How to describe the book I'm writing...
Okay... Um....
Let's try this...
Twelve-year-old Brandon Poole just knows he's going to hate spending the summer far away at a drama school housed in an ancient boarding school, right from the moment when his parents tell him. But almost as soon as he arrives, he uncovers a plot by the drama teachers to resurrect an ancient time, the Golden Era, where everything will be as they want and they can be the rulers of the world! However, the Golden Era's unstable power will result in the destruction of the world!
Learning that he needs to collect ancient artefacts and hold a ceremony to prevent the resurrection, Brandon enlists his new friends from the drama school to help him try and stop the teachers' quest, and at the same he's busy getting up to all the adventures of boarding school...
I suck
at summaries. But that's kind of the idea. Expect a great mystery
drama story, with big dollops of action-adventure, light comedy and
romance. The elements of the book dealing with the whole big drama-y
'stop the resurrection' thing are nicely balanced out with fun and
frolics at boarding school in summer. As I write this I'm about
22,000 words in and it's going brilliantly. I'm really connecting
with the story and the characters. If you want to associate it with a
TV series, I think House
of Anubis might
be a good one to think of it as being a bit like.
Oh...
Talking
of characters, the NEXT BLOG POST, coming soon, will be the first
batch of character profiles from Resurrection
of the Golden Era.
So, to find out all you need to know about Brandon Poole, Ellie Ward
and Ingrid Parker, check back on the blog sometime before the end of
the week.
Tuesday 30 July 2013
Saturday 27 July 2013
Doctor Sandstorm: Chapter 1: Clara
So this is the first chapter of my first novella "Doctor Sandstorm". The version of the chapter used in the final novella was in fact my third or fourth try at writing the opening chapter, and was written in early September 2012. Original titles for the chapter included "The Strangest Stranger Of Them All" and "Strapped to the Operating Table".
Clara Green was by no means an unlikeable girl, nor an unusual one – in fact, she was a normal English schoolgirl, chic, stylish and craving for attention, chocolate and boys, twelve years old, twelve years of temper tantrums followed by sweet smiles wrapped up inside a beautiful dark-haired package, made in Lancashire. So it came as a great surprise to her when she woke up on an operating table at seven o'clock in the morning.
She smelt the musty air and looked around at her surroundings of stone staircases, trays crammed with complex instruments and potions, and mysterious electrical devices in the corner. Everything was silent. Two turquoise-clad surgeons in mouth masks and turquoise tunics surveyed her intently with glinting, malevolent eyes. At least, Clara presumed they were surgeons, albeit gloomy, shifty-looking ones. And she presumed they had eyes. Maybe that was why she remembered feeling a bit funny before she appeared on the operating table – she'd passed out and Mrs. Marple, her form teacher, had taken her to hospital.
Clara thought – a practice she didn't engage herself in very much – whilst the surgeons murmured quietly through their masks at each other. She was on a school trip with 29 other children and three teachers; as an End-of-Year Treat at Cantlebury High, pupils from each class went to a foreign country for a week. Due to budgetary reasons, only one class would be living the dream in New York for seven days in July 2012, and after picking the name out of a cap, 7D, Clara's form, had been chosen.
The trip was going fairly well, all things considered. Macy LeBouche, a rather podgy, arrogant girl who Clara immensely disliked, had tried to hit it off with Joe Felton on the first night, and rumours regarding Mr. Snagg becoming excessively drunk on the second night flew around the corridors and stairwells of the lavish five-star New York hotel. The gossip was excellent.
7D had rented an entire floor of the hotel, and stayed up very late at night, much to the dismay of the other residents of the hotel. There were thirty children in the class, split into six dormitory-style rooms of five children each. Clara got on well with quite a few of the girls in her class, but there were some who she didn't like and they didn't like her either.
She had a habit of saying what was on her mind, without caring for anybody else's feelings or desires. She was a very open-minded girl and very sceptical. She didn't believe anything until she could see it, and got very annoyed with adults who tried to patronise her.
It was for this reason that Clara didn't like all the girls in the class, including Macy LeBouche. She supposed that it was only fair, even though Macy LeBouche had a pig-like snout nose and very large feet. In fact, it was Clara's noticing of her animal-like features that made her and Macy enemies.
