Lee Hughes Writes

The New Year

2012-01-04T18:34:00.001Z

Hope folks got everything they wanted from Father Chrimbo, and took the rest back to the shop to make exchanges for the unwanted.

Chapter Three of The Osseous Box is now up over, well, just look above and click on the Osseous Box Novel. (Some folks have been having trouble with that link, the addy is www.theosseousbox.blogspot.com

Hammering into shape the new novel, never know, might actually get it done before we're all dust on 12th December.

I'll be posting a retro story on here like I said that's only seen the light of day in a print antho, once I've done the 'prefered cut' and also have a fresh short story that I'm working on, depending on size it'll either land on TKnC's doormat, or I'll post it on here.

Going for a nosy now to see what you all have been upto.

Chapter 2 and such...

2011-12-16T05:45:00.002Z

Nowt much to report. Working on the new novel, reading, tired of the ball-ache that Christmas is. Will be posting another story over the next few days, one that was in an anthology, just want to do the 'Directors Cut'

Chapter two of The Osseous Box: The Novel is now up here if you're interested.

Matt Hilton has the cover to the latest Joe Hunter novel up at his site if you fancy a gander as well as information about a horror novel he's written, and you'd be a dafty to pass it up.

Now be gone with yers!

Contraband

2011-12-10T19:41:00.001Z

This story was published in Deep Space Terror. It's called contraband. And don't forget to if your bored to visit www.theosseousbox.blospot.com to read the novel, I'm posting it at a chapter a week.

Contraband

"Tried kicking it?" Alexasked.

Monkey Jones looked up from thespaghetti-bowl of wiring that had spilled like entrails from the JumpActivator. Monkey sniffed. "You wanna fix the fuckin' thing?"

"Just asking," Alex replied.

"Mind going asking your dumbquestions elsewhere?"

Alex wandered off.

The Messenger Ship, Celeritatis,named for an old language word for speed, or the Cellar as they'd come to callit, because that's where you dumped most of the broken shit you didn't want;always had a long list of things that needed fixing.

Back in the day when it had been apup of a craft it had been one of the fastest. Now it seemed to limp more thanrun.

Monkey thumbed his talkie."Captain?"

"Yeah, Monkey?"

"Try firing the bitch up forme, would'ya?"

The captain pressed a couple ofbuttons. "Anything?" The he asked.

"Nada. We're gonna have to tryand get it to Derbor-Five, nothing else I can do from onboard, gonna have toget it stationary and Oxy-docked."

"Damn. How much do you reckonit's gonna cost?"

"How much you got tospend?"

"Not much," the reply.

"Probably gonna be more thanthat then."

"I'll figure somethingout."

Captain Charles Weathers settled inhis chair and looked to First Mate Annabelle Ridge, who was fiddling with thecontrols.

"Belle, start us on a courseto Derbor-Five, gonna have to get the Cellar Oxy-Docked."

Belle raised a brow, funds were lowas it was, and wages were sometimes a luxury. "Sure." She startedprepping the regular engines.

"Belle?"

"Yeah, Captain?"

"You still have contacts onDerbor-Five?"

Belle's interest was piqued."Looking for some extra funds?"

“Funds full-stop, reckon you cansort out a little side delivery for us?"

"Sure, what were youthinking?"

"Nothing that'll get the shipconfiscated if we're caught, dodgy, but not too dodgy if you know what Imean."

"No worries."

Alex shifted some crates as theydocked at Derbor-Five's Dimeport, nicknamed so for being the shittiest andcheapest landing point. Even Space-Pikeys didn't land there.

Monkey was gathering up his tools.

Alex looked over to Monkey."I'm pretty much done here, you want a hand?"

Monkey looked up from the toolboxand thought for a minute. Finally shook his head. "I wouldn't trust you tohold the fuckin' ladder."

Captain Weathers and Belle stood atthe main access point to Derbor-Five with the Cellar behind them. Monkey wasstrapped to its side working on it. Weathers thumbed the button again.

Belle pulled out a wallet, took asmall driver from it and began working on the lock. It took under a minute.

The corridors were empty. Weathershad only been to Derbor-Five a handful of times but knew it should be livelier.

Weathers said, "You ever knownit to be like this?"

"No." Her hand not strayingfrom her holster.

"Do you think the place is onlockdown?"

"They haven't locked downsince the riots of '42."

They took a turn in the corridorand stopped still. The stale-white Perodium walls had been redecorated inplaces with blood that had dried to shit-brown. Belle flicked the catch on herholster. "Bad to worse."

Weathers drew his sidearm."That splatter pattern wasn't done by a gun."

"What do you wanna do?"

"Let's get to your contact, weneed those parts otherwise we'll just be another piece of scrap floatingthrough space."

"Let's hope he's stillalive."

The further into the station theywent the more bloodstains they found. It wasn't just contained to the floorsand walls; it made it onto the ceilings. The part that puzzled Belle was thelack of bodies.

Alex watched as Monkey got to worka panel. It pissed him off. He could be of help if Monkey wasn't being such adick. A small incident two years previous involving a plasma-saw and Monkey'sright thumb. It wasn't as if they hadn't been able to reattach it.

Some people just didn't forgive andforget.

Alex decided he wasn't gonna standaround scratching his sack. He still had some wages left, which was one of theonly good things about being on the Cellar; you didn't get much of anopportunity to waste your pay, that's when you actually got it. Alex reckonedhe had enough for a little fun, and if you couldn't find some fun onDerbor-Five then you couldn't find fun or a fuck anywhere.

I'm going for a walk," hecalled, heading over to the door.

Monkey ignored him.

Belle thumbed the button on thedoor four times. Two short bursts followed by two long ones. She hoped that thesecret 'knock' hadn't changed in the three years since she'd been toDerbor-Five.

A voice seeped through the speakersurrounded by crackle.

-What?

"It's me," Belle said.

-Who?

"Your daughter, open thedoor."

-Annabelle? Who's that with you?

"My boss, just open thedoor."

-Is the corridor empty?

"Yes."

The door slid open, but only halfway. "Quickly, inside."

The pair of them slipped through,the man worked the door closed again as quickly as he could.

Weathers took in the small, fat manbefore him. Belle had nothing in common with him appearance wise, not evensharing the same shape of nose. He also noticed there was no father anddaughter hug. There was an air of familiarity, the way she went and helpedherself to one of the chairs and nodded back at the him to take one as well.Her father stayed standing.

Belle pointed at her father."That's Jenks. Jenks, that's my boss, Charles Weathers. What's happened?There's blood everywhere."

Jenks looked to them both. "Ithink everyone's dead."

"You're not." Bellepointed out.

"My line of work you have tobe able to burrow yourself away in times of danger."

"Marauders?" Belle asked.

"Not exactly."

Belle's eyes narrowed. "You'reskirting my question which means you know more about it, or worse, had a handin it."

His hands went up. "Belle, ifI'd of known I'd not have bought them, I promise you."

"What did you buy dad?"She sighed.

"Just some new stock for mybusiness."

"You mean whores."

"I prefer to call them stock,but yes, I acquired a group of entertainers."

"Then what happened?"

"Oh, it was great. They wereso different. I mean, I know most people think it disgusting bedding differentspecies, but these weren't much different to us. A few small details here andthere, couple of extra orifices and pulsating hands, my god they were aninstant hit. The money rolled in for the first four months. People soon changedtheir mind about inter-species frolicking when word got out."

"Loving the story dad, lovingthe imagery too, honest, I am. But do you wanna get to the important bit?"

"Then we had the lunar swell.On Derbor we only get to see our full moon once every four months."

"I'm following," shesaid.

"We didn't know that back ontheir home world their reproductive menstrual cycle was controlled by the lunarcycle, how could we? Besides they wanted to come, apparently there weren't manymales about."

"So they all got a bad case ofPMT and went about killing everyone?" Belle was shaking her head as shesaid it.

"Worse."

Belle raised a brow.

"They became insatiable formating, and killing. I don't think there was a man that didn't feel sick whenthey saw the bone-like blades that flashed out of the holes that they'd been,you know, poking."

Weathers took a turn at speaking."What about security, weren't they able to subdue, or even kill thesethings?"

Jenks shook his head. "They'renot just killers, they're cunning too and before they started the mainslaughter they went to the barracks with the proposition of a party and thenkilled them when their pants were literally down. Then it was just a case ofthem cutting a swathe through everyone else. That's when I locked myself inhere, I've several hidden safety rooms, and I'm jacked into the all-seeing eye.I witnessed most of the bedlam. That was a week ago; I've not been out since."

"Where are these thingsnow?" Weathers asked.

"They've made my establishmenta nest of sorts."

"Can you show me on ascreen?"

Alex headed in the direction of theentertainment section. He came across blood smeared on one of the walls. Hechuckled, there was always some shit going down on Derbor-Five. It'd been overthree months since he'd boned anything and the thought of getting laid hastenedhis stride.

He stood before the archway thatled to the entertainment sector. He grinned at the flashing lights that blinkeddifferent colors, mainly the nipple lights. This was a better way to waste thetime whilst the Cellar got its repairs.

He stepped through and wonderedwhere all the loud music was. There was usually always a party atmosphere, andalways there were cliental about the place. All he saw were bloodstains. Alexcursed. It was just his fucking luck. This one day of all days there'd probablybeen another riot and everyone was on lockdown. He had money and all he wantedwas a drink and some pussy, even a scabby one would do.

He turned to leave when an exoticbut silken voice called out, "Fun-time? Long-time? Short-time?"

Alex turned at the sound of thebroken Earthlish. Standing in the doorway to the brothel was a goodtime girl.Alex grinned. She looked different and he'd heard rumors of some new crazy-ass,outer-world whores that could do unmentionable things to a man. He startedwalking. She was a little taller than six feet. White tendrils of hair spilledfrom her scalp. His eyes moved to her face, two-eyes, one mouth.

The woman smiled.

Alex was pretty sure he couldn'tsee any teeth and her gums looked to be undulating. His eyes went lower. Herbody was draped in a silk robe. He looked back up as she nodded, beckoning himinside, the whorehouse, or herself, he didn’t care which.

Weathers watched as Belle's fatherbegan prodding a monitor with his pudgy fingers. It came to life. He kepttapping. The scene switched from different views of the corridors. They couldsee a whole trail of bloodstains. Then what looked to be a plaza, then a bar,then a large room, the kind where hundreds could sit and chill, drinking, doingwhatever they wanted.

The room was peppered with bodies.The pile was high. Atop the hill of corpses were the ladies of men's leisure,sprawled like royalty, writhing like snakes.

"Can you zoom in?"Weathers asked.

"Sure."

The room grew bigger. Weather'seyes widened. They were writhing on the corpses, all with bellies distended inseveral different directions, as though they were pregnant with more than onechild but in separate wombs. Belle looked at the scene and instinctivelytouched her own flat stomach and cringed.

Weathers pointed to the screen."Can you zoom out a little bit?"

They watched as one of the thingsled a man into shot.

Jenks looked puzzled. "Asurvivor?"

Belle shook her head and said,"No, not a survivor, just an idiot."

***

Alex followed the woman."Yeah, we're just doing some repairs, thought I'd, you know, unwind andrelax."

The woman didn't look back."How many?"

"Me, the captain, Belle, andMonkey, it's only a small vessel, we're parked over in Dimeport. Do you mind ifI ask how much this is gonna cost?"

"Not want money."

"What do you…" His mouthdropped open as she stepped aside. It took a second for him to register whatwas before him. He turned and bent over to one side and vomited until there wasnothing left, not even bile.

He turned to run.

The woman reached out withincredible speed and strength and caught him by the scruff of his neck andhurled him into the room that was home to the massacre. There were more of thewomen. These ones lay in motion atop a mound of bodies. He could see themlooking mutated with each owning several swollen bellies. They were feeding onthe dead, tearing chunks free from the bones. Blood-wet lips parted, showingtheir writhing gums. He watched the meat reach their maws just as gleaming boneblades erupted from the gums to slice the meat.

He heaved again.

The one that had led him in by hisdick grabbed him and spun him around.

She smiled.

Up close the gums were far frominviting. She pulled him closer as if seeking a lover's embrace.

Alex screamed.

***

The three of them turned away asthey saw bone-like spikes protrude out of Alex's back. Weathers couldn't helpbut look back as the monster pushed Alex's body away to crumple at the base ofthe mountain of the dead. He watched as the spiked-shaped blades seeped backinto her body. He saw her lips move. The women that were feasting on the pilebegan to claw their way down towards its base, following after the one that hadkilled Alex.

"Where are they going?"Belle asked.

Weathers hazarded a guess."They know there's more than Alex here, you know what a mouth hehas." he paused, "had."

Jenks tapped the screen to switchto a different camera. They watched stunned as the women moved faster than theywould ever thought possible in their condition into the corridors.

Jenks scratched his topmost chin."Where's your ship?"

“Oxy-Docked at the Dimeport,"Weathers replied, watching the things disappear off screen.

"We need to get off thisstation."

"Problem being we need someparts for the Jump Activator. You know where we can get them?"

"Of course, easier now morethan ever seeing everyone is dead, apart from for those beasts!"

Weathers took a moment to gatherhis thoughts. "Okay, show me the route on the screen and I'll go get theparts we need. Belle, you get your father back to the Cellar and shore upinside until I get back with the parts."

Belle nodded.

Jenks looked astounded. "Whydon't we just take another ship? I mean there must be a hundred or so justsitting about."

Weathers shrugged. "I like theCellar, it's a piece of shit but it's been in my family for two centuries,besides, Monkey's there, we'd have to go back for him anyway."

"Is now the time forsentimentality, Captain?" Jenks asked.

"You wanting me to point thefinger over whose fault all of this is, at whose to blame for the death of oneof my crew members?"

Jenks went to the console.

***

Monkey climbed to the ground andremoved the harness. He'd pretty much done all he could until the Captain andBelle turned up with the parts. Then it would be a simple, plug in and playdeal, or so he hoped. Monkey sat on a crate and wiped the crud from his hands.The tiny white ring of scar around his thumb made him think of Alex. He didn'tknow why the hell he had even let him have a go with the plasma saw in thefirst place.

The sound of a grunt from the doorcaused him to look.

A fat man tumbled through.

Monkey watched the man double overstruggling for breath.

"Who the fuck are you?"Monkey asked, as he stood up.

The fat man held a hand up andtried to speak but didn't have enough air. Belle piled through the door. Shepressed the button to close the door and cursed as it slid shut leisurely. Withinches to go a curve spike flashed through. Belle screamed and tried to pushthe door the rest of the way manually, she looked over her shoulder. "Helpme!"

The fat man stumbled to the doorand tried to push as well. It was pointless with the spike sticking through.Monkey didn't have time to think. He ran to his tool tray and grabbed theplasma saw.

He dashed to the door. "Whatthe fuck, Belle?"

"Tell you later!"

Monkey set the super-heated bladeto the spike thing. It started to cut through it.

"Fuck me, this shit isstronger than beaded-steal!" He applied more pressure. Monkey got a thirdof the way through when another sharp bone spike pierced through the gap. Thefat man's face was in the way. The spike skewered his right cheek, hisfat-tongue and emerged out the other side. Monkey stared at the man and hiskebab’ed face.

Belle screamed whilst keepingpressure on the door. Monkey grabbed the fat man and pulled him off the spike.The fat man fell to the ground groaning. Monkey turned off the plasma saw andran towards the ship. He kicked a few things over looking for his tin of burnfluid. He usually only used it to burn dirt and grease off engine parts, itburned so hot that nothing but the metal remained.

