For a while now I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a short story. I used to write a lot of them when I was younger. In fact, until the age of 12 or so, I used to do a lot of different things. And then I discovered computers.

It’s taken until now, the ripe old age of 24, to rediscover my love of writing. I guess, until now, computers served a different purpose. I took them apart, and put them back together again. Programmed them, and played games with them. The only time I’ve really written on them, in a serious capacity, was for coursework at university… and that was hardly creative writing.

It’s not like I was completely devoid of fancy phrases for those 12 years or so. I’m a huge fan of oratory — delivering speeches and finely-honed arguments are both a lot of fun for me — so I’ve always been playing with words, fiddling with their placement in sentences and working them over and over until it sounded just right.

The problem with words though is that once they’re placed down there, on paper or out in the public domain, they’re done. They’re final! I’m sure you’ve all re-read something you’ve written a day later and noticed a few ways to improve it. I fear that if I was to ever write a story again I’d constantly be revising it.

I imagine that’s the job of most editors though, to prise the manuscript from the author’s umbilical, vice-like grip. To tell him gently that it’s ‘time to let go now’.

Without an editor, I find myself wondering if I could ever publish something I’ve written. I guess if it’s on my blog I can always go back and play with it, and force people to re-read it if I make a change.

In a roundabout way then, this is actually my way of telling the world that I’ve started writing a short story. It probably won’t be amazing, but I will share it with you when I’m done.

What I can share with you now is the way in which I came up with its premise: I wrote a 6-word story. Hemmingway once wrote a very short story — 6 words, in fact! — that read: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Many other authors have tried to achieve the same kind of mystery and involvement in just 6 words. Obviously, as almost every other author pales in comparison to Hemmingway, most failed. But the idea is sound: write a story in just 6 words.

I thought I would do the same, but as an introduction to a longer (and short!) story. In a rare example of me being inclusive, I’m going to suggest that all of you try to write a story in 6 words and either leave it as a comment, or in your own blog. (And tell me, so I can go read them!)

My story? It follows:

Lightning struck; his plea went unheard.

So… I’ve been writing. It’s been about 10 years since I last wrote creatively — proper fiction that is, rather than the telling of stories, which I’ve always done, and will continue to do.

This is my first attempt, and it took about 2 hours to do. I’m under no illusions here; it’s probably not amazing, but hopefully it’s at least ‘good’. Read it, and then read it again. Then, when you’re done, and you’ve thought about it a little, tell me what you think. I am aware that the formatting isn’t ideal, but I’ve tried my best for now (and it will be better next time). I should probably provide a downloadable PDF! Next time; next chapter! Also, if you are reading this in an RSS reader, you probably want to view it on my blog instead.

This is the beginning of a short story — though it could be the middle of a slightly-longer story, but committing to anything more than a short story would probably be unwise, given just how rusty I am!

The beggar flinched as a man sprinted past him and burst out of the backstreet. He raised his hand to make a rude gesture and say something weakly scathing when a second man ran by, clipping the beggar’s outstretched arm, unbalancing him enough to send him careening into a wall.

‘Shit’ the beggar said, his anger quickly deflating. Moments ago he’d been all worked up to insult the first man’s mother, and now… now, a well-dressed stranger was picking himself up off the floor, shaking out the tail of his jacket.

‘What…?’ the man mumbled, nonplussed and exhausted. Picking at a few pieces of stubborn refuse, he turned around to face the beggar. ‘Sorry about that. I was just chasing after him… and now I seem to be covered in…’ he lifted his jacket to his nose to noisily sniff ‘coffee? Why do I smell of coffee?’

‘You knocked over my cup,’ the beggar informed him. ‘But it was cold; don’t worry about it.’

‘I’ll fetch you another; it’s the least I can do.’ He smiled apologetically down at the beggar, already forgetting the damage done to his expensive jacket.

