Overture

C.E. Ayr_22-04-2015 (bc)
C.E. Ayr – Creator of a new genre

C.E. Ayr is a pioneer of a new genre of short story writing.
He has his own name for it – Sound Bite Fiction.

This is an emerging style aimed at the fast-moving time-restricted 21st Century reader.
The descriptive text is pared to the bone, events move at lightning speed.
The intelligent reader visualises an entire scenario in glorious Technicolour.
The tales are short, sparse and to the point, many of them less than one page in length.
His writing takes the reader to the core of the action, the characters, or the moment of crisis.
Like the sculptor who said that the statue exists in the stone and all he has to do is remove what is not needed, this writer prunes everything until he gets to the heart of what is.

This collection of stories by C.E. Ayr, has  been written in his current home on the Cote d’Azur.
Many of the tales are based in and around the place he calls Medville.
Mysterious and enigmatic, served with a splash of humour, nothing here is ever quite what it seems.

Expect the unexpected.
There is always a twist in the tail.
Nearly.

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Arrival – Friday Fictioneers

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the wonderful Rochelle, the undisputed master of what I call Sound Bite Fiction.
She sets the weekly challenge, and the standard.
Today’s spectacular photo is by John, sorry Jan Wayne Fields, the suave spouse of our mighty leader.
I rerun the story I wrote 3 years ago, which found its way into my best selling book of short stories, Medville Matters, available here on this blog!
The idea, as always, is to write a story of around 100 words based on the picture, below.

Copyright Jan Wayne Fields

Copyright Jan Wayne Fields


Arrival

It is more than six months since they last saw each other, a holiday romance that neither expected to last.
And yet they kept in touch all this time.
She saw her youngest through school, worked long hours, saved every penny she could.
He left Scotland, moved to the south of France, is happy in the sunshine.
He is wondering why he agreed to her visit, but she seemed so keen.
He sees her emerge through the Arrivals gate, dragging her suitcase.
His heart leaps.
She is stunning!
She sees him smiling and waving and thinks ‘Why am I here?’

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Interrupt – Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge presented by my old friend Al Forbes.
The idea is to write a short story (200 word max) inspired by what you see in his picture (below).
When I saw Al’s fairly unambiguous photo today I laughed, because it reminded me of an incident a few months back, before the Mediterranean sun roused herself from winter slumber.
And I rambled on rather lengthily, sorry.
Click on this link to enter your tale, and see what others have written.

Copyright Al Forbes

Copyright Al Forbes

Interrupt

It is cold today.
I am inside the little café in the square.
I lean on the counter, scribbling furiously.
I am in the zone, the story is flowing.
I become aware of a shadow at my shoulder.
I look up, a smile already forming.
I know a lot of good people in my little town on the Mediterranean.
A stranger is trying to read what I am writing.
My smile stays, but doesn’t reach my eyes.
Can I help you, I ask, in French.
What are you doing, he asks in return.
I look meaningfully at the pen in my hand, then at the paper in front of me, covered in words.
I am knitting socks, I say pleasantly.
He shakes his head, staring at my illegible scrawl.
Which is in a language he clearly does not understand.
That is incredible, he says, amazing, unbelievable.
I grunt, shrug, already bored with him.
My eyes and thoughts go back to the page.
You must have a beautiful heart, he continues, that is fantastic.
No, I respond curtly, it is just writing, it is what I do.
I am really impressed, he enthuses, I have never met a writer before.
Are you trying to wind me up, I ask, less pleasantly.
No, no, he insists, this – he indicates the spidery hieroglyphics that fill the pages spread before me – this is awesome.
The word he uses is ‘énorme’, literally ‘huge’, but used colloquially in this sense.
I pause.
Be nice, I tell myself.
Thank you, I say to him, then turn back to my story.
Are you writing a novel, he persists.
I am not writing anything, I tell him.
He looks at me in astonishment, the question in his eyes.
I grin.
Too many interruptions, I say.

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Little Piggies – Friday Fictioneers

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the wonderful Rochelle, the undisputed master of what I call Sound Bite Fiction.
She sets the weekly challenge, and the standard.
Today’s photo is by Sandra Crook, perhaps the writer I most admire of all the Fictioneers, always worth reading.
I remember the story I wrote for this last time, and quite like it, but for some reason a whole different idea popped into my head this morning.
So I wrote it down.
The idea, as always, is to write a story of around 100 words based on the picture, below.

Copyright Sandra Crook

Copyright Sandra Crook


Little Piggies

This little piggy went to market…
I remember squealing in excitement, in glee, in almost fearful anticipation, as my mother nibbled my toes, and recited that rhyme.
Among the happiest of my childhood memories.
One of very few, actually.
This little piggy stayed at home…
After she was gone things were very different.
I spent most of the time locked in my room after new mummy screamed at me.
Maybe that is why I am so strange now.
Why I take children home.
Why I cut off their toes.
Why I eat them.
This little piggy had roast beef…

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The Nuisance – Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge presented by my old friend Al Forbes.
The idea is to write a short story (200 word max) inspired by what you see in his picture (below).
When I saw Al’s slightly belated photo (well?) this week, I remembered visiting him a few years back.
A terrific guy, and a terrific blogger.
Click on this link to enter your tale, and see what others have written.