"Belle, move your feet."

She stepped aside.

Monkey knelt low and poured thewhole tin through the gap at the bottom of the door. He grabbed up the plasmasaw, turned it on and used it to ignite the liquid. Monkey pushed himself away,knowing the heat blast would likely peel his skin. Belle did the same.

Howls of outrage blistered thealready fiery air outside of the Oxy-Dock.

The bones retreated.

Both Monkey and Belle managed toshut the door. Belle hacked the lock shut, she was about to sabotage it butthought of the Captain and how he'd get in. She just hoped the things had beenburned to death.

She remembered her father and fellto her knees, taking her jacket off to press against his face.

Monkey wiped away sweat. "Nowdo you wanna tell me what the fuck has been going on?"

"Help me get my fatherinside."

"Father?"

***

Belle explained everything whilstshe tended to her father. The wounds weren't fatal but they'd made a mess ofhis face. She'd sealed the gashes with fibre-skin and bandaged him up.

Monkey had listened. "Youthink we'd be able to patch into the eyes from the Cellar?" He asked.

Belle thought a moment. "Don'tsee why not, as long as we had the codes."

They both looked to her father whowas about to go under with the drugs.

Belle and Monkey stared at themonitor. The flames had subsided and what looked to be three or four of thebeasts lay in a crumbled mess on the ground, nothing but their solid bonesremaining. Others were writhing nearby. Monkey didn't ask for Belle to zoom in,he moved his head closer to the screen. He pointed. "What the fuck arethose?"

Some of the ones that hadn't beenbarbequed were surrounded by little shapes.

"They've given birth,"Belle said. The babies looked normal to her; through she knew they would be farfrom it.

Monkey blew the air out of hischeeks. "We're gonna have to warn the Captain. We can't have him stumblinginto these." He thumbed the communicator. "Captain?"

There was the noise of static, thecommunicators were cheap Darantian shit and were pretty much useless over longdistances.

Finally the Captain's voice camethrough sounding warbled. "Yes, Monkey?"

"You got the parts?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I wouldn't bothertrying to come through the front door, we have guests."

"Thought you might have."

"Think you can get through theair-ducts?" Monkey asked.

"Not with these parts. I'vegot a better idea. Make sure everyone stays inside the Cellar."

"I wouldn't worry aboutthat."

The line went dead.

***

Weathers hadn't done a walk in overa decade but it looked like his only viable option. The weight of parts he'dborrowed would be impossible to lift up and drag into the air-shafts. At leastoutside the gear wouldn't be a burden to him. He put the throat-talker on andset it to the Cellar's frequency. Once Weathers was suited up he dragged thetrolley over to the airlock. He'd forgotten how burdensome the suits were.

He spun the wheel and opened thefirst door. Once inside he turned the chamber into a vacuum and opened theouter door. Weathers connected up to the outer rail and pulled the trolley outwith him. The gear stayed in the bed of the trolley through strapping.

It was harder work than he thoughtdragging himself along the outside of the station, towing the gear with him.Weathers was thankful for the numbers on the outside of the docking doors. Hewasn't keeping count of the time but figured it took him the better part of anhour to work his way to outside their docking bay.

"Monkey?"

"Yeah, Captain?"

"Here's what I need you todo."

***

Monkey didn't hesitate. He used theautomated hail and docking channel to activate the vacuum inside their bay.When all the air was gone the docking door opened.

They watched through the view portas the Captain drifted in with his cargo. They watched him secure himself tothe ground and nodded. Monkey closed the door and filled the bay with gravity.

They stepped out.

Monkey looked to the door and sawbulges in the surface. They hadn't noticed it from on board. Now they couldhear it too. The things were trying to break through. Monkey wondered if he'dweakened the material of the door when he'd tried to burn them.

Monkey rushed over to the captainwho was removing the suit. Monkey didn't bother with greetings, he grabbed thetrolley, noticing something he hadn't asked for. He knew what it was for. Hestarted getting into the harness.

Weathers stared at the door."Monkey, how long do you need?"

Monkey was climbing up the side tothe panel he'd removed and started to pulley the parts up. "Ten minutes, Ihave everything ready to just hook it up."

Weathers turned to Belle."Where's your father?"

"Injured, we've sedatedhim."

Weathers nodded. "Go prep theengines so we can leave as soon as Monkey's got the new parts hooked up."

***

"Captain, head on inside andget ready to…" The din of the door giving up its final strength aired.Monkey snapped himself out of it, "Captain, get inside, job's done, justgotta climb down."

They traded a glance and Weathersnodded.

He boarded the Cellar. "Belleget ready to start the vacuum!"

***

Monkey was only halfway down theside of the ship when the door gave in. The beasts flooded through. The babiesstill attached by ropey cords. "Captain, DO IT!" He shouted into hiscommunicator. He grabbed the release grips on the harness and pressed them. Hefell the twenty feet to the ground. One leg snapped on impact. He pulled his pistoland trained aim on the intruding monstrosities.

***

From the viewport Weathers watchedas Monkey let off a couple of rounds before putting the pistol to his brow andpulling the trigger. Belle started the vacuum procedure and opened the dockingdoor at the same time. The beasts used their spikes and their blades to hookonto the ground. Monkey was dragged out like a wave taking driftwood on thetide.

They exited.

The docking door closed, air wouldautomatically be fed back into the bay.

"Take us a safe distanceaway," Weathers said, as he held a detonator.

Come, come this way, enter...

2011-12-08T04:39:00.001Z

SSSssshhhhh.

ENTER

Apologies are needed...

2011-11-30T16:50:00.001Z

I said a story would be posted, but that hasn't happened, and for once, not from my own laziness. After reporting signs of damp to the landlady, she promptly popped around and figured it might be coming in from the loft and that she'd be back on the monday. As promised she turned up, in tow was her father. She went to check the water cistern thingy-ma-bob in the place where nightmares are spawn, and whislt she was at that task I watched as her father went about tearing the wallpaper off the walls in our bedrrom checking for damp, (I decorated this year) so I was stunned and brow scratching. Then whilst unnatended some more he decided he liked hammers more than my bedroom ceiling and the wall itself and took it to task. At which point I ushered in the Landlady and asked if the place would be habitable. She was more than a little annoyed at the work he had set himself to.

So now we come home, cook in the kitchen, watch television in the lounge, have a whirlwind keep ourselves cosy and now go down two flights of stairs to sleep in another flat. Hence me not sticking to me word, but I've got some nice pictures for you to look at.

But it shall faze me not, nor will I mention the landlords in name, nor by company, because the landlady has been so apologetic, it's not her fault, just don't bring your dad to fucking work, nor out to pasture, bolt-gun and be done...

I'm on the second stage of nicotine patches, reckon the tobacco industry has meddled.

Cheers

2011-11-28T20:14:00.001Z

Had some great responses to my tale up at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers. If you fancy a read click here.

Thanks to all those that helped pimp about it. Now it's only fair to remind others about some of the stuff that's knocking about.

Col Bury has a new E-Book out called - "Manchester 6" So get your frame over to here and get yourself a copy.

Lily Childs new Magenta novelette is out "Magenta Shamam: Stones the Crow" Get your grubbies on it here.

Paul D. Brazill also has a new E-Book out called Brit Grit, snaffle one up from here.

Matt Hilton's latest Joe Hunter thriller, his sixth outing at thumping the skulls that are in need of thumping hit the shelves last month get in from all good book stores, or online here.

Sean Patrick Reardon's Mindjacker has been out for a while, but it still deserves mentioning for all those that haven't had a gander at it. Grab it here.

Not that you care or anything but at the moment am reading Apostle Rising by Richard Godwin and it's a fucking cracker. Again, off the shelf or online here.

Editor, artist, writer extraordinaire Mark Anthony Crittenden is still accepting submissions for the various anthologies that he has got on the go. Find out about the submission rules here.

Now down to little ol' me. I'm going to be posting a story a week. One's that appeared in anthologies etc that I've tightened, kinda like a 'Director's Cut' and throwing in some of the new ones I've written. So I'll be posting one up tomorrow, sci-fi horror called 'Contraband' that appeared in Deep Space Terrors anthology.

Still plodding along with the main novel, part one is pretty much done with. Also toying with the idea, I've novelised The Osseous Box, but have been thinking of running it as as a kinda serial, a segment each week. I'll let you know when I do!

Also been watching American Horror Story, now that's one fucked up program and I think it's great. This season of the Walking Dead is also keeping me entertained.

Laters.

2011-11-23T19:09:00.001Z

Ello, not sure if anyone notices this, has been a while since my last post. Been writing again, regained the joy I had when I first started out. I've a new story going up this week on TKnC but figured as a shoe-in back into the blog world to post some stories that only got aired in some anthologies. Starting with, A Stopped Clock.

A Stopped Clock

Stanstood in the dark of his wardrobe with a digital clock wailing in the roomoutside and smiled.

He sat onthe bed and rubbed his forehead.

The second alarmhad been set for 7:40 and it let him know he was still alive.

Stan reached and thumbed the switchswapping the alarm to post-meridian ready for the evening. He did the same toits companion.

There wasa third timepiece.

This onemore archaic compared to the cheap radio-alarm clocks.

Apocket-watch with a gold casing. His fingers worked the catch. The delicatelywrought and blackened hands stretched out to point at 7:32, the second handstood static.

It hadall gone strange since he'd found the pocket watch.

Helaughed the same bitter laugh as the same bitter thought trampled through hismind, ‘You can’t turn back time.’ His laugh soured, ‘You can’t get itto go forward either.’

Stanstared at all of the things he’d scrawled upon the walls throughout thesleepless night. Fear had brought obsession, and like every obsession it becamedominant, visible, inked upon the walls.

The find.

Scotty shouted: "Hey, Stan,come have a look at this."

Stan wentover to see what Scotty had found. Scotty was holding up a mucky magazine, turningit this way and that

"Fuckin'hot, huh?" Scotty said, grinning.

“Nice.”It was half-hearted.

"Nice?"Scotty was shocked. "Nice? This is a hot piece of ass, Stan, Christ howlong you been divorced now? Two, three years? That's more than enough time tostop thinking of it as just something to piss out of."

Carlslapped Stan's shoulder. "You know what he's like, mental age of abrick."

"Theworst part is he has a point."

"You'llget back in the game when you're ready." He hiked a thumb over his shoulder,"That dingbat, he talks a good game, put him in a room with that lass fromthe jazz-mag and he'd shit himself."

Hestopped on the path. The headache was back so he dry swallowed a couple ofParacetemol.

There werea half-dozen bulging bin-bags. Number 32, old chap, always generous with hisChristmas Box. Stan looked to the skies, he wasn't religious but he hoped theold feller had gone on to a better place.

Stangrabbed up a couple of the bin bags.

Somethingshiny caught his magpie eye.

It wasgold, but stood out from the fake gild of the cheap pub trophies. He dipped ahand in and took the watch out. He found the tiny catch and thumbed it. Thesecond hand performed its stuttered lap. He knew the old man lived alone, butthere might be offspring that would like such a keepsake. He looked at the faceof the watch. The second hand had become static. He put it to his ear and heardonly silence. That was probably why it had ended up in the bin.

Scottywas setting up a bin. Stan saw the dirty magazine was rolled up in Scotty'sback pocket. "Saw you bringing out those extra bags, why'd you bother?”

"Theold man's dead. The stuff would just lie rotting."

"Anythingdecent?" Scotty asked.

"Justjunk by the looks of it."

Scottygrabbed the lid.

He hoistedout a trophy. He held it aloft liked he'd won it.

"Oi,Carl! I won the 2003 West District darts championship, what the fuck did you dothat year?"

"Bollocksyou did."

"YesI did, look, got a trophy to show for it." Scotty stomped off to the frontof the wagon with the trophy. Stan moved on to the next bin, the weight of thewatch in his pocket constantly playing with his morals. Just because it wasbroken shouldn’t mean that any surviving family member wouldn't want it. Backat the depot he'd be able to ask a few questions, hopefully find someone togive the pocket watch to.

"Hello?"

"Stan?"It was Alicefrom the depot. He reckoned she'd a soft spot for him. She'd managed to gethold of the phone number of Mr. McGee’s only daughter.

"Hi,Alice."

"Justphoning about the watch, I spoke with the daughter."

"That'sgreat.”

"Stan,she doesn't want the watch. Says that's why it's in the bin."

"Oh,"Stan managed, feeling a little deflated.

"Stan,it was good of you to think about getting the watch to her. Good news though,it's yours if you want it."

"Mine?"

"Yeah,she said you can have it."

"I'llcome get it. And thanks, you know, for doing this."

"Youcan always take me out for a drink."

His heartleapt a little, it was a good feeling. "Sure."

"When?"

"Fridaynight?"

"TheSwan and Brick, about seven?" Alicesuggested.

"Soundsgood. I’ll be popping in for the watch in a little while."

Stan wassurprised to find six watch menders in the local vicinity. His pointing fingerdawdled over Butlerand Sons Watch Repairs; they fixed all manner of time pieces, established in1893.

Thehanging bell over the door tinkled.

With theold-school decor of the place Stan had expected to see a withered, hunched,bespectacled man come doddering out from the back. Instead the man was a littleyounger than he, no stoop and no limp.

The mansmiled. "Good..." He paused and looked at the various clocks togarner the time. "...afternoon. I stare so long at clocks; the time itselfjust becomes a background noise. What can I do you for?"

Stanpulled out the watch. "I was wondering if you'd be able to fix this?"He set it down on the counter. The man picked it up, evaluating it by turningit this way and that. "Nice," was his whisper, "very nice."

“Youwanting me to pop it open and let you know what’s up with it and give you anidea of a repair price?”

“Sure,”Stan said.

The mansat down and pointed to a stool in the corner. “I’m Tom by the way.”

“I’mStan.”

“Apleasure.” Tom said. He carefully discarded the back of the casing and turnedhis professional eye upon the gala of springs and cogs that made up the musicthat the pocket watch should have been dancing to.

“Oohh,”Tom said.

“What?”Stan asked.

“This isprobably worth a few quid.”

“How come?”

“Well, ifthe makers not above ground the price usually hikes, and it’s a pretty rarepiece. Arthur Covington was the maker. His chicken scratch mark is here. Onlyseen a couple of his, mind if I ask where you got it?”

Stansquirmed a little on his stool. “It was left to me in a roundabout kinda way.”

Hefiddled with the inner workings for a few minutes and then looked up, his facea little embarrassed. “Everything looks like it should be working. I meanthere’s nothing that jumps out at me as to why it’s not, ticking. But this tome should be running reliantly. Do you want to leave it with me?”

“No.”

Stan putthe watch into his inside pocket and patted it. He strode down the street, theafternoon sun bold above him. Stan didn’t notice that everything he passedre-worked its shadow, pointing to the hour that the watch had stopped. Once hewas a few feet away the shadows snaked, worming after his ankles.

A voicecalled him from the doorstep of a closed down shop.

“I cansmell it on you,” The tramp said from his cardboard seat.

“What?”

The diseasedalcoholic in rags grinned. His mouth was a patchwork of teeth, the majority ofwhich were absent or blackened. “The cancer, I have it too. It’s in my lungs,all black, watch me cough.” The man thumped his chest as if to loosen somethingand then hacked and coughed like a sixty-a-day-smoker. He spat onto the ground.Pointed to the mess and said, “That’s my cancer. Cancer’s eats away at you,just like time. You’ve gotten cancer of time, how long who knows. I could bedead tomorrow or next year, it’s all just a waiting game, more so for you.”

