Andrew Hall's Blog - Posts Tagged "ebook"
Tabitha: Prologue
Slick petals writhed in the darkness.
Glowing. Feeding. Creaking open in their seeding.
The plant-mass burst in a bloodcloud. A newborn horror scrambled free. It was caught in a capsule; encased in jagged rock. A nightmare seedling; some cellular monstrosity. Carried at once to the firing ducts.
Beyond vile chambers and dim-lit arteries, past its ribbed walls and lurking labyrinths, a living spacecraft slid through the galaxy. A colossus; dark as the void and cloaked in shifting shadows. Crawling on towards a far blue-green world.
The ship’s limbs unfurled in awakening. Among its sea of vast scales, from a sudden small opening, shot a chunk of rock in a spurt of phosphorescence. The seedling.
It was viscous violet. Viral-violent. Nestled inside it,
Death.
[Sample continues in Amazon Kindle Store]
Glowing. Feeding. Creaking open in their seeding.
The plant-mass burst in a bloodcloud. A newborn horror scrambled free. It was caught in a capsule; encased in jagged rock. A nightmare seedling; some cellular monstrosity. Carried at once to the firing ducts.
Beyond vile chambers and dim-lit arteries, past its ribbed walls and lurking labyrinths, a living spacecraft slid through the galaxy. A colossus; dark as the void and cloaked in shifting shadows. Crawling on towards a far blue-green world.
The ship’s limbs unfurled in awakening. Among its sea of vast scales, from a sudden small opening, shot a chunk of rock in a spurt of phosphorescence. The seedling.
It was viscous violet. Viral-violent. Nestled inside it,
Death.
[Sample continues in Amazon Kindle Store]
The most important thing I ever learned about writing
The most important thing I ever learned about writing came from a Tokyo sushi master.
In the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, we follow the singular passion of Jiro Ono, an 85-year-old chef and restaurant owner, whose premises in a Tokyo subway station seats only ten.
But the man himself attracts fans, chefs and food critics from all over the world to dine at his seated bar; some wait almost reverently as their food is prepared and served. And while the quality of the ingredients and preparation are paramount, it’s really all about Jiro’s lifelong approach to his craft.
Read the following words from Jiro, as he talks about his role as shokunin (meaning craftsman, artisan, and worker; but also “someone with technical skill and the right attitude; possessing social consciousness; having a deep-seated obligation to fulfil the requirement of their role”).
To me, the following reads like poetry, because it’s so damn simple and sincere:
In these locked-down days, there’s no shortage of distractions to take our mind off things – including those things that truly matter, and that even fulfil our richest purpose and potential in this life.
But when I read Jiro’s words, and think of writing in this way, I’m filled instantly with envy and passion and peace, and simplicity and perfectionism and instant inspiration to start work immediately. I know I’ll never reach the peak of this profession, but I have to try. This is the only work that matters to me, and suddenly all I want around me are the tools of my trade, and some coffee steaming in the sunlight.
And I’m compelled to throw all distractions away, because suddenly all I aspire to is endless hours of writing and rewriting, and choosing only the most perfect words and punctuation for each line. To create the best possible stories I can. All else becomes immaterial.
When we can do that, we feel that elusive flow. There will always be struggle and worry, and the call of those distractions is a never-ending racket around us. Until we get into our writing, and only that.
When I remember to, I like to make certain practices a part of my daily routine. I’ll often forget them, but with that comes the joy of rediscovery – like the time I first heard of Jiro.
Today, I’ve just remembered him again – so I had to write his thoughts down. His words just seem too important to forget, and they feel to me like the most important thing I’ve ever been taught about writing. (By someone who, sure, isn’t a writer… but a craftsman all the same.)
(Also, if you'd like to know more about my stories, you can find them here in the Kindle store.)
I just want to share these following words with you, in case they’re helpful in your practise. Even better if you can make note of them, and try to read them every day. I’ll try too.
“I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
I may never achieve perfection,
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love writing stories.”
