MATT HILTON – SLASH AND BURN SHORT STORY COMPETITION

Voting has now started in the Matt Hilton - Slash and Burn Short Story competition.

There are ten cracking stories to read and then vote on. Go on, double digit here and ENJOY.

CLARITY OF NIGHT "SILHOUETTE" SHORT FICTION CONTEST

Holding onto David Barber’s coattails, I decided to ask Jason Evans for feedback on my “Silhouette” entry.

I’m glad I did because Jason very kindly provided some detailed and positive feedback, which is very much food for thought. My thanks go to Jason and to David for the original idea.

I’ll take this onboard and, like David, I thought I would re-post my piece and Jason’s feedback.

THE ETON RIFLES

Smithers-Jones swung the shotgun and squeezed the trigger in one swift movement. The wood pigeon dropped like a stone and the gundog disappeared into the gorse after it.

“Valentine,” Smithers-Jones, a plumy Eton toff, broke both barrels. “An associate highly recommended you.”

Smithers-Jones was resplendent, from top to toe: Checked flat cap. Tweed shooting jacket. Plus fours. Argyle socks. Leather boots.

My old man liked a hat and a shotgun. He’d have taken a hacksaw to Smithers-What’s-His-Face’s Purdey and stuck-up the local bank with it.

“I’m a Private Investigator Mr Smithers-Jones.” I scraped my shoe on the wet grass, “What can I do for you?”

“Find my daughter,” Smithers-Jones scanned the lead grey skies for another feathered victim. “She’s a bloody embarrassment.” A beat passed. “Drink and drugs. That sort of thing.”

“Daughters come home, to their loved ones, of their own accord eventually,” I turned up my coat collar against the wind. “When the money runs out.”

Smithers-Jones flashed me a look like I was a turd. Just like the piece I’d removed from the sole of my brogue.

“Her junky friends persuaded her to take a rather expensive family heirloom. Hence the urgency.” He slotted two cartridges and snapped the shotgun shut. “If I had my way...” He sighed, “Her mother wants the situation handled… delicately.”

Smithers-Jones, I thought, despite his money, guns, fancy clothes and country pile, was just like all the other punters that hired me.

Same shit different arsehole…. As my old man would say.

© 2010 Alan Griffiths

JASON’S FEEDBACK

What I liked best about your piece was the attitude and voice. It had a strong impact.

I think that you could strengthen the impact quite a bit with some technical adjustments. First, you need to establish the POV right up front. The word "my" in the 4th paragraph was the first indication that this is first person POV. Up until that point, I felt that it was 3rd person, so the "my" was very jarring. As a result, in the 4th and 5th paragraphs, I became confused about who is who. I first thought that "my old man" was Smithers-Jones.

I also would encourage you to take a longer view in the impact of the writing. Not worrying so much about each paragraph's impact, but building across the paragraphs. I'm getting the sense that each of your paragraphs stand as little islands with too much attention to description in each. Without a sense of building as the reader progresses down the page, the scene feels stuck in one mode. Toward that end, I would eliminate your movement-for-the-sake-of-movement breaks in your dialogue. Examples are: "a plumy Eton toff, broke both barrels" and "I scraped my shoe on the wet grass" and "I turned my coat collar against the wind." Sometimes people try to avoid simple dialogue attributions, such as "he said," with little nuggets of action. That quickly becomes very distracting and backfires.

I'd also watch for pushing dialogue too far in order to mechanically move the story ahead, such as: "I'm a Private Investigator Mr. Smithers-Jones." I don't think he would say that like an introduction and use the guy's full name. Smithers-Jones knows he's a PI, and we usually talk to each other just by looking in the person's direction. If he were making a point about being a PI, he might say, "so why do you need a private investigator?"

I think that by focusing on the impact of the entire page, your writing will really shine.

MATT HILTON – SLASH AND BURN

Pop over to Matt’s blog for details of his short story competition to win a signed, first edition hard copy, of his novel Slash and Burn.

This is a great idea and I must put the paperback of Matt’s first Joe Hunter novel, Dead Men’s Dust, to the top of my TBR pile and start preparing.

Matt runs a great blog, which is always full of interesting snippets and great insights into his ongoing journey as a writer. He is also a top bloke and has always been encouraging and positive when I have asked for his advice.

