14 December 2011 My short story, Dust Devil, published in Morpheus Tales Magazine issue XV is due for release in January 2012. The following is a short teaser and if you like it, you can read the rest by buying a copy or subscribing to the magazine here - Morpheus Tales.
Dust Devil
by
Candra Hope
'Do not look at them.'
'What?' Tom Ellis blinked and turned round. His guide and translator was staring straight ahead. Tom frowned. Jamal, an old man with skin the colour of old leather left out in the sun too long, had a face that rarely changed expression. What some might call imperturbable. This sudden tension was strange to see.
'What's wrong? Why not?' Tom pulled out his notebook. Two stories in one day? He smiled and clicked the lid off his pen.
The need to collect and record like a hunter had driven Tom round the world on an endless quest for myths and legends to fill his books and lectures. To justify his existence to a mother who never cared and a father who would never be proud of a son who refused to follow in his own military footsteps. But for Tom, it was more than a career, a vocation or calling perhaps. A deep seated need to discover and store those myths in written words, like the first Greek writers so long ago, painstakingly marking down some of the greatest stories ever told over a central fire on the shores of a wine blue sea. A gift for future generations so they didn't forget where they came from in their rush to get where they were going.
20 September 2010 The following is an extract of my short story, Polar, due for release by Black Matrix Publishing in their Encounters Magazine on 1stOctober 2010. It's a mix of post-apocalyptic horror and if you want to read the whole story, follow the red link to Black Matrix' website and buy the next issue or subscribe to the magazine.
Polar
by
Candra Hope
I'm dying and there's nothing I can do about it. I can't feel my feet and when I try to straighten my fingers, the joints crack and pop like they're about to break. Its so cold. I'm afraid to move my hands in case I drop the rifle and can't pick it up again.
The wilderness is blinding. I can't see the horizon, even through my goggles. Everything is white. The land blends into the sky and that scares me more than dropping the rifle. I might not see it coming.
I'm so tired. It hurts to walk, to breathe, even to stay upright. Maybe I should just sit down and forget about it; let them live in their blissful ignorance. I'm no hero, never was, certainly not going to start now.
The only thing keeping me moving is fear and a voice in the back of my head; give up now and I'll never see Linda again, and Maggie will have died for nothing…
21 August 2010 For your reading pleasure. A piece of flash fiction I wrote a while back. Not planning on submitting it anywhere so I'm posting it in here for anyone who wants to read it. Hope you enjoy.
Nine Ponter
by
Candra Hope
I see him coming over the top of the ridge. Antlers first like a prehistoric tree growing out of the ground. Then his head appears, held up high and proud as he steps out onto the soft grass. He is magnificent. A nine pointer at least. The distance between us seems tiny, as if I could reach out and touch him across the gap. He surveys the glen like a king from the battlements of his castle.
The air drizzles a fine soaking rain that catches on his coat in sparkles and I catch my breath. I've waited an eternity. I wriggle deeper into the heather and the movement releases its soft spicy aroma to mingle with the pungent peat. I smell what he smells; earth and deep growing things.
The rifle is smooth in my grip. It is an extension of me that rests gently on the flat rock I carried up from the burn at the bottom of the glen. I wait a few seconds to allow for the breeze to drift the drizzle past in swirls. It obscures my view slightly but I don't mind. I know exactly where the stag is. I know I could get him even with my eyes closed. I can feel him. I cock back the hammer.
He looks at me, right into my eyes and I know he hears me. I hold my breath again and the moment stretches. We are locked together in a web of serenity, staring at each other as its strands slither out and round us in glimmering tendrils. They steal across the rocks and tufts of reeds poking out of the velvety sheep-grazed grass and leave them gleaming in dull splendour.
Everything is alive with it. I am alive with it. Strung like a bow singing silent music. I feel what he feels. The green spaces and long muscles bounding over black peat. The moment is gone and I breathe again. But I slowly put the hammer down. He turns away from me and walks down the other side of the ridge out of sight. King for another day.
01 June 2010 The project is now complete and the final book is available to buy here. Go buy it! I know I'm going to. As soon as I've read it, I'll post a review in the favourites page.
Below is an excerpt of my short story, Monster, accepted by The Dark Hoard project and due to be published in May of this year. If you want to read the whole story, you'll have to pre-order a copy of the book by following the link above and signing up for updates;
Monster
by
Candra Hope
I'd been sitting in the corner of this scruffy old roadside bar all morning trying to get warm. I wasn't thinking about much of anything, just watching cigarette smoke swirl in the dirty shafts of light filtering through two tiny windows. And in he walked. The most beautiful man I'd ever seen. He had black hair, shiny like a crow's wing and the darkest blue eyes. They reminded me of the colour of the sky on midsummer night. And it seemed like he noticed me as soon as I noticed him so I encouraged him with a smile and he came over with his drink. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking, finding out about each other, laughing.
He said he didn't do things like this often, things like picking up strange girls in roadhouses. He talked about how lonely he was - that he was an orphan too and he'd never been able to settle down or fit in so spent most of his life on the road. Just like me. He was friendly and sweet and it wasn't long before we left the bar for the privacy of a motel room across the highway.
Later that night I sat on the bed and watched him sleep. I didn't want to leave. I wanted to stay in that grubby motel room with its orange carpet and mustard drapes forever. My world focused into one moment in which I lived a whole lifetime, a life with him, where I could be myself and he loved me anyway. I rested my hand on his chest and felt his heart beating. A slow, steady, thump - thump. For a second I thought my own heart would burst from sheer happiness. Sounds stupid, I know, but back then I was lonely, and needy. Haven't you ever wanted someone to love you, tell you everything would be okay?
He opened his eyes and looked at me, his lips spreading in this lovely slow smile he had. I smiled back and leaned over to kiss him but his expression stopped me. He looked surprised, like he was trying to say something but couldn't get enough air to speak. He coughed and I frowned and looked down and realised why. My hand where it lay on his chest had changed and the nails had punched through flesh and bone and pierced his heart. I hadn't even noticed. I hadn't felt a thing. Nothing like this had happened before. I'd always known when it would start. The change. Like a tight feeling in my stomach. How could I not have felt it?