Book Launches: 100 Stories for Queensland and Nothing But Flowers

Today's the day folks! Two paperback book launches with a story of mine in each are happening right now, and both in support of very worthy charitable causes. If that in itself is not enough to convince you to rush off and buy both books right this instant, it's OK, I'll wait...

*insert Countdown theme music here*

...you're back? Great!

Now, as I was saying, please allow me to tell you a little more about each book in turn.

First, 100 Stories for Queensland...

As you may remember from the media coverage at the time and from my post here, back in January (2011) the Australian state of Queensland was devastated by flooding. Very shortly thereafter, Jodi Cleghorn of eMergent Publishing and herself a resident of Queensland, and Trevor Belshaw, a fellow UK writer proposed an anthology project in support of those affected by the floods and 100 Stories for Queensland was born. An international team of authors, editors, beta readers (too many wonderful people to name individually here) gave freely of their time and writing to bring the project to fruition, you can find out more about them here.



So, just what is 100 Stories for Queensland? Well, dear reader, I'll tell you.

100 Stories for Queensland is a charity anthology of flash fiction, that is, short stories of under 1000 words, in aid of the survivors of the worst flooding in history in the Australian state of Queensland. 100 Stories DOES NOT contain real life accounts of the floods. Everything between the covers is fiction.

There is something for everyone, with stories in a number of genres, including literary fiction, science fiction, magical realism, romance, fantasy, humour, paranormal and slice of life. Includes my story, Kittens!

The stories were penned by an international contingent of writers. A quarter of the stories came from Australia, a third from the UK and the rest from across the globe including the USA, Spain, France, Austria, Malaysia, Israel, Greece and Canada.

Money from the sale of the book goes to The Queensland Premier’s Flood Relief Fund. 100% of the sale price of the eBook is donated and, 100% of the wholesale price (less printing costs) of the paperback is donated.

100 Stories for Queensland is available in ebook format here, and in paperback format from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, and should be available to order from your favourite local bookshop in about a week or so, but please don't wait, buy it today and help contribute to the 100 Stories for Queensland Amazon Chart Rush of today, 17th May, 2011.

You can also download the foreward and first eleven stories as a free sample in PDF and ePub formats.

The ebook retails for A$4.99, and the paperback for £9.99.



Nothing But Flowers is an anthology of twenty-five short stories, including my story, Daisy's Café, centred around the premise of love in a post-apocalyptic world. I wrote a blog post about the project, which you can find here.

Here's the blurb...

In a devastated world, a voice calls out through the darkness of space, a young woman embraces Darwin, a man lays flowers in a shattered doorway, a two-dimensional wedding feast awaits guests, a Dodge Challenger roars down the deserted highway …and that’s just the beginning.

Inspired by the Talking Heads’ song of the same name, Nothing but Flowers explores the complexities and challenges of love in a post-apocalyptic landscape; from a take-away coffee mug to a gun to the head, a fortune cookie to a guitar, the open road and beyond.

Poignant, funny, horrifying and sensual, this collection of short fiction leaves an indelible mark on ideas of what it means to love and be loved.

All profits from the sale of this anthology go to The Grantham Flood Support Fund. Grantham is a town in Queensland that was devastated by flooding in January 2011.

Nothing But Flowers is available in ebook format here, and on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, and should be available to order from your favourite local bookshop in about a week or so.

The ebook retails for A$4.99, and the paperback for £5.99

Go on, buy them both, you know you want to...

By the way, this happens to be the 150th post here at Future; Nostalgic and I for one can't think of a better subject to celebrate such a milestone. Now go buy the books, okay?

Book Launches: 100 Stories for Queensland and Nothing But Flowers

#FridayFlash: Northern Vampire Tales – The Female Of The Species...Part 1

This story is part 9 in the Northern Vampire series. I have a blog page here that lists all my vampire stories in chronological order.

________________________________

The following takes place about four months after Lucien's new club opens. Everything has been quiet since the events of Northern Vampire Part 8 until...

