July’s Guest Storyteller, Richard Sutton

Richard Sutton, writer, guitar picker, sailor, one-time adman, ski mechanic, tree planter and Indian Trader; spent his young life all over the West Coast states, eventually settling in New York and New Mexico. He began writing novels in 2005. Since then, seven books and many short stories have passed beneath his fingers on the keyboard with five currently available in both print and all eBook formats from a variety of booksellers. He’s said that he writes to “get the odd voices out of my head and onto the page”. Working in a variety of genres, from historical fiction and fantasy to scifi and mystery, the range of his writing implies he’s got many voices competing for his attention up there.

Image: Deep cedar & redwood groves of Northern California used with permission of Mathew Mills — Image of deep cedar & redwood groves of Northern California used with kind permission of Matthew Mills

The excerpt below is from his current project-in-process: a Young Adult novel called On Parson’s Creek, set in the Pacific Northwest, beginning the Summer of 1967. It’s the story of what happened when a “new kid” moves out to the woods and finds some things beneath the cedars that nobody really wants to talk about. So, of course, he’s dragged into discovering who or what, exactly, is making its home near his. It’s a departure for Richard to write in first person, but quite a bit of the novel is memoir. The rest of it comes from his usual “what-ifs” sprung from ideas he had then and now. It’s in beta reads and editing and he expects he’ll have it ready next year or possibly this fall if the betas don’t toss out too many more suggestions.

Excerpt from On Parson’s Creek

A new kid at a new school discovers things in the woods that his new neighbors wish he hadn’t…

I was sixteen the first time we crossed the culvert over Parsons Creek. It was just my luck. My tenth grade school year had just ended when Dad told me that we were moving to a cabin out in the cedars. The news didn’t bring a smile. After moving almost every year since I’d been in school, being “the new kid” was getting old. We’d actually lived in one place during all three years of Junior High and my sophomore year in High School, so I’d started to feel comfortable. Me: Jack Taylor — settled. Like I finally belonged somewhere. Somewhere I didn’t have to try and fit in. I should have known it was much too comfortable a feeling to last for long. So, here we were: uprooted again, according to some unexplained schedule. As we slowed to look at the creek, I’d already started trying to figure out a new angle.

We were staying in the same state this time. Not too far from my school friends. We’d also been out that stretch of highway many times on McKenzie River fishing trips chasing the wily Oregon Steelhead Trout. At least the scenery would be familiar. I wondered how it would feel going from a school with seven-hundred in my graduating class to one that graduated only ninety-six the year before. I’d done my research on the new digs, which helped lower my expectations as my first day at a new school approached.

I was used to feeling all nervous whenever we were about to finish a move, anyway. Running down my mental notes of “how-to-be” and “who-to-be” possibilities always occupied my brain until it was exhausted. I wasn’t a typical, well-adjusted kid. Each time I approached a new school in a new town, I tried to get it right. I tried to toss those behaviors that had been troublesome before and find new ways to fit in. It felt like hitting the ground running. Sometimes this led me to all kinds of interesting information and gossip, which I would consider carefully for anything of value before finally falling asleep each night during the school week. I had developed a “new kid checklist” in my head. It was very important to determine who the major assholes were as soon as I could, and what especially annoyed them. That meant planning how each day’s between-class activity would take place. I felt it all hanging over me like a gigantic pile of garbage I had to pick my way through. Since I was supposedly used to it, I also felt a little guilty that it still bothered me after all this time. It’s not easy watching your life unfold from an arm’s length away.

As usual, that morning we were late to our own arrival. We’d overshot the driveway, so Dad backed the car over the culvert and uphill to where the driveway opened at an angle, to the brush along the roadside. He pulled in and our first view of the house was suddenly blocked by three deer, running straight at us. One of them lost its footing, skidded in the gravel and had to jump straight onto the hood of the truck. Dad stomped the brakes with a shout and we all cringed back, thinking it was going to come through the windshield. Instead, it jumped off and joined the others, shooting off into the brush on the other side.

“What in the name of…” Mom nudged him, so he tuned it down, adding, “Sheesh! Never saw that during daylight hours. Ev’rybody Okay?”

I replied, “They must have been spooked by something. Scary. Maybe we should keep our eyes open pulling up. Who knows what’s up there. Maybe a bear?”

No bear. Still, despite the jarring welcome, the fragrant tang of the Red Cedar grove where the A-Frame cabin nestled felt like a good sign as I climbed out of the back seat of Dad’s panel truck. The movers, parked between trees up past the house, were already unloading boxes and lining them up on the long, decked porch. As I climbed out of the back seat, there was a sudden, shuddering crash as the roll-down back door of the moving van hit the deck. I figured that must have been what had spooked the deer.