In the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, we follow the singular passion of Jiro Ono, an 85-year-old chef and restaurant owner, whose premises in a Tokyo subway station seats only ten.
But the man himself attracts fans, chefs and food critics from all over the world to dine at his seated bar; some wait almost reverently as their food is prepared and served. And while the quality of the ingredients and preparation are paramount, it’s really all about Jiro’s lifelong approach to his craft.
Read the following words from Jiro, as he talks about his role as shokunin (meaning craftsman, artisan, and worker; but also “someone with technical skill and the right attitude; possessing social consciousness; having a deep-seated obligation to fulfil the requirement of their role”).
To me, the following reads like poetry, because it’s so damn simple and sincere:
“Shokunin try to get the highest quality fish and apply their technique to it.
We don’t care about money.
All I want to do is make better sushi.
I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
Even at my age, after decades of work…
I don’t think I have achieved perfection.
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love making sushi.
I’ve never once hated this job.
I fell in love with my work and gave my life to it.
Even though I’m 85 years old…
I don’t feel like retiring.
That’s how I feel.”
In these locked-down days, there’s no shortage of distractions to take our mind off things – including those things that truly matter, and that even fulfil our richest purpose and potential in this life.
But when I read Jiro’s words, and think of writing in this way, I’m filled instantly with envy and passion and peace, and simplicity and perfectionism and instant inspiration to start work immediately. I know I’ll never reach the peak of this profession, but I have to try. This is the only work that matters to me, and suddenly all I want around me are the tools of my trade, and some coffee steaming in the sunlight.
And I’m compelled to throw all distractions away, because suddenly all I aspire to is endless hours of writing and rewriting, and choosing only the most perfect words and punctuation for each line. To create the best possible stories I can. All else becomes immaterial.
When we can do that, we feel that elusive flow. There will always be struggle and worry, and the call of those distractions is a never-ending racket around us. Until we get into our writing, and only that.
When I remember to, I like to make certain practices a part of my daily routine. I’ll often forget them, but with that comes the joy of rediscovery – like the time I first heard of Jiro.
Today, I’ve just remembered him again – so I had to write his thoughts down. His words just seem too important to forget, and they feel to me like the most important thing I’ve ever been taught about writing. (By someone who, sure, isn’t a writer… but a craftsman all the same.)
(Also, if you'd like to know more about my stories, you can find them here in the Kindle store.)
I just want to share these following words with you, in case they’re helpful in your practise. Even better if you can make note of them, and try to read them every day. I’ll try too.
“I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
I may never achieve perfection,
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love writing stories.”
Sky Queen: Prologue ('Astronautica')
A night-black shape, scarred and primal, cut past cold distant stars. Scales darker than the lonely void around it. The creature’s hard white eyes watched infinity slide by. Behind them, an animal mind churned in silent space. Forgotten furies. Raptures long remembered. What it was, and what it was not. The creature’s engines rumbled on; glowing pale ghostfire. Sailing on into the abyss.
Beneath its thick skin, in the cockpit around its heart, its human female lay in deathly sleep. Stone-still tentacles gripped the ceiling above her, dormant in the dark. The unmoving air, cold and glass-fragile, hung in silent hymn to the frozen shrine. Her clawed black hands and feet. Her body tucked and shielded, foetal-funereal. Blood-red curls. Eyelids twitching as she slept.
Black teeth grinned in the moonlit dark. A gliding blade, pushed in, soft as love. Tabitha's heart burst and sparked like a dead star. She woke up screaming and looked around at Seven's cockpit, gasping for sanctuary and the feel of her monsters. His face was still so clear; the blade so real. Scarier still were the feelings she could've had for him, once.
'Fuck you,' she sobbed quietly, hugging her knees to her chest in the pilot seat. Beyond the white flexing walls around her, Seven sailed on for distant stars in the lonely void.