In Clara's large, spacious dormitory were four other girls, fortunately not including Macy LeBouche. Whereas Clara got on well with girls in her class, she didn't have any special friends, but luckily the four girls in her dormitory were her sort-of friends, people she got on well with. Alexandria Spraggan. Lucy Polizzi. Nigella Alley, and Amelia Hall.
The adventurous class, each with a bubbling, vibrant personality, were in the vast expanse of Central Park when Clara blacked out. Day 4 of 7. No doubt everybody would be wondering where she was. But where am I? she thought. She realised that she really didn't have a clue. No sunlight came from the broken window and everything appeared to be made of stone and dust. It didn't sound promising. It didn't sound like New York. Were they underground hospitals in New York, with stone staircases and secret basements and mysterious surgeons? Hmm.... no. Mysterious. And where were the teachers?
Clara's beautiful, round green eyes wandered over to an elaborate mahogany hand mirror positioned to the left side of the blue operating table she was sitting on. Clara scrutinized herself in it. She looked a mess.
Her black jacket had been taken off, as had her jet-black Doc Marten boots. Her lengthy black hair was all messed up, flying everywhere, and also apparently waging a war with her facial features, by the looks of it. It looked like it was trying to fly. She had huge bags under her eyes, and her pretty face looked tired and dishevelled.
The surgeons had finished their confuddling exchange of whispers and one now carried a small glass phial, the other a beaker of orange liquid. Clara suspected that it wasn't orange juice. The liquid emitted traces of steam, not a lot, but still steam, indicating that t it was hot, and it was soon poured into the phial, and then back to the beaker. Then back into the phial, then to the beaker, then in the phial, where it stayed. Hmm... thought Clara, three times... that's got to be significant...
The first figure, the first mysterious surgeon, raised the phial and walked over to Clara.
“Drink...” it rasped, hoarsely. Clara didn't do a thing. The drink could've been poison for all she knew. She had, by now, decided that her situation was an extremely dangerous one and she was in a very unsafe place. It wasn't a hospital, it might not have been New York, and there was nobody she knew or could trust, anywhere. Maybe this surgeon was qualified, just eccentric with unusual tastes. And was the hoarse rasping voice its natural voice, or did it have a throat problem? These were the things going through Clara's mind as she sceptically surveyed the masked menace.
The surgeon raised the phial to Clara's lips...
BANG! The massively splendid trays of medical and surgical instruments exploded, sending potions and phials flying. The door crashed down to the floor insignificantly, and in burst a figure in a purple tailcoat, plum trousers and a green frilled shirt, topped off with a plum top hat with a green ribbon on it, and a pale, pasty, white pumpkin-shaped face framed by copper brown hair, reaching to the figure's – lady's? shoulders.
She raised a hand. Out flew blue energy, like beams of light all flowing to one of the surgeons. The surgeon's body glowed blue and shattered like glass. She outstretched her other hand expectantly but no light came out. She looked crestfallen.
“Damn,” she uttered. “Must speak to Aldred”. So she produced, in her other hand, from nowhere, a long black wooden walking stick. She pulled out the top of it and instantly the second surgeon flew into it, his body convulsing and wriggling before turning into pure blue light. The woman snapped the cane shut as the last of the remains of the surgeon flew into it.
“Wraiths. Never could stand them. But Selecta, you got style”. She noticed Clara and jumped, as though startled, as though she had no idea Clara had been there.
“Oh. Hello. I don't think you'll have met me before, though I think I met you once when you were a baby. Well, welcome to Transylvania. I'm Doctor Sandstorm. And so the adventure begins”.
It's shorter than the other chapters, and really was just written as an introductory chapter. I hope you like it. If people say they like it, I might put more chapters up, but it's not a priority.
NEXT TIME ON THE BLOG: Summary for "Resurrection of the Golden Era" - synopsis and plot details.
Clara Green was by no means an unlikeable girl, nor an unusual one – in fact, she was a normal English schoolgirl, chic, stylish and craving for attention, chocolate and boys, twelve years old, twelve years of temper tantrums followed by sweet smiles wrapped up inside a beautiful dark-haired package, made in Lancashire. So it came as a great surprise to her when she woke up on an operating table at seven o'clock in the morning.
