P T Lacy
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ptlacy.bsky.social
P T Lacy
@ptlacy.bsky.social
230 followers 830 following 140 posts
Author seeking representation. EFL Teacher. Englishman in Poland (he/him). Cat dad. Movie lover. Blogger. All shall worship me and despair?

Debut novel: https://books2read.com/unregistered

Blog: https://from-the-smallest-desk.ghost.io
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ptlacy.bsky.social
Convincing you to read my novel with the first paragraph. Share yours if you want.

(From UNREGISTERED)
Chapter One July 28, 2000 Four scumbags ride in an estate car, fleeing the scene of a robbery in the first glimmerings of the late July dawn, flushed with success. I know them, or at least I know the types. Some mother's sons, her hopes and dreams, the same sad old story of good boys become bad men thanks to the whims of a cruel or indifferent society, or that's what they'd have you believe. I can't sing you the songs of their lives, but I can hum the tune.
November 12, 2025 at 2:08 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
Oh hey look! It's the Illuminati Brotherhood again with another offer of membership.

Wait...hmmm...hm. No, it's the dollar store version. The Illuminate Botherhood. I wonder what they do instead of secretly ruling the world? Should I blame them for the traffic lights turning red a moment too soon?
September 26, 2025 at 12:11 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

Sometimes in Unforgiven, Ricky can't do right for doing wrong, like when he goes, unwillingly, to his alcohol support group...
“Guys, do you remember Richard?” “Yes,” Jeremy said. “I remember.” Alec’s eyes flicked over to me for a second and he nodded once. Disdain rang in Jeremy’s voice. He’d never liked me and I didn’t blame him. Right now, I didn’t much like me either. He’d spoken with quiet dignity about the pressure of his rank and role and the culture of drinking among his peers and superiors. He’d found himself in a trap not of his own making, much the same as Alec. Once Alec had described how he drank to forget all the dilemmas his job had brought him; about all of the false choices with bad outcomes at either end. Next to them, I was just a tourist. Martyn crossed the ring and settled in the chair beside me. “I’m glad you came back,” he said. “Genuinely, I am.” This was what I’d been desperate to avoid. All along, I’d planned to sit through the session and murmur approvingly at all of the positive process and put on a sad face at the bad news. I’d sit silent and sad-faced and gut it out. Martyn had other ideas. His open, hopeful expression begged for a response. “Well, mate,” I said, a fake smile plastered across my face. “One day at a time.”
September 9, 2025 at 6:57 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

For a change, how about the first two paragraphs of the manuscript of Unforgiven? Trigger warning if you happen to come from Stogursey. Anyway, looks like Ricky might be in trouble again...
They were waiting for me when I got back to the home after school. A jam sandwich sat in the driveway, a Ford Granada bearing a strip of red between two layers of white, its occupants nowhere to be seen. They’d be here for me. A pub had burned down a few days earlier and they’d probably run out of leads to follow. So, as usual, when the pigs had nothing they resorted to rootling around in the trash for the bad apples. The front door was open as I approached. People were talking inside. Two voices I didn’t know, low and male, plus one I did. It had to be him. His throaty chuckle gave him away. Even by Somerset standards, Coombes sounded like a yokel with a mouth full of mash. The child of cousins, that’s what we told ourselves, one of those shit-kickers from out Stogursey way.
September 7, 2025 at 4:13 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

From the very last chapter of Unforgiven, Ricky is really paying attention to the world around him for...reasons.
People bustled past me in the Underground. The blue of denim, flecked with molecules of white, golden thread laddering up and down the seams. The rotten fruit reek of a stranger’s grey shirt, dark rings of sweat leaking out from his armpits. The hiss and screech of the tracks when the train approached. The rumble as it drew into the station. The yellow of the lights in the carriage was a poor imitation of the sun. I clung to a handhold and the train shook me to and fro. Two women next to me chattered away in a language I didn’t recognise. I drank in the liquid vowels and the crisp consonants. I rode the escalator up from the platform, climbed the stairs from the concourse. A pigeon eyed me and the feathers at the nape of his neck glowed with an iridescent purple which flipped to green when he turned his head. A wave of freshly roasted coffee aroma washed over me, warm and earthy. And then I was at the door to the offices. I pushed them open, went in.
September 4, 2025 at 9:14 AM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

