My Body is a Cage

If you’re interested about my inspiration for this, I started a new job 3 weeks ago and have put all my tea bags into a little tin box painted to look like an old fashioned tea and coffee shop.  I started to think about who might own a shop like that.  Everything else comes from my own warped imagination.  It spiralled into a big ol’ story so I’m only posting the first part today.

I’d like to thank my friend Cheryl for cheerleading my writing at every opportunity (seriously, she’s got pompoms and everything) and for being so completely amazing at it herself that I felt compelled to have another go.

My Body is a Cage – part one

Mr Franklin Pickford unlocked the doors to his shop and breathed in deeply, eyes closed, as the various scents washed over him.  As the day progressed, he knew he would become accustomed to the tang of paprika or the spicy warm smell of cinnamon and cloves.  This is why he loved those first moments of the day when they assaulted his senses afresh – it was what made him leap out of bed every morning, ready to get to work as quickly as possible.  That, and an unacknowledged need to stay out of his home for as long as possible, away from the disdain of his wife and her maidservants.  His shop was a sanctuary, a haven of peace and order, not least because it rarely held more than Franklin and his precious spices.  His father had given it to him knowing that their customers preferred home deliveries, Franklin simply had to process their orders for the delivery boy to pick up at midday.  His sanctum remained just that.

He had been hard at work since 8am, an hour before unlocking to allow entrance to a non-existent tide of customers, sweeping the floor and carefully removing every speck of dust from the spice shelves.  That’s was his excuse for taking his fourth break of the morning, plunging his hand over and over again into a bag of coffee beans.  The sensation of the smooth beans cascading through his fingers sent darts of pleasure through his body, from his head to his toes. Franklin was on the verge of wiggling his toes with joy when the bell above the door tinkled and a sharp voice cut through his peace –

“You.  You may assist me.  Come here.”

Franklin jolted, sending his handful of precious beans cascading across the floor.  He whirled around to watch them skitter and settle around the blood-red shoes of his customer, who sniffed disdainfully before continuing:

“I say, come here at once.  I will not ask again.”

His eyes rose slowly up and up the length of the woman standing before him; she was slender, verging on skeletal, dressed entirely in shades of claret barring the silver fox fur draped over her shoulder. Her pale blonde – or was it white? – hair was piled on top of her head in a rigid set of curls that Franklin had heard was fashionable recently, from Rebecca prattling on about clothes and shoes over dinner.  He couldn’t place her age: her clothes were those of a young woman but her skin seemed oddly stretched over her high cheekbones and was paper thin, enough that he could see the blue veins at her temples. Her eyes, when he finally met them, were green and somehow hungry. She was the first customer he’d had in the shop in two weeks.  That must be why he was so slow to attend to her, Franklin told himself, dropping eye contact and looking at the floor again.

The woman beckoned with one long finger and Franklin felt himself move forward to her side, coffee beans crunching underfoot.

“How may I help you, ma’am?” he asked, pressing his fingertips together in a way he considered professional and focusing his gaze on one earlobe.

“I understand you are the foremost supplier of exotic spices in the City.”

Franklin gave a startled half-laugh – he supposed he could be the foremost, provided foremost also meant “least busy” – and nodded obsequiously.

“I would like to buy some… delicate items from you.”  The lady leaned forward, her ungloved hand grasping Franklin’s wrist like a talon as she spoke.  Her voice dropped into a girlish whisper and she leaned further down, crimson lips touching Franklin’s ear.

The clattering sounds of the horses and carriages that pranced up and down the street outside faded into the background, until Franklin felt that a world outside of the walls of his shop was simply an impossibility. The touch of this unfeasibly tall woman sent shivers down his spine, as though ice-water was dripping on him. She whispered into his ear:

Belladonna…

He blinked and could see a hansom cab drive past the window, into the gaping maw of a giant.  Blinking again, the giant was transformed into a bridge.

Henbane…

The touch on his wrist was growing colder, as though handcuffed by ice.

Nightshade…

There were sharp stabbing pains where her lips met his ear, but Franklin was stuck fast as he stood.

Wolfsbane…

Fear began to percolate through his brain, he was aware that he was breathing fast and his dress shirt was drenched with a cold sweat.

The woman straightened, smiled broadly, revealing a row of bone white teeth, and informed him that she would return one week hence for the items.

Franklin stood stock still for several moments before realising he was now alone in the shop. He moved absently towards the stock room, the lady’s list of herbs running through his head, when he heard a loud crack beneath his foot.  The acrid aroma of rancid coffee filled the air and he had to swallow rapidly to keep from retching, before running to the counter to fetch the dustpan and brush he kept below the till.  Looking back across the wooden floor, he had a sudden vision of the beans scuttling across the floor like scarab beetles. Another blink and they were still again, the dust rising from the floorboards belying their tranquil forms.