The house itself, sat in almost full shade as Mom and I carried the dishes and other breakables from the car. Dad stood there, rubbing his chin with one hand while his finger traced the deep crease where the deer’s hoof had struck the hood. Out through the trees, I could see where the hilltop fell away and clear, sunny light filled in between the crowded trunks. Douglas firs and a few dark hemlocks mixed in from the creek side and wrapped completely around the small cedar grove at our doorstep. It looked like an island in the forest.

Sarah says: Thank you so much, Richard, for your guest storytelling contribution for this month. I thought your excerpt was really atmospheric and I could almost smell those Red Cedars. Also, I really felt for the poor boy (you) continually being uprooted and having to start over again at a new school, year after year. I’m sure that many Young Adult readers going through the same thing today will identify with this. Wishing you the best of luck with this novel.

You can find the links to previous guest storyteller posts at https://sarahpotterwrites.com/guest-storytellers-2/

June’s Guest Storyteller, Dave Farmer

Dave Farmer escaped the crowded industry of the West Midlands, England, and enjoys the big skies and open country of rural Cambridgeshire every day. Although his Midland accent has softened he still refuses to pronounce it ‘parth’ and ‘barth’ because it doesn’t feel right in his mouth.

When not writing, he resumes the hunt for the perfect sandwich, plays with the family dogs, and discusses how to survive the end of days, should it ever happen.

To find out more you can read posts on his blog, www.davefarmer.co.uk, where he shares his thoughts and ideas of the world around him.

And yes, Cambridge is as posh as everyone thinks.

Sarah says: Hi Dave, thank you so much for guest storytelling this month. I’m a great fan of your blog: especially your wry observations re human behaviour, as well as your scarier stuff about zombies and the like.

For those of you who aren’t already followers of Dave’s blog and are unfamiliar with his work, he writes speculative type “what-if” fiction that concentrates on things such as courage, loyalty and friendship, but with an apocalyptic slant. Below, is a short extract from his novel-in-progress.

Extract from The Range & Chapter 2 called 2.47

When the video started, the footage was blurred and shaky.

Trees lined a busy intersection. Traffic chugged around pedestrians as they crossed the road. After several seconds of watery blue sky, the sun low on the horizon, a pale-faced kid with chubby cheeks filled the screen. He grinned then panned the camera over a statue of a naked guy stood next to a horse.

‘Lou, that’s Pont d’Iena, right next to the Eiffel Tower. We went there on a school trip, remember?’ I glanced up at her. ‘Sure Denise sent the right link?’

‘Yeah, keep watching.’

After half a minute I clicked pause. ‘Seriously, Lou? This is boring. Denise must be laughing her arse off.’

‘She says it happens at two forty seven. Play it.’

We watched more footage of trees and people talking into the camera – two girls around five or six years old with, who I assumed were, their parents taking pictures with their phones. The sound was choppy and out of synch. I tried to change the quality with the controls below the video but it was stuck on 360p.

It happened before then. I don’t think anyone else spotted it. The younger of the two sisters wore a sleeveless yellow dress with white lace around the neck. Her long brown hair was woven into two neat plaits tied with wispy pink ribbons.

She began to fidget and her bottom lip quivered. She reached up to grab her mum’s hand. Her eyes widened before she buried her face against Mum’s hip. At 1.31 the camera panned around.

Crowds rushed across the busy intersection. A FedEx truck slammed into a small group of children. The impact knocked them into a surge of screaming tourists.

No one stopped to help them.

The camera jolted and swung as people were swept down the road. Half way across the bridge the chubby kid stopped. The camera angled down and appeared to lift off the pavement. A head appeared and two arms reached up. Traffic slowed to a crawl, an orchestra of horns wailed like sirens of panic. In contrast to the solid Eifel Tower the crowd beneath it moved in waves. Large groups split and reformed, a tsunami of screaming people hemmed in by the bridge. Dozens were forced over the side before a gap opened in the stampede.

This new wave showed no signs of panic or fear. At the centre of the group a man in a blood soaked shirt jerked upright and collapsed. Blood pumped from deep lacerations on his neck and his right forearm was missing.

Behind him two teenagers with bloody faces carried between them what looked like the survivor of a tiger attack.