Stanwasn’t even aware of his words as he asked. “What kind?” He was finding it hardto decipher the lunacy.

The tramppoked at his little puddle of illness and looked up. “Spare some change for asick man?”

Stanshook his head, still bamboozled by the nutter’s ramblings. The tramp snarled,“Then fuck off.”

Stan shuthis front door and leant against it. Every whacko that had something to saysaid it to him on the way home. The phone rang and he jumped. His hands werereluctant as they grabbed at the receiver. “Hello?”

“It’s Alice.” He wasn’texpecting a call from her.

“What’sup?” Stan wondered if she’d had a change of heart about their date.

“I’vejust had Mr. McGee’s daughter on the phone again.”

“Whatdoes she want?”

“Shedidn’t want to tell me on the phone, she asked for your number, I told her Iwasn’t at liberty to divulge it. So she gave me hers, if you feel like callingit.”

“What’sthe number?”

Hisfingers hovered an inch above the buttons, reluctant to start hitting them incase he heard something he didn't want to, he gave in and dialed.

“Yes?” Itwas a woman’s voice.

“I’m StanPerkins, you were trying to get my number?”

“The manwith my father’s watch?”

“Yeah,that’s me.” He waited for her to say she’d changed her mind about the wholething.

“I mighthave been a little abrupt with the woman from the bin centre, or whatever it’scalled.”

“I’m sureAlice wasn’toffended.”

“Good. Iwas basically just calling to suggest you throw the watch away, to be honest itbrought nothing but ruin to my father.”

“Ruin?”Stan had always been a glutton for superstition.

“As in ruined his life.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. It’sjust a watch.”

“It sounds silly to me too, and Ireally am loathed to be talking about it to you. But before my father foundthat watch in a box of junk at the auctions he was happy go lucky. Soonafterwards he started to fixate about the watch. That it had stopped, but it wasn’tbroken, didn’t need winding, and that it was a harbinger. Look, it doesn’tmatter to me either way, I’ve warned you, now it’s entirely up to you what youdo with it.” Without another word she hung up. He took out the watch, turned itthis way and that, it was a watch, nothing more.

He sat down at the computer.

He had Wikipedia up on the screen.

Arthur Covington, watchmaker, born1811, died 1876, not a bad innings. He started reading through his biography.Where he was born, where he was educated, He was married to Aphelia, his onlychild, a daughter Cecilia. Finding out how respected figures of the time cravedto own a piece of his work and how he had suddenly retired and moved away, towhere was only speculation. Where the mundane finished the hearsay started, thekind of things that if it was said in today’s times it would end up with acourt case and a serious lump of compensation. Clicking on a few of the linksmost of them to external sites it gave him more of the story involving theWatchmaker, the Earl, and the Watchmaker’s daughter.

February 14^th 1850

The light from the oil lamp burnedas bright as he could get it. The recognition he was receiving was alarming. Itgave him a sense of great pride for folks to think of quality when they heardthe two words, watch and Covingtonin the same sentence. He used tweezers to settle a small spring into place. Heignored the sound of the shop door opening, his concentration purely on thework at hand. With the job done he left the workshop and walked through. On theinside he cringed and felt disgust, on the outside he managed a smile. “Goodmorning, M’Lord.”

The Earl was tall, broad at theshoulders and moved in a manner that let everyone know of his importance.“Arthur, fine day outside, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, M’Lord.”

The Earl was moving around theshop. “That delectable daughter of yours not here today?”

The internal cringe turned into aknot. The Earl was renowned for his predatory like chasing of the ladies and oflate Arthur’s daughter Cecilia had been the subject of his hunt.

“I’m afraid she’s helping hermother today.”

The Earl slapped his glove down onthe counter. “Damn shame, I know how much she looks forward to my visits. But,alas, if she’s not here it mightn’t be such a bad thing as I have business todiscuss with you, a commission.”

The knot tightened. It was badenough doing the repairs and the maintenance on the Earl’s clocks withouthaving to commit to crafting him one from scratch. The Earl also wasn’t a manthat was easy to say no to.

“You’d best come through to theback.”

“Splendid.”

“Cecilia,” Arthur said, loweringthe flames in the lamps.

“Yes father?” She was sweeping theshop.

“Be a dear and give the place alittle bit of a tidy, I promised to go and have a look at the butchers clock,should be good for a leg of lamb.”

“Of course father. Will you beheading straight home then?”

“My stomach feels as though itsthroat has been cut, so take that as a yes, you’ll be fine to make your own wayhome?” He reached for his coat from the hook. Cecilia smiled, nodded and beganto wipe down the surface of the work table.

Ceciliaheard the front door open. She smiled, for a man with such precision for makingwatches her father was clumsy in the mind at times. She looked around theworkshop wondering what he had forgotten.

A voice came from the front of theshop. “Arthur?”

Cecilia’sheart froze. It was the Earl. She instantly wished she had followed her fatherthrough and locked the door after him. It was too late now for the fox was inthe chicken coop. She took a few calming breaths, straightened the front of herdress and headed through.

The Earl smiled and raised aneyebrow. “I had expected to find your father but instead I find a gem of thepurest beauty, my luck has turned, for the better. Is your father in the back?”

”He’s popped out.” She kept thecounter between herself and the Earl.

The Earl’s smile widened. “Luckyus.”

“I can tell him that you called.” Her mouth wasrunning out of spit.

“Never, it’s dark outside, therecould be all manner of brigands afoot. I just could not live with myself ifanything befell you, oh how angels would weep. No, I shan’t hear of it, we canget to know each other a little better, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

*

Arthur headed on home with adecent sized leg of lamb. It was good to get paid in money but there wassomething about trading that seemed to have a nobler feel to it. He hung up hiscoat and embraced the warmth from the fire before heading on through to thekitchen. Margaret was busy at the stove. She smiled as she looked back over hershoulder. The smile faded a little. “Is Cecilia not with you?”

“I left her to finish up at theshop. I’ll pop back, mayhap she’s just having problems with the locks again,won’t be a tick.”

*

Arthur tried the door and found itunlocked, once or twice Cecilia had struggled with the lock, he decided that hewould do something about it and get it fixed, but not tonight, his stomachwasn’t the most forgiving of creatures.

He called “Cecilia?” But gained noanswer.

He ventured deeper into the shop.He could see that the lamps were still burning in the workshop. He didn’t getover the threshold before his legs threatened buckled. His stomach forgot aboutfood and sickened. “Cecilia!” he ran to her. She was a crumpled mess in thecorner. Her dress was torn, her hair disheveled. She looked up. Her face wasbruised, one eye blackening. She began to sob, the sobs grew louder.

It hadbeen a week and Cecilia had barely said a word. She sat and simply stared offinto some other place. Once Arthur had carried Cecilia home and had called forthe doctor he had made straight for the constable. Arthur hadn’t expected toget anywhere there, not when the buffoon was under the thumb of the Earl. Heended up buying a pistol in a rage.

Arthurlooked at the clock above his workbench. The clock had been made by his fathersoon after he’d finished his own apprenticeship. The Earl had sent a messagethat he would be by a little before noon to see how the watch was coming along.Arthur couldn’t believe the audacity of the bastard. The man was above the law,shielded by his position, even from rape and battery. Arthur opened the drawerand looked hard at the pistol, the shine of the barrel enticing, whispering tohim about the justice it could deliver. There were some laws that even thelikes of the Earl couldn’t dodge. He heard the door open. He slid the drawershut, steadied his fury and stood.

“Goodday, Arthur.” The bastard was all smiles as though he hadn’t done anything tohis daughter. The Earl marched up to the counter. “Right then, how are wegetting on with my watch, and how’s that daughter of yours?”

Arthur’sjaw clenched. There was a look in the Earl’s eyes that was practically daringArthur to say something. “She’s fine my Lord, she’s work to do at home. Comethrough to the back.”

Arthurmotioned to the half constructed watch upon the bench, nowhere near finished.Since the attack on his daughter he had wanted nothing to do with the Earl’swatch. The Earl was leant over, staring into the casing as if he had half aclue as to what was what inside. Arthur’s hand went to the drawer. Yes it wouldbe murder, but justifiable, if not condonable under the circumstances. Yes hewould hang, but justice would be served. He opened the draw a little way, theEarl spoke. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I hear you have been to see the constableover a mistake.” He didn’t look up from his musings.

“Amistake?” Arthur could hardly get the words out, he choked on every syllable.

“Amistake, an error on your daughter’s part I should wager. It is not farfetchedto believe the fanciful imaginings of a young girl besotted by someone of mystature.”

“Thebruises? The torn dress? The rape?” Arthur was shaking with his rage.

The Earllooked up, his eyes narrowed. “I hear that rumour again besmirching myreputation and there will be consequences, very, very harsh consequences. Doyou understand me? But for your piece of mind I will let you in on the facts ofthat night. I came to see you, but found only your daughter who how shall wesay made certain advances that I rebuked but such was her desire I had to takea firm hand with her. And also I heard a whisper that this week you purchased apistol. You wouldn’t be having any foolish notions would you? As if I evensuspected such a thing you would be straight to the gibbet.”

Arthurslid the drawer shut.

The Earlsmiled. “Now show me where we’re up to with my watch.”

Thatnight Arthur didn’t go home. He worked feverishly. He took parts from otherwatches to finish it as quickly as he could. The workshop broke out in chorus atthe strike of midnight. Arthur stared at the watch as the lamps died down todarkness and he sat in the dark and began on something that there would be nocoming back from. Before the chiming had ended the lamps relit themselves andArthur began to weep.

“Magnificent,”the Earl said, holding his new watch up to the light.

“I’m gladyou like it,” Arthur replied, his look switching from the watch to the face ofthe bastard that was working the fob through a button hole.

The Earlpulled free his purse and began to count out a small fortune. “I’m glad youmanaged to get over that earlier silliness and see sense.”

“Thankyou my Lord, I’m glad that I saw sense too. I hope you enjoy the watch.”

“I’m sureI will, good day.”

Arthurwatched the Earl’s back, no smile on his lips as he knew that revenge wouldn’ttaste sweet. He looked at the walls of the shop that had become his secondhome. Those feelings were gone, torn away along with his daughter’s innocence.Arthur strode to the door and turned the closed sign over. His shop was shutand wouldn’t be opening again. He checked the time. His family would be waitingfor the coachman. It was time for a new life up North, far away from this placebut regardless of where they went he would be getting that little bit closer todamnation.

The Earltore free the envelope on the watchmaker’s shop door. The watch had cost afortune and within the space of a couple of hours it had stopped dead. He toreout the letter.

My Lord,

You are a consummate bastard and I wish you nothing butill-fortune. I have refunded the money for the watch and left it with yourcronie, the constable. Please do with the watch what you will. But know this,the time that it stopped is the time of your death, only you will not knowwhether it be of the morning, or of the evening. May the Devil welcome you tohis halls when the time is right, I will already be watching from the galleriesno doubt.

Yours faithfully,

Arthur Covington

The Earlcrumpled up the missive and cast it to the ground. There was naught he coulddo. He’d been refunded, and permitted to keep the watch. He opened the watchand looked at the time. The previous evening when it had halted the hands hadpointed to 5:15. The Earl sneered at the closed shop and stormed off. Henoticed as he went that the shadows were acting out of character and seeming tobend as he passed them by, tuning their darkness to the direction of his supposedour of death. The Earl walked that little bit faster with a feeling of uneasesprouting in his gut.

Theunease grew.

The wineno longer tasted fine.

Thebeggars and the halfwits would harass and hound him. All issuing whispers aboutsomething they should not know. Slowly his madness and paranoia wrapped itsslick grip about him until his death sixteenth months later.

Stan satback in his chair. Most of the stuff he'd read had come from pages about ghoststories and urban legends. He opened the watch, even though he didn’t believein such absurdities it did make him feel a little unsure. The way it had beenworking, the way it had abruptly stopped and there being no way to get itgoing. It didn’t help when he read that the Earl had gone a bit doo-lally andhad been obsessed with the time of his death, right up to it. When he mentallymatched that with what Mr. McGee’s daughter had said on the phone the feelingbegan to swell. It was like an uncontrollable wave that rolled through hiscore. The lunatic spitting bits of charcoaled lung onto the floor and what hehad said. It made Stan dash for the front door. He rushed down the path tostand at the lamppost on the other side of the gate. Its shadow was pointing inthe same direction as the rest of its brethren until Stan grew close. It snakedaround and mimicked the hour hand of the watch. Stan walked backwards, theshadow returned to normal. His heart thumped in his chest and his hands beganto feel sticky.

Backinside he clicked on link after link about watches and time until seven o’clockrolled around. He grabbed the radio alarm clock from the spare room and sat itnext to the one in his own room and began setting the alarms. One to warn himit was nearly the allotted time, the other to inform him that the time hadpassed. He felt foolish letting his imagination get the better of him. Hejumped as the first alarm aired. He switched the alarm off and didn’t know whatto do with himself. With one minute to go he climbed into the wardrobe.

The darkof the wardrobe seemed to hold the ability to stretch time into infinity. Whenthe second alarm aired the sensation of relief was astounding. Stan practicallyburst out of the wardrobe cursing himself for having such notions. Then thatfeeling returned, reminding him that even a stopped clock is right twice a day,or he hoped, wrong twice a day.

Sleep wasimpossible and the next morning he found himself phoning in sick. He couldn’trisk being outside and working when 7:32 rolled around so when the first alarmsounded he returned to the wardrobe and waited for the second, praying to hearit.

Alice pursed her lips. There was still no answer. Stan hadphoned in sick two days ago and hadn’t been in touch since. Their supposed datewas tonight. She was starting to wonder whether or not he was using it as a wayof chickening out. Her head started running through scenarios of what mighthave happened to him, all of which were not good. In his sickened state hemight have taken a shower, slipped and banged his head. He might have fallendown the stairs. The sickness could have been worse than what he'd said and hemight be in dire need of help. She got up, ran into the filing department andasked if one of the girls could cover for her so she could take an early lunch,medical reasons.

Shepeeped in through the living room window, there was no sign of him. Somethingwas up. She dug out her mobile from her handbag and dialed his house number.She let it ring as she lifted the letter box and listened to the unansweredring through the slot. She hung up and dialed treble nine.

She putthe backdoor window through with a cheap gnome.

“Stan?” she called as she movedfrom the kitchen to the hallway. She checked what she guessed was the spareroom and the bathroom, both of which were empty. The third room she figured tobe Stan’s bedroom. There was scrawling on the wall in marker pen that unsettledher.

Shestared at one scribbling that read, ‘Nothing is immortal, especially time.’Alice turnedaround, her eyes found something familiar.

Thewatch.

It wasdangling from the door of the wardrobe by a length of string. Her hands pulledat it. The wardrobe door came with it.

Alice screamed.

She watched his body lifted intothe back of the ambulance. All she could think about was what the paramedicsaid when she’d asked if he knew what had killed Stan. The paramedic hadsuggested that by the bloodshot eyes and the way the body was lying he may havedied of a brain aneurism.

He might not have even been awareof it.

Maybe just some headaches forsymptoms.

He said they were like time bombs,anything could be a trigger, undue stress, to it just being ready to blow. She asked how long he had been dead. The paramedic had said at maybe aslittle as five hours. She looked to her wrist, it was a little after twelve.That would have him dying around seven o’clock.

Alice walked away from the house. The road seemed to stretch onforever as she walked.

The image of Stan haunting her.