What's that? I'm a bit disorientated when I come to in the dark, sitting down and tied to a chair. The last thing I remember is stepping out of the private entrance behind the club after closing time and then...nothing. It does go to show that, whatever anyone may tell you, vampires can be rendered unconscious. While you're dwelling on that little nugget, let me get back to the story.

Under the circumstances, I reckon not showing any outward signs of being awake may be the way to go here, at least until I can work out where “here” is and what I'm up against. My senses are working overtime. There's a breeze in my face and it's cold in here. I haven't burst into flames yet so either it's still night time or I'm inside.

There's a pigeon in here. It's somewhere up and to my left, I can hear its claws skittering across metal, a girder perhaps? There are also chains rattling gently in the breeze that's blowing in my face. The breeze brings a low rumble of traffic in the distance and closer, the put-put-put of a diesel engine, marine I think, not a large one; a work boat, launch or something about that size. Without moving my head its hard to pinpoint, but I think it's ahead of me somewhere and moving diagonally to my left.

There's a smell of dust, brick dust I think, and decay about the place, I'm also getting dampness and a hint of mould. There's a whiff of oil and something else metallic that I can't quite place, then in the background the tang of salt and ozone, but no sound of waves on the shore so that rules out the coast. Rotting fish, diesel fumes and a hint of something unmentionable – a river. Tidal. The Tyne?

I feel the rough ground through the soles of my rather expensive shoes. It idly occurs to me that if my shoes are ruined there'll be hell to pay.

My ankles are tied to the legs of the chair, I presume its a chair, with something narrow. I can feel it biting into the skin even through my socks; not a rope then. My arms have been similarly treated, only they're pulled back and tied to the chair back. There's something heavy and cold against my neck that comes over both shoulders, draping in a diagonal cross over my chest then onto the floor. It feels like a chain against my skin.

Okay, enough is enough. I raise my head slightly and open my eyes. There's the scuff of a shoe on the broken ground to my right, quite close, and a sharp intake of breath. I think I just gave somebody a fright.

'Err...he's awake, like.'

I recognise that voice. Last time I heard it, it ended up in hospital with several fractured ribs.

'Glad you could join us, Mr Wheeler.' This voice is different, more of a whispered croak really, not a voice at all.

I focus on where the voice is coming from, taking in the two big lads in my peripheral vision, one standing each side of me about six feet distant. A few yards ahead is a wheelchair, the occupant of which looks familiar silhouetted in the moonlight streaming in through the old warehouse's open loading dock.

'As I live and breathe,' both lies but I force some levity into my tone, 'Geordie bloody Benson! Fancy seeing you here. I thought you were dead?'

'As you can see, Mr Wheeler,' Geordie whispers, 'Reports of my demise have been--'

'Greatly exaggerated?'

'Aye.'

'Shame.'

That earns me a crack on the skull from “Ribs” to my left.

'Leave him,' Geordie tries to shout as you would at a recalcitrant dog, instead he dissolves into a fit of coughing and needs help with the oxygen mask from the person who up until now I haven't noticed standing behind the wheelchair.

'It's alright, pet,' she croons softly, 'Take a few belts of this and you'll be champion, like.'

That's a turn-up for the books. I didn't think Geordie had a girlfriend.

'Hey, Geordie,' I call over, 'One of those slappers from the club providing personal services for you now?' Geordie had a nice little sideline in prostitution the last time I saw him.

More coughing and spluttering.

'I'm nee slapper, you cheeky bastard,' she barks, stepping forward. 'He's me kid brother, like.'

I'm still reeling from this revelation when “Ribs” smacks me in the side of the head so hard the chair tips over.

'Divent dee that, man,' she bellows while the two heavies turn me back the right way up. 'He's mine.' Geordie gurgles in the background.

I focus on her again. Where did that gun come from? The pistol looks huge in her small hand but I'll worry about that later, right now I'm more concerned with the fact that she's pointing it at me. I may have to do something about that. You see, Geordie I knew...I know. Evil he may be, but he likes a good speech before the tire irons start flying. This one I don't know, but I can see she's wound tighter than a watch spring, her knuckles white against the pistol's grip, and that's what makes her dangerous, not the gun.

