Tag Archives: short story

Old Man Madigan

Old Man Madigan

This is an excerpt from a new short story, set in Colonial Australia, elements of the Weird playing on the edges. For the story of its creation see my blog post here.

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They rode out with the intent to kill Old Man Madigan, and the means to make it so. So they thought.

It wasn’t going to be easy of course. Madigan had been around before any of them had come to this parched and barren patch of earth. He’d been living amongst the red dust and scrub through droughts and fires and famine. He was a survivor was Old Man Madigan, not one of them doubted that.

When the trading post had first been raised, and the telegraph station beside it, and eventually, by accretion of corrugated iron and stubborn will, a town had formed, Old Man Madigan had been there. Watching them. Separate even when he came amongst them on that skinny-ribbed nag of his.

The rumours about him had been passed between drovers and wanderers for years. Some were plausible, others wild… most fell into that wide crack between the two. It was widely accepted that he had a thing for children. Everyone frowned on that of course – furrowed their brows and tutted amongst themselves in the public bar or on the steps of the church, glared at him when he came to town. As long as he just took the black-fellas kids it was a quiet rebuke. Excuses were made by some: She lured him, she was drunk on cheap whiskey, she weren’t that young really. In the end no one much cared what Madigan did to the little black girls in that hut well out of town. He took boys too though, and that was harder to explain.

The black-fellas weren’t stupid. Their mobs moved around, and soon enough they moved away from Old Man Madigan. When they came back it was in large groups – the men painted for war, carrying long spears, large shields, wooden clubs barbed with bone shards. Maybe that’s when Madigan got desperate. Maybe it was because the black-fellas had enough of losing their sons and daughters. Whatever it was, when Davey Thomas’ little girl went missing tongues were quick to wag and fingers were pointed into the north-east, along that narrow track that would lead to Old Man Madigan’s door.

Taking black girls was one thing, Madigan wouldn’t be the first to put a brown bastard in a black belly, but taking a pretty little town girl from a good church-going family, that was quite another. That was the sort of thing that would get folks riled.

John Ryan had been one of the first to stand on the step of the church and urge the men of the town to come together.

‘For justice,’ he’d cried, and the other men had nodded. Father O’Malley had called upon the gathered crowd to bring Old Madigan to the Lord for absolution, but Ryan had a different view of what justice would be and in the end more men had agreed with him than with a priest so new in town.

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The Iron Hills

Like ‘The Green Monkeys‘ and the recently published ‘A Choice of Kings‘ this is set in the same fictional world as my novel ‘Exile‘. In this instance though the time period is about a generation earlier.

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The Iron Hills

Out beyond the palisades, and the ridge of ancient earthen ramparts cut into the hillside, the flat southern fields lay furrowed but unsown. They had been kept fallow through winter, until the Airu moon had risen anew. Then the ploughmen had harnessed up their oxen and set their ploughshares to gouge long wounds into the dirt.

At night, when they returned to the taverns, or to the fire in the market square, they were welcomed and admired. A good ploughman kept his furrows straight and close so that the yield from each man’s strip would be the greater. The ploughmen would sit together and complain each night that the soil was still too hard or, if there had been rains, that it was too soft. They cursed the rocks that hid underground and dulled their ploughs. They would blame the Other Folk, the faeries and gremlins and the mischievous sprites of the fields, for all manner of misfortunes, and then, when the ale had taken its effect, they would laugh and tell tales until the sun was gone from the sky and their sleeping pallets beckoned.

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This is an unpublished Fantasy Short Story complete ate 7,000 words.


The Thing in the City (2012)

Somewhere down through the twisting alleys and the narrow streets, down past scrawled and fading graffiti and piled refuse, down between the cracks… a thing grew.

In its beginning it was asomatous. It was a discarnate self, experiencing first the qualia of time, and then of place. It felt the passing of moments. It extended itself into a niche where people rarely went, and in that corner of the city which few knew of, which even fewer cared to visit, there amidst the marginalia of five million stories, it became.

 

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This is a Weird Urban Fantasy, complete at 1500 words.


Aussie Rules Footy YA Story

This is something I wrote for a middle-school / young adult audience. I think there’s a lot of books out there that cater to this niche, Speckie Magee, being probably the most famous. It’s probably not something I’ll pursue but I am thinking about a few story ideas that would work for a Young Adult audience so I wouldn’t entirely rule it out either.

 

The Final!

They looked out across the field with the sun warming their faces like a distant fire. Today would be the day when it was decided. The Final! Mike had been waiting all year for this. He was as happy as a pig in mud!

Their opposition were the boys from over the river. Mike watched them get off their bus and file into the change-rooms. They were ants: small and weak and about to be crushed. He smiled and looked at his mate Bobby.