She smelt the musty air and looked around at her surroundings of stone staircases, trays crammed with complex instruments and potions, and mysterious electrical devices in the corner. Everything was silent. Two turquoise-clad surgeons in mouth masks and turquoise tunics surveyed her intently with glinting, malevolent eyes. At least, Clara presumed they were surgeons, albeit gloomy, shifty-looking ones. And she presumed they had eyes. Maybe that was why she remembered feeling a bit funny before she appeared on the operating table – she'd passed out and Mrs. Marple, her form teacher, had taken her to hospital.
Clara thought – a practice she didn't engage herself in very much – whilst the surgeons murmured quietly through their masks at each other. She was on a school trip with 29 other children and three teachers; as an End-of-Year Treat at Cantlebury High, pupils from each class went to a foreign country for a week. Due to budgetary reasons, only one class would be living the dream in New York for seven days in July 2012, and after picking the name out of a cap, 7D, Clara's form, had been chosen.
The trip was going fairly well, all things considered. Macy LeBouche, a rather podgy, arrogant girl who Clara immensely disliked, had tried to hit it off with Joe Felton on the first night, and rumours regarding Mr. Snagg becoming excessively drunk on the second night flew around the corridors and stairwells of the lavish five-star New York hotel. The gossip was excellent.
7D had rented an entire floor of the hotel, and stayed up very late at night, much to the dismay of the other residents of the hotel. There were thirty children in the class, split into six dormitory-style rooms of five children each. Clara got on well with quite a few of the girls in her class, but there were some who she didn't like and they didn't like her either.
She had a habit of saying what was on her mind, without caring for anybody else's feelings or desires. She was a very open-minded girl and very sceptical. She didn't believe anything until she could see it, and got very annoyed with adults who tried to patronise her.
It was for this reason that Clara didn't like all the girls in the class, including Macy LeBouche. She supposed that it was only fair, even though Macy LeBouche had a pig-like snout nose and very large feet. In fact, it was Clara's noticing of her animal-like features that made her and Macy enemies.
In Clara's large, spacious dormitory were four other girls, fortunately not including Macy LeBouche. Whereas Clara got on well with girls in her class, she didn't have any special friends, but luckily the four girls in her dormitory were her sort-of friends, people she got on well with. Alexandria Spraggan. Lucy Polizzi. Nigella Alley, and Amelia Hall.
The adventurous class, each with a bubbling, vibrant personality, were in the vast expanse of Central Park when Clara blacked out. Day 4 of 7. No doubt everybody would be wondering where she was. But where am I? she thought. She realised that she really didn't have a clue. No sunlight came from the broken window and everything appeared to be made of stone and dust. It didn't sound promising. It didn't sound like New York. Were they underground hospitals in New York, with stone staircases and secret basements and mysterious surgeons? Hmm.... no. Mysterious. And where were the teachers?
Clara's beautiful, round green eyes wandered over to an elaborate mahogany hand mirror positioned to the left side of the blue operating table she was sitting on. Clara scrutinized herself in it. She looked a mess.
Her black jacket had been taken off, as had her jet-black Doc Marten boots. Her lengthy black hair was all messed up, flying everywhere, and also apparently waging a war with her facial features, by the looks of it. It looked like it was trying to fly. She had huge bags under her eyes, and her pretty face looked tired and dishevelled.
The surgeons had finished their confuddling exchange of whispers and one now carried a small glass phial, the other a beaker of orange liquid. Clara suspected that it wasn't orange juice. The liquid emitted traces of steam, not a lot, but still steam, indicating that t it was hot, and it was soon poured into the phial, and then back to the beaker. Then back into the phial, then to the beaker, then in the phial, where it stayed. Hmm... thought Clara, three times... that's got to be significant...
The first figure, the first mysterious surgeon, raised the phial and walked over to Clara.
“Drink...” it rasped, hoarsely. Clara didn't do a thing. The drink could've been poison for all she knew. She had, by now, decided that her situation was an extremely dangerous one and she was in a very unsafe place. It wasn't a hospital, it might not have been New York, and there was nobody she knew or could trust, anywhere. Maybe this surgeon was qualified, just eccentric with unusual tastes. And was the hoarse rasping voice its natural voice, or did it have a throat problem? These were the things going through Clara's mind as she sceptically surveyed the masked menace.
The surgeon raised the phial to Clara's lips...
