William Meikle

Yet more growth on the chapbook wall

2009-11-12T14:56:00.003-03:30

The chapbook wall has grown again. I now have 15 color chapbooks lined up with http://www.thepennydreadfulcompany.com/

I recently finished a new Augustus Seton adventure, pitting my Scottish swordsman against the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDui in the chapbook Fear Liath Mor - the gaelic name for the Gray Man.

Neil has designed new color covers for the original B&W issues "The Castle of Blood" and Seraphim" Two more are waiting new covers which will bring the running total to 17.

4 of these are currently available: Ghost Writer, Truth Decay, Cold as Death and Brotherhood of the Thorns. The rest will be rolling out over the next three months.

The chapbook wall has grown again

2009-11-05T19:22:00.001-03:30

The chapbook wall has grown again. I now have 12 color chapbooks lined up with http://www.thepennydreadfulcompany.com/

4 of these are currently available: Ghost Writer, Truth Decay, Cold as Death and Brotherhood of the Thorns. The rest will be rolling out by the end of the year.

The Penny Dreadfuls are coming along in leaps and bounds

2009-11-01T12:09:00.004-03:30

Neil Jackson has a fine set of new Penny Dreadfuls coming in November.

Work by Rhys Hughes, Steve Lockley, Stuart Neild, Brooke Vaughan, Frazer Lee, Carson Buckingham, Sarah Whyberd, Neil Jackson, Rakie Kieg, Ian Faulkner... and three new tales from me.

Unstrung

Puppets are harmless.

Dancing on the end of their strings, obeying your every whim, only going where you want them to go. That’s all they are. But what if one wanted to be just a little bit more?

Meet ‘The Red McGregor.’

He’s nobody’s puppet. He has no strings to hold him down. What he has is a lust for life… and death.

Samurai

When a storm throws five Scottish seamen onto a remote Japanese island their first priority is shelter and food.

A ruined temple provides both, and a cache of treasure promises comforts to come.

But there is something else on the island with them, something that has been waiting for someone to come.

It has a duty to perform, and the ties of duty are strong.

Stronger even than death.

The Chamber of Tiamat

Jake and Fiona Simmons have a dream of finding fame and fortune among the sunken ruins of an ancient Greek city.

But there is a another dreamer already down there, an ancient one.

And she has dark dreams of her own, of creation...and destruction.

Waking her might not be the most prudent plan.

ALL CHAPBOOKS - £2.99 each (unless stated on the website)

POSTAGE & PACKING - £1.50 per title

Check them out here:

http://www.thepennydreadfulcompany.com/page4.html

Single-Author Horror Short Story Collections

2009-10-21T19:07:00.003-02:30

One of those Facebook apps got me thinking. It wanted Single Author horror collections not by Stephen King

It was hard to choose, so I went with the ones that got me started on reading beyond Dennis Wheatley in the days before Stephen King and/or The Exorcist.

1. Best Ghost Stories of Algernon Blackwood
2. H. P. Lovecraft: Tales (Library of America)
3. Ghost Stories of an Antiquary
4. The Collected Ghost Stories of E.F. Benson
5. The October Country

All of these were on the shelves of a small library in a steelworking town in Scotland. I doubt that is the case nowadays.

Staggering to think that I first read Lovecraft and Bradbury forty years ago now! I'm officially an old fart.

That does also mean I've read a -lot- of other collections, so here are five more, from more recent times.

1. Alone With The Horrors - Ramsey Campbell
2. The Dark Country - Dennis Etchison
3. The Ice Monkey - M John Harrison
4. The White Road - Ron Weighell
5. The Books of Blood - Clive Barker

In doing this I realize I'm missing many of my favorites, from Arthur Machen through Joseph Payne Brennan, Karl Edward Wagner and up to people like Conrad Williams, Steve Duffy and Tim Lebbon. But these are the ones that I go back to and re-read so I'll stick with these choices.

For today at least

Shiny chapbooks and more to come

2009-10-20T17:21:00.005-02:30

For the past couple of months my writing has been focused towards writing short stories. Several are out on submission at anthologies, but the bulk of them have gone to the Penny Dreadful company for their color chapbook line.

These covers are stunning, kudos to Neil Jackson (and Bob Freeman for Truth Decay)

Ghost Writer, Truth Decay and Cold as Death are all out now, ( http://www.thepennydreadfulcompany.com/page30.html )with the others in the picture above coming over the next month or so.

The Penny Dreadful Company are in the throes of launching a book club, so look out for these and many more available in bulk and with discounts, coming soon.

On top of that lot, there's a proposed "William Meikle's Creature Features" series of my stories that I've written 4 stories for so far, a chapbook with 6 flash stories of less than 1K words, and a new Midnight Eye novella (Rhythm and Booze).

And that's before we get to the delayed but coming soon novels, starting with Island Life in the next few weeks.

Exciting times ahead. At this time last year I was considering giving up writing completely. I'm very glad I didn't.

Cold as Death - released 12th October

2009-10-11T12:35:00.003-02:30

Cold As Death is another full color chapbook from me in the GWP Penny Dreadful series

It is the Winter of 1595 and sword-for-hire Augustus Seton is called by a clan in need in the Scottish Highlands. They're offering him money... a lot of money. Trouble is, he's going to have to defeat the ultimate adversary to earn it

RESERVE A COPY

Truth Decay now on sale

2009-10-06T15:24:00.003-02:30

New color chapbooks out today from Guy N Smith, William Meikle, Dave Jeffrey, Scott Nicholson, Joseph Freeman and Rhys Hughes. Get them while they're hot.

http://www.thepennydreadfulcompany.com/page30.html

Honesty can be scary

2009-09-28T20:01:00.002-02:30

It's not often you come across naked honesty on the internet, and when you do, it can come as a bit of a shock, especially coming from someone I know mainly for the amount of humor and joy she generates.

Read this and, like me, you'll probably feel a range of emotions.

http://zoewhitten.wordpress.com/2009/09/28/the-truth-is-usually-ugly/

But Zoe Whitten has my respect, both for her stunning self-awareness, and the fact that she keeps fighting through trials and tribulations that would sink many a weaker person.

That, and she's a damn fine writer.

Free to read/listen stories by William Meikle

2009-09-27T18:08:00.001-02:30

The following stories are published in online publications or podcasts and are available for free.

PODCASTS

In the Coils of the Serpent ( Pseudopod )

The Last Day of Summer ( Well Told Tales )

Tannis ( Clonepod )

Aboard the Vordlak ( Cthulhu Podcast )

It'll be a Long Hot Summer ( Well Told Tales )

When the Stars are Right ( Dunesteef )

The First Silkie ( Celtic Myth Podshow )

EZINES

Dancers ( Halloween Ghost Stories )

Joining With The One ( Big Pulp )

Animal, Vegetable or Mineral ( Story Station )

When the Stars are Right ( Nightscapes )

To the Sea Again ( The Harrow )

Just a Par to Win ( British Expat )

Revelations - A Fragment

2009-09-14T12:40:00.002-02:30

Revelations – The Last Book of the Dark - A Fragment

For three hundred years Kalent wandered in the icy wastes of the North far from the wrath of the sun. And countless times he called out in his pain, crying to his Lord for forgiveness for the destruction of the Temple.

But never was he answered, and never did he meet another, not of the Eldren or of the Blood Children or of the Children of Adam.

And it came to pass that a great thirst came upon him, a raging heat that coursed through his body causing him to bend double almost to the ground. His fingers became as claws and he tore at his flesh until the skin was burst and ravaged in a hundred places. He threw his body to the snow and rolled and crawled there like an animal until the white became pink and the thirst abated.

A white bear came to him, and spake, saying “Why do you hurt, brother? Take of my blood and make yourself whole.”

And Kalent looked at the creature and saw that the life was strong in it. And the thirst returned redoubled. Kalent took a step forward, and another, and the beast turned its great neck towards him, offering itself.

Kalent’s teeth slid from his gums, bringing a fresh burst of pain and he leaned forward to feed. But at last he remembered the Tenets and pulled himself away.

He stood tall, ignoring the thirst, but a great pain took him, sending him into blackness. And he slept for many days.