So, what are you waiting for? Double digit HERE.

FRIDAY FLASH FICTION #18

The starter sentence for F-F-F #18 is in bold. The rest is me...

WHISKEY IN THE JAR

"As the sixth shot of whisky burnt its way down, I suddenly remembered what I left the house for."

The whisky kicked like a cold hearted mugger’s steel toe capped boot. I put the half-bottle of Bells in my inside coat pocket. It was comforting; like a woman’s soft touch on a lonely night.

“Are you getting on or what pal?”

My reverie was broken. I stepped aboard the bus and handed over a mishmash of shrapnel. The driver, a jobs-worth with a face like a red party balloon, cursed as he sorted the coins. Ignoring him I tore off my ticket and stumbled along the aisle.

Fifteen minutes later I opened my eyes, pulled out the bottle and took a surreptitious swig. An oldie tut-tutted and whispered to her coffin-dodging companion.

I belched, rang the bell and staggered off the bus. As it pulled away I toasted the two old biddies with the Bells then stuck my last Silk Cut between my lips, fired up and walked away; the damp from the pavement seeping through my worn brogues.

In bygone days, when you opened a pub door, you were confronted with billowing cigarette smoke, men throwing arrows and nineteen seventies tunes playing on the jukebox. Nowadays it’s all polished floors, pine furniture and couples playing Scrabble. Not a frigging domino in sight.

I ordered a light and bitter from the antipodean behind the jump. Between her shoulder blades a large floral tattoo was partially visible the rest of it hidden beneath her vest top. Classy.

“Light and what?”

Whatever happened to English bar staff… I wanted to ask: What’s with the hairy knees and sandals? In bloody January!

I was too tired to explain and asked for a pint of Guinness instead. I sat at a table and gulped the black stuff down to the label. When the painted lady turned her back I topped it up with Bells.

By the time Kipper arrived I was finishing my second and wishing I could afford another.

“Valentine!” Kipper had woeful dress sense. He was wearing his trademark, wide and loud, necktie. “You look rough as a dog’s arse.” He produced a roll of banknotes, “This is for you.” Cackling, he pulled off the elastic band and flicked it at me, “Put that round your rhythm and blue. It’ll stop the sole from flapping.”

The recently married Kipper was a flash, sarky bugger and, I thought, needed taking down a peg or two.

“A large malt Kipper.” I pulled a manila envelope from under my coat, “Then we’ll talk business.”

Kipper was a bookie and owned a string of shops. He had hired me to snoop on his staff. Somebody was dipping sticky fingers into the till and Kipper did not like to be taken for a fool.

Kipper returned with two malts and a couple of packets of cheese and onion. His bushy eyebrows were meeting in the middle of his forehead and he shook his head despairingly, “Silly cow flooded them with ice.”

“Jeez.” I fished cubes out and sucked my digits, “If it’s not a pint of Fosters that lot are clueless.”

“Cheers,” Kipper raised his glass.

“Up your hairy hole,” I had not yet been paid and was a little tetchy.

“Well, what’ve you got for me?” Kipper drank some whisky and stuffed potato crisps into his north and south.

I slid the envelope across, “Why’d you pick a poncy joint like this to meet?”

“The missus likes it.” He opened the envelope, “The house Pinot Grigio is rather good…” Kipper choked and coughed, pebble-dashing the waxed tabletop. “What the fuc...”

I downed my malt. Kipper’s boat-race was turning several shades of red. He looked to be on the verge of a ferocious rage. Or worse, tears.

“You’ve gone a funny colour my old son.” I slipped my hand into his sky-rocket and extracted my wages, “Same again squire?”

I waved a twenty and the painted lady sauntered over, chewing gum with the finesse of a camel. She said, “G’day,” for the third time in the space of thirty minutes.

“Two large Macallans.” I pointed to a bottle, “The twelve year old malt and no ice.”

The painted lady got busy with the drinks, then said, “Is your friend all right?”

I looked over my shoulder. Several of the glossy photographs had dropped to the floor. Kipper was staring at one and shaking like a dementia patient on speed.

“He’s had better days.”

“I recognise him.” She placed the glasses in front of me, “Usually in here with a young blonde.” Taking the twenty, she added, “She’s partial to a dry white wine spritzer.”