She's shaking as she walks slowly towards me, and I don't think it's because of the cold. Nor do I think she's scared. She nearly turns an ankle on the rubble underfoot and I start praying the gun isn't going to go off.

'My name, Mr Wheeler, is Charlene Benson. Geordie works for me.'

With her accent, it comes out as “Mista.” So, this is the power behind the throne.

#FridayFlash: Northern Vampire Tales – The Female Of The Species...Part 1

#5MinuteFiction: And...We Have A Winner!

Afternoon all! Well, the poll is now closed and the results are in. We've had 31 votes cast since yesterday, so a huge thank you to everyone who took part and voted.

And now, with out further pontificating on my part, I am pleased to announce...

...pauses to build the tension like on TV talent shows...

...not yet...

...nearly time for the announcement...

Drum roll please! And the winner is...

Corinne O’Flynn (@CorinneOFlynn on Twitter) with a whopping 18 votes. Here's her entry:

The police detective stood over the body that was sprawled on the floor at his feet. There was blood everywhere, so much blood. And the way her body'd been flayed open like that was clearly the work of the same guy. No doubt about it.

"You wanna call it?" The police officer asked.

"Yeah, no question. It's the work of the same guy." The detective said. "We've got to catch him soon, or the chief's gonna have us for breakfast."

This was the fourth body to be found in as many days. Usually a serial killer took a break in between kills. Not this guy. If you counted the hours he was actually ramping up. Not good. Not good at all.

The two detectives stood on the edge of the room, careful to touch nothing and stand still on the small patch of dry wood floor available amidst the blood. The forensics team was still five minutes away.

There was a creaking sound above them. The two officers looked up and stared, the brains not comprehending what their eyes were clearly seeing.

The creature crouched on the ceiling like a fly. It was looking down at them with a curious look on its leathery purple-skinned face. It was covered in orange fur that seemed to sparkle in the harsh light from the single bulb in the corner of the room.

There was a snick as it opened its blade-like claws, a single drop of blood dripped to the floor. Its face spread wide in a grisly smile. The two detectives had nowhere to go, the door behind them was shut and opened inward.

The creature had them trapped.

Congratulations, Corinne!

Even if you missed the contest, you can still read the entries here, and find out what our guest judge, Julie Morrigan, thought about the finalists here.



Thanks again to everyone who took part in this week's #5MinuteFiction. Catch you later!

#5MinuteFiction: And...We Have A Winner!

#5MinuteFiction Blog Tour: The Finalists

Evening all, Sam here again!

Thanks to everyone who took part in #5MinuteFiction this week. Julie has given me her picks and the poll is up in the sidebar to your left. Yes, yes, I know I said it was going to be in the previous post, but I guy can change his mind, right? Especially when he can't work out the HTML code to put the poll into the previous post. *ahem*

Anyway, without further ado, here are Julie's thoughts on the contest, her first experience of #5MinuteFiction. Over to you, Julie...

First of all, I want to say that I am full of admiration for everyone who wrote something for the challenge. See a prompt, come up with an idea, write it in five minutes, post it. For an inveterate word-tinkerer like myself, that is a scary prospect. It can take me longer than that to compose an off-the-cuff email. So, well-deserved respect and props to all concerned. You rock!

Now, to the final five. I have to say that my approach to this was the same as the one taken by a lot of the ezines and magazines I like (and sometimes submit to): there were no rejections, just acceptances. From a read through of everything submitted, I got three that stood out for me straight off. Then I had the pleasure of reading through everything again and picking two more favourites. And it was a pleasure, make no mistake. Hanging out with creative and talented people could never be anything else.

So, the five, in the order they appear in the comments:

1) D. Paul - I love how this opens a window onto what is clearly a much bigger conflict, how it takes a small part of the whole and distils it into personal danger, courage and sacrifice. For me, that’s how big issues are understood: by looking at how they affect the individual. Nice work!