Reaching down to right the spilled cup, he noticed the dog ends of some cigarettes and other assorted jetsam in the cold, light-brown slurry the coffee had created. It also smelt a little alcoholic — interesting, he thought, that a beggar could afford such luxuries. Shrugging, he stepped out of the alley and looked around for his friend.

‘Gabe?’ he shouted, waiting for a response. When none came, he bent over to catch his breath. With his head between his legs he could see that the beggar was gone.

‘Anthony!’ Gabriel called from the doorway of a café further up the street. ‘Over here!’

Slowly straightening himself, Anthony began walking down the cold, cobbled street, fighting back the cramps and the exhaustion. In those 100 yards to the café, Anthony wondered how he’d ended up here, in the middle of a deserted street. A deserted street in a small English town; a town seemingly so far removed from civilisation that it didn’t even have street lamps.

He stopped at the bright entrance to the café, smiling wearily at Gabe who was sitting down at a table, already nursing a hot cup of coffee, his favourite. Smiling, after everything they’d been through. It was that infectious enthusiasm – that ready, cheeky grin – that had dragged him, kicking and screaming, along for the ride. Yet again he had been reeled in by his enigmatic friend to set off on another reckless flight of fancy.

‘Perhaps ‘friend’ is too strong a term,’ he muttered remorsefully to himself as he stumbled across the cheap plastic flooring and slumped into the chair opposite Gabriel.

Catching the eye of the only waitress – the owner – Gabriel quickly another coffee.

‘You know I don’t like coffee, Gabe.’ Anthony sighed; they’d done this dance before. It felt like they’d done this very same dance in every damn café in England. ‘Tea. I like tea. Well brewed tea, with a little milk. Tea.’

‘I’ll convert you eventually, trust me,’ Gabriel said with a grin; that same grin that Anthony had seen all too often. Through America, Ireland and now England it had been that grin, accompanied by his unerring, unswerving confidence that had secured the information they had so desperately sought and fought for. It was the same information that had led them, ultimately, to this dingy, Formica-tabled café. Anthony nodded a thank you at the old, wrinkled owner of the café as she retreated back behind the counter and lifted the cup of coffee.

‘You know, I won’t enjoy this,’ Anthony said wryly, the slightest trace of a grin forming at the corner of his lips. He couldn’t help it – there was something about Gabriel, of that much he was certain; he just didn’t know what. They’d done this dance before, and every time Anthony had ended up grinning like a fool and drinking the damn coffee. He lifted the cup to his lips and sipped it quietly. ‘It might taste like shit, but right now – and don’t quote me on this – it’s just what I need.’

‘It couldn’t be helped, Ant. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.’

‘It’s always avoidable! And Gabe?’

‘Yeah?’ He was still grinning; grinning like some kind self-righteous imp.

‘Don’t call me Ant, you know I hate it almost as much as I hate this coffee,’ he stated hotly, before gulping the rest of it down with a grimace. ‘You said this time things would be different. You always say that though; I shouldn’t be surprised…’

‘Look, Ant. Anthony. We got what we needed! Surely, in the grand scale of things, that’s all that matters.’ It was a statement, not a question. Anthony had been here before; he’d heard it all before. Same shit, different town – and the same coffee.

‘We didn’t even go back to check on the kid…’Anthony gently reminded him as he looked down into the dregs of his coffee, unable to look at his friend. Through the corner of his vision he saw Gabriel’s grin quickly fade and his brow furrow. He was actually sad; an emotion Anthony had seen in Gabriel’s face only a handful of times since they were kids. Gabriel gently put down his coffee cup and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for some money. He was already grinning again, by the time Anthony looked up, but not quite so broadly.

‘I’ll pay for both of us,’ Gabe said eagerly, as if that would somehow make up for the atrocity that Anthony and Gabriel had just perpetrated. Anthony nodded; he was still too numb from what had happened less than an hour ago to argue. He reached into his jacket, and touched his fingers gently to the wound; it was warm and sticky. The bleeding had started again.

