Author: ChanAtkins

He Is A Storm

~ ChanAtkins ~ Leave a comment

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He Is A Storm

There is a storm in his head.

It is black and violent and consuming and becomes him.

It has been there for so long, ebbing and flowing, dimming and glowing. It burns from the inside of his brain, begging release. His heart is on fire. Pain explodes in his guts and suddenly he is not human anymore.

Because a fine line snaps.

Because it pulls taut, tighter than normal, tighter than anyone can stand, vibrating like guitar strings. And on this day, and in this moment, it snaps. The line snaps and it sets him free.

He is no longer tethered, or loosely, marginally restrained. He is no longer held back, warned off, given the look, or contained. There is nothing between them now. Nothing except the black storm inside his head and the ping of the line as it snaps inside of him, and sets him free, sets him reeling forwards.

He moves soundlessly in his head, yet somehow he knows his open mouth is bellowing years of pent up rage. He feels his bulk multiplying in size and force. He is like a building rising up before exploding and falling down. And he does fall down.

Set free, he gives himself totally to violence. It’s blind and raging and delicious and addictive. He falls down upon the smaller body, and they clash, bones jarring, muscles screaming, eyes popping. Game on. And sounds rise into the air around them and above them, as they entwine and entangle, as they smash and crash and dance into the wall.

His own soul bellowing while it dies.

The cries of shock and pain. They make primal sounds, the two of them, dancing. And the girl is in the background but she is insignificant to the fight. A fly in the air buzzing. A bug on his neck scratching. He swats her away like she is nothing.

And the more he punishes the body he has seized, the more free he becomes. An ugly wound stuffed tight now breaks open, and the foul gush runs free, rumbling and turning within the fire that burns. And the more he hates and the more he punishes, the better he feels, the best ever, and he wants to cling onto that feeling for longer. And so the rage screams from his lips, and the fists go in and out, in and out, until the blood smothers them, thick and warm like crimson gloves.

It spatters his face like paint. Droplets in his hair and eyes and mouth. He is eating him alive. Blood brothers. The bug is on his back again, fighting and clawing, her screams mixed with the bellow in his own brain, until he throws her aside and lands on top of her.

And now the storms starts to subside, starts to ease off, like a deep breath taken and held, and everything stops, and he sees his bloody fists and he feels the ache of his knuckles and he sees the terror in her face, and he sees the body lying still against the wall.

But he asked for it. He went too far. Wrong moment. Wrong time. Wrong person. Wrong place. Wrong life. He couldn’t stop. Because he didn’t want to stop. But now he has stopped. The storm betrays him and skies start to clear.

She stares back at him and suddenly there is someone else, coming towards them, shocked and crying out. And this breaks whatever is left of the spell, and the hold the storm had on him is gone, over, broken.

The line tries to find its way back, tries to reattach, but it can’t find its way. He gives up. He gives himself up to everything. He runs from their terror and from the blood on the wall and from the figure on the floor. Like a beast, like a creature, like a monster, he charges bull-like, monstrous, inhuman, thick and hard and powering through everything as he explodes from the inside, and he runs from them all.

Blood in his mouth.

Sweet and tangy.

He spits and retches and heaves and runs. He opens the car door and somehow he is driving. Tyres screech against tarmac. Panic thunders in his chest. He can’t breathe, or see, or think. He is not human, he knows only this. He turned his back on it and embraced insanity. He drives, not knowing where he is driving to.

He drives to her.

Something desperate and clawing, something raw and open and bleeding and weeping and begging and shaking. Something hammering at his blackened mind. Words and visions and blood soaked dreams. His mother washing his mouth out with soap. Picking up the frying pan and battering his step-dad over the head with it. Wanting to do so much more. Needing to.

The door is open. Unlocked. No cars. No one home? It is like the house is waiting for him, door open, enticing, inviting him in. He runs in, blood soaked and calling her name, twisting his hands inside his t-shirt, trying to wipe off his crime.

His mind is chattering. Cold now. Afraid.

Oh what have I done, what have I done, what have I done, what have I done…

            Powers up the stairs. His body is rigid, rock hard with adrenaline tightened muscles. He could run through walls. Sail through windows. Calling her name. Calling for her.