2) S.P. Bowers - this is such a lovely snapshot of a dysfunctional relationship, of the destructive games people play. The characters are beautifully drawn and one cannot help but wonder how many sets of drawn curtains in suburbia shield us from this kind of nightmare.

3) Corinne O’Flynn - just brilliant. It was horrific enough to think a serial killer was on the loose, but the locked door and the monster on the ceiling? And that single drop of blood was chilling.

4) Rebecca T - I felt like I had been caught in an avalanche when I read this. So nicely written - and yet absolutely suffocating.

5) That Neil Guy - I love this, the set-up, the pay off. I laughed out loud. This is truly a cautionary tale for anyone tempted to nick a woman’s beer. Be warned!

Thanks again to everyone who took part, and to Sam for giving me the chance to get involved. Great fun, I absolutely loved it!

So, there you have it. Thanks so much for judging, Julie.

To read the entries, please go here:

Now, go and vote, people!

#5MinuteFiction Blog Tour: The Finalists

#5MinuteFiction Blog Tour

Hello #5MinuteFictionistas! Are you ready for this?

First of all, welcome to Future; Nostalgic and many thanks to Leah Petersen for inviting me to be part of the #5MinuteFiction blog tour, I'm thrilled.

For anyone who hasn't participated before, I'd just like to run through the rules, and then I'll introduce our guest judge for this week. First, the rules...

The Rules

The contest starts at 6:30pm GMT (1:30pm EST) and I'll ammend this post at that point to include this week's prompt. You will then have five minutes (hence the name #5MinuteFiction. Good, eh?) to write a piece of prose in any style or genre. Your piece must reference this week's prompt.

Post your piece in the comments on this post by 6:45pm GMT (1:45pm EST); the extra time is to take account of the vagaries of the internet. I'll round out the contest with a comment at the end then hand the judging over to our guest judge for the week, more about them later. Our guest judge will nominate five finalists and I'll add a poll to this post at 8:00pm GMT (3:00pm EST) and you can all vote. You do not need to have taken part in the contest to vote.

The poll will run until just before 2:00pm GMT (9:00am EST) on Wednesday, 6th April, when I'll close the poll and announce the winner here at Future;Nostalgic.

This week's prompt is: Trap

(Note: The prompt is the word. The picture is for inspiration.
Thanks to Future; Nostalgic's Skiing Correspondent for the photo.)

Our guest judge this week is my good friend and fellow northern writer, Julie Lewthwaite, who writes as Julie Morrigan. Julie has recently published her first e-book, a short story anthology entitled Gone Bad, which is available on Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.com, and over at Smashwords. Gone Bad is an excellent collection of dark tales of human nature, here's the Smashwords description:

Tales about bad people doing bad things. This short story collection features a rare cast of characters: flawed, foul-mouthed, misguided and downtrodden, all of whom might be said to have, in one way or another, ‘gone bad’. This is strong stuff, no holds barred and no punches pulled. You wouldn’t want to be sharing the last bus home with these people!

I must confess to not having published a review of Gone Bad yet as I'm reading it through laced fingers from behind a cushion! It really is a great anthology, and I heartily recommend it.

Right then, just a couple of things before I sign off...

In the interests of ease, it's probably better to just type your submission directly into the comments box at the end of this post. Don't forget to save a copy before you hit Send, just in case Blogger eats your entry. Any problems, drop me a line through my Contact Me page and I'll do my best to assist.

Don't forget to add your Twitter handle to your entry if you have one, and a link to your blog if you'd like to.

And finally, there is no prize for this contest, so just do it for fun and enjoy yourself!

Right then, see you back here at 6:30pm GMT (1:30pm EST) for the fun and games!