‘I must’ve torn the stitches back in the alley,’ Anthony said quietly, wincing as his fingers continued their exploration. ‘Why did you have to run? Running draws attention; that beggar –’

‘Because we had to get away quickly. Trust me,’ Gabriel interjected, quickly rising to his feet and striding over to the door, his enthusiasm fully restored. Gabe opened the door and a siren could be heard in the distance; he grinned. ‘We should get going, Ant’

‘Is that a fire engine?’ Anthony asked, alarmed. Fragments of the last hour were bubbling up from the groggy depths of his memory, ready to be freshly analysed. Slowly he pieced them together to form a complete vision; a vision that he immediately regretted seeing. He gaped at Gabriel, aghast at what his friend had set in motion.

‘I told you, we should get going.’

(If you don’t like reading, feel free to skip this entry.  Pretty photos tomorrow, I promise!)

It’s the beginning of the weekend, and the blogosphere slowly empties. People are driving home to their loved ones, or getting out the secret supplies of chocolate and putting on a film.

Meanwhile, I’m here, rehashing the beginning of my awesome short story. I took your tips to heart (because, really, who am I to argue? I have almost no prose-writing experience), and I’ve churned out… a new beginning! It’s not wildly different, though hopefully it reads more easily. The start is clearer, and more interesting (I hope).

Oh, and I’ve fixed the formatting (though, again, if you’re viewing it in an RSS reader, it probably won’t be perfect).

So, with less obfuscatory, clunky adjectives:

The beggar awoke, startled by a man sprinting past him. He started to say something rude but his voice failed him. Frowning, he stretched his legs, shut his eyes and tried to sleep.

‘Get out of the way!’

Another man quickly swam into focus and tripped over the beggar’s legs, careening into the wall and hitting his head. With his legs giving way from underneath him, he collapsed into a heap.

‘Shit’ the beggar said, crawling over to check the stranger, his irritation at the first man quickly dissipating. A well-dressed stranger was prone before him; how fortunate.

‘Mate?’ the beggar said, quietly, trying not to stir him, his eyes drawn to something shiny protruding from the stranger’s jacket pocket. Reaching out, his fingers gripped the object; slippery, smooth, but too heavy to move. The man stirred and groaned, causing the beggar to release his grip and quickly shuffle backwards.

‘What…?’ the man mumbled, nonplussed and exhausted. He picked himself up off the floor, shaking out the tail of his jacket. ‘Sorry about that. I was chasing after him… and now I seem to be covered in…’ he lifted his jacket to his nose ‘coffee? Why do I smell of coffee?’ He picked at a few stubborn pieces of refuse before rubbing down his jacket.

‘You knocked over my cup,’ the beggar said, shuffling a little further away. ‘But it was cold, don’t worry.’

‘I’ll fetch you another; it’s the least I can do.’ He smiled apologetically down at the beggar, already forgetting the damage done to his expensive jacket.

Reaching down to right the spilled cup, he noticed the dog ends of some cigarettes and other assorted jetsam in the cold, light-brown slurry of coffee. It smelt a little alcoholic too — interesting, he thought, that a beggar could afford such luxuries. Shrugging, he stepped out of the alley and looked around for his friend.

‘Gabe?’ he shouted, waiting for a response. When none came, he bent over to catch his breath. With his head between his legs he could see that the beggar was gone.

‘Anthony!’ Gabriel called from the doorway of a café further up the street, ‘Over here!’ With the low cloud occluding his vision, he could only just make out Gabriel’s silhouetted form.

Slowly straightening himself, Anthony began to walk. Placing one foot in front of another, down the cold, cobbled street, he fought the cramps and the exhaustion. In those 100 yards to the café, Anthony wondered how he’d ended up here, in the middle of a deserted street. A deserted street in a small English town; a town seemingly so far removed from civilisation that it didn’t even have street lamps.