Her car was still parked outsidehis house. She felt she needed to walk, she didn’t know where. Just to walk.She couldn’t help herself. She dipped a hand into her bag and felt relieved bythe touch of the watch. She had just wanted to take something away, somethingof his. It wouldn’t be worth anything, the watch had stopped a few secondsafter she had opened it. She walked on, ignorant of the shadows that migratedpositions as she went.

I's back

2011-05-12T15:47:00.000+01:00

Well, where to start. Okay, I've been missing but I'm back. Been editing the horror stories on TKmC. Been writing some, well lots. Personally I'm good and returning into the fold. I've written a few shorts that'll be sent out over the nect few weeks to the magazines. The first being once I've caught up at TKnC will be on there, I'll be submitting it like everyone else has to but I'll probably say 'yesy' No seriously will send ti to one of the other editors for vetting. Bulked out the Osseous Box into a novel, figuring out what to do with it as half was given away for free so doh. But, I've been hard at work on another novel, and this one in my humble opinion has decent legs.

I want to thank all those that sent me nice messages, they really helped in getting my focus back.

So I'm back and things will get fucked up in no time.

Been a bit A.W.O.L

2011-01-09T09:53:00.000Z

I know I've been a ickle bit lackadaisical and have neglected certain duties. But I'm back now. Nowt much is happening, still job hunting. Polishing the novel. But haven't written anything new in nearly 2 months. Gonna remedy that over today and tomorrow, then gonna hoof it off. I'm thinking TKnC, as Matt said, just because I edit the horror don't mean I can't submit to Col, or himself.

Their Dark Masters has hit the street. I rarely get over-excited, but this is the first Anthology that I get to open. It's a bit of pressure, but hel, that's half the fun. Besides Mark is a thorn in my side and we bickered long and hard to get to where he wanted the story to sound. I have to admit that the cuts were justified'ished' What's wrong with an unkempt vagina :oP

It's available through Amazon, also through Createspace.

The talent is large and I reckon this is the antho of the year. Lily Childs, Erin Cole, Marissa Farrer, Greg Miller, Barry J Northern, and a scutch more.

I'll post the links al together in a big ass yay-day!!!!

Mark did brilliant with Howl, with this one he's gone more than one step further, he's fucking done a march.

New Story and Updates

2010-11-11T05:31:00.000Z

Well, the cushy life has come to the end. Looking for a job again, has to be done I suppose as I reckon the wife won't be too fond of the 'outdoor' life 24-7. But the few weeks have been a great opportunity to get some good editing done on the novel and reckon it'll be ready to pimp in January.

I've a new story up at A Twist of Noir as part of Christopher's great idea that the stories from 600 - 700 should be of the word count. I got the slot of 625 and the stories called Stage Left and you can read it here.

Shits and Giggles

2010-10-07T14:21:00.000+01:00

I've a new story up at Death Head Grin. I'd actually forgotten about it as I submitted it back in May and it's landed now. You can read it here.

Also signed myself up for Nanowrimo this year to give meself a kick up the arse in getting started on the second instalment of The Osseous Box Trilogy(Yeah, I know, not even flogged the first yet lol) I've still a month though before it starts and might actually try for a stand-alone novel. We'll see.

I've also been working on a manuscript checker/formatter. At the moment it checks your manuscripts for cliches, over 2500 in the database so far so you can keep an eye out for such horrid things. It also checks for bad habits, embarrasses you by highlighting the amount of '!'s you bunged in, also all the words that need to be hoofed out, such as the dreaded, 'Like', 'That', 'Every' etc. It also runs a check to make sure you're not repeating yourself with sayings. It's also a text-editor so you can fix all those painful errors and then save it. It has a random name-generator with over 5,000 entries for both first and surnames. It's saves the manuscripts in all major formats so you can open them in Word, Open Office etc. But more about my geek project in a week or so after I use Matt Hilton and Col Bury as my guinea pigs to find bugs and glitches.

A little update

2010-09-30T08:58:00.000+01:00

I'm now officially in Mark Crittenden's 'Their Dark Master' with a story called, 'They, The Discarded' There's still some spots open if your interested. Find the guidelines here. There's already a wealth of talent in it so far. Lily Child, Gregory Miller, Marrissa Farrar, Barry J. Northern etc. It's going to be one mean antho. It'll be sweet as there's no Twilight goombah vampires that sparkle and can go out in daylight just so they can go to high school.

I do think that'll be the last of the anthos I submit to for a while, really need to get back to editing the novel, the break was nice, but time to go back to work. Once of course I see if I can wrangle a place in Erin's 13 Days of Halloween. And thanks to the time difference between here and Yankland I might just make the deadline. Don't forget, Killers, Chillers 'n' Thrillers are looking for Halloween orientated stories, whether they be horror, thriller or crime.

Laters.

A Few Things

2010-09-23T11:03:00.002+01:00

There is something riding upon the oncoming wind. Something I've not mentioned until permission was granted. I blagged a spot in the anthology Toe Tags II, edited by Brian Barnett and William Pauley III. I won't say who else is in it, as they will make announcements soon.

Mark Crittenden has released a teaser for the cover of his upcoming anthology(which is still open, details here)

And as I said I'd dig out a trunk story. This one was one of the first short stories I ever wrote, pretty much the first one I sat back and was proud of.

To Buy a Panacea

Lee Hughes

For Solomon Child there could have been so many ways to sort out his woes. This choice seemed the most appropriate, clean, clinical and supposedly guaranteed to be devoid of screw-ups. The place wasn’t state owned which made it that much more reliable.

The building was a calm affair amidst a storm of flashing-lights and other molesting forms of advertisement. Solomon looked at the sober sign and entered.

The interior was a mimicry of a doctor’s waiting room. The walls boring, the carpet plain, there was a simple low glass table in the centre with a spray of magazines atop it.

The far wall was home to the receptionist’s cubby-hole. Solomon headed over. He spied the only other customer, a man sat over in the far corner. The man was absently flicking through one of the complimentary magazines. Solomon noticed the man had yellowed skin. His body emaciated, withered to nothing more than bones in a loose sack of skin.

Solomon pushed the buzzer. The partition slid back to expose a high-haired, heavily lip glossed receptionist. She held a finger out gesturing for ‘one moment please’. It took only a couple of moments before he realised that she was conducting a personal call. If this had been a receptionist from his business, she would have gotten the old heave-ho.

She wound down the conversation and gifted Solomon with her full attention, or a close approximation of it. “Good morning and how might I help you?”

Solomon replied, “I have an appointment.”

“Name please?”

“Solomon Child.” He watched as the receptionist went to work on her keyboard.

She looked up. “You’re early Mr. Child, so if you’d like to take a seat, Mr. Ramshield will see you as soon as he can.”

Solomon took a seat in the opposite corner to the sick man. He glanced at the magazines; he was in no mood to read the idle chit-chat of word bothering columnists. He stared at his shoes instead.

He heard a door open and looked up.

Solomon watched as a grey-haired man in a finely cut suit walked in. The suited man stood aside to allow an elderly gentleman who looked one more heart murmur or bout of flu away from the grave to pass him by. The old man didn’t look too bothered about getting to the dark end of his twilight years. Hanging on his right arm was a woman that made Solomon look twice.

The old man nodded his thanks and made a hasty departure with his floozy in tow.

The suited man took stock of his waiting area. He looked first at Solomon and then over to the man with the yellow skin, “Mr. Harrow?”

The man wearily nodded.

The door opened, Solomon looked up and saw the suited man there again. Solomon watched and waited to see the yellow man surface through the doorway. After a few seconds, it became clear that the yellow man wasn’t going to put in an appearance.

“Mr. Child?” The suited man asked.

“Yes.” Solomon stood up, walked over and extended his hand. The suited man gave it a sturdy shake. “I’m Mr. Ramshield, care to follow me?”

Solomon nodded and followed.

The corridor was only short. It was a little more ostentatious than the waiting room had been. Paintings upon the walls. The carpet was of a thicker weave and there was a definite scent in the air, not so much perfume, but a homely relaxing scent.

Mr. Ramshield pushed open the door. “After you Mr. Child.”

“You can call me Solomon.”

“Then you can call me Winston if you’d like.”

Solomon didn’t reply and entered the large office of Winston Ramshield, proprietor of Your Own Time.

Ramshield’s office was impressive. It was wall-to-wall splendour and floor to ceiling opulence.

“Please take a seat Solomon.”

Ramshield sat in his own high backed leather chair. It proudly sang of the death of a dozen animals. Ramshield constructed a tent with his fingers. “Not to cast aspersions or anything of the likes, but I really would like to confirm your identity before we continue with any business proceedings.”

“Of course.” Solomon was already leaning forward. Ramshield smiled and absently patted a button on his desk. From the centre of the mahogany monstrosity a retinal scanner arose. Solomon leant a little further forward and set his eye up against it. The glowing red line swept up and down twice and made a retreat back into the depths of its wooden nest. Ramshield watched the results as they showed up on the embedded monitor before him. He gave a nod and then asked, “Would you be against a blood test for added confirmation?”

Solomon sighed. “Look Mr. Ramshield, I’ll stare into your scanner, I’ll bleed into your needle and I’ll piss in a pot if it proves who I am.” He took a deep breath. Anger was a high rent emotion that he could sorely afford. In acquiescence he lifted his forefinger and waited for the arrival of the swing-arm with the needle on the end. Solomon didn’t flinch as it drew blood. Again

Ramshield waited for the results.

He smiled. “All is well. Now I guess we can be candid about what you want from us, and also about what we expect from you, do you perhaps have any questions for me?”

Solomon looked around the room. The walls were home to photographs, each of them framed. “What are the limits?” he asked.

Ramshield was pleased at the question. “Here, permit me to show you a few of our proudest moments since the advent of legalised euthanasia.” Ramshield arose and walked over to the far wall. He waited until Solomon was standing beside him. He pointed at one photograph in particular. “Do you recognise him?”

“Vaguely, he used to be famous?”

“He was famous, right up until, and actually into his death. You see he was entering into his golden years, his last album sold poorly, and the mere thought of ending up a nobody after forty years of adulation was something he could not even begin to consider. So he came to us, and as we always do. . .we delivered.” He emphasised this by pushing a button on the frame of the photograph which brought the scene to life.

The songster was giving it his all before the crowd of baying fans, albeit older fans. The same ones that had put posters of him up on their walls when they had been teenagers and fingered away their youth to him. Now the fans were fifty and sixty and still sweating, crying, screaming and throwing dampened knickers at him. The show took a turn for the macabre when the star began to struggle and fumbled the lyrics, valiantly he fought on. He clenched his right arm to his side as the pain got worse. Then his coronary system burst like a grim firework and he was in the midst of a full-blown heart attack. Solomon watched as the man died upon the stage. His adoring fans screaming and weeping. That performer had gone just the way he had wanted. Ramshield broke the silence, “We’ve done more elaborate executions of our business than that, pardon the pun, it was not intended.” He beckoned with his head back towards the vast desk. Solomon sat back down and waited for Ramshield to talk.

Ramshield smiled. “How rude of me, I’ve not even offered you any form of refreshment. I do apologise, I do often get carried away, I am after all a man that takes pride in his work, perhaps I can offer you a tipple?”

“I don’t drink, well not any more.”

Ramshield nodded. “Then let us get to business, would you like to tell me why you have come to seek our special services?” Ramshield eased himself back in his seat, hoping to hear a long tale. Solomon was of a different mind. He reached inside his jacket and drew out his wallet. From its folds he brought free a photograph, wordlessly he handed it over. Ramshield took it and looked into the face that stared back at him. “She is very pretty.”

“Was,” Solomon corrected, as he held his hand out for his photograph back. Ramshield let the silence hang in the air for a few seconds and then ventured, “So how were you thinking of going?”

“A car,” Solomon said.

Ramshield nodded. He looked disappointed. He was obviously hoping for something befitting his hall of fame.

However, a client was a client and profit was profit. “Perhaps it’s time we went over your ideas then, you’ve obviously come here with something in mind.”

The anguish within could finally be freed. All fixed with a wish and a large sum of money. Solomon told Ramshield his wish. He explained how he wanted it to be done and more importantly when. Solomon didn’t haggle over price, it wasn’t a car he was purchasing, there was no discount for cash, no floor mats to be thrown in for free. He did though have an extra question, “What happened to Mr. Harrow?”

“What does it matter? He got what he paid for,” Ramshield said with narrowed eyes.

“Did he get to go the way he wanted, did he get his money’s worth?”

“We have such a thing as client confidentiality,” Ramshield said.

Solomon stared at the wall, there wasn’t much in the way of confidentiality going on there.

Ramshield smiled. “Ah, permission was granted for the use of them, on a limited basis of course, but if it clears your curiosity.” He reached down to his side and mooched for a moment in the bin and brought up a spent round of ammunition and dropped it on the table. “He received exactly the service he wanted, now are there any other questions Mr. Child?”

“No.”

Solomon took a deep breath as he left. He was glad it was over. He headed back to his offices.

He entered the one hundred and thirty-eight storeys building that he called his place of work. The people he passed all said polite “Hello’s,” he gave them perfunctory nods. He was after all the one that paid their mortgages, put petrol in their cars and fed their children.

Solomon entered the lift, the moron who worked the buttons pushed the one for the very top. The elevator arrived and Solomon made his exit. His personal assistant was standing waiting for him.

“Mr. Child.”

“Sonja,” he replied, as he walked to his desk. He stopped halfway, turned and reached into his pocket. “I picked this up in the lobby, it belongs to Solomon, be sure he gets it.” He tossed her a wallet.

“I will.” She stood staring at him expectantly.

Henry Child looked at her coldly. “Today would be nice Sonja.”

She scurried out of the room.

Henry Child sat down behind his desk. He pulled out the mirror with which he practiced his smile. The mirror helped guide his fingers in the removal of the contact lenses. Henry admired his own eyes, so brown, so cold and so dead, like autumn leaves that had become lemmings from their trees. Henry smiled, not his practiced one, a real one. Solomon was so weak, how could the company move forward at anything but a crippled limp with Solomon being an equal shareholder. Yes they were twins and shared so much, but Solomon was so weak. The people that worked for them loved Solomon and they loathed him. It was all bent out of shape. He was the driver, the force and the strength. Solomon was the impediment, the backseat driver that always wanted to pull over so as to piss. Henry checked the time; he went to the window.

Henry’s timing was impeccable. Every Tuesday Solomon would, whether it be rain or shine walk over to the park and have himself a stroll.

Henry had been pleasantly surprised at how fast Ramshield had been able to set things up. It was so perfectly orchestrated.

Henry grinned as a stranger walked on the street below and gave his brother a push that shunted him into the way of an oncoming car. The car sped up, Henry’s grin widened. The smile disappeared as fast as it had arrived. “What the?”

The car had come to a halt. He had specifically told Ramshield that he wanted the car to plough into him, or actually into Solomon. And here the car had come to a stand-still and Solomon was perfectly okay, perhaps shaken, but still alive and well and with all his bones in working condition. Ramshield had fucked up thought Henry. He began to seethe. It had cost him a fortune to arrange this panacea.

“Mr. Child.” The voice was calm and deep.

Henry’s heart neglected a beat. He spun, his mouth dropped open. Standing in the doorway was Ramshield. His face like a block of stone, eyes blazing.

Ramshield moved deeper into the office, his cold, furious eyes taking in the décor. “You have made a mistake,” Ramshield said.

Henry gasped, “I think you’ll find you’re the one that’s fucked up!”

“I don’t think so, I very rarely make mistakes, and I can assure you of that. You must understand Mr. Child that you made a mistake by thinking I am a hired gun, and you made more of an error of thinking me for a fool.”

