I suspect I am not the only one who barrages their friends with their latest 5 star read by saying “There’s this really great book…”
Dear friends, this book is for you. It is a silly, bright, rhyming tale about a penguin who likes to read everywhere. The penguin reads in the air, upside down, by the sea, and in various other places. This book celebrates the joy of reading, as well as introducing new readers into this fun new world.
I wrote it because I want to encourage children in their reading as much as possible, because it is such an important foundation for so much learning and joy. I hope you enjoy sharing it with your young readers.
As usual it is available on Kindle Unlimited, also as an e-book and paperback.
The e-book version should be able to be displayed on webwhiteboards, and I am investigating whether I can get it printed in a bigger size more suitable for classrooms.
Thank you for your support and feedback, it helps to make every book a little bit better than the last.
Story: When you make a connection with a girl at a party, but wake up to find that she didn’t write her number on your arm as you’d hoped. All you have left of her memory is a meaningless diagram drawn on your skin in permanent marker. Did she ghost you or does the drawing mean something more?
Themes: Love at first sight. Cinderella.
Words: 1362 ish
Permanent Marker
I wake with a smile on my face. What a night!
Music, a bonfire, dancing, sparklers, my cheeks still hurt from laughing!
And of course, her.
I turn my head and wipe the wetness off my cheek. Eck, drooling all over my pillow! I flail and squint at the curtains, trying to get some sort of clue about what time it is. It’s not my usual style on a Saturday night, but I was glad I had gone. My heart is still pounding at the thought. It was so worth this fuzzy head from lack of sleep.
I sit up slowly, thankful that all I feel is very thirsty and a little hungry. I was sensible with my choices, soft drink only, but the come down from sugar was not the nicest feeling even if I wasn’t nursing a hangover. I grab some shorts off the floor, sleepily struggle into them and stumble out of my room.
“Good afternoon.”
I look at the clock, is it really afternoon? 11:30 was close enough. I shrug at my Mum and head to the kitchen to make some toast.
“Morning sunshine.” my mum kisses me on the cheek and pats my back.
I mumble “Hi.” I’m not very talkative in the morning. She doesn’t let me go just yet. “What’s that on your arm? Are you alright?”
I look down, but I can’t see anything. My mum twists it back up and I can see a drawing on the outside of my forearm. I shrug, suddenly remembering Crystal and now the whole night is coloured with a pang of sadness, “one of my friends drew on me.”
She raises her eyebrows, “First I thought it was a bruise, now it looks more like a map.” She twists it painfully and I jerk it out of her grip.
“Food.” I point to the kitchen. I don’t want to get into this on an empty stomach. She can look at the drawing later.
Soon I have a pile of 6 pieces of toast on my plate, and I can’t avoid the marks on my arm any longer. My gut twists and suddenly I’m not hungry. She’s left a scribble.
The reason I had woken up so happy was that last night I had met this girl. My heart races at the thought of her. Long dark hair, brown skin and dark eyes that flashed with curiosity. We had talked for hours, and I could have been there all night. It had really felt like she was flirting, and I was flirting and so when it was time to leave of course I asked for her number. It seemed like a good sign when in response she asked for a permanent marker!
She scrawled on my arm, but I hadn’t bothered to check, because I didn’t want to seem desperate. Maybe that meant I had failed the test because I didn’t seem keen enough. My stomach churned. Now I felt like a fool.
I twisted my arm back the other way. No matter what angle I looked at it, none of what she had drawn looked anything like a phone number. It was time to face the facts. Mum was right, it looked like a doodle. Maybe a map, but that was stretching it. There was a big X near my elbow. if that wasn’t clear enough, I don’t know what was. She didn’t want to give me her number. I wish she had said, but I guess that is a bit hard to do after six hours of talking.
I slowly finish my toast and decide to go back to bed. None of my friends would be awake yet, and I’m pretty sure none of them knew who she was apart from “Crystal”, so I figured it best to go and nurse my wounds in private. I get up from the table as Mum comes back in.
“Give me another look. Is this one of those pranks from Josh? Did he steal your hat again?”
I put out my arm with a sigh. Not a prank, I think. She stole my heart. Which I didn’t even know was possible in six hours. Looks like I was wrong. I felt so lame.
“No, I think it was just someone’s way of not wanting to see me again.” I mumble and I’m not sure she hears me, but it feels better, to tell the truth rather than lie and say “nothing”.
“See there’s an x, and a tree, and the creek near Davie’s house. That was where the party was right?”