What have I done, what have I done? Oh what have you done? What have you done?

            He finds her lying there like a pale, limp starfish.

Arms and legs all stuck out to the side of her tiny body dressed in black. He finds her open eyes staring, but not seeing. He finds her sheets soaked in blood. He finds her wrists sliced open, undone, like him. Her line snapped too.

Oh what have you done? What have you done?

            He pulls off his t-shirt and wraps it around her wrists, winding the bloody material around and around, binding her hands together.

What have you done?

            He gathers her small body into his big, naked arms, and her head rolls back and he hears her gasp, feels the breath leave her mouth and smother his face, and he holds her and runs.

In the hospital he sits, covered in so much blood, yet none of it is his. They think it has all come from her, the girl he brought in, the life he saved. He sits there, on a hard plastic chair while they stitch her up, fix her, attach her line and shake their fingers.

You saved her life.

            She’ll be okay. What’s your name?

            Where are you going? Where are you going?

            Don’t you want to see her now? You can see her now.

            But he can’t see her now. He can’t see anyone. Least of all himself. He is a storm.

This short story is written from the POV of Leon, a character in my novel The Mess Of Me. If you would like to find out more about his story, you can download the novel here;http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mess-Me-Chantelle-Atkins-ebook/dp/B00CSVQ8EQ/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1438892427&sr=1-3

Do You Remember? (Teenager of the 90’s)

~ ChanAtkins ~ Leave a comment

Times change. And so does the music. But more than that, it breaks your heart- like The Bluetones singing where did you go? Or Garbage singing stupid girl, or Whale singing happy in you. I got old. And so did you. But we didn’t really. It’s only on the outside. If we didn’t look in mirrors, we wouldn’t remember that we got older. The music though…it likes to take us back. It grins and teases. Takes us by the elbow whispering; do you remember?

Do you remember fish and chips in the car? The car-park at the beach. We never got out because we didn’t want to be around other people. Let them have the beach. We had the music. It was always us and the music. We still do it now; leave the windows rolled down in pride. Yes, this is good.

I am older, and so are you. Jaded. More cynical. You didn’t used to worry about anything, and you still don’t, but you don’t care either. The world proved you right. I got older, but I fight hard not to get old. I insist the child in me remains loose. Vigilant at all times. In charge of my soul. No mortgage or nine to five for me. No hamster wheel or human treadmill. Music makes everything better.

Do you remember mix tapes? Personalised for the one you loved. But it wasn’t just about love or loving them, it was about telling them what music you loved, letting them in on a secret, telling them what music they should love too. I wish I’d kept them all, but times moved on. I can still see your neat handwriting, black biro, letters perfectly formed. I can picture you in my head; lying on your bed where you kept the hi-fi just above your pillow, so that when I slept over, the music was right there. I can see you writing out the songs one by one. Telling me who I should love. You gave me The Stone Roses and I will love you forever for that.

Do you remember love letters? Passed back and forth. Lyrics and hearts in smudged biro dotted around the edge of A4 lined paper. Ten Storey Love Song – I built this thing for you.

Do you remember The Beach Boys? First music we played in our first home. I remember a younger us in a teenage bedroom; wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long? But we didn’t have to wait long at all to get older. That happened in between songs.

Music is our connection. It links me to you and to everything that I see in my head when I look back. To every song I hear there is a scene, a memory, a feeling. Gomez singing get myself arrested after you did get yourself arrested. A thousand songs in a thousand moments in cars, bedrooms, clubs and festivals. Me and you. Cider and Hooch and Two Dogs. Empties lined up on the bedroom window sill, curtains blowing in the wind. Select magazine on the bed. TFI Friday on the telly. Ocean Colour Scene and Kula Shaker and Cast and Supergrass and Portishead and Massive Attack and Tricky, and I always preferred a slow sad song, and you always preferred fast and happy. Then you’d write me a little note before you left.