#5MinuteFiction Blog Tour

#FridayFlash: In Pursuit of Knowledge

I come to lying on something softer than the usual concrete floor and it takes me a few minutes to realise I'm in a bed. The black silk sheets are a nice touch. Then I realise I'm naked and have a little wobble, okay, a big wobble. I may even have called Lucien a dirty fuckin' paedo out loud, at least till I check round the back and since my arse doesn't hurt I start to relax a bit.

It's a bit of a shock, let me tell you, waking up starkers in a strange bed. The last thing I remember is being in Lucien's car, and the word Rohypnol keeps marching across my mind in pit boots. I'd better go and have a word, just in case liberties have been taken. I'll not stand for that.

There's a wardrobe full of clothes, expensive designer stuff. That's mildly worrying. Presumably he's done this sort of thing before? Well, if nothing else I may as well profit from a new outfit, so I rake out a pair of decent-looking jeans, a t-shirt, hoodie and a rather nice leather jacket. I dress quickly, then check myself in the mirror, only I don't, 'cos I'm not there.

Whoa! What the f--! What the fuck's going on here? I'm in front of the mirror, slap-bang in front of it, but the reflection only shows an empty room. Alright, time for some answers I think as I head for the door, half expecting to find it locked from the outside, but no, it isn't and I'm padding down a stone corridor cursing myself for not grabbing a pair of trainers to go with my new outfit. In my defence, I'd had a shock. It's not everyday you discover you no longer have a reflection.

The corridor gives out onto a balcony overlooking a long room with a high-ceiling. It looks a bit like the reading room at the British Library. Not that I'd know, I've never set foot in the place. Wouldn't want you thinking I was some sort of literary geek or something. There's some posh furniture in here, sumptuous as my old Mother would say, and a bit at the far end separated off by bookcases. I can see a roaring fire through the gap between them.

I head down the stairs and across the room. The carpet's warm and soft on my feet. I can't resist wiggling my toes in the deep pile, I can't remember the last time I had carpet under my feet. I reach the gap in the bookcases and peer through. It's some kind of office-come sitting room, all big fireplaces and leather high-backed chairs. There's also a desk with one of the latest touch-screen computers on it. So, Lucien's not short of a bob or two. I might make a few quid out of this yet.

Stepping through the gap, I stand in front of the fire, which is nice as I can't seem to get warm since I woke up. As I look round the room from this side, my eyes take in the paintings, old ones like the bollocks you usually find in museums, there's also a table with decanters on it, I make a mental note to help myself later. Then there's the book cases, only they aren't from this side. They're glass display cases. Bloody hell! Running almost from floor to ceiling, the display cases are full of weapons and armour – axes, those spiky ball-on-a-stick things and swords, big bastard sharp looking swords. I feel my stomach turn over.

The other one has a horse in it. Yes, a fucking horse! It's stuffed, I think. I mean, it has to be, either that or it's the best mime I've ever seen. It's got a saddle on, and one of those fancy cloth things knights used to have. A Comparison, or something like that. Can you tell history wasn't my favourite subject at school? The cloth-thing is black, or at least it would have been when it was new, and there's a crest on it – a green cross, a bit like the Knights Templar, but not.

I freeze. Hang on a minute, what's the noise? Sounds like somebody chopping wood. The noise is coming from behind a set of floor to ceiling red velvet curtains. Funny, I hadn't even noticed them before., but now I do I can see there's a draught coming under them that makes the bottom ends billow a bit. I pad over and peep through between them.

There's a big picture window behind, with tinted glass, and a pair of French doors, one of which is open. These look out over a walled garden, in the middle of which is Lucien, stripped to the waist and knocking seven colours of shite out of a wooden post with one of those big swords. And it's dark as pitch out there, must be night time. How long did I sleep?

I let go the curtain and take a step back. Lucien appears as if by magic. Christ Almighty he can shift when he wants to, it must be at least fifty yards to that post.

'You're awake,' he says matter-of-factly.

'Err...yeah,' I murmur. God, I could do with a drink. My hands are shaking.

'You'll be expecting answers.'

I nod, like one of those flamin' dogs you see in the backs of cars. For some reason I can't seem to get the words out.

