Short Story – The Toilet Maze

A new short story… and it’s my first sale, too! I never really intended for this to be called The Toilet Maze, but I hadn’t thought up a better title by the time it sold to Labyrinth Inhabitant Magazine, so I guess the name sticks. And hey, it invites curiosity.

I first wrote this story way back in 2007, but something about it refused to gel for me, so I set it aside for more than a year. After 14 months cooling off I could see exactly what needed to be done. I cut more than 2000 words and ended the story two scenes sooner than I’d originally intended. It’s still not perfect, but what ever is?

As always, critical feedback is much appreciated, although since this one has already sold I don’t think I’ll be making any changes to it in the future. Cheers all!

CONTINUE TO: THE TOILET MAZE

Housekeeping

Back in March last year I posted a list of things I had to get done. I just remembered the list and decided to see where I was at.

1) Last revision of Boilerboys. Get the language and dialects down perfect. Anyone here an expert on the different inflections of late nineteenth century England?
Haven’t even looked at Boilerboys since I made this list. I want to, but I can’t muster the strength.

2) Finish the Toilet Maze (aka LAVATRON). I was pretty close to having this done, and then got distracted. Needs some cutting before the endgame.
Rejigged it, cut it by 1/3rd, sold it. Will post soon. So happy!

3) Finish my as-yet unnamed Post Apoc novella. I got around 60,000 words in, reached the final scene, and didn’t know where to go. Or even if it was worth concluding.
Finished it off with a short 1000 word scene. It makes me cringe to reread it, but one day it might be worth salvaging.

4) Begin the Dustbowl short. I have some notes in my notebook but little else.
I finished it off at about 10,000 words. It was alright. Didn’t go anywhere. Learned a lot about pacing in the process though.

5) Figure out some way to make the Memory Man short a bit more engaging. Create an actual story inside the mystery.
Rewrote this, still not happy with it. I think it needs some major cutting instead of expanding.

6) Try to expand a dream I had a few days ago in the library, involving a funfair that wasn’t very fun. It’s only a kernel of a story at the moment, so it’s low priority.
Turned this into a 100,000 word novel. The first draft is painfully bad, but isn’t that the point of first drafts? No real drive to go back and fix this one. Maybe after I finish novelising The Ant Tower.

7) Have another look at They Trade In Eyes. A few days of revision should get it up to scratch.
Revised it and have been sending it out to several magazines. No luck selling it yet, even though it’s one of my personal favourites. Gotta wait and see!

So I guess I’m not as unproductive as I’d thought. Now, for 2009:

1) Do a first draft of the Ant Tower novel.

2) Gather impressions of the 3rd Weathermen draft, polish, send it off.

3) Finish the Titanic short story.

4) Send out Ant Tower.

5) Trim down Departure Time (a flash fic piece I quite like, but that isn’t quiiite there).

6) Trim Memory Man.

Lots to do! 2009 should be epic!

Sold a story!

More at 11!

(first sale giddiness. Am leaping about like a deodorant can exploded in my pants.)

A Chorus of Bells (slice of life)

The alley is long and deep like an undersea trench and the morning sun stretches my shadow out before me until my arms are spider-thin, every stride hurtling me down the sidewalk. The graffiti stretches far overhead, neon murals weaving higher and higher until the paint finally gives way to bare concrete and small, squinting windows. At the far end of the alley is the main road: the steel rhythm of trams, swirling summer dresses, squalling babies in strollers. Haute couture and the high sweetness of the churro stand, powdered sugar melting on tongues and teeth.

As I enter the alley there is a ringing of bells.

These are not the low, ponderous echoes of bells swinging in church steeples. It is a high tinkling, not one but many, a chorus, and as they echo through the alley I can imagine the Chinese dragon dance, the swing of tassels, the dip and roar as the dragon nods with the crowd. Then the chimes, windborne, tolling in time.

Nobody behind me. The alley is empty. The music seems to come from above, but there are no dancers silhouetted against the edge of the rooftops. There is nothing but pale sky and the turn of the clouds. The bells are singing, so close I feel it in my teeth. I could be back in Osaka, stepping through the Torii into a Shinto shrine, the long procession of figures in pale robes slipping through the soft-leaved maple.

The bells are following me, I’m sure. Ten steps to the end of the alley, passing a mural of a mafioso rabbit sneering from beneath a black fedora and the music is the same volume as it was when I entered. There are so many tiny windows. Are people shrinking down behind the glass as I pass by?

Again, nobody against the skyline. I’m alone in the long alley and the music is coming from just over my shoulder. There is no melody. It isn’t a song of celebration but a litany, slow and solemn and delicate. A performance written for wooden-walled temples where the statues are gilded and forgiving and men walk barefoot among their gods. It’s not a song written for this alley.

The end. I step out onto the street and the music stops. When I look behind there is nothing but the graffiti and the macadam and the long shadows of suit-tails and polished shoes. There is no music.

For a moment I consider stepping back in, just to see if the bells will ring with life once more.

The music is past. I move on.