When he awoke he found he was not alone. A daughter of the Tribe of Dan stood over him, a Blood Child. She was uncovered and her skin was like burnished silver in the light from the Moon and her hair was as black as the darkest night. Moonbeams danced in her eyes and her lips were hot and welcoming.

And she danced for him, there on that cold plain, the stars framing her as she whirled and gyrated. Kalent felt heat rising in his body, a warmth that he had never experienced, and a violent lust raged within him. She reached for him, taking his hand and guiding him towards her sex, towards the furnace that raged within her.

“Come my Lord,” she said. “Together we will bring back the old strength. We shall spill our blood and our seed will bring forth the Eldren once more.” And Kalent rose up with her and together they danced in joy until the snow was packed hard under their stamping feet.

And she was comely and she was radiant and Kalent pulled her towards him and threw her to the ground where she lay, pliant, underneath him. The lust was huge within him as he tore off his clothing, and she smiled as he lay with her.

Her hands stretched towards him and the moon shone in her eyes. And he wanted her, and she wanted him, but the Tenets shone strong in his mind, and he pushed her away, averting her eyes from the sight of her.

And when she saw that she was spurned the Blood Child let out a scream which sent scurries of snow dancing around her and the stars stopped in their dance. Her body flowed and melted like wax on a candle, the very form of her being remoulded and reformed until the great serpent himself stood before Kalent.

And the Serpent’s claws brought a stream where they sat on the ice, and his eyes burned red, a deep red so hot that Kalent had to stand back lest he be consumed. But there was a smile on the face of the Serpent as he spoke, saying “Come my Lord, and see what I would give you.”

The Serpent took Kalent to Uraon, the highest of the high, and bade him look over the lands beneath saying, “All this would be thine, all this and more. All I desire is that you bow down and pay homage to me as your brother Shoa did in time long past.”

And Kalent looked down on the land, seeing Adamities spreading like a plague on the face of the earth, their buildings belching noxious fumes, their waste polluting the land, their babes eating the flesh of the Lord’s creation. And Kalent waxed greatly angered, but he held his speech.

And the Serpent showed him a vision, a land where the sun had been removed from the sky and the cold stars shone in their full glory, a land where the pale brethren of the Eldren sang and danced in the hills and where Yorah once more walked.

And the Serpent spoke saying, “This I can give you, if you will only be mine.”

But Kalent remembered the Temple and the light of the Tenets, and he turned his back on the Serpent.

A fury flamed in the Serpent’s eyes and he lifted Kalent in the air, the great talons piercing Kalent’s body, burning and charring the ravaged flesh. And Kalent screamed as the Serpent cast him from Uraon, down to the sharp stones below which tore his body and broke him so that he could no longer walk. And the Serpent laughed, a booming which shook the rocks down from Uraon to fall over Kalent, a stone tomb which encaged and encased him in earth and stone.

And while Kalent lay in his tomb of stone the years flowed past in the river of time.

And above him in the land of men, children were born and the old died. But the Eldren there was no word.

In the cities of men the Blood Children lived on for their thirst was great and their prey was legion. But they were cunning in their hunts, taking only of the poor and weak. They were shunned by the sons of Adam who were greatly afeared of them and they lived like rats underneath the cities and towns.

And each town was a world and each world was a tribe. As the Blood Children ran in the streets, the children of Adam huddled around the hearths of their fires and prayed to their gods. But the gods did not listen.

And the tribes of the Blood Children grew bold and began to prey on the children of Adam, yeah even unto those who were hale and hearty, for the Blood Children had the strength of many.

And the Lord saw this, and wept at the perfidy of his creation. And as Kalent slept the Lord came to him and took from his blood.

And from the blood of Kalent the Chosen the Lord made a new form. And this he called Rokar.

And Rokar came forth from the tomb of Kalent. She was made from the first born, and she is called the Redeemer.

She gathered to her a group of disciples, Blood Children who where not yet full turned that she saved from the life of the thirst. And she took them to the desert, to the place called Qualla, which in the old tongue means “The place where the souls sing in the night”.

And when the moon rose high in the sky she made them quiet and raised her arms to the skies, calling

“Lampsuer Baribas Dardalam Iorlex strengthen me.
“Anuth Salbana Arsenophrephen Ptha Ligotereench aid me.
“Great Seth bring me the power.
“Children of the children of the first.
“Kneel before your master.”

And with her calling the winds came from the four quarters of the heavens and there blew a great tempest. And in the tempest the voice of the Blood Children swelled in their pain and anguish.

And out of their hiding places they came, from the tombs and the sepulchres, from the caves and the catacombs, a great teeming multitude.

The disciples waxed greatly in their fear, and would have ran from the plain, but they were held by a word from Rokar and could only watch as the Blood Children came to the plain of winds.

And it came to pass that the tempest began to lessen, first a hurricane, then a wind, then only the merest of hot breaths from the desert. Then all was still, all was quiet.

And the Blood Children stood in front of Rokar, an army that stretched from horizon to horizon, a pale army that cried and wept in silence, unable to break the spell that had been cast upon them.

And Rokar spake, saying, “You are devils and abomination. I will remove you from the face of the earth and take you from our sight. Kneel. Kneel before your master.”

The Blood Children knelt, their legs betraying them as they buckled. And soon the whole pale legion of the Children was prostrate before the priest.

And when they were all prostrate Rokar bade the disciples move among them and take from them their heads and stake their bodies into the parched dry soil. And where the blood fell the grass died and blackened and withered.

But one of the Children walked out of that charnel house of despair. He held himself tall as he walked over the dead and dying and he stood straight before Rokar. And he was called Cercal, and he was the first prophet.

And Rokar trembled and shook, but she did not flinch from the stare of the Blood Child.

And the Blood Child spoke saying, “We will leave this place now, but when the moon turns and the stars are right then Eldren will once more walk beneath the stars and we, the night ones, will return and claim our rightful place at their side. And on that day, the children of Adam will be no more.

And the light went out of the eyes of the Blood Child and he fell to the earth as life left him.

And Rokar, her job done, fell beside him. And the small creatures of the earth came in their multitude and took her body away to their secret places beneath the earth where it would wait until the day when it could be whole once more.

And when the sun rose the disciples left the plain and none of the Blood Children yet lived.

Never more did anything grow in that place, and only the winds shifted the sands.
And at night, in the wind, the despair of the Blood Children may yet be heard.

And the centuries passed in the world outside, and still Kalent lay in his tomb of stone

And long was the time when his mind soared free from the bonds of his flesh and travelled over the world. But he found none of his kind, neither of the Eldren or of the Unforgiven or of the Blood Children. Their memory had been cleansed from the earth and lived only in the fireside tales of the Adamities.

And deep in his tomb Kalent wept for the past glories of his people.

And the Lord looked down upon Kalent and saw that his pain was great. And he sent Kalent a vision.

Kalent found himself soaring over the earth, an earth that was teeming with hordes of the Adamities - great cities of stone and metal that sprawled over the land like a plague. And they knew naught of the ways of the Lord.

And the Lord sent a horseman, a pale rider, and his name was Death. And his skin shone silver and his hair spread behind him in a great cape. But his eyes were like pits of blackness in the depths of space, and no smile touched his features.

And the horseman carried with him the key to the gates of life and death. And the gate was locked and death came forth in its blackness and spread across the face of the earth. And where it passed the sons of Adam fell before it, and the cities lay quiet and the noise of the works of the Adamities was heard no more.

And there came a second rider, and his name was Darkness. And he threw a great cape over the burning orb of the sun. And the heat went out of it then, and when the cape was lifted there was only the sky and the stars.

There was a chorus in the heavens as of the chant of a great throng, and the Lord called for his first made to come forth.

And the earth trembled and shook, and the works of the Adamities fell into its cracks and crevices. And there was a great churning and crackling on the face of the earth, and a wind arose, a wind that scoured and cleansed wherever it passed.

And when the wind fell all traces of the Adamities had gone. And two figures stood on the face of the earth, and the light that shone from them was so bright that Kalent had to avert his eyes from their sight.

And the Lord called Yorah and Eriah to sit by his right hand, and with them he lifted up the Eldren from the earth and among them Kalent saw Amro, and he wept at the sight of his brothers and sisters restored once more to their rightful place.