“Look at those donkeys,” he laughed.

“They do look scared mate,” Bobby agreed. Bobby was a gun. Mike knew as long as they had Bobby on their side they’d win today. He was an absolute star.

They were sitting on the old fence that kept the spectators off the ground. It looked magnificent out in the middle. Green grass shone proudly in the sun. The goal-posts stood tall and straight like soldiers at attention. Suddenly Mike felt the nerves. He had butterflies in his stomach and he felt like he could jump out of his skin.

“Let’s go get ready,” he suggested, as he slid off the fence. Bobby nodded and joined him.

They went into their own change-rooms and threw their bags down with a crash.

“Hey, boys. Go easy!” their coach yelled. “you nearly knocked the wall down!” Mike and Bobby laughed. “You kids have got to be the strongest under-15s that have ever played the game,” Coach added with a grin.

After they had gotten changed the coach called all the boys in for the pre-game speech.

“Right boys. We’ve played hard all season. We’ve taken it one week at a time. We’ve beaten whoever they’ve put out against us. Today there are no second chances. This is it! The big dance! The final showdown! This is what you’ve been working toward your whole life! Now we’ve all got to pitch in together to get the win today. A champion team will beat a team of champions any day, and if we don’t stick to the team-work we’ve been working on we won’t win the game. Now I don’t want to have made it this far and not go home with the chocolates! Let’s go out there and smash them boys! Let’s grind them into the dust! Let’s kill them!”

The whole team roared and Mike roared with them. Then the doors were flung open and they stampeded out into the blinding sunlight.


A Gordian Knot

Today I finished a short story that I started maybe two years ago and which I’ve been wrestling with on-and-off occasionally ever since. I had reached a sticking point, and I feel I may have solved the problem today.

When I write a short story it often starts with a character, or a scene. I have plenty of scratchings and notes of this sort which may never become short stories of their own. Some of them might be chiseled and shaped, or molded into new things and added to or inserted within another project or a different story.   Many of them remain as notes or scenes or character descriptions for characters who will never be given a story. Hopefully I’ll come back to some occasionally and expand on them.

This short story started out with two characters, young boys, our protagonist and his only friend. As I wrote it I reached a point where the two characters were, I feel, well developed and the relationship between them was well-defined with a few nuances. The lesser characters with whom they interacted were shallow, as is often required in a short story where an economy of words is essential, but I was overall happy with the characterisation.

The setting was part of the world I created for my novel “Exile”, so it was well developed. If anything it was perhaps over-developed for the needs of the short story. As with “The Green Monkeys” and “A Choice of Kings”, also set in this fictional world (“The Green Monkeys” also set in ‘Talamh’), there was a challenge in leaving out some of the irrelevant detail I had developed. This is sometimes a problem for Fantasy writers and authors. Once someone has created a highly-detailed alternative world there is a compulsion to tell your readership all about it. In detail. Too much detail. George RR Martin has spoken of how important it is to use only the details of the setting that are relevant to the plot, and invented only a few words of Valyrian or Dothraki (only those that the text required to demonstrate how the languages were different and foreign). Joe Abercrombie has spoken of his distaste for maps and his novels always reference their setting with a deliberately lack of specificity. Tolkein on the other hand created a meticulous history and several languages for Middle Earth. In truth the stories of Middle Earth, “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” were by-products. Tolkein was a professional philologist and his central concern was to develop languages, from these he created Middle Earth so that people could speak his languages; the narratives that resulted were never his intended goal, and while in many instances the detail of Tolkein’s setting is what set him apart and spawned his legion imitators really few people complained when the film adaptation cut whole chapters of Tom Bombadil out. It didn’t detract from the narrative at all.

The plot I also had mapped out. I don’t usually map a plot too early in my process. As I said the story will start as a scene or a character, I’ll build on that, hopefully develop a conflict and some complications and at that point sit down to map them out. In this instance I had an initiating circumstance, a conflict, rising complications, a conclusion, and a resolution. I knew what would happen, how each event would lead to the next, and how the story would end.

In short I had everything I needed: characters, setting, plot. And yet one scene was holding me up. I knew what needed to happen in the scene. I knew who was involved. I knew where in the narrative the scene belonged. I knew what brought the characters together at that point. I knew where they had to go after that scene… I just couldn’t write it. I tried. Several times. It always sounded naff. Not terrible. Kinda ‘passable’ but just… not good enough.

It was frustrating.