Copyright Al Forbes

Copyright Al Forbes

And if you click on this, you can hear me read the story below:

The Nuisance

I shoot him twice in the chest.
I am seated on a bench situated just off the path.
It is dusk, he probably never sees me.
I pocket my gun, rise to conceal his body.
And see the little man standing thirty feet away, mouth open, eyes wide.
I am furious with myself.
I thought I had carefully ensured no one else was near.
Did he come out of one of the darkened holiday apartments?
As I pull my gun again he runs.
I follow swiftly, he has no chance.
Then headlamps go on maybe fifty yards away.
It is an electrician’s van, I remember, from my earlier reconnaissance.
My target is shouting, screaming, waving his arms wildly.
When I reach him he is trying to get into the passenger seat.
I walk round, shoot the workman in the face.
Then I drag the little man out, throw him to the ground.
Look what you made me do, I tell him, pointing at the dead driver.
Because I am really annoyed with him.
I do not like killing unless I get paid for it.

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Back Streets – Friday Fictioneers

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the wonderful Rochelle, the undisputed master of what I call Sound Bite Fiction.
She sets the weekly challenge, and the standard.
Today’s photo by Jan Marler Morrill is another in the summer rerun series, from long before my time here.
So I am taking this opportuny for a rerun of my own by using a story from Medville Matters, my enthralling and recently published book of Sound Bite Fiction, available on this blog, just over there>>>>>>

For those of you not plugging books, the idea, as always, is to write a story of around 100 words based on the picture, below.

© Jan Marler Morrill

© Jan Marler Morrill

Click on this to hear C.E. Ayr read from his first book of Sound Bite Fiction entitled Medville Matters.

Back Streets

These back streets are dangerous places for the unwary.
Her heels click rhythmically as she hurries through the seedier side of her city.
She is suddenly aware that she is being followed.
Her pursuer is closing rapidly.
She knows there have been a series of vicious attacks on women in the area.
She cannot run in this tight skirt.
She stops, backs against a wall.
He leers knowingly, reaches for her blouse.
He doesn’t even see her NAA Guardian pistol before the bullet passes through his left eye into his brain.
These back streets are dangerous places for the unwary.

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Rain – Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge presented by my old friend Al Forbes.
The idea is to write a short story (200 word max) inspired by what you see in his picture (below).
My first thought this week when I saw Al’s somewhat challenging photo was rain.
I am a Scot, we are genetically programmed to think about rain.
Even this morning, basking in Mediterranean sunshine for the umpteenth successive day, I think about rain.
And no, I do not miss it!
Click on this link to enter your tale, and see what others have written.

Copyright Al Forbes

Copyright Al Forbes

Rain

It is my first visit to H’Too.
It is reputedly the wettest planet in any solar system.
It rains constantly.
No, not like Scotland, but literally constantly.
It never stops.
It is never torrential, never just a drizzle.
Just a steady downpour, always.
Low heavy dark clouds, always.
Sunshine, never.
But this wretched lump of rock is rich in minerals, so we are building and mining.
Most of the guys do one month on, one month off, and many never return.
I signed up for a year with no leave.
I need the money and there is no one to go home to.
I have been here ten weeks; after six I was going crazy.
The unceasing thrum of rain on roofs, on walls, on windows, is mind-numbing.
I haven’t ventured outside for weeks now.
I have only one regret as I climb on the chair and adjust the rope.
I will never see the sun again.

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Russia – Friday Fictioneers

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the wonderful Rochelle, the undisputed master of what I call Sound Bite Fiction.
She sets the weekly challenge, and the standard.
Today’s photo is by her Cousin It, or Kent as she calls him.
It reminds me of my childhood, when the winds from Siberia would hurtle across the North Sea and into our little town just south of Edinburgh, bearing gifts of snow, sleet and hail.
My mother habitually ejected us from the house with the immortal words ‘Fresh air is good for you’.
The idea, as always, is to write a story of around 100 words based on the picture, below.

Copyright Cuzzin Kent

Copyright Cuzzin Kent

Russia

We invade Russia.
A terrible idea.
Not mine, of course, I am just a grunt, a foot soldier.
Whoever made the decision didn’t know much about the weather here in winter.
It is around -30 degrees.
Painfully cold.
In some cases fatally cold.
We are turning into savages.
We do anything to lessen the chill.
We come upon a village strewn with corpses.
Their weapons are still in their hands, frozen in place.
I say weapons, but they are clubs, knives, broom handles.
We want their coats.
We can’t get them off over their fists, clenched around what they were carrying.
So first we smash their fingers.

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