“I passed your tests!” Henry protested.

“Not entirely you didn’t.’ Ramshield saw the contact lenses on the desk. “You did past the retinal scan, and seeing as you share the same blood and genetic make-up your blood did match, you are forgetting one thing, one major mistake.”

“What?”

“Human error.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I knew you for an impostor as men very rarely wish to die twice, the real Solomon Child, your brother, came to see me three months ago after the death of his wife telling me he wanted to die, and so I arranged it. Sense must have returned and he called it off, non refundable of course. So when you approached, I knew there to be something ill in the wind”

“So what are you going to do now?” Henry demanded.

“A man’s business is only as good as his reputation.”

Solomon scurried back onto the pavement. His heart launched up into his throat. He stared at the face of the driver who had very nearly wiped him out. The man smiled, winked and then drove off. Solomon watched the car become smaller. Solomon could feel a chuckle being born in his throat. A few months ago he would have relished being emptied from the world. But that was then. Alice would want him to continue, not to take the coward’s way out. He stopped his ponderings when he heard a piercing scream from a bystander. Solomon looked over and saw that a good half-dozen people were staring upwards with horror. Solomon looked up, his eyes widened. Henry was plummeting to earth, arms and legs flailing and his voice a desperate holler for help.

Solomon closed his eyes at the moment of impact, not wanting to see his only sibling sprawled and twisted upon the pavement. Solomon fell to his knees beside the warped and fractured body of his brother and began to weep. Whilst one hundred and thirty-eight storeys up a certain Mr. Ramshield picked up the contact lenses and was busy writing the suicide note. After all Mr. Child had paid for a death and a death was what had been delivered.

The End

Blog changes

2010-09-22T16:25:00.000+01:00

As you can tell, updated the way my blog looks. Main reason was it was cluttered but I noticed something major was missing. I didn't have a blog-roll. So it only seemed fair, as most of you lot have, and added me.

Writing wise. Hatcheting the novel with the good old, 'Does this move the story along?' if not slash, 'Am I just wittering here?' if so slash, and taking out all the words that break the flow of sentences that you rarely realise are there, I listed them in a post the other month.

On the horizon. Had some great input on my story for Their Dark Master and have listened to all the notes and advice and implementing them before I submit. Started a story for the TKnC Halloween Fest. Definitely wanna submit one to Erin Cole's 13 Days of Horror, last years one was proper good fun.

Will also be dipping into the 'Ye Olde Trunk' before the week is out in case any of you get bored of playing Farmville on Facebook.

Laters, Lee

The Trunk is Open Again

2010-09-15T16:13:00.001+01:00

Been letting the novel settle a little. So have been writing and polishing a story for Mark Crittenden's Their Dark Master anthology which I'll submit tomorrow probably.

That's all really that's been happening so figured maybe it was time for another 'trunk story'

Fishing at the Falls
By Lee Hughes

Sean was making sure that he didn’t pack up any of his old man’s fishing tackle, he’d a bad habit of losing it.

Jason waited outside. “You gonna get a move on?”

“Be out in a minute, making sure I have everything.”

“Come on.” He booted the outside of the shed to illustrate his impatience.

Sean came out with an old, battered school-satchel. The rod didn’t look as though it were fairing much better.

“Bringing your best gear I see,” Jason said, as he headed to the gate.

*

They took a short cut through a field to follow the bypass down to the harbour then followed the source of the water. Both were in the mood for fresh-water fishing. Neither of them had a license. Then again, it was only illegal if you were caught.

They went beneath the railway bridge and followed the stream along.

Jason gabbed away. “Getting a knock-off copy of the new Batman film on Monday, you coming around to watch it?” he asked as he kicked the head off a plant.

“Yeah, sure. How far along do you want to go?”

“Up past the waterfall?”

“Sure.” Sean shifted the satchel over to his other shoulder.

*

After two miles they began to hear the waterfall. It wasn’t large or impressive at roughly seven foot between the top and the splash but it broke up the monotony of the river.

The waterfall was just around the bend but a giggle made them stop. The boys looked to each other and dropped down so they could creep around the gorse and see who was giggling.

The giggle was coming from a woman. She was waist deep with no top on and the water tumbled behind her. To Sean it reminded him of a picture from a nudie calendar. Jay held a finger up for silence, they moved a little closer to get a better view.

This was the first time either had seen breasts for real, bar the television and internet. Though Jay was adamant that he’d gotten to see a bit of Kayley Howard’s left-tit in swim-class last year when she’d jumped into the water; neither was sure it counted as Kayley was in the mong class.

Sean mouthed the word “wow” and Jay nodded in full agreement.

Sean could see a mass of fish swimming about her with a seeming lack of fear.

Jay figured he could happily stay and watch her all day. They kept nudging each other with their elbows; Jay cupped his hands out in front to mimic huge breasts. Sean tried not to laugh.

Sean’s eyes widened, he paled a little. Jay turned back to the water, his hands dropped and he found the word “fuck” hanging in his mouth.

The fish burst into a frenzy. The woman started plucking them from the water and bit their heads clean off.

The boys didn’t know where to look or what to do. Entrails decorated the woman’s tits, spoiling it for the boys. Sean wanted to do a runner; Jay grabbed on to his jumper and shook his head. This was just too freaky to leg it, they’d never get to see anything like it again, ever.

The woman gathered up the dozen or so floating remains and dived beneath the water in the direction of the waterfall. She never came back up for air. Though the boys did get a flash of a few green things that looked a little like tentacles.

“Holy shit,” Jay said.

“That can not have happened.” Sean kicked in.

“Well what else was it?”

“She chewed on live fish.” Sean was still spying all the floating fish heads.

Jay started cussing. He yanked his mobile phone out of his pocket, it had completely slipped his mind to record it on his phone, it could have made him famous.

“I wanna film her, or whatever it is. It could make us a fortune.”

“You don’t even know where she went,” Sean said.

Jay looked at him as though he were a complete Muppet. “It’s a river Sean, not even deep, she didn’t go that way.” He pointed downstream to make his point.

In unison they turned and looked at the miniature waterfall. Jay walked closer to it. “There must be a hole behind the water.”

“And?” Sean wondered.

“And? It means she must be in there.”

“Yeah, she must be in there, a complete lunatic. We’ve just seen her topless chewing the heads off live fish. I think we need to go and report her.”

“Who to? The vet? Those weren’t proper legs, they were green.”

“Maybe they’re infected. You don’t know, gangrene or something.”

“Whatever!” Jay started to strip off.

“You're shitting me? You serious?”

“Yup. One hundred percent. Give me your sandwich bag.” He had his shoes off and was working on his belt.

“Why?”

“My phones not waterproof.” Jay continued to disrobe, all the way down to his under-crackers and then put his trainers back on. Sean dug through his satchel for the lunch he'd brought and took the sandwiches out and tossed it over.

Sean prayed that no one came along. It looked dodgy; him stood there with Jay practically bollock-naked whilst he watched on holding a sandwich.

Jay was already lowering himself into the water. He shuddered at the temperature. “Christ almighty, the water is fucking freezing.”

Sean thought 'no shit, it’s January you buffoon'.

Jay waded slowly over towards the waterfall. He called over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m only going to have a quick look.”

“Whatever. I think you’re. . .” It was too late, Jay was beneath the water.

In the past they had done some dumb things. But this, this definitely had to take the biscuit. He looked at his watch and counted the seconds.

The seconds strung into minutes, after five of them Sean started to worry. At ten minutes he began to root through his pockets for his phone, it was time to call the emergency services.

Sean was about to thumb in the numbers when Jay’s headed poked through the falling water. Jay disappeared into the waterfall again. Sean didn’t know what to do. It must have been safe as Jay had returned and stuck his head out to beckon him in. It was fair enough being safe but Sean didn’t know if he wanted to go mooching in an underwater cave where a nut-job was hiding out from normal society.

When Jay didn’t come back out he knew he was going to have to join him. He bit his lip and started to get out of his own clothes.

*

Jay’s statement about the water being cold was an understatement. It was freezing, within seconds Sean could feel his dick hiding up behind one of his kidneys.

He got to the waterfall. He wasn’t as brave, or as stupid as Jay so he didn’t dive under blindly. He reached through the white tumbling water, trying to feel where the hole was that led to the hidey-hole.

He could feel wet stone wherever he patted. Then the stone was gone and he went off balance and toppled. He was in the hole and doing a panicky Alice down the mutant hole.

The hole was too small for him to turn around in; he had no option other than to continue. The tunnel was only ten-foot in length and then he was free of it. Just as well as panic had begun to get the better of him. He got through the tunnel unscathed; it was the eight foot drop onto hard rock that hurt.

He landed on his ass-bone and began rolling on the floor rubbing at the throbbing pain. Sean wanted to scream in agony but thought better of it. He sat up and looked around. Scant light made it through the tunnel giving the cave a dusk-like quality.

The cave wasn’t big, twenty-foot by thirty. The only thing in there was himself and half of Jay’s body. From the belly-button up was missing.

Sean knew it was Jay by the shoes.

Sean did a silent screamed and ran as fast as he could, jumping to reach the lip of the tunnel. It was eight-feet up and he was five-feet tall, he failed. Tears welled up in his eyes and he could feel racking sobs growing in his chest. It was through the tears that he could make out Jay’s phone. He grabbed it and saw that it was still on video-mode. He hit play and wished he hadn’t.

Jay had filmed the woman; she was smiling for the camera as she came closer. Jay had made sure to get plenty of footage of her rack. The woman grew closer; Jay had panned down with the camera to record the green tentacle things that she had in place of legs. It was at that moment the angle of the recording shifted, blurred and seemed to spin.

The camera had landed in the direction of Jay. Sean got to watch the woman-thing dive at Jay and start biting into his belly with the same enthusiastic approach she'd applied to the fish. Sean hit stop when he realised how the monster had enticed him to enter through the waterfall and into the nightmare.

Sean dialed the emergency services but there was no signal. He did the only thing he could think of; he started for the lip of the tunnel again. There was no way to reach it and nothing to stand upon. He wondered if there was another way out. But to find that meant going deeper into the cave, and going deeper into the cave meant getting closer to the woman-thing.

Sean ventured deeper, the feeble light from the tunnel refused to follow him. He turned the on the phone’s permanent flash. It would drain the battery but he had no choice.

He tried not to think about what he’d do if attacked.

The ground began to slope downwards which didn’t impress Sean; if anything he wanted to be heading upwards. Upwards meant nearer to the surface and safety, downwards meant darkness and peril. Sean kept stopping every few feet to listen; he didn’t want to blunder in on danger.

He stopped again, this time sure he could hear something other than the drum of his own panicked heartbeat. It was the noise of someone stepping in something moist, making a wet squelching sound.

He killed the light and found himself blind. In that purest of black it was as though the cave had swollen to nearly the size of a small country. Time and space no longer had any meaning; all that mattered was that he could hear.

Sean sent out both hands as he tried to find some wall to guide him. The walls were damp, the air was becoming muggy, it tasted antique in his mouth and limp in his lungs.

After an eternity Sean stopped and blinked, was it just a blind-man’s fanciful wish to have vision, to distinguish between shapes? He was sure there was a dull glow up ahead.

The cavern curved, it wasn’t wishful thinking, there was light ahead and like a moth he was drawn to it. Sean peeked around the corner. Algae was giving off the weak glow. It might have been weak but there was enough of it to show the chamber, to show what had been causing that disgusting sound.

It was the woman-thing in all her misshapen glory. Her human half was holding Jay’s lifeless torso while her rough-looking tentacles were splayed to show she was laying a pulsating egg inside the cavity of Jay’s waist. Sean put a hand over his mouth, the bile in his stomach fought for an escape route.

The woman-thing didn’t notice the voyeur that was peeking in on her mating ritual. From deeper in the chamber, over in the far corner came the sound of light splashing. Sean looked past the woman befouling his friend to the monstrosity in the underground rock pool. It had tentacles just like the woman-thing. But whereas the woman looked half-human this thing was all beast. Above the riot of tentacles played a half submerged glob of soft squid-like flesh with a ring of eyes around its bulbous crown. Everything about it was irregular, lumps protruding here and there like a thumb hit by too many hammers.

The woman-thing was too caught up in bestial debauchery, it was the monster in the pool that spied the intruder. Folds of wet skin began to move and undulate. The folds receded to showcase a beak of dazzling proportions. The top and bottom click-clacking together and demanding its servant’s attention.

The woman-thing looked up, first to the horror and then to the intruder. The woman-thing slid off the remains of Jay and moved with a surprising speed towards Sean. The many tentacle-like limbs propelling her along.

Sean turned and ran back the way he came, knowing that it would be a dead-end just as before. He thumbed the flash back on the phone and chased after the light it provided.

He burst into the original chamber, spotted the waste of Jay and this time had an idea. He grabbed it, ignoring the reality of what he was doing and dragged it over to beneath the high-up exit. Jay’s remains became a macabre step. Sean jumped and this time he managed to grab at the lip of the tunnel. He was glad he didn’t weigh much and had little trouble pulling himself up and into the tunnel.

Never had he wiggled so vigorously. He exploded out of the tunnel to freedom, ignoring the drop into shallow water that winded him. He scrambled for the river bank and only when he’d dragged himself out of the water did he look back. The woman-thing was there, her head poking out through the curtain of water. Her mouth open showing a beak behind her pouting lips.

Shivering he grabbed up his clothes and ran. Jay’s phone was dead from the spill out of the tunnel and into the river. He clambered into his jeans and rummaged in the pocket for his own. He got through to the emergency services.

*

By the time that the police arrived he was dressed. His legs went weak as the officers tried to get information out of him. He stammered and choked on his words. One of the officers took his shoes and socks off and waded into the river and checked out the waterfall.

“There is a small hole here,” the officer said, whilst the detective on the riverbank scratched at his bald head.

“Feeling up to getting your head wet Wakefield?”

Wakefield shrugged and went into the falling water. He called out, “It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze.”

“Just don’t go getting stuck.’

Detective Treacher turned back to Sean. “You might as well take a seat lad.”

Sean didn’t argue.

Quarter of an hour later Wakefield did come out, he shook his head.

“Anything at all?” Treacher asked.

Wakefield waded to the bank, climbed out and gratefully accepted the towel.

“Sod all. There is a cave behind there, but there’s nothing in it. I searched from one end to the other, the kids are screwing with us.” Wakefield went to get dressed.

Treacher turned, any friendliness disappeared. “Where’s your pal hiding?”

Sean couldn’t find any words.

Treacher tilted his head upwards and hollered. “Jason Young, you better come out from where you’re hiding now, you’re wasting police time!” Treacher counted to ten and no one had come out of hiding.

Treacher shrugged. “I’ve got your address, I’ll be popping around to yours and Jason’s to have a word with your parents.”

Sean blinked. “You’re not doing anything else?” He couldn’t believe it.

Treacher took a breath to calm himself. The one thing he hated was time wasters, that and kids, put them both together and he had zero patience.

“Listen, and listen good. You and your little friend aren’t gonna play me for a dickhead I can promise you that. You think I’m gonna believe any of that shit you just came out with about monsters and murder and a fuck-ton of bullshit in-between the two? Think I’ve got nothing better to do? Next time you go fucking about in the water do us all a favor and see how long you can hold your breath for, keep it up until everything goes dark,” he raised his voice, “everyone back to the station, wasted enough time here.”