My mum thinks she’s young, and has this fantasy about how fun and exciting and filled with daring my life is, but the truth is, my life is awkward, and normal, just like hers. I look back at my arm, looking down at it. Maybe it could be a map? That black splodge could be Davie’s house, and that could be the creek. Then there’s the skate park, a tree and an x.
My mum quirks her eyebrow, “If you don’t check it out, maybe I will, and I’m going to keep the treasure.” I roll my eyes. “You just want me out of the house.” “Go shower, then get out in the fresh air. You always feel better when you are outdoors. Take your bike too. If it turns into a dead end you can just hang out at the skate park.”
I shrug because it isn’t a bad idea. Moving on is better than moping. It still stings a bit though, this strangeness that is happening in my chest when I think of her, but I need to move forward. First, a shower.
As I ride my bike towards Davie’s house, and then the park, I wonder how I could make it easier for someone to decline my offer to keep in touch. Maybe I could give girls my number and then just let them decide? If they don’t message me, I could always soothe myself, pretending they had somehow lost it. Is lying to myself even ethical?
I am distracted by the feel of the heat off the bitumen, but thankfully the breeze is cool. It is a bit hard to ride while looking at my outer forearm, so I ride around the park for a bit trying to figure it out before stopping at the biggest tree and checking the arm map again.
I dump my bike in the thick roots of the tree. There is nothing else here except leaf litter, a girl’s lost Converse, judging by the size, and a Sharpie. It seems like it should be a sign, but I know it’s not, people draw on this tree all the time. There’s barely any bark-coloured space left between all the “I heart every superstar forever”.
I unbuckle my helmet and lean against the tree. It was time to let go. One part of me had been hoping that there would be something here, a number or a note. I was no prince charming, there was no way I could tell if this shoe was hers, and trying to find a girl through her shoe was too weird, even for me. Unless it had her phone number on the sole?
I pick it up hopefully, but throw it down in disappointment.
“Is my shoe down there by any chance?” A voice calls from the tree and I jump!
“What?” I peer up to see Crystal, perched two branches above me, swinging her legs, one foot missing a shoe.
Relief floods me. I try not to grin, but I don’t succeed. I pick up the shoe again, “It’s here.” “Oh good.” We pause and just look at each other, smiling. So she was into me! “Hi.” “I was starting to get worried that you wouldn’t be able to work it out.” I laugh. “You probably gave me too much credit. I thought you were ghosting me.” She shrugs, “Yet here we are.” My heart rate accelerates. “So can I come up?” She rolls her eyes at me, “That’s the idea Jonathan, but only if you bring the pen and the shoe.” I scoop them up in my left hand and start climbing. I was not about to let her get away twice.
“It’s a special night!” The lad’s eyes, hair and skin were dark but looked purple under the house lights. His smile broadened, he slid in next to me, slapping his hand on the counter. That grin was infectious, if not a little bit cheeky. I was willing to indulge him.
“It is?”
“Definitely.” He nodded with teasing confidence. If his grin grew any, surely his cheeks would burst.
I sipped my drink, smugly watching him wait for my response. “And why is tonight so special?”
From the twinkle in his eye, he knew he had me then. “It’s an anniversary.”
“Whose?” I pretended to look around the crowd, eyebrows raised. This was his make or break moment. Was he a creeper or was he as true as the good vibes he was giving me?
He leans in, “It’s the tenth time I’ve seen this band play live, and I have to say, I thought it was an infatuation at first, but looks like it’s true love.”
I laugh with relief. “Well I am happy to hear that!” In more ways than one!
He was funny, not to mention cute, with that 240 volt smile in this 110V world.
“You’re the partner of the guitarist aren’t you?” He didn’t bother to hide that he didn’t want it to be true.
“He’s my brother. I’m the help at the promotions table.”
He winced, scooting his fingers over the bar towards mine.
“It does have its perks.” At this venue especially. Was it stupid to pretend I hadn’t noticed him before?
Today I’m going to talk a little about how I go from having a prompt, to getting an idea for a short story.
I must first of all say that I have zero training in writing short stories. This is an area I have marked for growth, but as I have been muddling along I haven’t got to it yet. This interest in short stories is a new phenomenon that happened after I began writing prompt stories with my writing group.
So anyway, how do you go from a prompt to a story?
First of all, I think it’s important to know what your constraints are, apart from the prompt. Those things like time, the inclusion of specific themes, word count or medium, need to be factored into the idea from the beginning.
So what is my prompt?
The prompt for today is: The empty bottle.
Constraints:
Time -I only have an hour to write this.
Genre- I am writing stories with romantic elements this month.
So, now what to do?
What I do is go to my first impression. When I think “The empty bottle” what impressions do I get?
Do I immediately think of alcohol, perfume, poison, medicine, soft drink, water?