He swept every inch of the floor, gathering all the beans before resolutely tipping them into the bin.  Then he swiftly closed the open bag and wedged it between a large tin of green tea and a bag of cloves on a high shelf, before dusting off his hands and surveying the room.  Somehow, sanctuary didn’t apply any more.

Smoke and Mirrors

Smoke and Mirrors by Neil Gaiman

This is a collection of short stories, each embracing a different storytelling style, technique, purpose or character.  The best part of it is the introduction, spanning 32 pages and includes a little story as well as a brief description of what inspired each of the tales in the collection, including statues sculpted by a friend, other authors, collections of stories on a theme that he has been asked to contribute to, and various musings on random ideas.  It’s probably the best way of answering that age old question “Where do you get your ideas?”:  everywhere and anywhere.  Two of my favourite stories in the collection – The Price and Changes* – were inspired by someone suggesting a story where “a cat is an angel or an angel is a cat or something” and having to write a story for an anthology about gender, respectively.  I also enjoyed the note about the story in the introduction (The Wedding Present) to say that the ending of the story wasn’t the one he had in his head when he started writing, but it was the right one and the only possible end to what had gone before.  In my somewhat limited experience of writing fiction, that’s how it works.  The story is conceived as crumbs of ideas that somehow conflate and move within your mind until they’re almost unrecognisable from the original inspiration, then they jiggle around on the page so much that they’re just as new and interesting to you as they are to any readers.

It’s a fun collection of stories, each has its own style and yet is unmistakeably Gaiman.  Perfect for reading in a lunchbreak or trying to avoid behemoth Booker Prize winners…

*links to an interesting take on the story – in which someone invents a cure for cancer that also switches a person’s gender – by a transgendered woman.

__________________________________

As this is a somewhat short review (what to say about a book of short stories?  I liked it and it was good?), I thought I would take the opportunity to add a short story of my own.  Not exactly inspired by Neil Gaiman, so much as his impressive ability to write short stories that are enthralling, interesting and personable.

I started writing a story about a spice shop, but the length spiralled and I realised yesterday that I wouldn’t have it to a point fit for human eyes by today.  So here instead is a drabble, written in 24 hours.  Not exactly easier, but shorter and thus more likely to be finished in time for the post today!  It’s hopelessly derivative, I’m afraid, but I’m rather proud of it nonetheless.  I like to think of it as The Little Story That Could.

(nb. It’s exactly 100 words in Word.  Googledocs says it’s longer, but I’m ignoring that for now)

Centuries of Oral Innocence

She is always cast as the ingénue; Red, Belle or Allerleirauh. The implacable inverse to the brute-within (or -without). Catching sight of the first sparkle of his sharp white teeth, she yelps or moans, saving screams for maximum effect. Then turns, runs, kicking up her heels in a cloud of dust. Looks over her shoulder and squeals, the fear-desire taste cloying at the back of her throat. This could be the time the beast ensnares her, his teeth plunging into her virgin-white skin. But no, the woodcutter appears (on cue) – she is home. Secured and inviolable; once and again.

The Besiders

by me!

OK, so the NaNo month didn’t work out so well for me, I didn’t get a novel written for one… but I got the start of one on the page and I fully intend to finish it and work out where these characters are headed.  I’ve had several requests by people to read it and so I’m putting it on here but an important caveat: it is entirely unedited.  So please don’t judge the quality at this stage!  I’ll put up longer and more edited drafts as and when I feel like it.  Also, the usual set of reviews will be starting again this Friday so please come back and check it out!

As always, comments are welcome.

NaNoWriMo

I’ve signed up to take part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this year – you’ll notice a new tab at the top of the page devoted to it.  The idea behind NaNo is simple:

Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.

That’s an average of 1,666 words a day.

My novel will contain either pirates, assassins, cats or werewolves.  I’m still deciding.  I should probably mention I saw this on my friend’s Facebook page a week ago and thought “what an awesome idea!” so I’m not very clear on a lot of what I will write about or how I will get through November.  There’s a win rate (everyone who gets over the word count is a winner) of about 20%.

I’ll keep you updated to how it’s going through the NaNoWriMo tab, but I may be a bit busy in November and the reviews may slow down a little.  I have stockpiled them to show up for at least the next fortnight though, so keep coming back and reading!

Wish me luck!

Oh, and if you want to take part/are taking part, come find me.  My author name is crayongirl.