And when they were all standing before the Lord the great ledger was brought forth, in which all their deeds were etched forever in the fabric of time. And each was judged, and each repented of the deeds of life.

And there came a third horseman, who was called Repentance, and he carried a flaming sword. And his likeness was of one of the Eldren. And he called from under the ground the old adversary, the great serpent. And the serpent came, in fire and in thunder.

And there on the dust under the stars they fought, as ages passed, under the sight of the throng.

Great was the battle, and great was the blood spilled. And the serpent sprouted many heads, and each was struck from its body by the force of the sword of Repentance. And where the heads fell there sprung from the earth imps and demons that harried and tore at the flanks of the great horse, even as they were dashed under the black iron of its hooves.

And the serpent it was who weakened first, and fell to dust in defeat, pierced by the sword of Repentance. And the Lord shackled his old foe, binding him to the ground for a thousand years.

And great was the rejoicing among the Eldren.

And from the body of the serpent came those of the Eldren who had turned from the Lord, and they too bowed before their master. All but one.

Shoa stood proud and defiant, even before the glory that was the Lord, and he refused to bow, and he would not be broken.

And the Lord sent Shoa down to crawl alongside the serpent, and to share the imprisonment of his chosen master.

And loud were the screams from the pit of the serpent, but the Lord sent the pit deep into the earth, never more to be heard. And there they lie still, Shoa and his master, until the time of their repentance.

And the Lord called the Eldren around him, and there was a great singing. A second book was brought, in which were detailed the deeds of the Sons of Adam. And the sons of Adam were called forth from the earth to stand before the Lord and the Eldren, to be judged by those who had come first.

But that sight was taken from Kalent, and he wept as once more the stone tomb engulfed and encased him. And he slept, the sights and sounds of his vision staying with him even into his dreams.

THOSE THAT HAVE EYES TO SEE, LET THEM SEE
AMEN

Full colour chapbooks

2009-09-06T14:03:00.004-02:30

I've just updated my homepage with details of two new chapbooks coming from GWP.

First up is Ghost Writer.

This features two of my stories

Ghost Writer

Like many writers, he has the big dream... fame, fortune and a global readership. The problem is he has no idea what it will take to make it happen. So when his word processor starts to show him the way, he is unprepared for the ride it takes him on. Be careful what you wish for... it just might come true.

A Spill of Vitriol

Tom's Granddad loves experimenting. He has a chemistry set any boy would die for. But experiments have a way of backfiring, and an accident in the lab leads to a bug problem. A very large bug problem.

Following on later this month we'll have Truth Decay, a pulp ghost story with a truly great cover by Bob Freeman

If he'd kept his mouth shut everything would still be Hunky-Dory.

Jake knew the client was going to be trouble as soon as her heels clacked on his office floor. But needs must when money is tight. Soon the case takes him back, to a past he'd rather forget, to truths that can't be spoken... and to bloody revenge that must be endured.

A change of pace

2009-08-15T12:30:00.003-02:30

I think I've burned out my novel writing mojo for the time being. Since this time last year I've written 5 novels in a burst of inspiration and perspiration that slightly frightened me... that's more than I wrote in the previous five years put together.

I'm sitting on ideas for several more at the moment, but can't get started.

So I'm going to change pace for a few weeks and work on a couple of short stories -- see if I can feel my way back towards the place I need to be to get the longer work started again.

Then again, summer is almost over, and I seem to work better in the cold and dark anyway.

Besides, it'll give my publishers time to catch up on some of the output :)

Three new William Meikle ebooks released today

2009-08-07T12:31:00.008-02:30

Out today, 3 new ebooks by William Meikle

Ghostwriter Publications today release the following as ebooks, downloadable from their website in PDF format.

The Valley ( £3.10 or $4.99 )
http://www.ghostwriterpublications.com/page76a.html

This one is my homage to Conan Doyle and Ray Harryhausen

In 1863 a group of gold prospectors break through into a high valley in Montana. They are looking for gold, but find a land that time forgot. Soon they are fighting for their lives against creatures no man has seen for ten thousand years and more.

The Concordances of the Red Serpent ( £3.75 or $5.99 )
http://www.ghostwriterpublications.com/page66.html

A transatlantic thriller with alchemy, skullduggery and beer.

Patty Doyle holds the secret to eternal life, but it may only bring her an early death.

Patty is a cataloguer of rare manuscripts, working on part of a newly discovered journal of a 14th Century alchemist. Just another dull day on the job. But after mentioning it in her blog she gets to the office to find everyone brutally murdered. Now she's on the run with the incomplete journal, trying to find the rest, pursued by a killer who wants the secret of eternal life it contains.

Darkness Follows ( £2.49 or $3.99 )
http://www.ghostwriterpublications.com/page65a.html

A short story collection featuring fourteen of my stories, with traditional ghost stories alongside pulp SF and adult horrors. Bringing together stories originally published across the globe or broadcast on radio, collected in one place for the first time.

Buy any two and get a free chapbook containing two new William Meikle stories, and a free Island Life key ring.

This is my first foray into the world of ebooks and I’m interested in seeing where it leads.

Frustrated

2009-08-01T12:06:00.005-02:30

I find the writing life frustrating at times. Over last winter I wrote a supernatural thriller which I felt was some of my best work ever.

Patty is a cataloguer of rare manuscripts, working on part of a newly discovered journal of a 14th Century alchemist. Just another dull day on the job. But after mentioning it in her blog she gets to the office to find everyone brutally murdered. Now she's on the run with the incomplete journal, trying to find the rest, pursued by a killer who wants the secret of eternal life it contains.

The quest leads her halfway across the world to the castles and misty history of Scotland. She thinks she's looking for a manuscript. But the things she learns on the journey all point to the 14th Century alchemist himself, a man who is still very much alive.

I started submitting with hope in my heart.

Thirty agents queried later, I've got fifteen no replies and fifteen form rejections ranging from "Not right for us" to my favorite, "I don't have the time."

Now I have a quandry. Do I go for trying more agents, do I go for one of the few publishers that takes unagented submissions, or do I just put it away and chalk it off. I'm loath to do the last as I love the characters and the story.

Hence the frustration.

OK. Vent over. Back to the grindstone.

Writing Tips - Ten Stock Characters to Avoid

2009-07-20T11:58:00.000-02:30

Through television and film some people have become stock characters. That means that everybody knows them and will recognise them.

Unfortunately that also makes them almost unusable in written fiction unless you're being post-modern and ironic. Here, with tongue occassionally in cheek, are some to avoid.

. The square-jawed man of action with stone-chips for eyes
Think Doc Savage, Superman or Tarzan. This one was very popular in times gone by, but modern readers look for a bit of depth and vulnerability in their heroes. If you're going to introduce a strong, silent type, try to give him a weakness, like fainting at the sight of blood, or a hobby that emphasises his feminine side, like needlework.

. The bespectacled, unkempt scientist in the white coat
This fellow is more common in the movies, the best recent example being Brent Spinner in Independence Day. But they sometimes show up in fiction, either as a madman bent on world domination, or a nerd spouting gibberish. The main reason people create stereotypical scientists is because they know next to nothing about science. or what scientists do. Take some time to learn about science. Meet some scientists. Then you can write about a bespectacled, unkempt person in a white coat and know that you're writing about a real person.

. The tart-with-a-heart
A role once monopolised by Shirley McLaine, and very popular in pulp detective stories. They still turn up in Hollywood, but less so in print. These days if you write in a prostitute, it generally means there's some heavy sex on the way, or some extreme violence. If you can't deliver anything beyond the stereotype, the editor won't be interested. Take some time to learn about prostitution. Meet some......on second thoughts, it might not be wise to take your research too far in this case.

. The struggling writer
Long beloved of writers themselves, the "portrait of the struggling artist" is a perennial favourite. Writers are good in that they don't go to work like normal folks, so you can get them out of the house and into action quickly. But if you have them agonising over their work and developing drink/drugs/mental problems, then all you're showing is your own angst. Don't bore an editor with your psychological hang-ups.