So today I took a different path. No more chiseling at the edges, no more gentle molding, no more sanding back or polishing, no more pulling at threads hoping the knot would unravel. I took the sword to it. I cut it right back, made the dialogue do a lot more of the heavy lifting, took out some unnecessary details and…

And I think it’s worked. Maybe I wake up in the morning and post a retraction. Maybe it was horrible and needs to be re-written, but for the first time I am confident that at least structurally it’s right. The drafting and revising process isn’t finished, but it’s close, and the story actually looks like a story now. There’s not a great big chunk missing out of the middle like there had been.

It’s called “To the Iron Hills”, and it’ll be between 7,500 and 8,000 words complete. I’ll post a couple of thousand words as an excerpt here soon, but I’m keeping most of this one up my sleeve for now and I’ll definitely be submitting it to some publication markets when it’s ready. I reckon this one’s a good one.


Leaving the Farm (2012)

They’re walking between the rolling hills, the folds of the land. It’s just like it used to be, only she’s so much taller and now it’s her who needs to slow to match his pace.

Around them are close-cropped paddocks, rabbit burrows, low walls of piled stone by the roadways; taut tension-wire fences cutting across the land.

In the corner of the bottom paddock stands an ancient oak. Below that an old bath-tub, used as a water trough, and some lazy cattle gathered around in the shade. The old fence-line is marked now by a row of conifers, and the occasional rotted fence-post standing useless and alone.

Farther out, by the creek, the native gums hold sway. From one lower branch a frayed rope dangles over a stagnant billabong. Almost, on the wind or in the memory, there are the sounds of children laughing and chiacking and splashing. Echoes from a summer long since passed.

Twilight is coming on. A crack from a .22 sounds from over the hill on some farm beyond.

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This is a Contemporary Rural Short Story about what is lost to progress.


My first publication

I’ve just had my short story “A Choice of Kings” accepted by “Dark Edifice”, a new Australian Speculative Fiction magazine. It’s a non-professional market, but it’s a publication!

Their website is http://darkedifice.webs.com/magazine. Edition #1 is available for free now. My story will be appearing in edition #2 in July or August.

Some of you may have read the story on my blog already but I’ve removed it from there and put a link to Dark Edifice instead.

It’d be great if you could support this new magazine, and in turn support emerging and established Australian writers. They’re also on FB: http://www.facebook.com/DarkEdificeMagazine.

I’m going to to pop some proverbial champagne.


Rejection

…is an inevitable part of the aspiring author’s life. I recognise this. Rationally I acknowledge it. In a sense I am glad that it is as common as it is; it means that when (not if) I am successful in a submission I will know its worth.

Often when the rejection comes through it is a cursory note, or a proforma e-mail, or some other sort of standard ‘thank you but unfortunately…’ kind of response. That’s fair enough too. I imagine that the slush-pile of any publication accepting unsolicited submission doesn’t really allow for a detailed analysis of the story’s strengths and weaknesses. There are other support services for that after all.

One of my submissions, to an Australian Fantasy / Spec-fic magazine (now gone digital) was an exception.

I submitted my short story “The Green Monkeys” and was unsuccessful. The reader’s response I got was:

“While this story is competently written and has a cute title there is little new going on in what is essentially short fantasy adventure story. I was constantly nagged by the lack of explanation as to why a young man in a medieval-esque Ireland would call a goblin a monkey. This is “classic” story telling without a good zing in the tail to grab attention.”

My initial reaction was, of course, disappointment. That’s natural. If I wasn’t disappointed I might as well give up I reckon. With a bit of distance though I can’t really argue too much with the comments.

  • “competently written” … well could be worse I suppose. ‘competent’ still seems workmanlike and uninspired, but it’s better than incompetent.
  • “cute title”… I’m not sure what is meant by “cute”, but if the title has attracted attention then its served its purpose, so not too unhappy with this.
  • “nagged by lack of explanation”… I think it’s always a difficult balance to strike with Fantasy (or invented worlds generally) between plotting and exposition. In other forms of fiction I might say “1943 in France…”, or “she was an African-American living in the deep south…” and the reader will bring so much knowledge that it’s unnecessary to explain the connotations of those settings / characters. This is not true of Fantasy. Often the reader will bring very little knowledge to the author’s world, especially in a short story. The flip-side of this is that the reader doesn’t want to get bogged down in characters telling each other what they already know for the sake of the reader. The “as you know…” conversation might pass muster on CSI, but I doubt it’s my path to publication.
  • “classic” story telling … that sounds really nice, except for the tone imparted by the quote marks over ‘classic’
  • “without a good zing” … and that sums it up really I reckon.

So that’s what I’m taking away from this rejection: got to make it zing, got to grab attention.

It’s not enough to be competent, cute, or a classic story. It’s got to have something which sets it apart for the reader from all the other competent classic story-telling in the slush-pile.

Now all I need to do is figure out how to make my stories ‘zing’.

Easy as that huh?


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