You can be yourself when you find the right music. Remember that? Remember that it was our time. And its so funny now when we find it again; when we find ourselves in the record shop, not drawn to the vinyl that was before our time, but to the cds in the flimsy plastic cases, to remembering how cool they seemed compared to tapes, until they scratched and jumped and jittered. The artwork, the song list, the lyric sheet. In an instant, we are excited again, worries forgotten, age meaning nothing. It’s just you and me and the music, set free, eyes wide, let loose, fingers flicking amidst exclamations of ‘we had that one on tape’, ‘we had that one but it got scratched’, ‘I’ve still got that one but it doesn’t work’, ‘do you remember this one?’ For a few moments its perfect joy.

Then in the car on the way home. Everything is made better by music, whether its new or old. Smiling without knowing that we are. We’ll be high on it for days. Classic finds. Cheap and cheerful. Would rather spend money on music than anything else. And I look at you and I think do you remember that you’re the same as me? That we see things they’ll never see?

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Book Promo Plan (Getting my arse into gear)

~ ChanAtkins ~ 3 Comments

It’s about time I made a proper plan.

Now, I’m not really a plan kind of person. I will freely admit that I do not have the remotest touch of OCD or perfectionism of any kind. I am by nature a messy, laidback, go with the flow kind of girl. I don’t need all my picture frames to be straight on the wall. I don’t need my books organised in height level on the bookshelves. I don’t mind a bit of dust here, a cobweb or two there, or sticky fingers on the windows and walls.

But when it comes to promoting my books, something needs to change. I need to sort it out. I need to work it out. I need a proper plan and I need to stick to it. Now, like I’ve mentioned before, I do all the right things, or at least I think I do. I pick up tips and advice all the time. I just don’t always find the time to follow through with them. I make great lists. I am a list sort of person. Lists are great, because without lists and remind-me notes, I would be living an even more haphazard life than I already am!

Just recently I signed up to a free on-line course by a successful author. Daily emails came through with tips on everything you can think of. Some of these emails contained links to join up to more courses, so I did, and one of these was a Book Launch course. No, I haven’t done it yet. I don’t have the time! I am sure I will get to it eventually, and I am sure I will make some lists of things I should be doing to promote my books. Maybe this blog post, this ‘plan’ will be the first step in me getting it together with all this. Well, I’ll aim for it.

So far, my approach to promoting my books has been sketchy, disjointed, back to front and upside down. I’m not joking. I have never done a book launch thing. Not sure how to. (Haven’t read those emails yet, remember?) I have never done the promo before the book release. Well, not really. Not unless posting on my Facebook author page counts for much, which I doubt. I don’t have a marketing strategy, and I don’t even know what one is. When I started all this two years ago, all I thought about was writing. To me, writing was, and still is, the most important thing. I learnt the hard way, like a lot of indies. Getting a book out there and patting yourself on the back for making a dream come true does not automatically guarantee you sales. Not even from friends and family. It is much, much harder than that. And I have learnt. And I have come a long way. Things have changed, and things are always getting better.

But! I still feel I am missing a trick. I see and hear other authors talking about their sales and I start to think; what the hell am I doing wrong here? How can I reach more people? I still feel like such a novice. It’s never too late for me to start better promoting the books I already have out there, but what better way to get my head around this marketing plan thing, than to start with a brand new book? In other words, try to get it right this time? So this plan will go into action as of now with my brand new book The Tree Of Rebels. This book won’t be released for some time as it is only in the third draft. But I can start the ground work now, right? Isn’t that what they say? And if it makes a difference I can then apply this plan to all future books!

So here is the plan. Tell me what you think. Tell me yours! Please feel free to comment. Let me know what else I need!

1) Write first draft (done)

2) Write second draft (done)

3) Send out to at least three beta readers (in progress)

4) Receive feedback/critique and start third draft – make better!(now in progress)

5) Fourth/Fifth/sixth – you know the score – until it is done

6) Arrange front cover (done)

7) Enter in competition to drum up promo (done already!)(noooo, this competition is now cancelled, so need another idea here!)

8) Write short stories inspired by the book to draw people in and get them interested in the whole book and post these on Wattpad and blog (in progress)

9) Post segments of actual novel on blog and share

10) Create Pinterest storyboard, make memes with quotes and images and share

11) Approach people for advanced reviews

12) Get the street team involved in promoting/sharing/reviewing in advance

13) Start a countdown to cover reveal on FB page

14) Sort out ebook and print book at SAME time so that both are available at the SAME time and people don’t have to wait ages for me to faff about getting prints done!