At 2.47 the camera focussed on a young girl. Her dainty yellow dress was smudged with dirt and drops of blood. A plait had lost its ribbon. Frayed hair floated in the breeze. One arm was raised to grip a hand. The rest of her mum had been left behind. The girl turned and stared at the camera with milky yellow eyes.

I felt Louise’s hand clamp down on my shoulder.

The girl had no throat. She opened her mouth once or twice before moving off with the rest of the crowd, still holding the hand.

My other flat mate, Karla, threw back her chair and puked into the sink.

‘Turn it off.’ Louise’s voice sounded a million miles away.

My hand on the mouse wouldn’t respond.

‘Sam.’

Louise slammed down the laptop screen.

The touch of her steady hand on mine made me jump.

I couldn’t stop trembling.

I looked at my friend’s white faces and knew they too could smell fear’s foul breath.

You can find the links to previous guest storyteller posts at https://sarahpotterwrites.com/guest-storytellers-2/

May’s Guest Storyteller, Cybele Moon

“Not all who wander are lost” – or have attention deficit disorder

By her own words Cybele Moon is a somewhat introverted but passionate traveler in many realms, seeking old bones and philosopher’s stones, – and other such treasures! History, astronomy, and paleontology have been among her interests.

She loves to wander off the beaten path in search of adventure and is a great friend of Murphy who states “when all else fails, read the instructions” — or in this case refer to the map. Just ask her daughter, the navigator and keeper of time, who, by the way, is a grand travel companion and never misses a train.

She was an English Lit major in college way back when, and has always had a fervent love for the written word. At the same time she also enjoys photography and so began a quest to create visions and tales that complement each other.

An Extract from Niamh’s dream journey (Tales of the Tuatha)

She had followed the stag down from the knock until it disappeared into the grove. The people of the Sidhe were near. She could feel them as Aine’s red mare climbed the hill, spreading her bright cloak across the star scattered sky and the trees below. For a few moments there was silence before the sweep of light awoke the birds to their exaltation. The sacred spring was deep in the forest and any who drank from it were granted great wisdom. Not all had the eyes to see it, but she was, after all, a daughter of the Tuatha.

As she followed the way deeper into the woodland, Niamh became confused. She looked at Etain’s map. So, was it right or left at the tree by the little stream? Something was definitely wrong and nothing looked familiar. Should she go back to the beginning? She untied the small pouch on her belt that contained her dreams to make sure she wasn’t confusing one with another, but the purse slipped out of her fingers. All the dreams spilled out onto the path and went spinning backward into the soft curve of the early morning mist. “Now I’ve done it!” she thought.

She retrieved one that had rolled up against a tree. This as going to be very troublesome she thought as she held onto it tightly. There had been nine dreams in the pouch including the one that had begun her quest in the early morning light — and still no spring was in sight! She didn’t even think she could find her way back to the mound, and she couldn’t return without her dreams! How could she have been so clumsy?

As she searched the thicket she suddenly found herself standing by a shining lagoon. Everywhere there was the glint of gold!

Sarah says: Thank you so much Cybele for this beautiful tale, told in traditional storyteller style, and for your magical photographic illustrations.

And fellow bloggers, you can read the ongoing Tales of Tuatha from the beginning, as well as lose yourself in more of these illustrations at Cybelshineblog, where she calls herself Dune Mouse, which I think is a lovely name for a creative introvert!

For a catch-up read of previous stories, please do visit my page https://sarahpotterwrites.com/guest-storytellers-2/

April’s Guest Storyteller, Gary Bonn

Gary Bonn, me … a bio. Shouldn’t be hard. Men like talking about themselves, don’t they?

I live in Scotland, write books, short stories, edit other people’s books and … oh, wot? … this is harder than I thought.

I’m delighted to have had two books published, and there’re more on the way. I like to write in as many genres as I can. This is more or less down to my friends at WriterLot, who challenge me with, “Gary, you haven’t written from the point of view of a frog”, write a story named “The Girl, The Kite, And The Broken Gate” and, “How about a sweet little vampire story too?”.

I baulked at the last and wrote the book, “Expect Civilian Casualties” instead. Why write about vampires? It’s been done.

Actually, WriterLot is a laugh. The members ensure that a new piece of writing goes up every day. We’re always happy to include guest-writers’ pieces, so feel free to contact me through garybonn.com.

If any of you are short of reading material, do visit writerlot.net and garybonn.com. It’s all free.

A big thanks to Sarah for inviting me to this blog!

Sarah says: You’re most welcome, Gary. It’s always a pleasure having you visit my blog and grace the place with your originality and wit. As for your story below — that wry take on the inefficiency of road maintenance in the UK (both North and South of the border) — all I can say is LOL! And so, a warning to fellow bloggers, do not read what follows while holding a beverage anywhere near your computer keyboard for fear of spillage.