'Help yourself to a drink and take a seat. I shall explain.'

So I do, and he does, but that's a story for another time. Right now I'm more concerned with that bloody big sword Lucien still has in his hand, it looks sharp and it's pointed my way.

#FridayFlash: In Pursuit of Knowledge

Splintered Lands - Ap Garriyon Part 1

I am thrilled to have been invited to be a part of a new collaborative fantasy writing project, Splintered Lands. The first part of my story Ap Garriyon is up now over at the Splintered Lands site.

Ap Garriyon opens with a troop of the Knights Of The Broken Wheel on a sensitive mission high in the Shelvasha Mountains, a particularly dangerous part of the Splintered Lands. Here's a taster of the story:

Troop Captain Sir Merarus McNaer shifted uneasily in his saddle. His horse's constant fidgeting did nothing to ease his nerves as the morning mist billowed around him, an insulating blanket almost completely opaque this high in the mountains. Speaking quietly to the animal, McNaer stroked its neck, the horse whickering softly in response.

McNaer had always been an early riser, so it made sense he should stand dawn sentry while his troop struck camp. Even though he knew their camp lay not a hundred yards distant, were it not for the occasional muffled clank of armour or a whinny from one of the horses, McNaer could easily have believed he was completely alone in one of the most dangerous places in the republic...

To read the rest, and to explore the Splintered Lands, please go here.

For further information about the Knights Of The Broken Wheel, please go here, and if you happen to be on Twitter, keep an eye out for the #SplinteredLands hashtag for more updates on the project.

Splintered Lands - Ap Garriyon Part 1

Dog Days of Summer Flash Fiction Contest Winner

I've just had some wonderful news – Michael J Solender of Not From Here Are You? Has just announced my story, The Pit of Hades, as the winning entry in his Dog Days of Summer flash fiction contest.

*pauses till the wild applause subsides*

It really was a great contest, and not a little bit challenging, having to fit an entire story, plus two specific words, into only 101 words. Michael tells me there were close on 100 entries to the contest, which have now been compiled into the Dog Days of Summer 2010 chapter book. Congratulations to everyone who entered, there's a wealth of fantastic flash fiction in the book, and a special thank you to Michael, obviously a man of excellent taste, for choosing my story as the contest winner.

If you'd like a peek at the book, here it is:

Open publication - Free publishing - More flash

If you'd like a copy of your own, please follow this link.

Don't forget to head over to Michael's blog to read the interview with yours truly.

Dog Days of Summer Flash Fiction Contest Winner

Audioboo and a Gargling Cat...

Tony Noland, owner of the excellent writing blog Landless, has kindly offered me the opportunity to regale you all with my thoughts about Audioboo and what it could mean for authors of flash fiction. To discover what I think about it, and to find out where the gargling cat fits in, head on over to Landless and check out my post.

Audioboo and a Gargling Cat...

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #15: Repercussions

Repercussions is the fifteenth installment in my on-going flash fiction serial, The UCF Stories. If you'd like to read the story from the beginning, please go here.

____________________________________

Having at last captured the Wyrm, Botchett, Swazzle and Pogmorton are preparing to return with it to the mortal realm when they come under attack by a fairy patrol...

Hastily dismantling his apparatus, Botchett grabbed his backpack and pulled from it a three-barrelled shotgun-type contraption. Pumping a round into the shotgun's chamber, Botchett loosed off a shot as another five fairies, flying in a “V” formation, appeared close behind the first. A green-glowing pine cone arced through the air, exploding with a terrific bang amid the fairy flight. One of the fairies clutched her face and spiralled into the ground.

'By the god's balls, Botchett! Where did you learn to do that?' Swazzle was amazed.

Botchett laughed. 'I wasn't always a Wyrm catcher, bonny lad.' Turning to the fairies, he roared, 'Howay, ye little winged bastards, come and get it! Pilgrim's back, and there's gonna be some dying this fine morning, like.'