Sean was completely dumbfounded. He watched as the police headed off. He didn’t care that the police were going to go to his house to have a word with his parents. They would soon realize that it was no joke and that something really fucking terrible had happened to Jay. He looked back to the waterfall. It was a puzzle, the police officer had gone in there and had found nothing, he’d even taken a torch in with him. There were a few possibilities, the first being that he hadn’t bothered going in deep enough, the second one was the woman-thing had gathered up her mess and had gone and hidden in the pool.

Sean put his head in his hands, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair. Jay was dead, no one was going to believe him and the worst part about it was it actually was the sort of prank that Jay would probably pull.

Sean knew what he needed to do, and if meant more risk then that was fine. He looked at the time on his phone, it was just past noon. His father would still be out on the golf course and his mother worked Saturdays, if he was quick he could get home, get what he needed before either of his parents got back.

*

Sean was back at the waterfall within the hour with a few odds and sods. An old woman walked past with a knackered looking dog, she smiled at Sean and carried on. Sean put the extra gear he’d brought into the satchel and covered it with a bin-liner.

Once he was back down to his underwear he ventured into the water. This time it didn’t seem so bad, but knowing about it didn’t stop him from taking a quick piss in the river through nerves.

He pushed the satchel through first and then climbed in after it. Before he got to the end he tore off the plastic and opened the satchel. He got the can of deodorant out and a lighter he had taken from the mantelpiece. He took a deep breath and then sprayed the mist of perfumed gas into the path of the flame. It got furnace hot in the tunnel, but at lease he knew if there was anything waiting at the other end it now had no retinas.

He moved on, fumbling to get the torch out of the satchel. He shone it about the first cavern, empty. He wished he'd come through backwards, there was no way to land softly and safely when you were coming out of a narrow hole eight-foot up head-first.

He hit the ground with a thud; his arse-bone was intact this time. Sean got to his feet and began tipping out the contents of the satchel. He’d prepared the fishing line with hooks so that at every inch there was a nasty triple-headed hook. He’d added some weights to it and he just hoped that it worked. Sean had it clear in his head what he needed to achieve. He needed to incapacitate it long enough to take a picture or get the police back, hopefully both. He headed back towards the monstrosity and its wench.

The cavern with the pool was empty. No sign of the woman-thing, no monstrosity, no leftovers of his best friend.

Nothing.

At the edge of the pool he shone the light onto the surface.

Nothing.

He turned his back and began to walk away, he would just have to settle for whatever the authorities threw at him.
A dozen feet away from the pool he spun around and threw the line with all the weights and hooks so that it spread out. The woman-thing had snuck out of the pool once his back had been turned. The woman-thing continued, or at least tried to continue. Pure animal rage blistered in her eyes as the hooks dug into the meat of her tentacles and the twine tangled up and restricted her movements. She click-clacked the beak that hid behind human lips in the direction of Sean as she tried to free herself, only managing to cause herself more pain in the process.

Sean didn’t hesitate; he got out the lighter fuel and gave her a good dousing. He quickly realised there was no point in trying to catch the beast. It would tell as much of the truth dead as it would alive.

The click-clacking sounded like fast maracas when he set the flame to her and she became a freak fireball. The monstrosity at hearing such distress broke the surface of the large rock pool. Its noise far louder than the din of the woman-thing. The monstrosity’s tentacles journeyed out of the water and onto the rock, purposefully beginning to drag itself out, rocking backwards and forwards trying to gather enough momentum to propel itself free to attack.

It became clear an attack was not what the monstrosity was trying to achieve. It was getting the water from the rock pool to spill its stone banks and wave towards its burning servant. The more it rocked the closer the water got. Sean rushed at the woman-thing with his long filleting knife and parked it in her head, burning his hand in the process. The woman-thing’s click-clacking stopped immediately. The monstrosity on the other hand went into overdrive at the destruction of its servant. It sent out tentacle after tentacle towards Sean. He in turn slashed out with the knife, he realised he was only causing little nicks, for a beast that size they were nothing more than paper-cuts.

Sean backed away.

The blood was rioting through his veins, the adrenalin rocketing through him. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, all he knew was that he had to act. He delved into the satchel and got the bit of pipe and the firework. Jay had taught him this trick two years ago. He loaded the firework into the pipe, allowed it to slip down until the fuse was out of the bottom and lit it. Quickly he took aim at the monstrosity. With a whistle and a whizz it shot out of the piping and hit the monstrosity with enough velocity for it to tunnel into its soft flesh. Sean turned, closed his eyes and covered his ears.

Even with his full safety precautions of hands over ears the bang was thunderous as the noise had nowhere to escape and just echoed and bounced about for far too long. He turned hoping that he had done enough damage to the monstrosity. The thing was laying still, its soft flesh rent open by the cheap firework. Its beak now doing a lazy dying click-clack soon followed by no click-clack.

The adrenaline ebbed away and Sean sank to the floor beside the rock pool and sighed. There could be no denying what had happened when he brought the police down this time. Everything would come out, no one could deny anything, it didn’t stop Jay from being dead though.

A hand came out of the pool and touched him on the shoulder, Sean nearly jumped out of his skin.

*

Treacher waited until the door was shut. The chicken-shit kids hadn’t even had the nerve to turn up at home and face the music.

“Wakefield.”

“Yeah Boss?” He asked as they walked back to the car.

“Where do you think those idiots are hiding out?”

“Doesn’t take a genius.”

“Nope, it doesn’t. Let’s go and have a look. I’m in the mood for bringing those pair home personally.”
Treacher got in the car and slammed the door shut.

*

Treacher nodded to Wakefield.

Wakefield sighed, he’d already been in the cold water once. He knew better than to argue with Treacher. As Treacher was a complete bastard when he was in a good mood, and at this moment he was in a bad mood.

Regardless Wakefield started to strip.

Wakefield was sure that by the time he got home in the evening he would be riddled with pneumonia. He braced himself to go through the waterfall when a face popped through. Wakefield sighed with relief, it was the boy Sean.

“I think you. . .” Wakefield stopped there.

Sean peeled back his lips, click-clack.

The Gawkers

2010-08-31T07:00:00.004+01:00

Another little short for anyone that's bored and wishes to while away a little idle time when you really could be doing something more useful.

The Gawkers

By Lee Hughes

Tuesday

The carriage lights blinked. Hazel was glad there was a seat free, she’d been on her feet all day.
Hazel knew the rules of the 'Tube'; you didn’t make eye-contact with any other commuters. She wished the woman opposite knew the unwritten rules. She was sat there, staring as though it was her job. The woman was flanked by a passenger on either side; they were ignoring the woman’s existence.
Hazel stared at the floor. You never knew who might be lunatic enough to launch an unprovoked attack. Everyday you heard stories of people being stabbed and beaten to death for no real reason.
She couldn’t help but sneak an occasional look. Keeping her head tilted downwards and lifting her eyes. The woman was still staring, not even bothering to blink.

The train stopped and a man got on and sat next to Hazel. She was polite enough to shove up a little.
The woman still stared.

After another few stations, the popular ones; the train began to empty until there were scarcely a half-dozen passengers in the carriage. The lunatic woman was still there and diligent in her chore of staring.

Two more stops and it would be Hazel’s turn to disembark. The man sitting next to her moved closer, though not by much. “Get off at the next station. Trust me,” he said.
Hazel glanced at him. He was clean shaven, suited and with a briefcase clamped between his feet. He was purposely not looking at the staring woman. Hazel didn’t know what to do. The next stop after this one would be hers. What would be the point in getting off a stop early?
The train began to slow as it worked towards the station. The man beside her got up and walked towards the door.

He turned.

His eyes pleaded.

Hazel didn’t want to get up. She’d heard about people being tricked and ending up dead on a waste-ground with bits missing or fiddled with. She glanced at the staring woman. That hollow look of madness helped to make her mind up.

She got up and the suited man looked relieved.

The doors whooshed closed and the train moved off into the darkness. Hazel asked, “What’s this about?” She watched the train swallowed by the tunnel.

“I’m relieved you got off the train. I didn’t mean to scare you. But I’m a doctor, not that you need to be one to know the woman across from you was dead and the men on either side were propping her up.” The doctor was fishing for his phone.
*

The police asked them some questions. They sent a unit on ahead to the next station to check things out. Hazel and the doctor; his name was Frederick were seated on one of the platform benches. Neither knew each other well enough to make anything more than idle chit-chat.

A police officer came over. He blew out air, “Some colleagues got on at the next station and everyone on there was very much alive and well.”

“But…” the doctor said.

The officer held a hand up, “Maybe she was one of these that sleeps with their eyes open. I had an elderly relative that did that.” The officer gave a shrug and walked off.

Dr. Frederick looked to Hazel apologetically, “It seems as though I may have dragged you from your train prematurely, and over nothing. I apologise. Please, I’ll be getting a cab the remainder of my journey. Permit me to see you safely to your destination. It’s the least I can do.”

Hazel smiled. It really was a nice gesture, but no. The next train pulled in. That was her escape route.

“Thanks. But I’ll just hop on this train. The station’s only around the corner from my house.” She edged her way over to the slowing train.

“Are you quite sure?” The doctor asked.

“Yeah, but thanks.”

“A pleasure, and once again, my sincere apologies.” He lifted his briefcase in a gesture of farewell.
Hazel got on the train just as the doors were closing. Another ten minutes and she’d be able to get home, put her feet up and forget all the nonsense that had just happened. Hazel didn’t have to worry about there not being a seat. The only people in the carriage besides her were three men. The men were sat in a row. The one in the middle sat and stared forward. Just like the woman had. The men on either side didn’t smile.

One opened his mouth. Words came out, though his lips didn’t move.

“Sit down,” said the man, as though he were a ventriloquist.

Hazel could feel her whole body begin to shake. She didn’t know what else to do other than to follow the man’s demand.

Hazel moved to seat herself.

The man spoke again, his lips locked in place like he’d had a stroke. “Sit in front of us.”
Hazel didn’t want to sit there. She decided to give running a try. Maybe to the next carriage and pray there would be people that could help her, provide some form of rescue, or haven. She wished she’d taken the doctor up on his kind offer. She made for the doors. They opened. Another two men stood there. Faces locked in an expression of being noncommittal.
“Sit down,” one said, his lips static.

Hazel backed away. The carriage was barren but for the four strange men and the catatonic, or dead man that was parked between them.

There was no room for her to think about escaping. The standing two flanked her until she was seated. The one to her left took the window seat. The other ushered her into the centre.

She was sandwiched in with nowhere to go. She begged them to let her go. In unison they shook their heads. The one beside her drew something from within the folds of his coat and stuck her in the arm with it. She didn’t even have a chance to flinch before it infiltrated her bloodstream and galloped through her body. The reaction was like a slap. There was a slight shudder and then her whole body went still. Her eyelids sagged as though held down as if weighted. Nothing worked. She couldn’t move her hands. Her feet were concreted in place; her head locked solid as though captured in a medical brace.

She tried a scream. She was sure she could hear it in her head, but something was stopping it from leaving her mouth. All she could do was stare at the man who stared back, like a game of ‘Who blinks first, loses’, she had a feeling they were both going to lose.

Hazel felt the train slow and halt at her stop, the last of the stations. From there she had no idea where the train went, whether or not they had depots. She knew she was about to find out. She could imagine the other passengers in the other carriages getting off disembarking of her predicament. A moment of hope sprung to the front of her mind. Surely a conductor would come through checking that all of the passengers had gotten off, surely one would.
One didn’t.

She couldn’t cry in her catatonic state, her screams were for her own private audience. How she wanted to scream, more so when the lights went out and the trained pulled away for its final jaunt to wherever.
*
The train halted once more.

Hands reached beneath her armpits and lifted her up. The men were strong and carried her through the train with ease. There was nothing to see in the darkness, she could feel the breeze of movement entering her mouth. She was lifted from the train and through a maintenance door.

Light gradually returned the further she was carried. She could see again, though there was nothing of any real worth to see. The tunnel was made from uniform bricks and had nothing to make it colourful. It was just a length of drabness illuminated by sparsely littered lights.

She was carried through another door and down some stairs. The men that carried her never seemed to tire of their burden. The men stopped and turned. Hazel got to stare at the other man that traded his stare, for hers. He was carried in the same manner. The lighting grew brighter.

Her brain couldn’t register what it was seeing. It couldn’t be real, there had to be something wrong with her mind. Some brain-wiring had burnt out or had gotten crossed. Anything had to be better than the truth.

She watched them, they were anything but human.

The things were thin.

Elongated fingers ushered newly awakened prisoners into a chamber. Hazel was set down upon the floor. The other inert man placed next to her. One of the aliens came over with a novel device that looked like a bastardised syringe and stuck the man with it. Slowly his arms began to move again, fluid movement rippled through his whole body until all of him was free of the deviant hibernation.

The man got up and didn’t fight, he didn’t do much of anything other than allow himself to be led towards the glowing chamber. The strange being moved towards Hazel with the oddity and was about to poke her when one of the human 'seeming' beings rested a hand upon its bony shoulder. The human pointed to his neck where a tear had appeared. Through the rent in human dermis grey skin could be seen. The alien nodded. The damaged human withdrew a device that had an animated blade that shimmered. Hazel wanted to push back from it but couldn’t. The swirling blade met her skin. She felt pain like no other as the alien began to separate the skin from her meat. She filled her head with screams and knew only her distant memories would hear them.

Wednesday:

Dr. Frederick boarded the train. It had been a devil of a day, three hypochondriacs and two patients that thought they were better qualified than him. He smiled when he noticed the familiar face of the woman he had inadvertently forced to leave the train the day before. He went and sat in the seat across from her.

Another story: Cu Sith and the Mother's Milk

2010-08-28T07:28:00.001+01:00

Now, I only rarely reprint anything as I think it should stay at its first home. Unless something happens. The Howl anthology will no longer be on sale from the end of the month due to the publisher pulling it and another title. Mark over at Red Skies is going to do a reboot on it seeing as he put so much time into the original and doesn't want it to full fade. But the reboot is going to be about shape-shifters so Cu Sith won't be fitting in and I'll see about getting around to doing one. So figured, I'd bung it up here for those that didn't get a chance to buy a copy. I've actually gone through it, tightening it up and shortening it. I've starting using some editing tips from Matt Hilton, I'd be an idiot not to listen to him. 'Just' 'every' 'little' 'very' 'that' words like that, check their not cluttering up your sentences. I think you'll be amazed at how much you use them without really knowing and hoofing them the fuck out really does make a story flow smoother.

The Cu Sith and Mother's Milk
By
Lee Hughes

Ethan sank to the floor gripping his upper-leg in the hope that it would hinder the flow of blood. He panted as he worked himself free of his jacket and used it as a tourniquet. He tipped back his head and rested it against a wall that was nothing but rubble and tried to catch his breath.

He shook his head. All of this had come about because of a lie, though it was only a white lie. Everyone tells a few fibs when meeting a new girl. After hearing her say how much she loved hill walking he'd declared, "Me too."

She'd beamed, then looked awkward as she said, "Although I've not had much of an opportunity since giving birth." The fact that she was a single mother of a one-year old didn't really faze Ethan.

That was a month ago. Talk had gotten around to going away for the weekend. They'd managed to palm the baby off on Abby's parents for a couple of days. Abby had asked Ethan, "So where do you like walking the best?"

"As long as it's out in the countryside then anywhere." He'd worn a grin, on the inside it was a grimace. He begrudged walking to work, and that was only around the corner.

***

Now he was leant up against a stone wall on the Scottish Highlands with the wind trying to peel the skin clean off of him and his right thigh bleeding from the bite. The beast had dragged Abby off. It had been gentler with Abby. Grabbing her by the hood of her cagoule as if she was a pup and making off into the night with her.