After a long summer, I am also tired. But not as tired as the police having to deal with Ricky's nonsense, or Ricky with theirs. From chapter 1 of Unforgiven.
“We’re investigating the fire at the Red Hart pub at the weekend,” Jones went on. “We’re going to ask you some questions. Mr. Coombes is here as your representative.” As if that meant something. Press a tenner into Coombes’s hand, and he’d turn a blind eye to just about anything. Make it a twenty and he’d hold your coat while it happened. “It wasn’t me,” I said. “You’re Talented, aren’t you?” Long asked. Jones uncapped the pen with a pop and scratched it over the paper. His writing was an ugly scrawl, all undisciplined loops and whorls. “You know, if I wrote like that my teachers would give me lines.” The scratching halted and Jones stared at me, as though I’d just shat on his shoes. Long exchanged a glance with Jones and then Coombes. “Answer the question, please, Richard,” Jones said. “Yes, I am Talented. As you know. It’s why I’m here.” “What’s the nature of your Talent?” Long asked. A minute in, and he already sounded bone-tired. “Like you don’t know.” Long released a hiss of breath. Coombes shifted in his seat.
September 2, 2025 at 12:31 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WriteSky #FlashFiction #ShortFiction

Back in February, I took part in a flash fiction competition. The brief: write a story in which something important is missing.

Like the Chosen One, I thought.

And lo, I had an idea. Enjoy.

from-the-smallest-desk.ghost.io/a-beautiful-...
It was a beautiful day for the end of the world. In a sapphire sky, the sun beat down on Torgo Ebonheart in his armour of black iron, forged from the heart of a fallen star. His helmet bore a crown of wicked spikes. His plate, scarred by the blades of his fallen foes, was ringed with razor-sharp flanges. He held his flamberge, The Blade of Xalphon, upright in front of him, an accusing finger pointed at the heavens. Above him, the Trolltooth mountains glowered like a broken smile. Beneath them marched a gloomy expanse of firs, haunted by wolf, kobold and bandit. Behind him stood his army, a hundred thousand men, orcs and dark elves. Infantry. Cavalry astride fell mounts. Howling beasts of war. A decade they had followed Torgo. Down from the Maw of Fate, across plain and field, forest and mountain. Together they had burned the villages and pillaged the towns and raped the cities which lay on the path to this greenswarded vale, to be here, this day, this hour.
August 29, 2025 at 6:06 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

Mr Coombes is in for a difficult night
He opened the door and shuffled into the porch and out into the yard. He'd gotten old in the eight years I'd been away. I hadn't seen it in the pub, but it was clear now. He walked with a stoop and the beginnings of a limp in his left leg, as though his knee or hip were griping him. "Turn right," I said and we headed along the pavement, past the parked cars, down the deserted pavement. Coombes had lost his fitness, too, puffing and panting a little. Maybe it was fear. I hoped it was. We reached the bridge at the end of the street. It wasn't built for cars, being more of an adjustable drain for the river, having a stile set into the metal fence. "Over the bridge."
May 11, 2025 at 4:55 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

A philosophical moment for Ricky in Unforgiven
Somebody once said the prospect of a hanging concentrated the mind and was I ever concentrating. I had nerves, nerves enough to keep me from a big breakfast. Nerves enough to force me from my bed at six. Light seemed brighter; sounds were louder. Flavours stronger. The slightest breeze drawing out goosebumps. It wasn't a good time, the sensation of hyper-reality. Like there was a deeper, subtler layer to existence, waiting for the superficial top to be skimmed off by anyone brave enough and plunge in to it through the revealed portal. Funny, really, given I was hours away from shrinking my world.
May 6, 2025 at 7:42 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

Mwuhahaha! Revenge! Unforgiven is alllll about Ricky's quest for revenge!
"You said you had something you wanted to ask me. Am I right in assuming you need a favour?" "You are." "Something your allies at the Campus can't provide." "Yes." "Something illegal." Ricky nodded. "Do you believe in revenge, Mr Dexter?" "Dirty business, revenge. You're going to end up filthy whatever you do." "I'm hardly spotless as it is." "Who do you want to kill?" "Evil men." "Come on, Mr Martindale. You have to do better than that. The world is run by evil men who deserve death. If only it were that simple. Be specific."
May 5, 2025 at 4:45 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

Ricky getting up to some character-defining mischief in Unforgiven, now no longer a work in progress!
"Okay, okay." "He doesn't keep the back door locked." "Already been inside, have you?" Steve patted Ricky on the back. "No time like the present, mate. Tell him fuck you, from me." Ricky hauled a breath into his lungs and tried to force his leaden legs to move. His heart was thrashing away in his chest and his mouth had gone dry. The fifteen feet to the back door stretched ahead of him like the flanks of Mount Everest. He inched forward, one half-step at a time. Ten feet to go. Seven.
May 4, 2025 at 12:18 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
I finished my second novel today.

Go me!

It's called UNFORGIVEN and may one day be coming to a bookshop near you.