Story 1 (final draft) – Aladdin’s Cave

The alarm clock rang stridently three times, paused and rang out again. Reg sat up in bed and groped around to turn it off. The sunlight that usually streamed through his thin curtains at this time was absent and he strained to see the ‘off’ switch in the dim light.

A layer of fog was visible through the window where the curtains had not been fully drawn, the dank bedroom illuminated in a mid-morning twilight. Reg lurched to his feet, his joints always stiff in the mornings, turned on a small electric heater in the corner of the room and began a search for the lamp he knew he had left on the dresser last week.

The match flared briefly, illuminating the room in a flash of light, before going out again. Reg swore quietly and fumbled inside the pack for another, his chilled fingers dropping it back in the box twice before finally getting it out. He struck it again and held his breath as it sputtered, then caught. Casting his eyes around the room, he saw a golden glimmer of reflected light on the mantlepiece. Moving the flame almost reverently, Reg touched it to the wick of an old brass lamp. He held his breath again, praying there was enough oil in it to light.

The dull lamplight played across the aging photographs that lined the walls of the bedroom and hallway, their edges yellowed and crinkling. A smell of damp permeated the air and the buzz of the electric heater did little to disperse the chill that had settled overnight. Reg headed for the kitchen with a cup of tea in mind, listened for a moment and stopped in front of an ornately carved grandfather clock. The door squealed when he opened it and, squinting, he examined its innards with a frown.

“Now where did I put that darn key?” he mumbled while absentmindedly patting his dressing gown pocket. “I had it in my hand when the milkman knocked yesterday… or was is Tuesday…?” Reg squinted across the hall to the doorside table, on which sat two bills and a ceramic monkey but no key. ”Maybe Shirley tidies it away, damn that woman…I pay her to clean, not hide my things from me.”

Retrieving his lamp, Reg tried the drawer of the table, rummaging for several minutes before holding a large brass key aloft triumphantly. He shuffled back to the clock, its case still hanging open, and thrust the key inside before winding it emphatically. Before long, a loud ticking rhythmically filled the room. Reg grunted in pleasure and began making his way to the kitchen again just as the lamp finally guttered out. He stood in the twilight, quietly contemplating the uselessly invisible object in his hand, when a cry from outside was heard over the clock.

“New lamps for old! Exchange your old lamps for brand new electronic ones! New lamps for old! Any lamps taken!”

Reg flung open his front door and stumbled across the street towards the cart being pushed by a broad gentleman. He was sporting a red cravat with a matching jacket, gold brocade was stiched liberally along the shoulders and button holes and a green velvet waistcoat stretched almost to the point of bursting across an expansive stomach.

“New lamp for old, sir? You’ve got to have an old lamp to get a new one. Do you have an old lamp?”

Reg wordlessly presented his right hand to the lamp-man, his lamp still firmly clenched in it. The gentleman carefully prised it from his grip and examined it, his practised eye flicking across the dents and scratches. The gaze switched momentarily to Reg, taking in his greyish flannel dressing gown and tattered slippers, before refocussing on the lamp as through drawn by a magnet. He took in a breath, waistcoat groaning, and appeared to make a decision.

“Well now sir, this most certainly is an old lamp. I do believe we can do business here. How would you feel about exchanging this” – holding the old lamp disdainfully – “for this!” The gentleman produced a large, modern looking contraption with a glowing centre. Reg looked at the gentleman doubtfully and then at the new lamp, squinting as its light won the battle with the murky sun.

“Yeah,” grunted Reg, “you’ve got a deal.”

The gentleman swiftly deposited the new lamp into Reg’s hands and chucked the old one into a cardboard box on the seat of the cart. Then he pumped Reg’s hand up and down firmly, announced “Deal!” and set off down the street at a reckless pace. Swerving to avoid a ginger tom, the cart rounded a corner and was out of Reg’s sight. Bewildered, he went back into his flat and closed the door behind him. The hallway was clearly illuminated, with the fading flower borders along the ceiling as exposed as the threadbare patch of carpet by the front door. Dust motes floated in front of Reg’s astounded eyes.

Meanwhile, around the corner, the gentleman had stopped and was peering at his newest acquisition delightedly.

“Finally, I found you! Yes!” he sang as he danced a little jig in the street. Then, out of breath, he carefully set his palm against the side of the lamp and started to rub. Smoke poured from its spout and coalesced into a floating figure.

