Invitation to Bordertown

Dear April,

I hope this letter finds you. I hope it makes its way to the World with as little difficulty as possible. I hope that it finds its way to your hands quickly.

I hope you don’t hate me.

It was never my intention to leave. After the fight, I just meant to go for a walk, to give us both some time to cool down. Do you remember that night? It was bitter cold and the air smelt like rain.

I was only going to go for a walk around the block, but somewhere between Sycamore Street and Johnson Avenue, Bordertown swallowed me. To this day, I have no idea why Bordertown came for me, why I was spirited away to this place.

Of course, I heard the stories about the Border. But I never wanted to go there. It held no fascination for me. Bordertown was meaningless to me. It was a town for runaway kids looking for second chances and fairy tale endings.

I didn’t need a second chance and never wanted a fairy tale life. All I wanted to do was walk the block, then come home and make peace with you. I just wanted to hold you in my arms, kiss your head and tell you that everything was going to be okay.

But that didn’t happen. Bordertown shanghaied me, and try as I might, I couldn’t leave. The town wouldn’t let me. Here, all the streets and alleys twist and turn like living things. And those times I did get beyond the city, into the Nevernever, I would always find myself back at the city.

It’s ironic. Thousands of kids all over the world are dying to get to Bordertown, and here I am, trying like hell to get out. No one can figure out why I’m here and why I can’t leave. I’ve consulted the best magicians in town and they’ve all drawn a blank. Some have suggested that I’m here because Bordertown wants me here.

I don’t care. I want to come home. I’ve wanted to come home since I arrived.

Last week, the Way between the Border and the World closed for a while. When it reopened, we discovered thirteen years had passed in the World. Thirteen years!

I don’t want to believe this is true, but the evidence is irrefutable. You’re as old as I am now, April. This place has robbed me of you. For that alone, I should burn it to the ground.

If you get this letter, I want you to know what happened. I didn’t abandon you. I pray to God that you’re safe and sound, that everything worked out with the baby.

When you get this letter, I want you to know I love you. You’re still my darling daughter, even if thirteen years has passed. And, if I can’t come to you, perhaps you can come to me? The Way is open, April, and I’m here, waiting for you with open arms and all my love.

Please, come.

Your loving father,

January

A Poem: Melog

MELOG

I sit here,

flesh and blood,

and moldering soul.

What happened to my fire?

The secret fire,

burning at the heart of the world,

that once burned in me?

When did it die?

When did I become gray clay?

Writing Groups

Good afternoon, gentle readers!  It's another Monday, which means it's time for another post from yours truly about the writing experience.
Today, we're going to talk about writing groups.
I loathe writing groups.  Honestly, I can't think of anyone who actually likes taking part in them.  At best, people tend to view them as a necessary evil.
Depending on the members, a writing group can be more evil than necessary, at least in my experience.  I've been a member of two groups in my life and both were extremely unsatisfactory experiences.  Mainly because the idea of constructive criticism in these groups was, "You should write more mainstream stuff that people will actually buy."
Um. Excuse me? I didn't come here for a market analysis, thankyouverymuch.  I came here to see if my writing was clear.  Does the story flow?  Are the characters fleshed out?  Did you spot any plot holes?  Does the narrative need to be tighter?
But I didn't get that kind of feedback from the writers groups I belonged to.  It was more like market research, if the demographic I was going for was angst-ridden poets, holier-than-thou church ladies and little tin dictators.
If the above doesn't reveal it clearly, let me say right now that I remain biased against writing groups.  I believe that most of them do more harm than good. That they foster a writer's insecurities instead of strengthening his craft.
Still, I think aspiring writers should join at least one writers group during their life. Firstly, because once you've joined one such group, you'll probably never want to join another.  And, secondly, because the people who make up these groups can provide a hell of a lot of inspiration for horror stories.

Flashfic: Welcome to Spaceforce

Commander Sykes was dead.

Crewman Jab and the rest of the Custodial Service’s team didn’t bother attending the memorial service. It was being piped over the Inanna’s internal comm-circuits anyway.

"Why are we watching this crap?" asked Church. He was new, recruited from some dull as dishwater farm-world, fresh out of Basic.