#WriteSky #amwriting

(This is my hundredth post. Yay?)
Word count from Scrivener of my current manuscript: 85,315 AVENGE YOUR PAST OR SAVE YOUR FUTURE? Being a superhero was supposed to be easy. Fans, fame and fortune, yours for the asking. But nothing ever comes easy for Ricky, known to the world as the flame-throwing Pyro. With the press on his back, his boss on his case, and a terrible thirst for booze, trouble is never far away. Just when he thinks he’s taken the first steps to a brighter tomorrow, his past comes calling. An old friend, long abandoned, reminds him of a broken promise to take down the ones who hurt them, a promise Ricky thought he’d left behind. Revenge might cost Ricky his freedom. It might scorch his soul. It might make him a monster. Ricky has to choose: would he give up everything, just to bring peace to the dead?
May 2, 2025 at 8:46 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

I appear to be very fond of the word stem 'occupy' in Unforgiven. Anyway, time for a cup of tea.
Bobby trotted ahead of them through the door set into the side of the house. The dog waited for Ricky and inspected him thoroughly as he entered the hall, brown bead eyes and damp black nose both. Mrs Stafford ushered Ricky into the living room. Ricky settled onto a plush sofa, moving a floral cushion aside to make room. "Cup of tea?" she said. "Please. Milk, no sugar." She left and Bobby replaced her, nostrils working, assessing the newcomer. "You don't look like you do on TV," Mrs Stafford said, setting a tray gently on a coffee table and passing a delicate porcelain cup to Ricky. "I'm out of uniform," Ricky said. "Steve told you about me?" "Said you had a heart of gold, wouldn't hurt a fly." Ricky stared out of the window, blinked dust out of his eyes. "He still believed in me."
May 1, 2025 at 6:49 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

It's fair to say Ricky hasn't always made good decisions (Unforgiven)
"Not as bad as I was expecting," she said. "So what stupid stuff did you get in the news for this time?" "I don't know. Don't remember. Something about setting a bloke's shoes on fire and kicking him in the nuts." "At least you didn't explode him like a passing pigeon." "That's just what I told Zeus!" "And?" "And he suspended me! Told me to get help." "Just like that?" I raised my soft drink in salute. "Not all reputations are well-earned," I said. "In my case, though..."
April 30, 2025 at 12:17 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

Now now, Richard, behave yourself! She's just being friendly!
"And now that I've graduated, thought it was time to put my Talent to good use. Wish I'd been able to get into the business the way you had. Gosh, I can still remember that interview you did on TV, back when you had your big break. All my friends in school were talking about you. Pyro, such a big hero. So handsome with your New Romantic haircut. So brave, so heroic." She swooned, back of her hand on her forehead. "Oh yeah?" She leaned in and I caught a hint of musk from her perfume. "Can I tell you a secret? I had a crush on you back then. Never thought I'd get this close to you."
April 28, 2025 at 4:43 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

When I took a ride in an MRI, I found it oddly musical. Ricky, on the other hand...
I sat and studied the pictures on the walls as the receptionist placed a call. Most of them fitted the decor. Seascapes, beaches. The one nearest me was different. Some kind of bulky, room-filling machine, its heart a ring donut with a tongue-like bed extending from the hole. Looking at it gave me claustrophobia. If that was the beast they'd strap me into to kill my Talent, I'd probably last five minutes before shrieking and running away.
April 26, 2025 at 4:06 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

Apologies for the wall of text in the image. Sometimes, a writer just feels happy with their work, you know?

In Unforgiven, having control over heat is sometimes a good thing.
There was one. Just the one perfect day, an oasis of peace in the madhouse of my life. A place I rarely went to. I didn't want to cheapen the memory. I didn't want to sully its purity. Kept it sacred for the darkest moments. Didn't know I'd need it today. I stepped into the memory, head down, let it wash over me. The three of us, that summer when I was four. Gower peninsula, I think it was. Me and Mum and Dad still together then. Making our way down the path to the golden sands and crystal blue sea under cliffs. First sunny day all week. Nobody else there, just us, a summer miracle. Me and Dad inched around slippery rocks under these huge, ragged gray stone teeth to find pools studded with scarlet anemones, haunted by a few mottled green crabs. I was scared of them but Dad picked them up to show me, keeping his fingers away from the enraged waving claws. We swam in the sea with Mum shrieking at how cold it was. It felt like warm bath water to me, but those days, I hadn't known I was Talented yet. We had that beach to ourselves all morning and there were no fights. Only laughter and smiles, back when we were a family. When I looked up, the flames were gone. I reached a hand up to my face, cleared the tears from my eyes. "Bloody hell," came a voice from the doorway, "that was a hell of a magic trick."
April 24, 2025 at 4:09 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