YAAD

Bill Wild is acting a little odd today. The lashing sleet rattles his hi-vis jacket, but utterly fails to wipe the smug grin from his face.

With the ease of many years’ experience, he winches the generator from the glistening road and secures it on the back of his lorry.

A passing car slows and the driver’s window slides down. The driver shouts to Bill, ‘Thank the bloody gods. How long have these roadworks been here?’

Bill, given more to economical truth than downright lies, shrugs and says, ‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

The driver goes on, ‘But what did you actually do? I didn’t see anybody working all these months.’

Bill shrugs again. ‘Dunno. I’m just the bloke that puts up the traffic lights and sets the cones out.’

The driver, under pressure from traffic behind, moves off into a flurry of wet snow, tyres hissing and squelching in slush.

Bill collects the last of the cones, stashes them lovingly, even patting them and muttering his thanks, and climbs into the cab.

He shrugs off his jacket and takes a moment to enjoy the way the warning lights on his lorry sweep swathes of yellow light, gilding the dripping trees and banks of bracken.

He’s looking forward to the headline news tomorrow. All it needs is one anonymous call and some photos plastered over the internet.

As Bill revs the motor; the lorry trembles and shakes like a wet dog.

A woman, half-hidden behind the wind-whipped foliage at the side of the road, lowers her camera; a mute witness of Bill’s triumph.

He says to his phone, ‘Call the headquarters of “For No Good Reason”.’

As he pulls away for the last time, a woman’s voice comes through the speakers. ‘Mr Wild, we are honoured to receive you into the ranks of the élite. A year and a day. Well, well, who’d have thought no one would question why roadworks sat there so long without anyone actually working? You are our first official Year And A Day member.’

Bill replies, ‘Thank you, Mary. But there’s more to this day, for me, than my becoming an élite. No way will Mac be able to top this. It’s a double victory for me. We had a bet on.’

‘You had a bet with Mac? That’s courageous.’

‘The loser gives all his traffic equipment to the winner. He can’t afford new stuff. He’s a goner.’ He smirks, cuts the connection, and turns the radio on.

After the booms of Big Ben, come the headlines.

‘The Queen’s Flight, carrying members of the Royal Family on their way to Balmoral, has been forced to divert to the only other open airport in the British Isles, Dublin. Prestwick Airport has been closed due to the inexplicable, overnight appearance of roadworks on the main runway.’

https://sarahpotterwrites.com/2013/12/16/gary-bonn-talks-about-writerlot-where-im-guest-storytelling/

https://sarahpotterwrites.com/guest-storytellers-2/

March’s Guest Storyteller — Benjamin F Jones

Benjamin F Jones is a writer from South Wales in the UK. He has worked in over twenty different jobs from wedding photographer to aerospace engineer but is currently studying to be a humanistic therapist.

His first novel, 400 years between stars, is coming out in March 2014 and he is currently working on a collection of prose poetry entitled, Which can fly higher, dragons or aeroplanes?

He has a passion for prose poetry and short and rather quirky science fiction but has a background in poetry which adds a colour to everything he writes. Some of his short prose fragments can be found at GraphiteBunny.

Freedom Climbs on Logs Rooted

Freedom climbs on logs rooted in bricks worn smooth as oranges. The blue is cluttered with battleship clouds that muster to confuse the sun. Girls in summer dresses and bobble hats throw stones at the waves – a cacophony of pebbles thrashed by the sea as we poke a dead gull into the water. Silver rain conceals land across the estuary. We’re drumming on flotsam and steel chimes as engineers build a barbeque from bomb factory shrapnel – the explosion shattered the hotel windows over a mile away. A boot filled with shells. Driftwood stokes the flames that snatch at dinner. We open crown tops with scrap metal and eat sausages with sand and missing ketchup. When the meal is over we find pieces of crystallised sky have fallen like thumbnail glass. Tracking footprints you sing as we follow the tide. The sun is on mute. My shirt smells of wood-smoke and charred marshmallows. I wring out the memories and put them into my mouth.

Sarah says: Thank you so much Benjamin for guest storytelling on my blog with this superb piece of prose poetry. For those of you who missed Benjamin’s earlier contribution to my blog, you might like to take a look at his amazing photographic contribution to the Wordless Wednesday slot back in October last year.

You can link to previous guest storytellers’ prose via this page.

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Freedom Climbs on Logs Rooted

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