on display. There were jars of sweets, shelves of books, jars of fairy dust and a million, squillon other things she’d never seen before. A white haired gent, clad in a long green apron stood behind the counter.

‘Hello Mia,’ he said and his eyes twinkled sapphire blue over the top of his half-moon spectacles. ‘Welcome to the shop at the end of Nowhere Lane.’

As Mia stepped towards him, she knew that she would have to go back and face the real world again, but not yet, not just yet.

‘Hello Mr Shopkeeper,’ she said, ‘I’ve come to buy some magic.’

For more short stories, novel extracts and articles, go to:

http://www.katejack.co.uk