"We got no choice," said Jab, pulling the tab on a fake-beer and taking a sip. It tasted like recycled cat piss, but boozing it up on-duty was the one rule kept hard-and-fast all over the ship.

"It’s on every comm-circuit," Ensign Drury explained.

Most of the custodial crew was gathered in Drury’s office. Everyone had been encouraged to watch the memorial service, unless you were working essential services. It was a tight fit, but nobody minded.

Any excuse to slack off, thought Jab.

On the monitor, the captain was reading the standard memorial speech as prescribed by Spaceforce Command. It was the usual nonsense and Jab was pretty sure Quid could have skipped it and just fired the coffin-torpedo into the void. That was the only reason anybody was in the shuttle bay in the first place, to make sure Sykes was dead and gone.

"How’d the commander die anyway?" asked Church.

Glances were exchanged among the custodial crew.

"There was an accident in one of the playrooms," said Ensign Drury.

Jab was sure Drury believed Sykes’ death was really an accident. If the kid thought someone had killed the commander, Jab was pretty sure Drury’s head would have exploded from shock.

"Beer’s gone," Crewman Tora announced. "Who wants to make a run to the duplicator?"

"I’ll go," said Jab. "Church, gimme a hand."

Church slouched out of the tiny office, following Jab. The corridors were quiet and still, down here on Z-Deck.

Jab glanced at the younger man. "You really want to know how Sykes died?"

"Sure," said Church.

"He was killed by a faulty robo-whore."

Church gaped. "Really?"

"That’s the official story," said Jab.

"What’s the unofficial story?"

"Somebody rewired the robo-whore to kill him."

"Holy crap! Who?"

Jab shrugged. "Most people think it was Lt. Commander Mahendra."

Church frowned. "Which one is he?"

"The chief engineer," said Jab.

"The guy with the artificial ears?"

"That’s him."

"Why would he kill the commander?"

Jab snorted. "If you met Sykes, you wouldn’t be asking that. That guy was seriously fucked up. Half the crew would have shoved him in an airlock while the other half fought to press the purge button."

"He was that bad?"

"Yep."

"But, if he was killed, why isn’t there an investigation?"

"Because, everybody’s glad Sykes is dead," said Jab, bluntly. "Especially the senior officers. They had to work with him every day. Poor bastards. We’re all pretty sure they’re covering for Mahendra."

Church stared at Jab. "But that’s . . . "

"Standard operating procedure," said Jab.

"Are you serious?"

"Serious As an attack of space-crabs."

"Holy crap!"

Jab patted Church’s shoulder. "Welcome to Spaceforce."

Frustration

Good morning, gentle readers.Today, I'm going to talk about frustration.  We've all experienced it.  That sense of profound irritation with the world because something isn't going the way that we want.
Writing is a frustrating enterprise.
Don't believe me?  Sit down and write something.  Maybe a short 500 word piece of fiction.
Done?  Great!
Now, show your work to ten people and ask them what they think.
Some of the responses will be completely expected, others will surprise you and one or two will have you pulling your hair out.  Why?  Because those last two just didn't get what the story was about.  Or they totally misinterpreted what you were writing in the first place.
Genre writers probably get more of the last than most other writers.  Regardless of what you write, having your readers totally miss the point you're trying to convey, can drive you nuts.
I am not immune to frustration.  One of the authors who generally frustrates me is Agatha Christie.  Why? You ask.   
Because I think she cheats.  She never gives you all the clues to help you solve the mystery.  Dame Agatha is particularly guilty of this in her Miss Marple books.
So, what do you do when a reaction to your writing leaves you fretting and frustrated?  Well, gentle reader, I hate to say this, but there isn't much you can do.  Writing is open to interpretation.  Sometimes that cool vampire story you wrote is going to be read as a deliberate parody of the genre.  Occasionally your readers will look at your characters' actions and motivations and get them completely wrong.
Whatever you do, don't argue with the readers.  There's no point.  It's probably best to just make a statement, declaring your actual intent, and then go away.  Let the readers and critics debate among themselves while you have a nice cup of tea or a soothing massage.
Then, you put aside your frustration and start writing something else.