As the fairies began to return fire, rounds from their banshee rifles screaming overhead, Swazzle and Pogmorton joined the fray, loosing off shots from their wands while Botchett deafened them with the reports of his shotgun. Two more fairies went down under their combined fire before a banshee rifle round took Swazzle's hat clean off his head. Swazzle's black look by return, flew unerringly towards its mark and began to claw the fairy's face off; she was still desperately trying to pull it off her when she flew full tilt into a tree, her body landing with a sickening thud among its roots.

The remaining two fairies were by now adept at avoiding Botchett's shotgun blasts, and their fire was becoming dangerously accurate, so with Botchett holding onto the travelling box, Swazzle and Pogmorton grabbed him under the arms and dashed off in the direction of the portal, Delilah scampering along at their heels.

Tumbling back into the mortal realm, Swazzle, Pogmorton and Botchett ran up Hangman's Passage. As they reached the intersection with Gallows Close, Pogmorton skidded to a halt, motioning the others to do the same.

'What is it?' Swazzle whispered, flattening himself against the wall.

'Fairy,' Pogmorton pointed, 'In that tree in the churchyard.'

Swazzle whispered to Botchett to stay where he was with the travelling box while he and Pogmorton dealt with the problem. Seeing the grim determination on Swazzle's face, Botchett did not argue as the two Pixies blinked out of sight.

* * *

Twinkle was cold and stiff. She'd been hiding in the tree for hours, waiting for any sign of movement from within Goddess Rising. She knew the witch was in there, but there had been no indication she had gone anywhere near the book yet. It was up to Twinkle to stop her if she did, especially since the Pixies now had the walnut shell formerly entrusted to the keeping of that idiot Simeon. At least while the shell's contents were in his possession, no one would have suspected the awesome power it held.

Hunkering down against the trunk of the Beech tree, Twinkle pulled her cloak more tightly around her and tried to get comfortable. It was a lost cause. There was bound to be movement soon, she thought, then I can get out of here.

* * *

With a soft “pop,” Swazzle and Pogmorton blinked into existence next to one of the huge stone buttresses holding up the church wall. After checking their arrival had not been observed, Pogmorton gestured to Swazzle and they tiptoed quickly across to the base of the tree in which Twinkle was hiding.

'We need a diversion,' Pogmorton mouthed to Swazzle.

Swazzle winked and, working his throat as though he was retching, carefully spat something into his hand. Swazzle took a step back to check his aim, then lobbed the content of his hand gently up towards where Twinkle crouched.

At the top of its arc, and just behind Twinkle's head, Swazzle's larynx began to move. 'BOO!' it shouted, and the Pixies had to dive out of the way as Twinkle jumped, lost her footing and tumbled to the ground, fighting in vain to free her wings from the swaddling folds of her cloak before she hit the ground.

Twinkle landed at their feet with a thud, groaned and lay still. Swazzle deftly caught his voice box and stuffed it back into his mouth as Pogmorton bent over to see if Twinkle was badly injured, or worse.

'Out for the count,' he announced with satisfaction.

'Not dead then?' Swazzle squeaked, hands working to adjust his throat. He coughed then continued in his normal voice, 'It's Twinkle!'

'Aye, it is,' replied Pogmorton, 'And no, she's not dead, just unconscious. ' He clapped Swazzle on the back, 'Well done by the way, throwing your voice like that was perfect, just perfect.'

Swazzle bowed low, grinning. 'So, what do we do now?'

'Get Botchett and the Wyrm inside sharpish before she comes round.' With a soft pop they disappeared.

* * *

Master Jamieson's front door, referred to by the Pixies as the “tradesmen's entrance,” though not in Jamieson's presence, had barely closed behind Botchett when Twinkle moaned and slowly began to move, holding the back of her head as pain arced through her skull. She still wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but it smelled to her like a Pixie trick, and she strongly suspected which pixies were responsible.

Getting gingerly to her feet, Twinkle neatly folded her cloak and, after a few tentative flaps, took to the air in search of a better vantage point.

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #15: Repercussions