>>>Click here to continue your free Sky Queen sample in the Amazon Kindle Store.<<<
Beneath its thick skin, in the cockpit around its heart, its human female lay in deathly sleep. Stone-still tentacles gripped the ceiling above her, dormant in the dark. The unmoving air, cold and glass-fragile, hung in silent hymn to the frozen shrine. Her clawed black hands and feet. Her body tucked and shielded, foetal-funereal. Blood-red curls. Eyelids twitching as she slept.
Black teeth grinned in the moonlit dark. A gliding blade, pushed in, soft as love. Tabitha's heart burst and sparked like a dead star. She woke up screaming and looked around at Seven's cockpit, gasping for sanctuary and the feel of her monsters. His face was still so clear; the blade so real. Scarier still were the feelings she could've had for him, once.
'Fuck you,' she sobbed quietly, hugging her knees to her chest in the pilot seat. Beyond the white flexing walls around her, Seven sailed on for distant stars in the lonely void.
>>>Click here to continue your free Sky Queen sample in the Amazon Kindle Store.<<<
ALEX: GORGONOPSIS. Noun. "Monstrous Aspect".
SOUNDTRACK:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjcHc...
A sudden fierce stab shocked him conscious. Something tugged on his flesh like pointed pliers; a great ragged crow that pecked a gaping wound. He roared and lashed out painfully, and sent the dark bird lurching skyward; croaking loud Odin caws as it went. His stark gaze followed it, pinprick pupils staring in the daylight, until it vanished between the skyscrapers above. Its freedom, its flight, set him moving.
He felt it all now; the bloody ruins of him. His thoughts came back to him, and anger with it. All of it. Teeth clenched and snarling with it. A more ancient anger that wouldn’t quit, and ran far deeper to his core. A chain reaction. A neutron bomb. Rising now into trembling rage, into hot bloody fury, into seething wrath-volcanic. He snarled and yelled wildly at a world that didn’t want him. What’d driven him before wasn’t there any more; the only thing left was hate. Everything in him, all that’d shaped him, snapped. Alex roared out loud in a throat-breaking bellow and crawled from his puddle of blood. His failed execution. Left for dead. He forced his arms ahead of him. Pressed his palms into the sidewalk. Scratched his filthy nails at the concrete, over and over, to try and grip at it. Dragging himself forward on nothing but a thought.
…I hate you. All of you. I’ll make you suffer, and grow strong from you. I'll devour you. Until there's nothing left.
All his mind was bent on it, a muttering mantra, and he crawled. Wild eyes staring, growling frothed spit through cracked lips and gritted teeth, he dragged himself away from Death. Nothing heroic; more a mad-dog streak. The way mangled wild animals just kept on living. Pure reptile impulse, some engine of evolution, that refused to stop surviving while a single cell still fired. He dragged his silver blood-smear trail behind him. A raging revenant in the ruins.
The fall from that tower block had burst and broken him on the sidewalk. Glancing back, shaking with the pain, he couldn’t feel his legs. Dragging them useless behind him.
He raised himself on raw bloody arms to look around him; these dust-pale ruins of New York. Scouring it all with a piercing wide-eyed glare; starving and unhinged. Knuckle-bones rattling now, soundlessly from somewhere, through strange spiralling thoughts that took him over. Drums thumping louder in his head.
He searched the sidewalks around him, all the glooming buildings and dead dust-wrapped traffic, and saw something in the road that got him drooling. A gored-up jagged jackpot. The corpse of some unearthly monster; a dark hulking mound. Sprouting like shadow from the grey city scene.
…Gorgonopsis, he told himself excitedly. Violence incarnate. He’d never seen one this close before. Staring in wonder at the murdered monstrosity.
He struggled towards it with a mad stare. The drums in his head pounding louder now. Pushing up in agony, he walked on his hands and shuffled his strong bleeding form towards it. Smiling wide as he neared it, eyelids twitching with his shattered nerves, and those feral drums were deafening thunder in his soul.