. The University lecturer who sleeps with his students
Not surprisingly, very popular with university lecturers and students. This character has a long pedigree, but most of the plots involving him have been played out. Once upon a time he appeared in books that won literary prizes. Now he's more likely to be a murder suspect in a lazy crime novel based on a beer-drinking Chief Inspector in Oxford.

. The bored houswife who runs off with the handsome stranger
Or Shirley Valentine as she is better known. She turns up in romantic ficion all the time. Good escapism for other bored housewifes, but unless you can bring a unique twist to the plot, you'll never sell the story, even to a woman's magazine. And why are there no bored husbands running off with beautiful strangers? The answer is probably that it happens too often in real life for it to work in fiction.

. The man of God who's lost his faith
He's a staple of both soap operas and horror movies. Either he finds his faith again just in time to avoid commiting adultery, commits adultery, or gets chomped by the monster. A similar character is the man of God blinded by his faith, a fine example of which gets zapped by the invading aliens in George Pal's 1955 Sci-Fi classic the War of the Worlds.

. The intelligent kid who gets bullied.
Or, if you're being post-modern and ironic, the geeky Stephen King kid. They are most often used in revenge plots, or in boy-gets-girl-in-the-end teenage fantasies. Either way they tend to say more about the writer's own childhood desires than anything else, and an editor will see hundreds of them in a year.

. The overworked doctor
This one turns up all over the place - in medical dramas where he makes a fatal mistake in a dosage, in war stories struggling against mounting casualties and in murder cases telling policeman that they can't speak to the sedated figure on the bed. With the popularity of hospital dramas, and ER in particular, he'll be around for a long time yet. But do try to give him something more to say than "The next few hours will be crucial."

. The world-weary crime-fighter
Why is it that all cops are cynical, smoke or drink too much, and have continual relationship problems? Recently the search has been on for different police departments to use, resulting in a slew of pathologists, crime scene investigators and psychiatrists. The obvious outcome of all this was Denzel Washington's paraplegic crime scene investigator in "The Bone Collector". And yes, he was cynical, overbearing, and had continual relationship problems.

So there you have it. Ten people who turn up time after time in fiction, just with different names. Use them at your peril.

And finally, I'll let you into a secret. Seven of them have appeared at some time in my fiction, so I don't always practice what I preach.

Stock-taking time

2009-07-06T17:18:00.004-02:30

It's been quite a start to the year on the writing front.

Firstly Black Death Books produced a very sweet omnibus edition of my Watchers trilogy.

On the novel side I sold

- The Midnight Eye Files: The Skin Game, a new Derek Adams novel to Black Death Books
- Island Life, a hardcover reprint of my 1st novel to Ghostwriter Publications,
- Berserker, a Vikings vs Yeti short novel to Ghostwriter Publications
- The Valley, a cowboy in a Lost World short novel to Ghostwriter Publications.

Ghostwriter Publications will also be publishing an anthology of 20 of my stories, Flower of Scotland, along with audio-book and e-book versions of all the above mentioned titles.

Also on the short story front, I have stories in several forthcoming anthologies

- Cthulhu Unbound 2, from Permuted Press with a Jane Austen meets the Deep Old Ones story
- Creature Feature, from Ghostwriter Publications where I'm alongside Guy N Smith, Simon Kurt Unsworth, Dave Jeffery et al
- Gaslight Grotesque, from Edge Publishing with Sherlock Holmes facing a necromancer in Edinburgh
- Cthulhu 2012, from Mythos Books with a new Midnight Eye File

I've also had 4 chapbooks published with Ghostwriter Publications, and more on the way from there, including a Midnight Eye audio novelette

There's also 3 more short stories coming in the UK newspaper The Weekly News, and one in the South African horror mag, Something Wicked

On the screenplay front,

- Fir3storm Industries in South Africa are in production of my script The 5
- Dark Window Films in London and Ireland are in pre-production of The Amulet
- And I'm in talks with a filmmaker in Florida for him to make The CopyCat Murders

I'm still trying to sell two novels:-

- Hunters Dock - Ice Zombies take Manhatttan
- The Concordances of the Red Serpent - a thriller based around alchemy and Scottish history

And I'm working on a "Killer Crabs" novel for Ghostwriter Publications

I can only hope the next 6 months prove to be as exciting.

Free Fiction: A Woman Can Never Have Too Many

2009-06-29T19:29:00.002-02:30

The room was white, a brilliant white that it almost hurt her eyes as she struggled to focus.

Something was wrong. The last thing Sheila Davidson remembered was leaving the shop.

She’d said goodnight to the assistant, walked to her car and…

And nothing.

She couldn’t remember anything after that, until she woke sitting in front of a desk composed of a white marble that shone with its own inner light. She was transfixed, tilting her head from side to side to catch the glittering patterns of light and shade, and was only stopped in her reverie by a discreet cough from across the desk.

“When you're quite finished?” a deep gravelly voice said.

She looked up into a pair of piercing green eyes and a sardonic grin. The owner of the grin wore a sharp business suit and an expensive Italian silk tie. The gold band of a watch gleamed as he rolled a hand over the computer keyboard in front of him.

Sheila was so taken with the suit that it took her several seconds to notice the talons… and the horns.

She threw herself back in her seat with a scream, and came up hard against the wall of the room. She searched frantically for a door, but there was none, just blank, featureless white.

The demon smiled at her again.

“If you’d just take a seat miss, this won’t take too long.”

“Where… where am I?” Sheila whispered.

The demon tapped at a badge on the lapel of his suit. Sheila had to stand and move closer to read it.

It read, Ballygrampus, Assistant Deputy Demon, Substation 3933 level 46, Hell.

“Hell?” Sheila whispered.

“What, you were expecting Pearly Gates and mellow fruitfulness?”

She sat down, hard. She pinched her forearm, so tight as to bring a flare of pain, but when she looked up, the demon still sat there, smiling.

“So, what was it? Accident? Heart attack?” the demon asked.

She could only sit and stare. Every time she tried to speak, she failed to come up with a sensible sentence for this situation.

“Ah. Here it is,” the demon said, reading from the screen. “Shelia Davidson, aged forty-nine, heart attack. Unlucky not to reach the big 5-0.”

“It’s next month,” Sheila whispered. “We’re having a party… all the family will be there.”

“I guess they will now,” the demon said. “It’s a pity you won’t be there to see it. Let’s see why they sent you to me, shall we?”

Sheila watched as the talons rattled across the keyboard.

“So far so good,” Ballygrampus said. “Nothing for Fornication, nothing for Sloth, nothing for Envy.”

He looked up and gave Sheila a wink.

“Looks like you might actually have come to the wrong place.”

He went back to looking at the screen.

“Nothing for Pride, nothing for Avarice.”

The demon looked up again, and this time it was more a smirk than a grin that crossed his face.

“That just leaves Theft and Gluttony. Want to guess where you stand? I'll bet you five years that it's Theft.”

The demon pulled back his sleeves revealing a line of red, almost burnt, flesh, as he turned once more to the keyboard.

“You weren’t a bureaucrat were you? We love them down here. They come in very handy with the filing.”

“No,” Sheila said in a whisper. “I am… was… a housewife. Just a housewife.”

“Ahhh,” Ballygrampus said, and smiled again. Thin wisps of smoke came out of his ears. “It’ll be Gluttony then.”

Sheila spluttered.

“I’ve looked after my body! I’m very careful”

“I noticed,” Ballygrampus laughed. “But there is more than one kind of gluttony.”

Smoke came out of his nostrils.

“Let’s just see.”

The demon's eyes burned with a gold flame as page after page of information scrolled up the screen.

“Here’s the first… December 29th 1973, 12.30 PM… two pairs of platform gold lame boots… never worn.”

The demon laughed again, but this time it was a cold hard thing, and the hackles at the back of Sheila’s neck began to rise.

“January 2nd 1983. Twelve pairs of sandals - in a day? You must have been kind of desperate.”

Sheila didn't get a chance to reply

The demon recited every single piece of shoe shopping activity in her life.

“March 15th 1987 2 PM, two pairs of strappy heels at 2:30 PM, and a pair of Cuban heeled Cowboy boots at 5 PM. I think we're beginning to see a pattern here.”

The demon punched several keys, and his eyes blazed as the result came up.