My thoughts were: beer, poison, perfume, milk.
So then I go through each. Beer: It could fit with romance, like a first date, but when I think of an empty bottle for some reason I think of loneliness which was not the vibe I am after. Pass.
Poison: Now I love this idea, but I have written one about poison recently, and it’s hard to fit into the romance genre without getting dramatic, which is also hard for a shorter story.
Perfume: This would be a different take on a bottle, but when does anyone ever finish their perfume bottles? I clearly do not use perfume enough, so this one is a pass too.
Milk: Everyone runs out of milk, unless you don’t drink it. So the characters could be anyone. This makes it a lot easier on the romance, short story idea. We have a winner.
Ok so I have got my prompt a bit more defined. My story is going to revolve around an empty milk bottle. Now it’s time for some more brainstorming.
Empty Milk Bottle: It could be used for soccer ball, has fallen out of someone’s rubbish bin, might have meant someone is not planning to return or someone needs more milk for a recipe.
I pick someone needs more milk for a recipe, because it sounds like it will be a quick little interaction, and what I need is a short story. So…what did I write? Check out “The empty bottle” on Wattpad.
I hope you found this little walk through interesting.
Story: The main character comes to realise that there’s no escaping fate
Themes: Imprisoned against your will
Words: 560ish
The Overwhelming Dread
I don’t know how long I wait.
The lights are on all the time, so I mark the days, with the flow of the people. When there are people here, walking around and looking at us, it must be the daytime, but all we feel is dread. When there are not, we all breathe a sigh of relief. We lasted another day.
It is slowly dawning on us all that this is a fight we cannot win. Each day someone cracks or melts under the pressure of waiting, wondering if they will be chosen next. If they will be plucked by a manicured hand and looked over with a greedy smile.
The crackpots, as I have named them in my head, let the pressure build up until they explode, and can no longer hold themselves together. The melty ones, also another internal nickname, just turn to goo and will not respond to anything anymore. It’s sad really, but I can’t blame them. I’m not sure how I am still holding myself together with this heat.
We don’t have a life, but we don’t want one. I’m sure all of us would give anything to remain here indefinitely, like an eternal night, trapped in this current boring existence, cramped, confined in these metal contraptions. If only we could escape the horror of being picked out by one of the people and being taken elsewhere. I’ve heard the stories. These people, these beings, are monsters!
Oh sure, we are dressed up to look desirable, and the company’s marketing is so good that the people walking around the shop don’t ever stop to think if buying us is wrong. They can’t see the dread, can’t comprehend our pain. We exist for them, to satisfy their wants. Why would we have feelings? It’s their pleasure that matters. And all they seem to find pleasure in is our destruction.
Once you get to the display, there are no exceptions, no one escapes. Everyone gets taken in the end. It’s just about if you are first, or if you are last. There’s not much hope left, but we try.
The people begin to enter again. It’s another day. I watch sadly as someone else gets taken from a different display. We all sigh in relief and feel terrible at the same time. I hope the end is quick.
I look away as they are taken from the store. It’s impossible to tell if our end will come straight away, or if the person will drag it out over hours and days. I don’t want to know. I’ve seen 19 of us be taken already, and there’s simply no way to tell. I cannot let my guard down. I cannot afford a crack. Those of us who are left are getting superstitious now. I must keep up my barriers. The shop empties, we have survived another day, but there’s no room for cheers. The egg next to me begins to show cracks of panic. There’s nothing I can do. But there’s something you can do. You can be the difference. Just sit here a minute with me. Can you imagine, sitting all day surrounded by metal, unable to move, watching, waiting, never knowing when you will be picked? No? Well maybe think about that next time you unwrap a chocolate egg for Easter. But you won’t stop, will you? Monster.
Authors Note: I really love chocolate eggs 🙂 I’m glad they aren’t sentient beings!
Story: When you make a connection with a girl at a party, but wake up to find that she didn’t write her number on your arm as you’d hoped. All you have left of her memory is a meaningless diagram drawn on your skin in permanent marker. Did she ghost you or does the drawing mean something more?
Setting: In the universe where a newly turned Vampire is sticking to his morals. Or trying to.
The stench of blood is in the air, every way I turn.
It seems inescapable, it’s maddening, a craving I can not turn off.
Yes I know, craving and stench don’t usually go well together, but old habits die hard, and besides, I like some of those old sayings.
As weird as they seem now, they tell a story, my story.
Well the biggest part of what I know so far, which was when I breathed and my heart worked. When I was human.
But that is all behind me now. I’m eternally a Millennial. Heh, that’s pretty funny.
What was I saying? Right, back to the stench.