His chuckling half-corpse dragged itself on through the ashen aftermath, towards that titan of monstrous carrion in the road. Muscles straining against the cold massive shape of it, he wrenched and peeled its rubber-metal armour where the tank shots had cratered it apart. The battletank itself was a mauled-open mess in the distance; coated with dust and deformed in melted shapes. Alex pulled open a flesh-creaking crevice in the monster, wide enough to bury his face inside it, and bear-hugged its carcass to sink his teeth through the muscles. The white meat scrunched and squeaked as he bit at solid cords of it; fraying fibrous with a smell like latex steak. It peeled in bloody pops and sheared away as he chewed it; he crushed and mashed a mouthful with cracked and bleeding teeth.
He swallowed a bloody chunk, gasping orgasmic at the taste of it, and suddenly all that mattered was sprawled out bleeding before him. There for the taking, and by god would he take it. He filled his lungs with the smell of it. Frantic breaths in a carnivore snarl. Pupils swelling into drugged dilation. He held it still and buried his teeth in the flesh of it. The soundless devourings of a creature on a kill. Ripping great flopping shreds of it, he gripped and twisted and swallowed them whole. Savage silence, and lethal lunges; crocodile crunches in the dust. Squelching snaps and gluttonous gulps as he gripped corded flesh and crammed it between his teeth.
The city around him was blurred-out powders. The carcass before him, all that truly mattered now. Glowing nocturnal in bizarre hyperfocus, as if it writhed and reached and called to him for more. Alex buried his bloody face to the centre of it, peeling apart its furnace-guts and dragging away a great glob of metal set inside it. He tore in deeper, and gnawed off a chunk of its dark giant heart. Devouring it. Gasping wild and gulping as he filled his stomach to bursting with it. Its sticky cells came alive in him. A painkiller tide that helped him stand on his hands, and forced his appetite to swallow more of it. Eating for his life. It shot him through with strange sudden strength. A fresh energy; alien adrenaline to the heart. Spurring him on to suck at the monster’s blood, in those gleaming silver crevices where it pooled and trickled to the asphalt.
His meal put a drunken daze on him; melting his inhibitions. Snapping the restraints of that old fallen world that’d stamped down the psycho ape inside him. He pounced reptilian and locked his teeth into it. Jolting his body to rip at it. Filling his throat with it, that rich delicious flesh and starlight-flavoured blood, until he had to find some other way to take in more of it. Gulping vampiric on cold silver pints of it, until nothing more of that gorgon would fit inside him.
Its dormant tissues came alive in him. Both animals evolving. Cells growing less separate. Intertwining. Adapting to survive.
Alex was about to become much, much more.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjcHc...
A sudden fierce stab shocked him conscious. Something tugged on his flesh like pointed pliers; a great ragged crow that pecked a gaping wound. He roared and lashed out painfully, and sent the dark bird lurching skyward; croaking loud Odin caws as it went. His stark gaze followed it, pinprick pupils staring in the daylight, until it vanished between the skyscrapers above. Its freedom, its flight, set him moving.
He felt it all now; the bloody ruins of him. His thoughts came back to him, and anger with it. All of it. Teeth clenched and snarling with it. A more ancient anger that wouldn’t quit, and ran far deeper to his core. A chain reaction. A neutron bomb. Rising now into trembling rage, into hot bloody fury, into seething wrath-volcanic. He snarled and yelled wildly at a world that didn’t want him. What’d driven him before wasn’t there any more; the only thing left was hate. Everything in him, all that’d shaped him, snapped. Alex roared out loud in a throat-breaking bellow and crawled from his puddle of blood. His failed execution. Left for dead. He forced his arms ahead of him. Pressed his palms into the sidewalk. Scratched his filthy nails at the concrete, over and over, to try and grip at it. Dragging himself forward on nothing but a thought.
…I hate you. All of you. I’ll make you suffer, and grow strong from you. I'll devour you. Until there's nothing left.