The beginning of a big moment for the plot in Unforgiven...
"Red Line, would you leave the room for a minute?" Zeus said. "You know why." Red stiffened and hung frozen for a moment, before drifting around behind me and out. The door clicked shut behind him. "What's going on?" I said. Red and Zeus were a team. What one learned, they told the other. "We have to do something, Richard. Before you lose control and really hurt someone." "Zeus, I. I'm not a threat." "Maybe not. But your Talent. Maybe."
April 23, 2025 at 5:58 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky In Unforgiven, Ricky is an appreciator of a good flame
Fire, my oldest friend. People believe a lot of romantic nonsense about fire. It's alive, they'd say, it has the characteristics of living organisms. It needs oxygen to breathe, it feeds, it excretes, it moves, it reproduces. Yeah, that's all true, but there's no biology or psychology to a fire. Pure chemistry and physics. People never really looked at a flame, never tried to see it for what it was. Like a candle flame, people only focused on the yellow cone at the top. They never thought about the black base nearest the wick, where the wax was evaporating ready to be burned. Never looked at the deep orange where the flame was born, never appreciated the subtle gradation of colour rising through it. That ring of blue flame in the kitchen? To most of us, it just cooked your food. Nobody saw the beauty of the flickering fingers, black at their heart, outlined with blue shading to white, the tiniest azure feathers leaping from the top.
April 21, 2025 at 7:20 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

Two paragraphs from very, very late on in Unregistered. For once, Ricky is paying attention.
I atomised every moment. Broke every task into the tiniest of steps, every sensation into crumbs of experience. I noted the swish of my T-shirt along my back when I pulled it over my head. I lived the fresh-clean scent of the soap when I showered, traced the paths of the water running down my body. Felt the static crackle of my clean socks when I put them on. When I walked to the Underground, I learned the differences between every paving stone I crossed, this one cracked, that one lined with weeds. I heard every last bird in the trees and felt every kiss of the summer breeze on my cheek. The buses passed me with a deep, throaty chugging and a belch of petrol-tinged smoke. Cars thrummed more softly, treble to a bus's bass.
April 20, 2025 at 12:34 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
Here's the book cover
April 19, 2025 at 4:31 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

I wonder if Ricky's Dad played him the same weird music as mine did? Hands up if you know Martian Hop by the Ran-Dells.
Like the time I was six. I knew I was Talented by that point, but I had no control over it at all. It was just me and Mum at that point. I never understood what she and Dad had argued about. I didn't know then and speculation now was pointless. Money, or drink, or other women. Whatever. Something had gone wrong between them and he'd either left or been kicked out. I'd missed him, needed him, in that desperate way little boys needed a man to be their hero. Mum did her best but me and him, we'd had a bond. We'd had football and had danced together when he put his music on. I saw his face sometimes when I heard certain songs.
April 18, 2025 at 5:04 PM
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#WIPSnips #WriteSky

Look, the VST might have liked a drink or two, but they got stuff done, right?
The Campus was a grand old Regency manor house sitting in a park, with grey stone and columns bracketing the front door and towering windows. My first day on the job, Zeus had told me it had once belonged to the Victorian Society of the Talented, and there were endless stories of how they solved mysteries and pursued criminals. You'd think Red would've approved, but no. All he'd said is that they'd been a 'collection of irresponsible lushes', as if that wouldn't endear them to me more.
April 17, 2025 at 5:05 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky

A big chunk today for a pivotal moment in Unforgiven
This collection of stuff was all that there was to show that Steve had existed. A wardrobe half-full of clothes. A bunch of music magazines, LPs, cassettes. Books for work. A scrapbook celebrating the achievements of a hero who was truly anything but. Fire built up at Ricky's core. It wasn't right. He had to find a purpose for this, something bigger than the selfishness of personal ambition or the fleeting pleasure of orgasm or the numbing tide of alcohol. Ricky knew that within the stinking morass of his half-wasted life he could dig out a shining monument to his only brother, their fraternity as true as that of soldiers in battle, forged in the suffering they'd shared with each other and that nobody else could understand. His grief hardened within him, transmuted into something ugly. He wiped the wetness from his face. He knew what he had to do.  
April 16, 2025 at 8:17 PM
ptlacy.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #WriteSky Only one sentence today, as per the rules. Needs fixing 😬
I stood, held my breath, and listened; and besides the blood in my ears, all I heard was a boy, crying softly, and the last traces of fear drained from my body, leaving a void that filled with anger.
April 15, 2025 at 9:52 AM