He stopped at the bright entrance to the café, smiling wearily at Gabe who was sitting down at a table, already nursing a hot cup of coffee, his favourite. Smiling, after everything they’d been through. It was that infectious enthusiasm – that ready, cheeky grin – that had dragged him, kicking and screaming, along for the ride. Yet again he had been reeled in by his enigmatic fervor to set off on another reckless flight of fancy.

‘Perhaps ‘friend’ is too strong a term,’ he muttered to himself as he stumbled across the plastic flooring and slumped into the chair opposite Gabriel.

Catching the eye of the only other person there, the owner, Gabriel quickly ordered another coffee.

‘You know I don’t like coffee.’ Anthony sighed; they’d done this dance before. It felt like they’d done this very same dance in every café in England. ‘Tea. I like tea. Well brewed tea, with a little milk. Tea.’

‘I’ll convert you eventually, trust me,’ Gabriel said with a grin; that same grin that Anthony had seen all too often. Through America, Ireland and now England it had been that grin, accompanied by his unerring, unswerving confidence that had secured the information they had so desperately sought and fought for. It was the same information that had led them, at great cost, to this dingy café. Anthony nodded a thank you at the wrinkled owner of the café as she retreated back behind the counter.

‘You know, I won’t enjoy this,’ Anthony said, lifting the cup of coffee, the slightest trace of a grin forming at the corner of his lips. He couldn’t help but mirror Gabe’s grin. There was something about him, something which made arguing a thoroughly fruitless exercise. He sipped it quietly. ‘You know, it might taste like shit, but, right now – and don’t quote me on this – it’s just what I need.’

‘It couldn’t be helped, Ant. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.’

‘It’s always avoidable! And Gabe?’

‘Yeah?’ He was still grinning.

‘Don’t call me Ant. You know I hate it almost as much as I hate this coffee,’ he said, gulping the rest of it down with a grimace. ‘You said this time things would be different.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Mind you, you always say that; I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but…’

‘Look, we got what we needed! Surely, in the grand scale of things, that’s all that matters.’ It was a statement, not a question. Anthony had been here before; he’d heard it all before. Different town, the same nonchalance – and the same, damn coffee.

‘We didn’t even go back to check on the kid…’Anthony was staring down into the dregs of his coffee, unable to look at his friend. Through the corner of his vision he saw Gabriel’s grin quickly fade and his brow furrow. He was actually sad; an emotion Anthony had seen in his face only a handful of times since they were kids. Gabriel gently put down his cup and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for some money. By the time Anthony looked up he was grinning again, though some of the impishness was gone.

‘I’ll pay for both of us,’ Gabe said, as if that would somehow make up for the atrocity that Anthony and Gabriel had just perpetrated. Anthony nodded; he was still too numb from the recent events to argue. He reached into his jacket and touched his fingers gently to the wound; it was warm and sticky. The bleeding had started again.

‘I must’ve torn the stitches back in the alley,’ Anthony said, wincing as his fingers continued their exploration. ‘Why did you have to run? Running draws attention; that beggar –’

‘Because we had to get away quickly. Trust me,’ Gabriel blurted, quickly rising to his feet and striding over to the door, his enthusiasm fully restored. He opened the door and a siren could be heard in the distance; his grin turned into a full-blown smile. ‘We should get going.’

‘Is that a fire engine?’ Fragments of the last hour were bubbling up from the groggy depths of his memory, begging to be freshly analysed. Slowly he pieced them together to form a complete vision. He flinched and gaped at Gabriel, aghast at what his friend had set in motion.

‘I told you, we should get going.’

Eric (who will soon be a published author, if people read his story excerpt and big him up on Amazon) actually printed out the beginning of my story, took it to a coffee shop and proceeded to mark it up — with a red pen, no less. He then took digital photos, and sent them to me so that I could experience the authentic ‘editor’s pen destroying my beautiful manuscript’ feeling.