All his mind was bent on it, a muttering mantra, and he crawled. Wild eyes staring, growling frothed spit through cracked lips and gritted teeth, he dragged himself away from Death. Nothing heroic; more a mad-dog streak. The way mangled wild animals just kept on living. Pure reptile impulse, some engine of evolution, that refused to stop surviving while a single cell still fired. He dragged his silver blood-smear trail behind him. A raging revenant in the ruins.
The fall from that tower block had burst and broken him on the sidewalk. Glancing back, shaking with the pain, he couldn’t feel his legs. Dragging them useless behind him.
He raised himself on raw bloody arms to look around him; these dust-pale ruins of New York. Scouring it all with a piercing wide-eyed glare; starving and unhinged. Knuckle-bones rattling now, soundlessly from somewhere, through strange spiralling thoughts that took him over. Drums thumping louder in his head.
He searched the sidewalks around him, all the glooming buildings and dead dust-wrapped traffic, and saw something in the road that got him drooling. A gored-up jagged jackpot. The corpse of some unearthly monster; a dark hulking mound. Sprouting like shadow from the grey city scene.
…Gorgonopsis, he told himself excitedly. Violence incarnate. He’d never seen one this close before. Staring in wonder at the murdered monstrosity.
He struggled towards it with a mad stare. The drums in his head pounding louder now. Pushing up in agony, he walked on his hands and shuffled his strong bleeding form towards it. Smiling wide as he neared it, eyelids twitching with his shattered nerves, and those feral drums were deafening thunder in his soul.
His chuckling half-corpse dragged itself on through the ashen aftermath, towards that titan of monstrous carrion in the road. Muscles straining against the cold massive shape of it, he wrenched and peeled its rubber-metal armour where the tank shots had cratered it apart. The battletank itself was a mauled-open mess in the distance; coated with dust and deformed in melted shapes. Alex pulled open a flesh-creaking crevice in the monster, wide enough to bury his face inside it, and bear-hugged its carcass to sink his teeth through the muscles. The white meat scrunched and squeaked as he bit at solid cords of it; fraying fibrous with a smell like latex steak. It peeled in bloody pops and sheared away as he chewed it; he crushed and mashed a mouthful with cracked and bleeding teeth.
He swallowed a bloody chunk, gasping orgasmic at the taste of it, and suddenly all that mattered was sprawled out bleeding before him. There for the taking, and by god would he take it. He filled his lungs with the smell of it. Frantic breaths in a carnivore snarl. Pupils swelling into drugged dilation. He held it still and buried his teeth in the flesh of it. The soundless devourings of a creature on a kill. Ripping great flopping shreds of it, he gripped and twisted and swallowed them whole. Savage silence, and lethal lunges; crocodile crunches in the dust. Squelching snaps and gluttonous gulps as he gripped corded flesh and crammed it between his teeth.
The city around him was blurred-out powders. The carcass before him, all that truly mattered now. Glowing nocturnal in bizarre hyperfocus, as if it writhed and reached and called to him for more. Alex buried his bloody face to the centre of it, peeling apart its furnace-guts and dragging away a great glob of metal set inside it. He tore in deeper, and gnawed off a chunk of its dark giant heart. Devouring it. Gasping wild and gulping as he filled his stomach to bursting with it. Its sticky cells came alive in him. A painkiller tide that helped him stand on his hands, and forced his appetite to swallow more of it. Eating for his life. It shot him through with strange sudden strength. A fresh energy; alien adrenaline to the heart. Spurring him on to suck at the monster’s blood, in those gleaming silver crevices where it pooled and trickled to the asphalt.
His meal put a drunken daze on him; melting his inhibitions. Snapping the restraints of that old fallen world that’d stamped down the psycho ape inside him. He pounced reptilian and locked his teeth into it. Jolting his body to rip at it. Filling his throat with it, that rich delicious flesh and starlight-flavoured blood, until he had to find some other way to take in more of it. Gulping vampiric on cold silver pints of it, until nothing more of that gorgon would fit inside him.
Its dormant tissues came alive in him. Both animals evolving. Cells growing less separate. Intertwining. Adapting to survive.
Alex was about to become much, much more.