BANG! The massively splendid trays of medical and surgical instruments exploded, sending potions and phials flying. The door crashed down to the floor insignificantly, and in burst a figure in a purple tailcoat, plum trousers and a green frilled shirt, topped off with a plum top hat with a green ribbon on it, and a pale, pasty, white pumpkin-shaped face framed by copper brown hair, reaching to the figure's – lady's? shoulders.
She raised a hand. Out flew blue energy, like beams of light all flowing to one of the surgeons. The surgeon's body glowed blue and shattered like glass. She outstretched her other hand expectantly but no light came out. She looked crestfallen.
“Damn,” she uttered. “Must speak to Aldred”. So she produced, in her other hand, from nowhere, a long black wooden walking stick. She pulled out the top of it and instantly the second surgeon flew into it, his body convulsing and wriggling before turning into pure blue light. The woman snapped the cane shut as the last of the remains of the surgeon flew into it.
“Wraiths. Never could stand them. But Selecta, you got style”. She noticed Clara and jumped, as though startled, as though she had no idea Clara had been there.
“Oh. Hello. I don't think you'll have met me before, though I think I met you once when you were a baby. Well, welcome to Transylvania. I'm Doctor Sandstorm. And so the adventure begins”.
It's shorter than the other chapters, and really was just written as an introductory chapter. I hope you like it. If people say they like it, I might put more chapters up, but it's not a priority.
NEXT TIME ON THE BLOG: Summary for "Resurrection of the Golden Era" - synopsis and plot details.
Friday 26 July 2013
Flicker
This is the short story I wrote for the BBC's "500 Words" short story competition this year. It didn't win. Blub. I think the only reason it didn't win was because they forgot to read it. © Angus Milne-Redhead 2013.
The lights were faulty in the 24-hour supermarket. They blinked on and off, drenching the labyrinth of aisles in dazzling light, flooding them with light as bright as the light which illuminated the 'Ainsleys' sign which perched on the supermarket's drab grey roof, and then swiftly withdrawing to leave the place shrouded in darkness. The cycle kept repeating, as the lights buzzed. Flickered.
Skye Morgan wasn't normally awake at two in the morning. But, recovering from serious jetlag after hopping off the Transatlantic plane, she'd found herself with nothing better than do than shopping. She'd never even heard of Ainsleys supermarkets, but that didn't matter.
She checked her watch. 2:04am. She groaned wearily.
Suddenly she heard a shuffling from the next aisle, shoes skimming the polished floor. Another customer? Although she wasn't an expert in these matters, Skye decided that the shuffling sounded hostile.
I suppose it ends in a stupid way, but I couldn't think of a suitable ending. 'Ainsleys' isn't a real supermarket, I just didn't know if I was allowed to say Tesco or if I'd be horribly sued. It's VERY hard getting a story wrapped up in under 500 words.
The lights were faulty in the 24-hour supermarket. They blinked on and off, drenching the labyrinth of aisles in dazzling light, flooding them with light as bright as the light which illuminated the 'Ainsleys' sign which perched on the supermarket's drab grey roof, and then swiftly withdrawing to leave the place shrouded in darkness. The cycle kept repeating, as the lights buzzed. Flickered.
Skye Morgan wasn't normally awake at two in the morning. But, recovering from serious jetlag after hopping off the Transatlantic plane, she'd found herself with nothing better than do than shopping. She'd never even heard of Ainsleys supermarkets, but that didn't matter.
She
had tousled, auburn, shoulder-length hair and a fiery personality to
match it. Prowling determinedly through the aisles, she was hoping to
grab some milk and eggs, pay for it at the only checkout (manned by a
lady in her 50s who appeared to be decomposing, just sitting by the
till) and hotfoot it back to her holiday home. She was the only
customer in Ainsleys.
She checked her watch. 2:04am. She groaned wearily.
Flicker.
Suddenly she heard a shuffling from the next aisle, shoes skimming the polished floor. Another customer? Although she wasn't an expert in these matters, Skye decided that the shuffling sounded hostile.
Flicker,
flicker.
Skye tried to stay calm. The pulsating lights didn't
really help. She had everything she needed and now she could head to
the checkout.
Flicker.
The shuffling came again. Skye quickened her pace. The
shadows danced around her.
Flicker,
flicker.