“Two thousand, two hundred and thirty three counts of Gluttony. Congratulations, I think you've got the record.”

Talons rattled on keys as another screen came up.

“The going rate is a week for each offence. I'm sorry about that, but there are so many of you around these days that we've had to get tough on you. I make that forty-three years, give or take a week. Minus the five I owe you, that makes thirty-eight years. Have a nice day.”

Sheila blinked… and looked out over the largest shoe store she’d ever seen.

“Well… this isn’t too bad,” she whispered.

After a while she spotted a pair of red stilletoes that would look just right with her new dress.

She put them on and paraded in front of a mirror.

“Oh, I must have these,” she said.

They pinched a bit around the toes, and, if truth be told were just starting to hurt at the ankle.

She bent to take them off… only to find that they had become molded onto her feet, the skin already growing in thick folds over the shoes. The pain grew to a hot flaring like a needle being thrust into her ankle again, and again.

She tore frantically at the shoes, but there was no way to remove them.

Somewhere, a demon spoke.

“Thirty-seven years, three hundred and sixty four days, and twenty-three hours.”

Sheila started to scream.

Island Life is now only ten days from being available in hardcover

2009-06-20T12:15:00.003-02:30

Island Life is now only ten days from being available in hardcover

One of the questions writers are often asked is "Where do you get your ideas?"

Quite often it's hard to remember, but with Island Life it is easy. It started in October, 1988, on Lundy Island in the Bristol Channel. We were there for Tim Stevenson's 30th birthday, and we had rented a lighthouse that was now a self-catering establishment.

Much beer was drunk, and we sat up in the old light room well into the night. On the way down we scared ourselves stupid when we encountered the screaming banshee that inhabited the building. In the morning I discovered a burial mound outside, and a local legend of a nine-foot skeleton found there.

And that was that, for several years. I only started writing seriously three years later. I was struggling for an idea one day and looked through some photographs. There it was -- a burial mound, with a lighthouse in the background. I had a "What if?" moment, and the novel was born.

It was initially picked up by Barclay Books in 2001, and got good reviews, started to sell, and got on store shelves in Waterstones. Just as I had big hopes for it, the publisher went bust.

So I'm very grateful to Ghostwriter Publications for giving it another chance in this shiny new edition. If you enjoy reading it half as much as I enjoyed writing it, you'll have a lot of fun.

Order it in the next ten days for 10 UK pounds and save 4.99

http://www.ghostwriterpublications.com/page20.html

Free Fiction: At the Trial of the Loathesome Slime

2009-06-15T17:19:00.002-02:30

The slime was truly ugly, the ugliest thing ever seen on Earth, uglier even than a bowl of rhubarb and custard left to congeal for a few days then coated with chocolate sauce, which it resembled most.

That afternoon it was held in a box of clear plastic, a six foot cube against whose walls it slithered and splattered with dismaying regularity. The trails of yellow mucous left behind when it retracted boiled violently before finally hardening into brown crayons etched on the inside walls. It had been calculated that the plastic would last fifteen minutes, more than enough for the court to reach a verdict.

Scenes were flashed across the holo-vid in heart-stopping sharpness: the return of the deep space probe, the sudden growth of jelly on its surface as the slime discovered it liked oxygen, the slime escaping from the research lab by the simple expedient of melting its way through everything in its path, the slime snuggling up to a dog and devouring half of it before moving on, the slime melting its way into and through a the servo-motors of a cross-town aero-bus, and, finally, the high point of the prosecutor’s case, the slime pouring over the Multivac port, the casing and chips and melted copper fusing into a blob before themselves being consumed. The camera drew back to show the slime sitting contentedly at an intersection, small pustules bubbling on what passed for its skin.

The jury gave a long sign as the prosecutor rumbled back to the niche with the parting words, “The prosecution rests, M’Lord.”

The room was hushed, a quiet broken only by the splashing of new ridges on the walls of the slime’s cage.

An aperture opened beside the vocalizer and a black rectangle of cloth was placed on top of a weary grey wig.

The vocalizer adopted a stern bass register as it intoned the verdict. This menace to Earth’s security was to be destroyed. Analysis had shown that only by breaking the slime into its constituent cells could its effects be neutralised.

Therefore the court judged that the slime was to be taken from the courtroom to the Virginia Mountains on the planet Blue Ridge, where it would be poured through a micropore sieve until it was dead.

“And may Multivac have mercy on its circuits.”

There was no one present at the demise of the slime, which was a pity, because proof of its great intelligence emerged at the last second as its cells communicated with each other in one last message in an attempt to cheer itself up on the way to oblivion…

“Well! This is another fine mesh you’ve gotten us into.”

Free Fiction: The World of Illusion

2009-06-11T16:33:00.001-02:30

Tony Dickie was late. It had been his turn to clean the blackboard and, out of spite he was sure, Miss Bland had been using the red chalk - the kind which was impossible to remove from the board or from your hands no matter how hard you scrubbed either of them.

Late for his big scene. He’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t provide the promised trick. The one he’d learned the day before. He ran wildly down the long empty corridor, hands slapping on the walls for balance, and slammed heavily into Tom Duncan, his maths teacher and the scourge of Tony’s young life.
Tony winced, expecting the usual verbal lashing and cuff around the ear. Instead the teacher merely grunted and moved aside to let him pass. Saying a silent prayer for his good luck he burst into the boiler room, a bundle of flailing arms and legs.

They were all waiting, silent.

Almost falling down the stairs he was carried by momentum into the centre of the small circle of seven.

“Sorry…I…I had to clean the blackboard and…”

He was always apologising recently - apologising for getting good results in exams, apologising for having two left feet when it came to playing football, but most of all apologising for being late.

Football was the worst though. There they would be, all lined up against the wall, peeling off as their names were called until only one or two were left. Tony was always one of those who were left.

“Oh all right, we’ll have Dickie,” a voice would say, “He can always go in goal.”

And there he would stand, cold seeping into his hands until finally, dismayingly, a horde of screaming bodies would descend on him, herding the ball in front. He tried, he always did, but the ball always slipped out of his hands at the vital moment and he was always left crying.

But magic, ah yes, magic was a different story.

He noticed that they were all waiting for him.

“OK. Just get on with it. Do we have to do anything?”

This came from Isobel, his first ever object of desire, she of the jet black hair and baby blue eyes. He blushed every time he had to speak to her and this little demonstration of his ‘magic’ was primarily for her benefit.

“I hope somebody brought the chairs?” he asked.

“Yeah, they’re here. Come on, hurry up. I’ve got to get tae the sweetie shop afore the next period.”

Nick Bayliss stepped aside, revealing two small chairs leaning against the boiler. Tony had now caught his breath properly and was just about ready to start but first he needed to set up the proper atmosphere. Granddad had told him that atmosphere was all, and that without it the trick would fall flat as a pancake and he would be left looking like a duck’s arse. Tony had never seen a duck’s arse, but he imagined it to be pretty horrible.

“Just wait till they see this trick,” he thought “Then they won’t be needing to go to the sweetie shop, and we’ll see who looks like a duck’s arse then.”

“C..could I have those two chairs,” he stammered, pointing with a shaking finger, “Over here in the middle of the floor facing each other.”

By the time the chairs had been positioned to his liking he had regained his composure and he stood silently in front of them, saying nothing, letting the tension build. He looked around, meeting each one of them in the eye before finally settling on his accomplice.

“All right Ian, lie down over here, across the chairs.”

Ian Kerr, a tall but fat boy, looked around with an aggrieved expression.

“Why does it have to be me? I always get to do the stupid things.”

Ian, even more so than Tony, was the class scapegoat. He was always the very last one chosen when it came to picking football teams, always the last one back from cross country runs and always, but always, the brunt of the cruellest classroom jokes. Fortunately he was good natured and had developed a resignedness to his lot. He only really protested when, as now, he was called upon to be a guinea pig. He was also Tony’s best friend, his companion in adversity against the whims of the other children.

Tony looked at him and smiled. He hoped that his look would say all that he felt, that he chose Ian because he was his friend, that he trusted him not to make a fuss and that he could share in the reflected glory once the trick was performed and the full scale of Tony’s talents was known.