15) Announce a release date for both

16) Contact as many promo sites as can (free ones and pay for ones)

17) Do same with review sites

18) Create a release day event on FB and get other authors to guest and join in with q and a sessions and their own giveaways etc

19) Email everyone I know about release date and release event

20) Have release day event on day of release!!!

BOOM!!!

So ,what do you think??

Well, it’s an improvement on what I’ve done so far anyway. This feels more professional and organised, and when I forget what I am meant to be doing I can refer back to this post and remind myself. Thanks for reading, don’t forget to add your comments and suggestions re book promotions.

Once We Are Gone

~ ChanAtkins ~ 3 Comments

 

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Away from the roaring road, is a green tunnel that leads down to the river. I crawl down it most days, on foot or by car. The lane is narrow and lined by mighty oaks and monstrous rhododendrons. They are lurching forward, always stretching and growing and trying to claim back what is rightfully theirs. Their thick arms reach out over the lane, linking up to create a canopy that shuts out the sun. Lower down, the nettles and brambles do the same, creeping out across the ground, and the tunnel grows tighter. Twisting around the oaks like old friends, filling every available space, the rhododendrons are a wall of lilac filled with bumblebees. Squirrels dart from tree to tree, playing a game of chase up the trunks of the oaks. The further you wander from the road, the deeper she embraces you. Mother Nature. She makes you hers again, just for a time.

No human noise now. No human mess. Someone will come along soon enough. Someone will come along with the hedge-cutter whirring, with the strimmer slicing and chopping, to tame her wild ways. They will hack at her arms and shave back the unwanted feasts of nettles, campion, cow parsley and garlic mustard. No one knows what they are. No one cares anymore. Trimmed and contained, she will return to her patience.

For one day, no one will come. Because no one will be left. No vans or trucks will rumble down from the road. No chainsaws will come to mutilate her. Mother Nature will be free at last. She will reach and claw greedily and hungrily across the lane, grasping hands with the other side and pulling tight. She will awaken for good. She will take it all back. Down the lane and over the bridge, but no human feet will fall here again. The railings of the bridge will rust and drop into the water. The concrete will be forced apart by fingers of creeping green. Past Twisty Corners, no cars will take the corner too fast, no small hands will stand on the curve and reach for blackberries. Dandilions will push up through the tarmac. Again and again until they dismantle it all and throw it away. The fence posts will fall and rot. The barbed wire will be buried under the ground. The hedgerows will grow thicker and fatter and taller until the lane is gone. Until it is swallowed up.

The houses will crumble to dust. The things that we have built and lived in and filled with things we worked a lifetime to own, will fall asleep and die just like us. The seeds will be sown undisturbed and taken by the breeze into the buildings, where they will distribute over and over again until plants and trees thrust through the rooftops and out of the chimneys. The windows will be smashed. It will all be broken apart.

Once we are gone. When we have fought our last war. When we have drilled the last drop of oil out of the earth. When we have starved the land of the very nutrients we needed to survive on it. Once we are all gone, Mother Nature will still be here and she will sigh her hefty relief that our brief time here is over and done with. She will laugh out loud at the foolish belief we had they we would destroy her. She was just biding her time. Just waiting us out. Like a patient mother waiting for a spoiled and ungrateful child to finish their tantrum.

Once we are gone, the world will recover quickly. Mother Nature will wrap her arms around this ball of mud and water and she will heal it.

We could have been glorious.

But like a great man once said; we let the demons run amok.

We were born to be sheep and follow the herd. We were told who to hate and what to fear, and we were conditioned to work and consume and fill our homes and lives with things to throw away. And the saddest thing; it was always just a handful. Just a handful of greedy soulless devils with blood on their hands and money in their pockets. Just a handful of demons who ran amok, putting pound signs on everything, taking every last thing from the earth, unable to listen, unable to care, unable to change.

She won’t miss us. She will forget us, once we are gone.