So, I read his notes; digested them, even. Mulled them over. Then I sat down to write some more! I haven’t actually reworked the beginning, but I had his notes/guidance in my mind as I approached the next part of the story. I want to call it the ‘middle’, but it’s probably more like… from 25% to 50%, or maybe 60% at a stretch.

(For this plug, Eric said he’d give me that little ‘dedicated’ credit at the front of his first book, how cool is that? ‘Dedicated to that hairy guy who I could’ve sworn was gay for the first year of our friendship.’)

(Can you tell I’m writing this at 3am?)

Today, the short story comes to you in ‘iPaper’ form. I think you’ll have to view it on my blog, rather than your RSS reader. Alternatively, you can view the PDF (if that’s more convenient for you).

Again, I’d love to hear your feedback — remember, the first bit is virtually unchanged — the new stuff is about half way through (page 4), but feel free to read from the start. I think it’s coming together quite nicely!

Tomorrow, I have a killer blog planned and a guest post on a friend’s blog… so check back!

You’re going to hate me by the time you get to the end of this installment, and for that I apologise, but hopefully you’ll enjoy it anyway!

If you’ve read the beginning and middle, you can pick up from around page 5. If you’re new, read the whole damn thing!

You are more than welcome to pass judgement. Flatter me with praise, or be brutally critical — I simply ask that you also provide a reason for your love, or hate.

If you’re using an RSS reader, you’ll have to click through to my blog to read it. Alternatively, if you really don’t want to visit my blog, you can read the PDF. I promise I’ll try to finish the story soon, though it won’t be on Monday, I have something a lot better planned… something that involves a competition and my blind cat Eric.

I should probably call it ‘The Homoerotica That Never Quite Got There’ or ‘What IS That Object In His Pocket?’ but no, let’s call it Anthony & Gabriel: Ant & Gabe. Finished at last! I sat down and wrote the last 500 words in just a few minutes. It came fast, quickly, smoothly. Brutally.

I thought killing a character would be harder.

I made a few changes to the beginning of the story, though they were just little, niggling issues that I kept stumbling on when I re-read it. Feel free to leap in at the last 2 pages, though I don’t promise complete resolution. I tried my best! Without going completely supernatural and fantastic, there were only so many options available to me. I didn’t want to bring God into my first ever short story, though one person that’s already read it thought that it was going to be religious purely because of Gabriel’s inclusion. OK, so it might be a little bit religious.

Make of it what you will. Let me know what you think. Now I have to go and put some eyeliner on. Oh, and last chance to enter my competition to win free web hosting! Eric’s currently sound asleep in a box. A closed box. Well, I assume he’s asleep, I can’t hear any noises…

(If you’re reading this in a… reader… you’ll need to visit my blog or download the PDF to read it!)

The competition closes tomorrow!

And go read the end of my short story. Find out who got shot!

She swings back and forth with a gleeful grin on her face, challenging herself with each swoop to reach a little higher, a little further, her pink-painted pointed toes cramping from the strain. She loves the bright, fresh days of spring; the crocuses, followed by the daffodils and the unfurling of lime-green leaves on trees.

Leaning back, curling legs underneath, tightening her grip on the hemp rope and opening her eyes wide she looks up into the boughs of the tree where the cherry blossom buds are bursting their seams, threatening to bloom at any moment.

Faster and higher, her small body stretched taut and almost vertical with calloused hands clinging on tightly. She prays she can hold on as every muscle in her body strains until it tingles. Her face is scrunched up in effort and her lips pursed in concentration as she wills herself higher. Flying backwards again, on the downwards arc, the loose ends of her black hair skim across the dry earth kicking up dust and sand.

She reaches the zenith, adjusts her weight and looks out across the clearing for a split second, the inescapable grasp of gravity momentarily forgotten. Nodding to herself, gravity and the tree that holds her weight, she begins the final descent, hurtling towards the ground with her body flat and pointed like a blade of grass, her toes curling as she realises just how close her head is to the ground.