But he couldn’t say it. For now he was the magician and magicians treated everyone else with disdain. That was something else Granddad had told him.

“Remember. You are always in control. It’s your trick and no one can take it away from you.” The old man had said, and Tony intended to make Granddad proud of him. He turned back to Ian and motioned to the chairs.

“Because you are the biggest one here, and this works better with big people. So just lie down and shut up or else we’ll never get this done before the bell.”

After finally getting Ian to lie down, Tony explained to the rest what they had to do, slowly, so that he could be sure that they understood him.

“I want you to stand, three on each side, with one finger of each hand under Ian’s body. Space yourself out, two at the legs, two at the waist and two at the shoulders. Then you’ve all got to stay quiet and try not to think of anything except my voice.”

“I’m going to say some sentences, and I want you all to repeat them after me, but changing the word ‘looks’ to the word ‘is’. When I get to the word ‘Illusion’ I want you to try lifting him, using only the tips of your fingers. Don’t try to force it - you’ll only break the spell. It only works if you listen to what I’m saying - you’ve all got to concentrate hard - OK?”

He looked around for confirmation and most of them were nodding. All that is, except one. Tony’s heart sank when the dissenter turned to him, a big grin fixed in its usual place.

“Ah’ve seen this yin afore. It disnae work unless everybody cheats. Is this yer big new trick? Ah’m no’ staying here fur this.”

Nick Bayliss was Tony’s rival for Isobel’s attention. Tony knew that if Nick left then the rest of them would soon follow. He was a sort of leader - the first to suggest anything which was liable to lead to trouble, the last to get caught. Granddad said he was ‘Tuppence short o’ a bob’ and Tony, although he didn’t quite understand the phrase, knew that it meant that Nick wasn’t one of life’s good guys. He trusted his Granddad’s judgement, but he couldn’t see what made Isobel so attracted to the boy. He supposed it was something he might understand when he got older.

He had to reply quickly, otherwise, he’d lose them all - Ian was already trying to struggle upright. He firmly pushed his friend back down and turned to face the rest.

“All right then. If it doesn’t work, I’ll give you all ten pence each.”

“Ten pence. That’s no’ goin’ tae break the bank is it? If ye want me tae stay, you’d better make it fifty at least.”

Nick was still grinning at him, that big cheesy grin that meant he knew he was on to a good thing. Fifty pence was all that Tony had, and if his trick didn’t work he’d have to pay out over three pounds. He was about to pull out when he caught Isobel looking at him, big lashes fluttering. He felt a warm tingly feeling in his stomach and had to lower his eyes. There was no way that he’d back down with her watching him.

“OK then, let’s do it.”

After they had placed themselves around the prone figure, he started to chant.

“He looks pale.”

“He looks fat, ” a low voice replied and they all burst out laughing. All that is apart from Tony. He was furious.

“OK. If you’re not going to take this seriously I’m off. I’ve got better things to do anyway.”

He looked around and felt a warm smile of pleasure inside which he daren’t let reach his face. He had their attention again - he was the magician once more.

There were several protests, not the least of which came from Isobel. He permitted himself one small smile as he looked across at her.

“All right then. I’ll try it again. But don’t blame me if this doesn’t work - I told you that you had to be serious for it to happen.”

He placed his hands on the side of Ian’s head, feeling heat at the ears underneath Ian’s hair.

“He looks pale,” he began.

“He is pale.”

This time they all replied, not quite in unison, but the atmosphere of the occasion was beginning to get through to them. Even Nick Bayliss looked like he was taking it seriously. Tony permitted himself a quick glance at Isobel, but her eyes were closed and she was frowning in concentration.

“He looks ill.”

“He is ill.”

Six voices replied. Nowhere existed except for that room, that moment. It was going to work, he could feel it.

By now they were all caught in the special atmosphere, so much so that no one noticed the whitening around the lips of the boy between their hands.

“He looks dead.”

“He is dead.”

“Dead?” whispered the lips in the head held tightly between Tony’s hands.

“Sshh.” Tony said, pressing his reddened palms even tighter against the large boy’s ears.

“We are now entering the world of Illusion”

Twelve fingers and one pair of hands lifted, but found the body already afloat, bobbing like a helium balloon on a piece of string.

Tony looked down a double row of faces, a triumphant smile on his face, a smile which was wiped out by the sight of Nick Bayliss. The older boy grinned widely, the same old manic grin. Slowly, looking at Tony all the while, he removed his fingers from beneath the body. The grin never left his face.

Time slowed for Tony, like a projector running down. He had a bad taste in his mouth, the taste of cold metal.

Ian fell stiffly to the ground, head striking a corner of the large boiler with a loud crack. They all stepped back, first one, then two steps and then there was a moment of silence as they looked at the unmoving body at their feet.

Tony stared at the ground, at the blood and grey fluid which was seeping from Ian’s head and at the red and white chalk dust in the boy’s blond hair.

He opened his mouth wide, took in a lungful of air, and prepared to scream.

_________________________________________________

An oldie, written 15 years ago now. There's a possibility of a short movie of it coming later this year

Free Fiction: Temper Tantrum

2009-06-10T13:59:00.005-02:30

I first heard the noise on the Saturday after the New Year, but it was two more days before I discovered its cause.

“Eric’s got a hobby,” my neighbour, Mrs Kernay told me. “And about time too - I would have gone mad otherwise.”

“The swimming didn’t last then?” I said.

That wasn’t what I wanted to know, but with Meg Kernay you had to approach any question with care if you wanted to avoid a twenty minute diatribe or, even worse, a temper tantrum.

“Swimming? Hah!” she said in an explosion of fine spittle that I left on my face - it wouldn’t do to draw attention to it. “I went with him once. Never again. If God had meant us to swim he would have given us flippers.”

She laughed again, a cold cruel thing and, not for the first time, I felt sorry for her poor, downtrodden husband.

I thought I wasn’t going to find out the cause of the noise, but just as she turned away she proffered it to me, like a parting gift.

“The daft old man is building a cellar - he says he needs it for his chemistry set. Can you imagine - a chemistry set - at his age. I just hope he doesn’t dig down too far - the ground’s not too good further down.”

“Mind you,” she continued, “He might find his past if he digs deep enough.”

I took that to be an in-joke, but I didn’t even have time for a token chuckle before she turned away. She threw her head back and this time she didn’t laugh - she positively cackled, chortling loudly to herself as she went back into their small, so neat, house.

I didn’t think anymore about it for several weeks. The noises had only lasted a couple of days, and after that was all silent, a quiet unbroken by a single raised voice next door.

That in itself should have got me thinking, but I was up to my eyes in it at work and far too busy to bother about the Kernay’s domestic arrangements.

They next infringed on my life around the beginning of February. I had noticed the smell when I got home, but it got really bad around eight o’clock - a thick, cloying odour, as if something had died nearby. It got so bad that it drove me out to the pub.

I was halfway down my second beer when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Eric Kernay was standing beside me. He had a new black eye and the left lens of his glasses was broken, but he had two beers so I let him sit down.

Two hours later I had a serious buzz on but that was nothing to the state that Eric was in. He had started talking to himself, a slurred, almost inaudible, murmur. I only caught some of it - about one word in every three.

“Bloody woman…can’t stand a little smell…fame and fortune, that’s what waiting, but will she listen - will she hell…well stuff her…I don’t need her…I’ve got Fiona.”

That last name seemed to shock him into momentary sobriety.

“You don’t know Fiona, do you?” he whispered, looking into his glass. “Fine woman - love of my life. Haven’t seen her for years. I’ve called it after her - Fiona Edwards and Eric Kernay - I used the initials you see. And it seems to like it.”

His voice dropped lower, becoming conspiratorial. “It’s growing, I’m going to need a bigger cellar soon.”

“What’s growing?” I asked, and immediately bit my tongue, but it was too late, he clamed up tight. I didn’t get any more out of him, not even when I helped him home.

The only other thing he said was just as he left me at the gate. He put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Mum’s the word.” He dropped me a long slow wink as he weaved his way up the path.

It only took me two attempts to get my key in the door and I only hit the wall three times on my way to bed - one of my better nights. I was just on the brink of sleep when I heard the shouting.