Ethan had tried to give chase though his leg had forbid it. He saw the direction they'd disappeared and was keen to take up the chase. First he needed to get back to the tent and the first-aid kit. Abby had made sure they'd brought everything they'd need in case of unforeseen circumstances. He thought of the beast again and thinking about it brought dread. It had appeared green but that might have been a dishonesty of the moonlight. However, moonlight couldn't alter the size of the thing. It had been the size of a small cow.

It wasn't far to where the beast-thing had attacked them. Ethan had heard the sound of three loud barks and had ventured out to scare it off, taking it for a lowly, wild mutt whilst Abby got dressed. He'd barely been able to turn on the torch before the thing pounced taking him to the ground and sending the torch airborne. The din of deep-throated growls and the snapping of powerful jaws resounded through the halls of Ethan's mind. He'd tried to fight the thing off but knew it to be futile. The moon showed him its eerie, putrid, green coat of matted fur.

He attempted to escape and felt the hound's teeth settle deep into his flesh. The pain of fang scraping bone caused Ethan to come close to passing out. The hound released him and made for the door of the tent. Ethan tried to draw it away by shouting as he scratched at the cold, damp loam. The beast had lost interest in him and sniffed at the zipped up tent.

"Get away from her!" Ethan hollered. The beast continued to worry at the flap.

"What's happening?" Her call from inside.

The noise of Abby excited the hound and it began to run its claws over the canvas.

"Don't open the tent!" Ethan shouted, fumbling about and around himself for something to hurl. All he found was cold, damp ground and despair in abundance. The despair turned to terror as the beast managed to rent a gash in the fabric. He could only watch as the hound impregnated the tent with its dreadful head. The air blossomed with a bloom of screams and snarls.

"Leave her alone!" He yelled. His mind a picture-house that screened scenes of what might be occurring within the tent's confines.

Abby's scream went up a notch; Ethan had more visions of the hound tearing at her, removing bits and pieces as it frenzied. He watched as the huge mutt backed away from the tent, the beast dragged Abby by the hood of her coat. She was flailing and screaming, at least that let Ethan know she was still alive. Ethan tried again to move forward, ignoring the pain as best he could. The hound sensed the movement, paused, dropped Abby, turned, and snarled. Ethan stopped in his tracks, knowing he was in no fit state to try anything. The hound went low on its haunches before turning its attention back to Abby. Ethan could do nothing other than watch as both beast and captive disappeared into the darkness.

Ethan picked up the torch. It had been easy to find as the tube of light still spilled from its end. He crawled into the tent and found everything in disarray. He fumbled through the mess and found her backpack. He shook free all the contents and rifled for the first-aid kit. He steadied himself as he pulled down his pants. His imagination was showing him pictures of gore. Ethan sucked in air and shone the torch on his thigh. He relaxed. There were a good half dozen puncture wounds and he could see their depths with ease but it most certainly wasn't as bad as he had feared.

He made quick work of smearing anti-septic ointment on and then wrapped his thigh as tightly as he could. He pocketed his mobile phone. There was no reception but he hadn't expected there to be, not out in the middle of nowhere. Ethan grabbed up the stick Abby had been using and left the mess. He shone the torch in the direction that the beast had retreated. With a crippled limp he started after them. He couldn't help but wonder why the hound hadn't savaged Abby. Even the attack on himself, the hound had released him after biting.

As he moved he realised he had no real idea where he was. There was nothing else to do but carry on, swinging the beam back and forth and shouting out Abby's name every few strides. He earned a sharp scream and homed in on it, speeding up his pace.

His steps drew him down an incline that became steeper every few feet and closed up on both sides like a tight valley. Twice he stumbled and uttered oaths. Jagged rocks bothered his path. It worried him that her screaming had stopped.

Ethan was sweating heavily by the time he reached the bottom of the claustrophobic passage. He wasn't the fittest at the best of times and the leg injury sapped twice as much energy. He came to a stream, he heard it before he could see it. Its surface sparkled as it met with the torch's beam. He didn't remember seeing the river earlier. The uneasy feeling of getting lost began to feel like a twist in his stomach.

"Abby!" He called.

Silence was his reply.

He shone the light in a sweeping arc. There was nowhere other than across the stream the hound could have gone. He braced himself and stepped into the slow running water. It was deep enough to spill over and into his hiking boots. The water was like ice and Ethan winced. He forded it as fast as he could. "Abby!" This time he garnered what sounded like a low groan off to the east, and sounding not too far away. Hope puckered up inside and he drove himself onwards ignoring the chill inside his boots, the pain in his leg, and the wind that sought to bully him.

The groaning took him to the brink of a copse of trees. The light from the torch didn't offer much, he entered pretty much blind. The trees that crowded him kept the wind at bay. Ethan was wary about shouting out her name, fearful of the hound. He whispered instead, "Abby?" Again, he received that low groan. He knew it to be her voice, it had to be. He ventured deeper, the point of the torch never lingering in one spot for too long.

Ethan followed the low moaning to a small clearing. There was a large enough break in the canvas of foliage above to let the moonlight tumble in painting everything silver. It daubed Abby's still body as she lay upon a mound of earth. Ethan flashed the torch about the clearing. The hound was absent. That at least was something figured Ethan as he hobbled closer. He trained the torch on Abby. He halted. Things were shifting upon her torso, her bare torso. Ethan was rooted to the spot. He counted four small humanlike beings all vying to get a turn at suckling on Abby's tits.

Anger flooded Ethan. He got over to the mound as quickly as he could. He nearly batted them away with the stick but was wary of hitting Abby by mistake. He set aside the stick, reached out, and grabbed one by what seemed a gnarled and stunted wing. He tossed it into the darkness and reached for another. This one he cast away in the same manner. The third and the fourth went in a similar fashion. Ethan fell to his knees, shining the light on Abby. Her breasts looked red and bothered, the nipples still dotted with loosened milk. She was semi-conscious. Ethan shook her gently. "Abby, wake up, Abby."

She made only incoherent mumblings and moaning.
Sounds of distress aired from all directions. It was the miniature monstrosities that he'd plucked from Abby and discarded. For small, ugly creatures they were extremely vocal. Ethan jabbed at the darkness around him with the blade of light from his torch. The light illuminated glowing eyes in the undergrowth. The eerie vocalisation continued as Ethan tried to rouse Abby.
A bark snapped through the air thrice. It came from over on the far side of the clearing. Instinctively Ethan aimed the torch there. From the brush came the head that he had seen earlier.

Just as big and just as ferocious.

Fearlessly it came out into the open. The moonlight caught it and blended with the torchlight and Ethan saw it in all its glory for the first time. He had been right about its size. He had been right about its coat as well. It was a version of green that appeared to glow in the moonlight. Red eyes regarded Ethan. It came forward, low on its haunches, its top lip curled upwards, its bottom lip downturned to displaying large teeth.

Ethan raised the large stick. Relieved this time he had something with which to defend himself. The unearthly hound was uncaring of Ethan and his twig and continued on its lowdown approach. Ethan didn't have a spare hand with which to reach out and shake Abby some more. He begged, "Abby, wake up, for fuck's sake, wake up."

Abby made those same incoherent noises. Ethan had no option. The beast was large, but surely, if he hit it enough and hard enough it could be brought to the ground. Ethan could see that as the only way. The hound would literally dog his steps if he tried to leave with Abby.
The hound was shy of Ethan's swinging distance. Warily it watched the raised stick. Ethan willed it to come closer. He'd have to make the first a good one.

The hound moved forwards a little more. That was all that Ethan needed. He started on the downswing with as much power as he could muster. It got halfway before it went clean off target. The stick left his hands. The critters that had been sucking their fill from Abby had taken to their runt wings and grabbed onto the stick. Now they had stripped him of it. They were as vocal as before, but it was no longer in outrage, it was gleeful.

Ethan looked back to the hound that wasted no time in taking advantage of the opportunity gifted by the deformed creatures. It launched itself at Ethan. Who in turn reached out to intercept the hound. Ethan stood no chance when its full weight landed on him. He went to the ground. Whereas before the hound had bitten once and then released. Such charity was absent. It struck. Its teeth planting themselves in his shoulder, clamping down hard. Ethan screamed and heard the bone that made up his shoulder cave in with a crunch. He looked frantically to the side and saw the four small humanoids dancing as the hound did its worst.

The hound opened its maw, only long enough to switch its bite deeper into the nook where shoulder met neck. It closed its jaws again, this time the teeth finding more throat than shoulder.
Ethan couldn't scream.

He could taste blood in his mouth. He began to choke on it. The hound's bite prevented inhalation. All that came from his mouth was blood. He could hear the wretched song of the small folk as everything faded from grey to midnight.

The hound held Ethan in that embrace long past the time he died.

***
Abby awoke with the kind of headache she usually only had after a night out on the drink. She looked to the side and saw the state of the tent. It looked as though they'd been burglarised. "Ethan?" she asked, spotting that his sleeping bag was empty. She looked towards the front of the tent and saw the large rift in the canvas. Fear began to swell within her. She realised she wasn't wearing a top and pulled Ethan's sleeping bag over herself. There was a twinge of pain as the fabric rode over her breasts. They were sometimes tender from breastfeeding her little one. This morning though it felt as though she'd fed the five thousand. She looked down and saw the bruising over them and that the nipples were raw. She tried to recall the previous night. They'd made love but it hadn't been rough. She couldn't remember anything after that.

She dressed and ventured out of the tent. All there was to see was the tumbledown wall and nothing else.

"Ethan!" Abby shouted for all she was worth.

***

Abby sat in the office with her hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee. They'd sent out the ground team and the helicopter team. The police had been called due to the ruined tent and the blood that she'd found and were being dropped off at their campsite.

The radio operator was watching her warily as he liaised with both teams.

"Nothing? Over" He asked.

"Visibility is at ninety-five percent and we can't spot anything. We're gonna do a loop five miles to the north and circle back. Over."

"Okay. Over."

Abby had been listening. "No sign of him?" She asked, even though she'd heard as much.
The man shook his head. He looked to be heading into retirement with his white hair. His face bore the stains of a lifetime out in the elements, more leather than anything. "Ask you a question?"

"Sure." Abby said.

"It's a little personal."

"Okay." Her eyes narrowed.

"Wondering how I can put this delicately. Are you lactating?"

"What?" Her eyes widened.

"I mean, breastfeeding?"

"I know what it means, why'd you need to know?"

"Are you in discomfort this morning?" He looked to be in discomfort at asking such questions.
Abby looked outraged for a moment, but it was true, she was both those things. She replied, "Yes."
The radio operator got up and walked over to one of the windows. "The Cu Sith is back."

"The what?"

The radioman turned, knowing he'd said too much but couldn't help himself. "A hound, a legend, whatever you want to call it." He moved back to his desk and picked up the radio. "Come in St. Bernard. Over"

A couple of seconds went by before. "I hear you base, what's up? Over"

"I need you to return to base. We need to get the woman back to the lowland. Over"

"Is she ill? Over"

"No. Over"

"Then it'll have to wait. There's another half-hour of light left, we're not gonna waste it. Over."

"Loud 'n' clear. Over" The radioman rubbed a hand over his brow. He made for the door and bolted it. He looked at the windows.

"What's the matter?" Abby asked.

The radioman dug out the flare gun and kept it in his grip. He turned to her. "It has mouths to feed."

"I'm not following."

"The Cu Sith will be back for you, it has mouths to feed."

Abby didn't get to ask another question for the noise of three loud barks sounded from the door and the radioman crossed his chest and said a prayer.

Another trunk story

2010-08-25T10:04:00.000+01:00

Fiddlers Green

By

Lee Hughes

Mary and Tom looked down at their boy Bobby. They’d figured taking him to see the pirate film would have enthralled him. Instead, he looked sullen and crestfallen.

“What’s up, Bobby?”

“Fakers,” was all he said as he kicked at the gravel. His mother put her arm around him. He shrugged it off.

Pirates weren’t like that. They were barbaric, yet clever. What he had just been forced to sit through was complete and utter crap. He used the word in his head. To voice it would earn him a telling off.

His dad tried to pacify him.

“How’s about a chippy supper?”

“Go on then,” he said, it lifted his mood a little.

*
Warren Jones had seen the film too. They’d bumped into each other at the cinema. Bobby had hated the flick. Warren thought that the film was brilliant and was running amok pretending to be a pirate. That embarrassed Bobby. Bobby wore a Jolly Roger bandanna and acted like a real pirate. Warren was acting like a gay version.

“It was a crap film.” Bobby said as he pushed Warren over. Warren clambered up and looked ready to kick the shit out of Bobby. He managed to stop himself.

*

In class a little later, the teacher asked, “Bobby, do you want to get up and tell us about who inspires you the most?” it had been the weekend’s homework assignment.

A bunch of the kids had listed characters from cartoons and films. Bobby got up. He’d prepared a speech.

“Edward Teach, or Blackbeard as he be known. He, be a pirate from a better day, ye filthy Dock-Dogs,” Miss Kyle raised an eyebrow. Bobby continued, “His ship of choice be the Queen Anne’s Revenge. No one be quite certain where he be born. But he be a real living person, a time ago. Unlike the messy characters you lot be speaking of so far. Hollywood crap, ye stupid dogs of fish-wives,”

Miss Kyle was going to cut him off but reigned herself in. The kids were chortling and enjoying it. But any more off-colour words and no matter what. She’d tell him off. A quarter of an hour passed before Bobby finished his diatribe. Ending with the final fact that Teach’s head had been hanged upon the prow of a legitimate vessel.

*

The class had cheered. Miss Kyle, well she was relieved that it was over. Bobby, well he was fuming. The class were supposed to be on Teach’s side. Not that of the government. They were all as dense as Warren Jones was. Bobby sat back down and tightened his bandanna. He piped up with. “None of you lot’ll get to Fiddler’s Green. You’re all a bunch of dicktards,” Miss Kyle looked up. Her eyes widened. “What did you just say?” she bit her lip, calmed herself down and looked to Gary Smith. “Gary, your turn. Who will you be telling us about?”

“Doctor Who, Miss,” Miss Kyle was relieved. Bobby’s speech was a little bit too informative. Gary’s would be more suited to the class. Miss Kyle liked the smart ones. Sometimes, however, the thick ones, the ones that kept their spectacles together with sticky tape. Those ones, they made her life so much easier.

*

Outside of class Warren caught up with Bobby, “What’s Fiddler’s Green?” he asked.

“No point in telling you. You’ll never get there.” Bobby kept on walking. He tightened his bandanna as he went. Warren, his face darkened. “And why not?” He grabbed Bobby’s coat and was about to spin him and thought better of it.

“Because, you can only get to Fiddler’s Green if you’re a pirate.” Bobby spat.

“You’re not a pirate, neither!” Warren hissed.

“More of one than you’ll ever be.”

“Only if it’s an ass-pirate!” Warren hollered. He’d had enough of Bobby Corrin. But Bobby didn’t care. Bobby walked on.

*

Bobby headed down to Scarlet and stared out to sea. He envisioned great ships afloat. All of them majestic, and courting danger, and death, as they plundered the high-seas. Bobby continued along the roughened shore.

*

He swung his stick-cum-cutlass in an imagined battle with the Authorities. They were trying to board and take his vessel. Stones were launched into the sea. Each missile accompanied by an eleven-year-old’s take on what cannon-fire should sound like.

Bobby won the battle. The casualties had been many. The fight was over. He knew his mother would no doubt be in a panic with him for not going straight home from school. Besides, he didn’t mind going home so much anyway. He was getting tired and hungry.