The lights fused, leaving Ainsleys supermarket soaked in
blackness. Skye blundered through it, suddenly feeling very cold.
Something was behind her.
Flicker.
On came the lights, and Skye came face to face with what
was left of the checkout lady – a skeleton, gazing lifelessly at
her. Skye screamed and ran back into the labyrinth of aisles, ending
up in the frozen food aisle.
Flicker,
flicker.
She rested her hand on the lid of a freezer...
Flicker.
… which slid open to accommodate her hand. Skye yelped
– she was being sucked into the freezer! She felt herself being
enveloped in ice, her brain whirring as it tried to comprehend this
surreality.
Flicker,
flicker.
Skye SCREAMED.
Flicker.
On came the lights. Permanently, this time. Skye
realised that now she could remove her hand. She gasped at the people
in front of her: a man in a black T-shirt, three other men and the
lady from the checkout. Alive again.
“You've just been pranked on national TV!” cried the
man in the black T-shirt. “The checkout lady was an actor, the
shuffling pre-recorded and the skeleton's from a museum! Oh, the look
on your face!” He roared with laughter.
Flicker,
flicker, flicker.
The lights flickered again. “Was that you?” asked
the man in the T-shirt – the director – to the lighting man, who
shook his hand, eyes bulging.
Skye looked at the director. The director looked at
Skye.
They SCREAMED.
I suppose it ends in a stupid way, but I couldn't think of a suitable ending. 'Ainsleys' isn't a real supermarket, I just didn't know if I was allowed to say Tesco or if I'd be horribly sued. It's VERY hard getting a story wrapped up in under 500 words.
What I'm Writing Right Now
My name's Angus. I'm an aspiring author. I began writing stories 'full time' when I was about eight, and I'm twelve now. I must have written hundreds of short stories, as well as two full-length novellas (Doctor Sandstorm, 20,000 words / The Legion of Ice, 30,000 words). Nothing published, so far, but it's only a matter of time... I vary genres and can write for a wide variety of settings, genres, character types and ideas.
Generally I enjoy writing punchy, action-adventure drama stuff, but if I write dramatic stories, I'll add big dollops of romance and comedy in. I've written comedy stories, fantasy stories and real-world stories. It's not just prose, I'll do scripts too.
So what am I writing right now? Currently I'm writing a book called "Resurrection of the Golden Era". It's an action-adventure mystery drama story with comedy and romance thrown in. It's set at a performing arts summer school located at a boarding school, where the teachers are planning to resurrect a long-forgotten time where they can be have ultimate power...
I suck at summaries. But I'm about 16,500 words in so far and the book is shaping up well. The characters - and there's 12 main ones - are shaping up very well. They've become like my children. Is 12 too many children? Probably.
Sometime soon, I'll put up synopses (that's the plural, right?) and summaries for the books and short stories I've written, plus character profiles for Resurrection of the Golden Era. Today I'll also put up 'Flicker', a short story I wrote earlier this year for a BBC '500 Words' short story competition. Bye.
PS: Ghosts of Imagination. I like that name.
Yep, that's what it's called.
That's somewhere around page 27.
About 80 pages in... blank space...
Generally I enjoy writing punchy, action-adventure drama stuff, but if I write dramatic stories, I'll add big dollops of romance and comedy in. I've written comedy stories, fantasy stories and real-world stories. It's not just prose, I'll do scripts too.
So what am I writing right now? Currently I'm writing a book called "Resurrection of the Golden Era". It's an action-adventure mystery drama story with comedy and romance thrown in. It's set at a performing arts summer school located at a boarding school, where the teachers are planning to resurrect a long-forgotten time where they can be have ultimate power...
I suck at summaries. But I'm about 16,500 words in so far and the book is shaping up well. The characters - and there's 12 main ones - are shaping up very well. They've become like my children. Is 12 too many children? Probably.
Sometime soon, I'll put up synopses (that's the plural, right?) and summaries for the books and short stories I've written, plus character profiles for Resurrection of the Golden Era. Today I'll also put up 'Flicker', a short story I wrote earlier this year for a BBC '500 Words' short story competition. Bye.
PS: Ghosts of Imagination. I like that name.
Yep, that's what it's called.
That's somewhere around page 27.
About 80 pages in... blank space...
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