“You’ve been drinking, you disgusting slob!” Meg Kernay’s voice rang out loud in the quiet night. In contrast Eric’s voice was an indecipherable mumble.

“Don’t you dare talk back to me.” Meg shouted. “You've been with a woman, haven’t you? You know what happened the last time.” There was a loud crash of breaking crockery, then she shouted again.

“Oh no - you’re not going down in that cellar - you’re never going down there again.”

I could almost hear Eric’s reply this time - his voice was raised higher than ever before, and then there was a splash, like a heavy body hitting water. A single scream rose, abruptly cut off, then all was quiet. Eventually I fell asleep.

The next day I was awoken by a commotion next door and I dragged myself outside just in time to see the police leading Eric away. He didn’t speak to me, just gave a sly, enigmatic grin.

Once Eric had left the house the forensic people moved in. They brought out two bodies - Meg Kernay’s from the cellar, badly corroded by some kind of acidic slime, and, from the ground beneath, a ten year old corpse, only identifiable by the rotted handkerchief with the embroidered letters, F.E..

Eric’s grin bothered me for days but it faded from my mind until two years later.

It happened by accident - I was visiting my father’s grave and only caught sight of the familiar name at the corner of my eye. The gravestone was unobtrusive, but the inscription told me all I need to know:

HERE LIES MEGAN KERNAY
SHE NEVER DID LEARN TO SWIM
SHE NEVER COULD CONTROL HER TEMPER
DIED IN A PIT OF FEEK.

Free Fiction: The Blood is The Life

2009-06-08T16:11:00.003-02:30

You don’t notice me. Do you?

Sitting there with your newspaper open, taking up more than you need. Smugly secure in your job, your marriage, your 2.4 kids. You with your smart suit and your loudly patterned tie, your shiny shoes and your manicured finger nails.

It’s all right, I won’t disrupt your routine. Not too much anyway. I’ve just got a simple question for you.

What do you know about how you work deep inside?

Do you know about your brain, how the synapses connect, how the chemicals carry the messages?

Do you know about your lymph glands, sending out the little warrior cleaners to repel invaders?

Do you know about your kidneys - filtering out the goodness and passing on the piss?

Do you know about your blood?

Just as I thought. You are like all the rest. You know nothing.

Well, I’ve got something which would do you good.

Do you want it?

You’ll just have to wait. It isn’t quite ready yet. I prepared it this morning but it hasn’t had time to thicken yet.

It seems to get stronger in the mornings. During the day time I can’t feel it. I don’t think it moves. But at night - that is a different story.

If I lie still I can sense it as it courses through me, rushing through the spaces, filling me up with its red, hot, gushing glory. It succours me. Can you see that?

Without it I would be a weak wan thing, a nobody, just like you. But with it, I am capable of miracles, capable of passing on a piece of myself, capable of attaining immortality. I will never really die. Can you see that?

It’s usually early in the morning when I have to let some out, after it has grown a bit. It desperately needs to get out you see, otherwise it would slowly fill me and devour me with its heat and there would be no one left to spread the message. And the message is the vital thing. You understand that, don’t you?

They told me it was probably terminal. Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about. The faceless men in the white suits are part of what you are, part of what drives you every day. I spent months with them in their clean white rooms under their clean white lights. They prodded me, stuck needles in me, asked me where I got it.

But how do I know? It could have been anybody - my mother, my wife, my daughter.
They spread it on slides, spun it around in centrifuges, took it out of me in vast hot heavy amounts and thinned it down.

They took pictures of it flowing around, tracking its passage, but they never understood it. They couldn’t categorise it, couldn’t fit it into one of their neat little boxes. Eventually they gave up on me, releasing me to its mercy.

They made a big mistake you see. I could see immediately where they had gone wrong, but they were scientists while I was merely a thing brought in from the streets and thus not worthy of notice.

It was obvious. They took a lot out, but they never put it back anywhere. That was the problem. Once it gets out it needs a new home, a warm home, otherwise it just withers and dies, shrivels up and dries out like a puddle in the sun. It needs constant attention. You must care for it, nurture it, succour it in its time of need.

Then it will serve you well.

You think I’m completely mad, don’t you? All you can see is the wide eyed stare and the unshaven chin. You probably think I smell bad, although I don’t you know. It’s just your conditioning.

Do you think I’m a drunk? The same as the rest? You can smell my breath if you like.

See, all clear.

It doesn’t like alcohol, it gets thinned out and loses potency very quickly. It nearly killed me when I last drank. Two little glasses of whisky and, six seconds later it all came back, in spades. Sixteen hours of vomiting and heaving and cursing and blackouts. Oh, I’m sorry. Am I offending your sensibilities? But shit happens - didn’t anyone ever tell you that?

I don’t miss the booze, not a bit. I have my love to keep me warm.

The first time I passed it on was in a crowded train - a bit like this one.

I’d prepared it in the morning.

Have you seen it flowing into a syringe? When it’s strong, it gushes, purple and hot and heavy, pressing itself into the confines of the small tube. It didn’t want to stop that first time and wasted a lot of itself in spillage on my bathroom floor, but it got itself under control eventually. It was very strong that day,

You will be the twenty-first. But not the last. The blood is strong and there are so many needy.

It is ready for you now.

Here it comes.

Free Fiction: Lucidity - A nightmare

2009-06-03T17:29:00.005-02:30

You wake up.

The walls are tight and cramped around you causing you to crouch, knees bent and curved. The air is hot and dry, rasping at the back of your throat and burning your sinuses.

Your eyes are gummy with sleep but you can’t raise your arms to rub the sleep away.

It is only then that you realise that you are handcuffed, the cold metal rubbing new welts into your wrists as you struggle.

You scream and the sound echoes back at you, again, and again until it finally fades and the silence returns, heavy and threatening.

As your eyes begin to adjust to the dark you notice two slits just below eye level - windows to the room outside. But beyond the slits all is dark and the room is silent.

You moan and are comforted by the sound, any sound, anything that will tell you that you are still alive.

A sharp cramp hits the muscles of your calves, a deep heat that burns inside threatening to engulf your legs in fire. You try to straighten, if only a millimetre, but the top of your head comes up tight against cold metal, and as you struggle your prison begins to move and sway in time with your movements.

You, spin, encased inside the steel, and the motion causes your stomach to roll in turmoil. You choke back on the vomit and taste its greasy cold thickness on your tongue.

There is sound in the room outside your prison, the drawing of metal against metal. Through the slits you are vaguely aware of an orange glow, a heat that is moving ever closer. Blackness comes and takes you away.

And still your prison spins.

John woke, sweat smearing across his face, his chest and his feet. He lay curled on the left edge of the bed, and as he rolled over the needles and pins exploded in his left arm. He sat up in bed, panting heavily.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered softly.

That made it four nights in a row, each time a little more of the dream being revealed, each time a little more trauma on awakening. He reached over and switched on the bedside light before reaching for his notebook.

“I am getting closer,” he wrote. “The vibrations came easier tonight and I was able to stay inside for several minutes. I seem to be in a hanging basket. Torture chamber? I don’t know about the orange glow - it fills me with fear and trepidation, but I have come too far now to back away - I must know what it is I am seeing.”

He put down the notebook, switched off the light and lay back in bed. A few minutes later he was fast asleep. There were no more dreams.

It started with the book two weeks before. It was strange the way it happened. He was in the library, looking for something on Scottish history, when an out of place book caught his eye. He removed it from the shelves to take it to its rightful position - he was a stickler for order. As he walked round the stacks he read the blurb on the back, and was immediately hooked.

“Lucid dreaming - unlock your innermost secrets.”

Maybe it would have gone differently if he hadn’t been bothered by nightmares, or maybe he would have ignored it completely if he still had a partner to share his bed, but the impulse took him and he borrowed the book.

He read it all in one sitting - it wasn’t a thick book, and the author’s religious slant on everything merely annoyed him, but there was something about the techniques that appealed to him.

That first night he lay and stared at the ceiling, repeating the author’s phrase - I will remember, I will remember.

He had just become distracted by a flashing light from beyond the curtains when a vibration started in his legs, a pleasant, almost warm buzz that spread quickly up his body. When it reached his head his brain seemed to explode in white light, and when it faded, he was somewhere else.