The last, fast ascent; the key is in the timing, the angle, the perfect transition of momentum. From upwards to outwards in the split of a second she flings herself from the swing. With the alacrity and gracefulness of a snake, with the flick of her wrist and the uncoiling of her spine like a broken spring she begins her flight across the clearing. For a moment she shuts her eyes, feeling the resistance of the air and the warmth of the sun. For a blissful moment all she can hear is the rush of wind and the tweeting of sparrows.

With her eyes closed she couldn’t have noticed the out of place shadow or the sibilant sussuration of quick movement at the edge of the clearing.

Opening her eyes again she gathers her bearings, now aware that she will have to roll as she lands. Legs brace and then bend as she hits the ground with a graceful thud, damp grass tickling her arms as they cover her head. She rolls two times before stopping, blinking and reorienting herself. Looking down she smiles at a beautiful, dual-tone daffodil that she narrowly avoided crushing.

A scream explodes like a shot, startling birds from trees, rabbits into holes and transfixing the small girl sitting on the grass. She turns her head towards the kitchen window to see  her mother fall to the ground. Her whole body tenses like an animal, ready to fight. But everything goes black. “Hello, Emily.” A rasped voice very close to her ear, rough hands encircle her waist and smother her mouth. She hadn’t heard the heavy footfalls sneak up behind her but she hears the smooth, sickening swish of metal against metal. She feels a knife piercing the soft skin of her back.

“Oh, don’t cry.”

There he stood, sharpening his long, smooth, folded-steel machete.

There she stood, licking her lips, looking first at him, and then down at the ground demurely.

“Give it to me!”

“Never!” She sprang from the warm rock with a derisive snort and flick of her tail. Her pace quickened as she bounded into the tall grass, her paws finding, gripping and rebounding rapidly from the firm soil. She could hear him clumsily pushing the tall grass aside in an attempt to join the chase. Escape would hardly be a challenge, but would escape be the most fun? Her thoughts drifted and her pace slowed a little.

She found herself thinking of the rainy season. Six months ago, but the memories were still vivid and sharp, wet and slick — bitter… and sweet. They’d first met six months ago. She had run and he had chased, just like today — but back then she had slipped and he had caught her. Writhing in the wet, slippery glass of the savannah, his grip too strong even for her savage muscles, he had made her his bitch.

The reverie almost caused her to slip and fall. She could hear him gaining, gathering speed, the tell-tale swish of machete clearing a path for his clumsy human footfalls. Would it be so awful if he caught her again? Her pace faltered, complex thought not coming easily to her prehensile, feline brain — humans have it easy — just two legs! How am I meant to push my way through tall grass and think of him? She found herself plunged back into the six-month-old memory.

First he had tackled her to the ground. They had slid and bounced a few feet, only stopping when the limited friction of the wet grass and ground had finally gripped them. Then he was on top of her, wrestling her arms down until she was spread and pinned. The bulk of his weight and strength of his thighs were expertly employed to hold her hips firmly against the ground. That was when they had made eye-contact for the first time. He looked vicious, his muscles and veins bulging, the throbbing pulse of his carotid artery clearly visible. There was a hint of shining victory in his eyes, but she knew the fight wasn’t yet over. He leaned down until his face was almost level with hers, until they could both feel and taste and smell each other’s ragged breathing. Before she knew it, he had pulled a length of rope from his waist and had begun to tie her paws together. Before she knew it, he had turned her over and lifted her hind legs.

She was shocked back into real time by the sinewy weight of the man throwing himself upon her. She didn’t struggle as he quickly flipped her onto her back. He took a long, hard look at his catch and smiled.

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Forgive me, for I have sinned. I wrote this all in one go, without any planning. It just… sprung from… somewhere deep within.  There’s more TMI (and probably less furry porn) over on Lilu’s blog.

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If you can’t read see story above, you need to view this page on my site.