“That’ll be the wife.” I sighed, hammered down one of the malts and signalled for another, “That’s not all she’s partial to.”


© 2010 Alan Griffiths

CLARITY OF NIGHT "SILHOUETTE" SHORT FICTION CONTEST

I took a break from writing over the long Christmas/New Year holiday and it has been really hard to get going again.

In an attempt to break my lethargy, I put together a piece for Jason Evans Clarity of Night "Silhouette" 250 word Short Fiction Contest – using this photograph as inspiration.

I had great fun writing this flash piece and you can find my effort, The Eton Rifles, HERE.

The contest is open until Wednesday January 13th so if anybody reads this and is not aware of this project I urge you to pop over and have a gander.

My thanks go to Jason for organising this contest – browsing the other entrant’s efforts I can see that the standard is incredibly high with some cracking pieces to read and enjoy.

CRIME SCENE NI – PLAY FOR PAY

Gerard Brennan hosts a great blog, Crime Scene NI, which I always visit and read his posts with interest.

Gerard’s latest post, Play for Pay? is good reading and I was amazed that I got a mention. So, I thought I would flag it up here (not that his fine blog needs any flagging by me).

I’ve left a longwinded comment on CSNI and thought I would hold onto Gerard's coattails and see if anybody has any comments on this subject.

FRIDAY FLASH FICTION #12

The starter sentence for FFF#12 is in bold. The rest is me...

TRANSVISION VAMP

She was always threatening to punch someone in the face, but this time she meant it.

Nicki’s personal rule was to carry out an assignment in a dispassionate and professional manner but this one was turning out to be something very different.

“Fancy a little bit of rough n tumble?” Nicki said, blowing a perfect smoke ring.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he replied, a salacious leer on his face as he moved closer with a drink in each hand.

Nicki felt nose cartilage snap as her first punch, a southpaw jab, connected and wiped the smirk away. She kicked off her heels, dropped the cigarette and danced softly from side to side on the balls of her bare feet.

“Rough enough for you honey?”

Getting into a rhythm she ducked inside and threw two successive punches to his flabby gut. A groan followed by exhaled halitosis as his hands dropped, leaving his chin exposed. A ferocious right left combination dropped him, dazed, onto the carpeted floor.

“This one’s not exactly Queensberry rules,” she said and booted him in the crotch.

***

The trial had been high profile and the TV news had broadcast pictures of him leaving the court, after the not guilty verdict, surrounded by his lawyer and other sycophant friends.

The rumours were rife of his connections to the “Organisation” and the protection that gave; an expensive legal team and witness intimidation that the authorities were seemingly powerless to prevent.

Eighteen months had passed since he had walked free.

When contact was initially made Nicki had made discrete enquiries. It seemed that his usefulness to the “Organisation” was waning. The persona of a shameless and debauched, ageing playboy lifestyle was becoming too much of an embarrassment.

The identity of her employer was academic. The contract was accepted and the clock began to tick.

Allowing him to pick her up at the club was simple. The temptation to drop something lethal into his drink and then slip away in the subsequent commotion would have been the easier option.

But Nicki wanted to get up close and personal.

The journey back to his plush apartment in the chauffeured limousine had been typically ostentatious and the chitchat banal.

***

“You stupid bitch there’s at least three security cameras in the foyer and the Limo driver...” He spat blood and loose teeth onto the shag pile. “With my connections you’ll be cold on a slab within twenty four hours.”

Nicki laughed and pulled her brunette wig free. She gave him a wink, “It’s all about misdirection baby.”

His eyes bulged as she wrapped one of her silk stockings around his neck. “Cat got your tongue?”

His reply was muffled gasp for air as Nicki steadily increased the pressure.

***

Afterwards she fired off a photograph from her mobile phone, which in turn would trigger the final payment of her fee into the offshore bank account.

Nicki went into the bathroom and stripped naked. She ran hot water into the washbasin and scrubbed her face clean of makeup then pulled a change of clothes from her handbag; faded denim jeans, white tee and blue canvass slip-on pumps.

The bathroom mirror reflected the transformation as he fingered gel through his short blonde hair.

Nowadays, Nick thought as he stepped over the prone body, even hit men needed a different angle.

© 2009 Alan Griffiths