At the same moment that the gentleman was gawking at his genie in wonder, Reg was staring at a previously unnoticed design feature of his lamp. The small door in the side of it, complete with a door handle and miniature peephole. Hesitantly, he knocked. The whirring that he had assumed was its new-fangled electrics stopped, and the door was flung open. Inside, Reg could see a small treadmill that was connected to a lightbulb, but his attention was held by the mouse that had opened the door and was looking at him expectantly. The silence deepened. Then –

“Awright mister, can I help you or what? Only, I supposed to be powering this lamp ‘ere and the door ain’t ‘alf drafty…”

Story 1

The match flared briefly, illuminating the room in a flash of light, before going out again.  Reg swore quietly and fumbled inside the pack for another, his chilled fingers dropping it back in the box twice before finally getting it out.  He struck it again and held his breath as it sputtered, then caught.  Lowering the flame almost reverently, Reg touched it to the wick of an old brass lamp.  He held his breath again, praying that it would catch this time.

Reg’s prayers finally answered, he lifted the lamp and lowered it to the floor, where an old pair of tattered slippers was lying, partially hidden by the fallen blankets that hung off the bed.  He sighed as he pushed his feet into the familiar material and stood up in one difficult, lurching manoeuvre.

The dull lamplight played across the aging photographs that lined the walls of the hallway, their edges yellowed and crinkling.  A smell of damp permeated the air and the buzz of an electric heater did little to disperse the chill that had settled overnight.

Reg stopped in front of an ornately carved grandfather clock and reached to place the lamp on top of it.  The door squealed when he opened it and, squinting, he examined its innards with a frown.

“Now where did I put that darn key?” he mumbled while absentmindedly patting his dressing gown pocket.  ”I had it in my hand when the milkman knocked yesterday… or was is Tuesday…?”  Reg squinted across the hall to the doorside table, on which sat two bills and a ceramic monkey but no key.  ”Maybe Shirley tidies it away, damn that woman…”

Retrieving his lamp, Reg tried the drawer of the table, rummaging for several minutes before holding a large brass key aloft triumphantly. He shuffled back to the clock, its case still hanging open, and thrust the key inside before winding it emphatically.  Before long, a loud ticking rhythmically filled the flat.  Reg grunted in pleasure and began making his way to the kitchen for his morning cuppa just as the lamp finally guttered out.  He stood in the darkness, quietly contemplating the uselessly invisible object in his hand, when a cry from outside was heard over the clock.

“New lamps for old!  Exchange your old lamps for brand new electronic ones!  New lamps for old!  Any lamps taken!”

Early morning sunlight streamed into the flat as Reg flung open his front door and stumbled across the street towards the cart and the broad gentleman pushing it.

“New lamp for old, sir?  You’ve got to have an old lamp to get a new one.  Do you have an old lamp?”

Reg wordlessly presented his right hand to the lamp-man, his lamp still firmly clenched in it.  The gentleman carefully prised it from his grip and examined it, his practised eye flicking across the dents and scratches.

“Well now sir, this most certainly is an old lamp.  I do believe we can do business here.  How would you feel about exchanging this” – holding the old lamp disdainfully – “for this!”  The gentleman produced a large, modern looking contraption with a glowing centre.  Reg looked at the gentleman doubtfully and then at the new lamp, squinting as its light won the battle with the sun.

“Yeah,” grunted Reg, “you’ve got a deal.”

The gentleman swiftly deposited the new lamp into Reg’s hands and chucked the old one into a cardboard box on the seat of the cart.  Then he pumped Reg’s hand up and down firmly, announced “Deal!” and set off down the street at a reckless pace.  Swerving to avoid a ginger tom, the cart rounded a corner and was out of Reg’s sight. Bewildered, he went back into his flat and closed the door behind him.  The hallway was clearly illuminated, with the fading flower borders along the ceiling as exposed as the threadbare patch of carpet by the front door.  Dust motes floated in front of Reg’s astounded eyes.

Meanwhile, around the corner, the lamp-man had stopped and was peering at his newest acquisition delightedly.

“Finally, I found you!  Yes!” he sang as he danced a little jig in the street.  Then, carefully he set his palm against the side of the lamp and started to rub.  Smoke poured from its spout and coalesced into a floating figure.

“How may I serve thee, master?”

At the same moment that the gentleman was gawking at his genie in wonder, Reg was staring at a previously unnoticed design feature of his lamp.  The small door in the side of it, complete with a door handle and miniature peephole.  Hesitantly, he knocked.  The whirring that he had assumed was its new-fangled electrics stopped, and the door was flung open.  Inside, Reg could see a small treadmill that was linked to a lightbulb, but his attention was held by the mouse that had opened the door and was looking at him expectantly.  The silence deepened.  Then –

“Awright mister, can I help you or what?  Only, I supposed to be powering this lamp ‘ere and the door ain’t ‘alf drafty…”