New genre, new anthology

Cli-fi anthology blog tour

Climate change is a huge challenge for our world. It has inspired a new genre of fiction – cli-fi.

This is launch week for the new climate fiction anthology published by Retreat West Books, Nothing Is As It Was.

I’m proud to have a story in this anthology, all profits from which will be given to the climate change charity Earth Day Network.

I also wrote a piece about the inspiration for my story for the blog tour for the launch, which you can read here. Why not follow the whole blog tour and, even better, buy the book!

 

Reflections on writing (No 2 in an occasional series)

It’s been a long winter. Helped by the support of other writers – those in my local writing group and others at a distance – I’ve carried on writing stories through the dark days. I’ve submitted some of them here and there. I’ve had some acceptances, more rejections. I am grateful for those acceptances, believe me. But I’m always striving for more.

Sometimes I feel like a cat going round in circles, never quite able to catch its tail – or in my case, tale. So it’s good to come across a new writing exercise. Here’s one I came across on twitter courtesy of the writer Kathy Fish. I tried it this morning with remarkable results – and now have ideas for ways to start at least half a dozen new stories! I think the exercise gives you access to a free-thinking part of the brain. Perhaps this is what the Surrealists did with their automatic writing. Follow the link to Kathy Fish’s post and try it yourself.

 

 

The joys of collaboration

I often take inspiration for my writing from pictures, but it was lovely to come across an opportunity to do it the other way round, to put forward a story to be illustrated. Seeing a call on twitter from artist and illustrator Bonnie Helen Hawkins for crow folklore stories, I wrote this story, Crow world. I was delighted when Bonnie choose it to inspire a drawing for week 2 of her 52 crows project. The illustration of my story is reproduced here by kind permission of the artist.

Crow world

Crow pic.PNG

With a final stab, the crow got hold of a long strand of sinew, drew it up and carried it away. It flew out behind him like a red flag, its ghastliness too far away for the watchers to make out. The new year’s day was as if it were the first, the world a scrubbed blank canvas on which to draw afresh. The two men, who had stood for a moment watching the dark of the bird against the icy pale of the morning sky, rubbed their hands.

“Too cold to stand here,” said the one, pulling his hat down over his ears and looking up at the clouds scudding above the hill “Let’s get up there. Before.”

If he said more the wind whipped away his words. He strode out and the other followed. Both had their heads down. They were intent on reaching the summit. It was, from one to the other, a dare, the sort that men make without regard for the consequences. Behind them, unseen by either, three more crows descended to the place the solitary eater had left.

In the valley the woman had stoked the fire. The smoke from the damp peat made her cough. She drew the pot down; the soup would simmer the day long until her man returned. She threw in the few vegetables she had. There was no meat, hadn’t been for a month now. She wasn’t like the crow; wouldn’t pick up something killed by another. She went to the door, looked up at the hillside. Her eyes were still sharp; she could pick up the movement of a rabbit in the dead bracken. But there was no ripple of beast or man on the brown curve of the hill, only the downward flight of the three crows. And they and their judgements were not her business. She closed the door against them and took up her pen. It was her time to write, the annual attempt, the record in case he returned.

It had been nine years since he’d gone up the hill with nothing but his ordinary clothes. For all they knew a crow might have pecked his eyes, but crows don’t eat bones and the search had been thorough, the men beating the bracken and the heather for all the days of a week, covering the width and the depth of the valley.

“You’ll be careful,” she’d said to her man that morning, as he and the other stood on the door mat, as if waiting for her permission. He wouldn’t meet her eye. And they’d left, between two blinks of an eye. There. And then not there.

The commotion outside distracted her from her writing. Crows cawing. It felt as if the world belonged to them more than to men, these days. Then the bang against the window. She stared at the smear of blood, her hands grasping the table, her breath coming in gasps. To the door, flinging it wide. On the step the dead bird. The three flapping into the distance. Their cries of triumph.

Her man and the other had reached the summit, heard from there the noise of the attack down by the house, but couldn’t see it. Or see the woman come out. See her dart into the bracken.

When they got back the house was dark and the fire had all but gone out. They searched, but their hearts told them the truth. And the one cursed the other for the dare, himself for accepting it and the crows for their part in the ills of the world.

Story © Cath Barton, Illustration © Bonnie Helen Hawkins

My twelve days of Christmas – 3 – Online Litmags

As all writers know there is a plethora of online literary magazines out there. Some are long-established and greatly respected; others short-lived. Some are curt in their rejections; others promise more than they deliver.

I have found a home for my work in quite a few of these places and particularly appreciate those that offer a personal response, whether to accept or reject my work.

My online litmag of the year, for its commitment to the writers it publishes, and generous promotion of their work, is

Moonchild Magazine

Moonchild mag.PNG

 

Fictive Dream

Choosing where to submit stories is a tricky business. On the whole I now avoid US-based publications and websites, because I’ve found that most Americans (or at least editors!) don’t seem to ‘get’ my writing. It’s good to see more and UK-based websites (as well as others around the world) publishing short stories and flash fiction and one of my favourites is Fictive Dream.

Fictive Dream header

The Editor, Laura Black, is one of the best I have come across, professional, generous and supportive.

I feel privileged to have my work included on the site – you can read two of my stories there, Tracks and Mrs Myfanwy Pritchard.

I’m also delighted that Laura has accepted a story from me for Fictive Dream’s Flash Fiction February 2018, which will feature a new piece of flash fiction every day of that month. You can submit until the end of December – see the link above.