I still say stench because that is what it smelt like before.
That metallic zing that is blood in the air.
Women seem to recognise it faster than men do, but I suppose that makes sense really.
It’s not pleasant, or the type of smell one would crave, like a good roast dinner, or a chocolate cake in the oven.
But that too has changed.
I think that was the first thing I noticed after my rebirth to this new life.
The stench wasn’t so much a cover your nose and mouth kind of smell, it was a wafting, alluring, promise like the warm promises that assault our noses when it’s almost dinner time, or dessert has warmed up.
That’s the problem with this life, really, you don’t have to wait.
Blood is everywhere, fresh, although let’s be honest, some fresher than others.
Everyone says children taste underripe, and I’m going to take their word for it. That just seems immoral to me, biting children, vampire or not.
I have to take a stand somewhere.
Some say the aged taste rich and thick, as long as they aren’t dying. Some of us apparently love the kick their cocktail of medications bring to the table, but I’m not so sure.
Those vampires call themselves guardians, like they are the saviors of the elderly they bite. They seem like gluttons to me, and have forgotten that they once had a soul.
Me? I stick within my age group, well what should be my age group.
25-45, non smoker, preferably lactose intolerant, who likes their vegetables.
Normal food tastes like ash to me now, but I still cry when I think about donuts.
Did you know your food leaves an aftertaste?
I prefer the ones who like salad.
How odd, right?
But I’ve got to have rules, better rules than they’ve got about how many vampires you can spawn in a year, or about crossing thresholds, tanning beds or holy water.
Is it ironic that now I am what I am, powerful, immortal and kick ass, that I’ve realised how much I need rules or my life is going to be more hell than it was before?
I probably should look up the definition of irony.
Writers make up pure fiction all the time, however usually our best work has some basis in reality. Many writing sages suggest to write what you know, but what if our experience doesn’t go that far? How do we write a romance novel or romantic story that is believable without a lot of experience with romance?
If you are a fan of the genre I’m sure you would have already done your research on how romance is portrayed in fiction. I’m sure from the books you have read that a few key words or phrases might come to mind if you are thinking about the passionate bits. A lot of stories can sound the same when it comes to the confessing feelings part of it. So what to do?
Firstly, I would suggest stopping for a moment and journal some romantic stories you liked, and some that were memorably bad. Even keeping a key list of phrases you like or don’t like can help. If you want to go further, you could brainstorm other ways to say the same thing. For example, instead of: his heart slammed into his ribs You could say: his pulse raced, his pulse sped up, his heart paced, and if you want you can add all sorts of other words into there too, like madly, wildly, quickly, etc. Your writing can be as simple as ‘his pulse quickened’, to as elaborate as you want, like ‘his heart paced wildly like a hungry lion’.
Hopefully from that example you will see that just writing simple and straightforward “his pulse quickened” adds just as much, and if not more than the fancy stuff. Thankfully no one expects a lot of detail on kissing or other intimate details to do a romance story well. You can acknowledge the romance and celebrate it, even if you don’t go into every detail. Also, you don’t need to make up details to make the reader feel something. Think…”what words would a friend use to describe their first kiss to me?” Probably a lot less description of mechanics and a lot more about how they are feeling, and what it means to them. You don’t need the details of your friend’s love life in order to be brimming with excitement for them. If your reader is invested in the character and their journey, they don’t need all the details to feel satisfied with the story either.
My next suggestion is to listen to people’s real life stories. “How did you guys meet? How did you get together?” These questions can be the gateway to many very interesting stories. It’s fascinating to hear about all the unbelievable that things that can happen in real life! Listen to people’s stories, borrow from them, weave them, and your writing with echo with truth.
Also my last point is, don’t undervalue your experience. Even if you don’t have a romantic partner or a lot of romantic experience, romance stories have a lot of other elements in it that most people have experience with or can relate to. For example, caring for someone, friendship, sacrifice, thoughtfulness, admiring beauty, adventure, belonging, are just some of them. Draw on those experiences, and any crushes you might have had and use that knowledge to illustrate the romance. Use the journal again! How did you feel? What did you want to do? What attracted you to the person? What was something special you liked about the person? For example: When I think of crushes I think of lots of eye contact, some giggling, wanting to hang out all the time, wanting to talk or text a lot, lots of things reminding me of them, when you catch each other’s gaze you smile. It’s just a few little details, but it’s enough to build a good story and romance on!
So I hope that has given you the confidence to keep going with your romance writing, and also some tools that will help the truth echo through your fiction. Don’t forget there are also some great writing communities, who are happy to read drafts and give gentle feedback on areas you find challenging! Happy writing!