When he woke, he had only one memory. The word he wrote in his notebook was “CELL”.

On the second and third nights he got a bit further. Tonight he had almost made it, almost found out where he was going. It was only a matter of time.

He woke in the morning fully refreshed. A quick look at the notebook confirmed his memory of the dream. Where was he going? To a past life experience? To a childhood trauma? Or was it all done right here, in his own brain, a perfect work of art for him alone? He thought that tonight he might find out.

The day passed in a daze. He couldn’t concentrate on his work - who wanted to process the books of a local plumber when you could live in your dreams. He had already mastered wakening himself in his dreams, now it was only a matter of starting to mould them to his wishes. He was confident he would get there sooner rather than later.

He was already thinking towards the night ahead when a movement caught the corner of his eyes. Over to the side of the door a red glow pulsed, twice, flaring hotly against the avocado paintwork before fading away. He got out of his chair, wincing as his back complained about the hours of inactivity, but there was no mark on the wall - not even a blister.

“Can you stay late tonight, John?” a voice said behind him. “I need those books for tomorrow.”

Stiles was standing in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, a pose that showed off his smart suit, his exercise-hardened body. “I wouldn’t ask normally - but its important.”

Nor for the first time John wanted to hit him, to shatter that calm pose, but he merely mumbled assent, too intimidated for argument. He went back to the books and for long hours lost himself in the columns of figures.

He hadn’t realised that he’d fallen asleep until the vibration hit him in the chest and shook his body like an electric shock.

There is a sound in the room outside your prison, the drawing of metal against metal.

Through the slits you are vaguely aware of an orange glow, a heat that is moving ever closer.

Your prison spins and for two seconds there is only blackness and the ever-increasing cramps in your ankles, your calf muscles, your back. And the glow is closer, and with it comes heat, at first merely a tingling warmth which soon grows to a searing flame that brings beads of sweat to your brow, your palms and your chest.

Your prisons spins. The orange slides off to your left but the heat is still there, at your back now, getting hotter still, then even hotter until the pain begins and the blackness takes you down and away once more.

John sat up in the chair and almost screamed as a sudden cramp clutched his stomach. He only just made it to the toilet in time before his sphincter unlocked.

He sat in the cubicle for long minutes trying to regain his strength, feeling weak and empty. At one point he closed his eyes but the room began to spin around him threatening to throw him down into unconsciousness.

He was almost afraid to stand, fearful of his body betraying him once more, but he managed to get himself out of the office and into his car without further notice.

The car was stifling and humid, even with the air conditioning turned up full and John found himself doused in sweat long before he made it home. As he made his way to bed he resolved that there would be no experiment that night.

His stomach was still in turmoil as he lay down, but the vibration came anyway, an explosion of white flaring light and heat.

Your prison spins. The orange glow slides off to your left but the heat is still there, at your back now, getting hotter still, then even hotter until the pain begins.

Your prison spins and the red hot poker becomes visible closer and closer to your flesh before finally it is thrust hard, into the deep muscle of your thigh. You burn and you scream as the flesh chars and sears and finally, overcome, you fall once more into blackness.

You dream, about a soft bed and a pale faced man, about a notebook and a pen. But when you wake, you are still in blackness.

Your prison spins.

This one came from a series of experiments in lucid dreaming / astral projection that I tried many years ago. I had to stop when I realized it was infringing on the way I perceived reality and messing with my sense of self

The Penny Dreadful Collection from GHOSTWRITER PUBLICATIONS

2009-05-25T13:32:00.000-02:30

The Penny Dreadful Collection from GHOSTWRITER PUBLICATIONS

http://ghostwriterpublications.wordpress.com

Ghostwriter Publications is proud to present The Penny Dreadful Collection, GWP’s regularly updated series of chapbooks authored by new and established writers.

You'll find chapbooks by David Niall Wilson, Scott Nicholson, Guy N Smith, Simon Kurt Unsworth... and me :)

Free Fiction: Leisure Time - a dream

2009-05-21T16:14:00.002-02:30

It began late on Friday night.

Bill sat reading, deeply engrossed in a well plotted thriller when a flicker in the air in front of him caught his attention.

Six feet up and ten feet away the air folded on itself, first a scar then a wrinkle and finally, a tear. Space ripped in a jagged black line. Something dropped from the tear, an oily, black droplet that hit the ground with a splash and faded into the carpet as he watched. The tear healed itself, zipping itself up before vanishing with a pop that brought a sudden short lived pain in Bill’s ears.

All fell quiet and still once more.

Bill rubbed his eyes and put the book down.

‘Too tired. Time for bed’, he told himself, pushing his body out of the chair, aware that a deep tiredness had crept into his limbs.

By the morning he had forgotten all about the warp in the air. Life moved on and Bill got caught up in the daily round of work and play. It was two weeks before he began to notice that things were turning distinctly strange in his neighbourhood.

By then it had already gone too far.

He first realised something was wrong when the postman came to the door.

It was a fine sunny morning, the dew just beginning to steam off the grass… and off the rose growing from the postie’s left ear.

There was a single flower - red, glistening and velvet.

“Nice isn’t it?” the postman said. “It would be even better if I could feed it, but the manure just falls out every time I move my head.”

He handed Bill an envelope and turned away, giving Bill an excellent view of the green shoot growing from between his buttocks. He had cut a neat hole in his trousers to accommodate it. Its leaves spread wide in the growing sun and it looked like it wanted to be a tree one day.

Bill was too stunned to do anything other than watch as the postman headed off down the street, whistling merrily and shaking his new grown foliage with ever step.

As he fingered the envelope that had been passed to him Bill felt a sudden itch in his fingertips but it passed with some hard scratching.

His second encounter of the day didn’t go any better.

He was headed for the newsagents to pick up his paper when he met Joe from number twenty-three. Joe’s eyes had shrunk until they were little more than two marbles in his skull, and his hair had thickened and layered into a fine head of glossy, jet-black feathers. Joe tucked his head under his left arm and nuzzled noisily before looking up at Bill. His lips hardened and, even as Bill watched, stretched and thinned into a tough, shell-like beak.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a peanut would you?” Joe asked. Then, when he was answered by a shake of the head, he tossed his feathers haughtily. “Well I can’t stand around here all day. I must fly.”

Bill watched as Joe flapped his arms and rose, almost graceful, above the rooftops, just missing taking the chimney of number twenty-seven with him.

The itch was back in his fingertips, and this time when Bill scratched it the hard skin split into a myriad of tiny, dry fissures. It didn’t hurt though, and soon Bill was too distracted to notice.

Brian at number twenty-nine was polishing his car. Or rather, he was polishing himself. His left leg was in the process of turning into a wheel and Bill couldn’t look too closely at it - it made his eyes hurt. Brian’s face had become glassy, an opaque mirror that seemed to be becoming a windshield - luckily a heavily tinted one, and his chest had become a large gleaming radiator. His chrome was coming up nicely and he beeped a cheerful horn at Bill as he passed at a safe distance on the other side of the street.

The itch was back in his fingertips, and this time it was more, it became a maddening dull pain, then a sudden white flare of heat. When Bill looked down at his fingers he found that they had split and splayed into grey dry ridges and as he wafted a hand in the breeze the grey ridges fluttered open into tiny pages.

And down there, inside his fingers, words formed, millions of words that marched across thousands of pages in a fine handsome script.

His chest moved under his shirt, as if a small mammal had managed to get in and was scurrying around frantically. Bill undid the top three buttons and had a quick peep.

His skin had gone a deep bronze, thickened and polished as if stroked by many hands. And down among his chest hair, a merest hint of gold as a fine lettering faded into being.

Bill decided to forget about the newspaper. Instead he made his way to the library - it looked like he was going to have plenty of reading to do.

Old Mrs Brown had already taken root behind the desk, great rhododendron-like flowers sprouting from each finger. Bill said hello but she merely smiled, a new bloom blossoming at her forehead.

Bill wandered through the shelves, his new pages fluttering excitedly. When he reached the Fantasy section he reverently removed a shelf of books and climbed up into the vacated space. He made himself comfortable, and settled in to wait.

He shouldn’t be alone for long - after all, a lot of people share his hobby.