*

With effort he climbed over the rocks and onto the road that shouldered the rocky shore. The only other road user was an old woman who was busily walking her dog. Bobby clambered up and over the wall. His arms and legs ached from the day’s activities. He cut across the fields, garnering a few angry shouts from farmers, but they didn’t bother him. If need be, he’d easily cut them down.

*

His mother was trembling when he came through the door. Then she crumpled and cried.

“Where have you been?” she begged, “You’re father’s out looking for you. Where have you been?”

Bobby, he sat down on a chair whilst his mother faffed about him. She let him loose. “I’d better phone your father. Let him know that your home safe.” She went for the phone.

Bobby wasn’t going to say sorry. Pirates didn’t say sorry. He reached up and took off his bandanna. He never left the house without it. He didn’t want others to see his bald head. His having no hair and his lack of energy were the only things that showed that he had cancer and that he was dying.

*

Bobby was finishing up his supper. His pills were already beside his plate waiting for him.

He looked up as his father entered. His father didn’t look angry. Just relieved. “Where did you go?” his father asked as he seated himself.

“Down to the shore,” Bobby said.

“I checked there first.”

“I was probably on the rocks.”

“You’re gonna turn me into a loony,” his father said it with a smile that was a little forced.

*

It was hard for them as parents, just as it was hard for Bobby to know that he was dying. They had to face each day knowing that if he reached his twelfth birthday then it would be a miracle.

*

The next day was a Saturday. Bobby talked his parents into letting him go out to the shore. He promised he would come straight home if he started feeling sick or tired. He took his time on the way there. He wanted to go a little further than the day before. On a weekday, time was short. The weekends on the other hand offered more than enough time to get to his vessel. It wasn’t that far, but it felt like a hundred miles when his constitution was getting ever feebler.

*

He made it there an hour later. His vessel was grand. Its paintwork was the kind that would instil fear into the enemy’s heart, if they had one. Its hull impregnable and its bow sharp enough to cut more than just waves. Bobby climbed aboard being careful not to put his foot through the many holes of the wreck that took his imagination to far corners of the world.

*

A little while later a voice came from the path.

“Ahoy!” the voice said. Bobby grinned and looked. It was Eli. There wasn’t anything that Eli didn’t know about the sea. Bobby stood up, demanded. “What flag ye be flyin?”

“The Roger of course,” was the old man’s reply,

“Then I be guessing we can parlay.” Bobby sat back down.

Eli set down his rods. “Permission to be boarding ye good vessel, Captain?”

“Granted,” Bobby said with a regal tip of his head. Eli got in and sat down himself down on one of the well weathered boards. He looked to Bobby. “Where be ye setting sail for this day?” was the inquiry.

“There are some things only a crew should know. And even then not always.”

That made Eli chuckle.

*

Eli, had been the one that had told Bobby all about pirates. That had been the day that he had first found the boy, sat aboard the wreck. The boy had been crying. Eli had talked to him. Asked him if he were a pirate, and that he had to be, the manner in which he sat like a captain aboard his boat. Bobby had been all ears. And so Eli had talked. Slowly Bobby’s imagination had been overcome and he had wanted to know more.

So many a Saturday went by with Eli telling him tale, after tale of the sea. Eli lived about half a mile inland in a little cottage.

*

It was only after telling the boy about Fiddler’s Green that Bobby had told him as to what was wrong with his health. And how the doctors had said that they could carry on treating him but it wouldn’t really be fair to him. There would be nothing to gain, only more pain.

*

Bobby, he liked Eli. Mainly because the old man knew that Bobby was dying. Yet he didn’t let it effect the way that they got on. Not the way that everyone else did. One day, somehow, they had gotten around to talking about Heaven and Bobby had said “God must be mad at me for something, so why would I want to go there?”

After that, if there was one question that the boy would always be sure to ask was. It was how you got to Fiddler’s Green. That was the home for pirates where the fiddles never ceased and the dancing never stopped. Bobby had to make sure that he knew the way.

*

The way to Fiddler’s Green. Eli had told him the way one Saturday was this.

“You get to shore. Grab up your oar and walk inland until you meet someone that doesn’t recognise what it is you are carrying and asks you what it is. And then that, Bobby, is when you’ll get to Fiddler’s Green.”

They’d talked for a bit longer until Eli figured that he needed to be about his fishing. The Herring, it didn’t know the way to his cottage and stove on its own. Eli gathered up his gear. Waved and walked on to his favourite fishing spot further down the coast.

*

The rain cut short that days plundering and he headed home early, much to his mother’s pleasure.

Bobby was watching the television after his medication when he had felt sick. His mother brought him the sick-bowl. He vomited blood.

*

Puking up blood. The doctors had said would be a sign that the final stage, the terminal stage, had set in. They went to hospital. At the hospital there wasn’t anything that anyone could do. All they could offer was that Bobby would be more comfortable at home.

They took him home with more medication. That night, only Bobby slept. His parents stayed up, his mother crying, and his father cursing God.

*

The next week Bobby didn’t go to school but found he felt slightly better. And by the weekend Bobby was up and about. He looked thinner and paler, yet stronger. The doctors, they’d said that there would be bad days, and not so bad days.

*

“I want to go to the shore,” Bobby said on Saturday morning. His mother was about to protest.

“Let me, mum, please.” Bobby hadn’t said please to either of them since the day that he had become a pirate. They looked to each other. Their hearts weren’t that hard. “We’ll drive you,” his father said. Bobby thought about it,

“Okay, but you’re not allowed aboard my ship,” Bobby said.

“We’ll sit in the car.”

*

They watched as Bobby boarded the grounded and ruined dinghy. They watched him as he went to war with no one in particular. Watched him as he sat down for a little while and rested. They watched him, and they watched him.

They watched as he picked up a knackered, old oar and disembarked. He walked away from the boat with his wooden burden. His mother made for the door. Bobby’s father stopped her.

“Let him get a little further away, then we’ll follow.” he said. The look in her eyes was one of pure desperation. But she conceded.

*

Bobby walked further, and further away, heading deeper inland. They waited until he was nearly out of view before they got out and followed at a slow pace. They followed him for a good half-mile. It looked like as though he was heading towards a small fisherman’s cottage.

They both looked puzzled. They watched as a man came out. The man, he talked to Bobby for only a few moments before Bobby collapsed. Then they both broke into a run.

*

The oar, it felt as if it were made of stone. Bobby knew he couldn’t be weak. He had to carry it; this was the only way to get to where he needed to go.

He coughed. His spittle was speckled with blood and his stomach hurt. He could see the cottage. He could see the old and broken lobster pots hanging outside. He could see the fishing poles resting against the wall. That was good, it meant Eli was home. Bobby was only a few metres away from the cottage when the door opened and out stepped Eli.

*

Eli nearly ran to Bobby. There was blood upon his lips. Something stopped Eli from running to help. Eli steadied himself. His entire being wanted to sob. Eli stopped and asked.

“What’s that you’re carrying there, stranger?”

Bobby smiled. He could hear the fiddles playing, the noise of the dancer’s feet as they moved in merriment. He could see the bunting. There was a hue for every person that danced. Bobby’s eyes went dreamy and his smile widened. He collapsed.

*

Eli rushed over. He fell to his knees, lifting the lad’s head and checked for a pulse. He found no drum. He looked up with his eyes wet and saw two people running over. Eli looked back down. Bobby’s lips held a forever-smile.

Copyright Lee Hughes 2009

Some old stories needing a dust off

2010-08-24T14:55:00.002+01:00

One Hundred

March 12th 2176

I am to be reborn, though not through the spiritual interruption of death. But through the art of science. My cells have been cloned. My memories recorded and stored. I and some of my memories will be reunited directly, an inheritance, the others archived.

Tonight is my last night. I don’t feel like a damned prisoner awaiting the ultimate penalty. I cannot feel like that. I volunteered. This will be my third and final mission. You can only hand-feed an untamed beast perhaps a half-dozen times before the beast turns and bares its teeth.

As I wait, I muse upon my first undertaking. My gift is one that even in these progressive times can not be explained by the cooperative minds of the supreme circle of scientists. It can be proved. It just can’t be explained. I have insights; I can see the futures of a person. Not just one conclusion, but countless.

I have to touch them. If I were to lay hands upon a person now then I would feel nothing more than you would feel if you were clasping the hand of a friend. You would feel the warmth, the grip of the shake, but nothing else.

My talent is latent. Only when used in the past does it come bubbling free from its dormant state.

It was stumbled upon solely by accident. I was one of the original testers of riding the past. It is a perilous thing, not something to be treated with folly.

We both went back to the same time. It was decided by the Circle that we should go back to a time where the populace was, to put it respectfully, a little backwards when it came to understanding. Though not too much, for our findings needed to be chronicled.

We rode the past to the year 1888. It was a year on the cusp of what is even now considered the utmost century for human technological development. As you know Past Riding, you ride the time and not the distance.

It was providential for all concerned that that predicament had been debated as a strong possibility. If I were to ride time right at this minute, this very moment. To head back before the year 2081 I would be dead within seconds. For the Moon, was a vacant waste-land.

That first ride to the past was the only time I had been down to the planet of my ancestors. The first time any one had since the Exodus. There was nothing to see. Humankind had destroyed it. Child-like tantrums thrown by people who wielded too much power. When told they could not have something, they decided that no one could.

Hopefully. . .maybe that can change.

The atmosphere of Earth is sinister and choking, the Ozone is gone and radiation is rampant. To breathe the air is to inhale death. The half-life of Earth was calculated at four million years. Who can wait that long?

The footing was dusty and rock-strewn. Gravity was the only thing from the time of civilisation to linger. That was the only difference between traipsing the terra-firma of Earth and that of the Moon. There was nothing to see, everything flattened, razed by the hand of aggression.

The craft re-launched. We watched it depart and then we readied the Temporalamotives. We activated the ten-second timer which would dislocate us from time. Displacement was at a ratio of one-second per century. In reality the ride for the time migrant was practically instantaneous. Unless you wanted to go back to a foolish time that served no real purpose other than to risk bringing destruction to the world sooner than it all ready had.

That first time whilst counting down the seconds I stared at the moon. I knew that I would not see it again in its given colonized shape, not through this body anyway. The future is out of our grasp, you can not stay on the fortieth floor of a hotel that has not yet been built.

And then. . .displacement momentarily occurred and we were there.

There was nothing to see, night was in control. I sat on the ground. Slightly giddy at the touch of grass and loam beneath my fingers and the scent of life, true, rich life. Life not courted by chemicals and laboratories. The man who rode time with me did not fair so well. Somewhere, somehow an error had occurred, a fatal one. I reached out and touched the fabric of his clothes. My hand travelled, seeking skin and finding it, or a version of it. It was blistered. The skin ruptured as I probed. I turned and vomited as the stink of the rotten puss filled my nose. I rolled away, clawed at the ground to drag myself away from the toxicity of the gas.

I lay there, staring up at the heavens. It was too cloudy for the stars and the moon was in hiding. It was strange to think of the moon, up there on its lonesome. No one living up there. No one loving up there. No one warring. The only time I smiled that night was when it hit me that I had thought the same thing when I had stared down at the ravaged Earth from the sanctuary of the Moon.

As the night became passive and allowed the dawn promotion I was shown the true horror of what the ride had done to him. He was very nearly dissolved. The fabric I had fingered as I had traced a route to his face was actually leathered skin. And where it wasn’t leathered it had blistered and burst. The flesh beneath poisoned, the skull powdered like pencil-carbon.

There was no fear of his remains being stumbled upon and there was no way I could burn or bury him even though the trip had done a half decent effort at the first.

If everything had gone as planned, London was only a mere twenty-five mile walk away. I picked up the Temporalamotive from beside my fallen ride companion and thumbed the destruct button. Tossed it like a grenade and watched it explode and become reduced to nothing. That was another of the things that had been indoctrinated within us, never to leave anything. There was no returning home, but you could not leave the Temporalamotives intact. They could only be used once, but they were made out of materials that had no place in the Humble Years as the Circle referred to them. I treated my own Temporalamotive in the same manner and made my way using the new sun as a compass towards the infant city that according to the history files was a sprawling wonder of stone and vision.

It was not how I expected it. It was grim and smudged, there was also something sullen about it. The way the city moved as two separate classes of people, very much like home. The rich on the light side and those that dwelled upon the dark-side. The ones that have and the ones that do not.

These Haves with their top hats, pocket watches and waxed moustaches. All busily bowing and hand-shaking with other well dressed men. Hand-kissing the ladies and riding in carriages. Then you had what I could only call the downtrodden, the beaten and the starved. They gave way to the gentry, their betters.

They looked for things to steal as they coughed and tried to cease their bellies from rumbling. The whore on the corner with rags for a dress and sores for lipstick. The drunken men all filled with belligerence and wanting to brawl. That was not what I had expected. That was not what I had been looking forward to. It seemed somehow undeserving for my death. For death was what I would know here, all I would know once I had made my account and stored it in the Finding Place. Death would be my payment.

Death would be quick. Faster than anything offered by the 19th Century. I’d be given a paupers grave and forgotten about. That first trip they had decided not to waste antique treasures from the Earth days. All I had was what I rode with. Just some clothes tailored to meet the age and nothing else. That was the only safe way it had been decided whilst they broached time’s hymen.

I had not been within the city for more than five minutes before I realised that I had a gift. An urchin ran up to me with his hand out. Begging and wanting something for nothing. I’d seen the gentry clip him about the ear as he had pestered and hounded them. Then the boy had come at me. I had nothing to give. He had probably eaten more than I had that day. But the look of desperation in his eyes startled me. The wondering whether or not he would see a new week was present within his stare. He was missing a month of baths and more than likely diseased. I still held out a hand to him. He looked with hope at my fist, perhaps an errant coin within my grasp. I only offered the gesture as a form of comfort.

And upon that unwashed touch I learnt of my gift, or curse. Only time would tell. And I still do not know which it is. And time has told me so much. And yet has left me somewhat unsure.

At the moment of that connection of flesh I saw a hundred possibilities open up. Each was an outcome for the boy if he chose a certain path at that moment. The first was if he held on to my hand and didn’t let go. I would push him away and he would fall, bang his head, fracture his skull and be found dead three days later dead in an alley. I kept my grip tight and saw the others, flashing, dancing through my mind. Some were running, some meandering, one after the next and others at the same time. If I didn’t give him money he would die in a week. I had no money so could not see what would happen if I could pass a few coppers to him.

I saw that if I dragged him to somewhere soft to land he would bounce up and run into the road and into the path of a carriage. I dragged him anyway. The boy started to shout, no one cared. The longer I held on, and the further I moved the more outcomes I saw. I stopped. Spun the boy about to face me after I had seen one in particular,

“Let the bloody ‘ell offa me!” his voice was not even that of a borderline man yet. I looked at the mangy boy and felt pity,

“Boy, I want for a woman. Do you know any?” upon hearing that his brow creased,

“Me mum does it for money Sir, take you to ‘er if you want?”

“Do so.” And I followed. He turned after a few seconds,

“You do got money though don’tya?”

“Yes,” I lied, and followed the dull-brained boy.

We ventured down one alley after another. I continued reaching out, touching his shoulder to steal glances at each new future that each touch showed me. I counted them.

Always one-hundred.

Never more.

I was led to a shack. It could never be construed as a house. The bricks were sunken in places, protruding like an overbite in others. I looked at the roof. If it had been raining you would have kept drier staying outside. The place gave off a stench worse than the one that had risen and attacked me from the flesh of my fellow rider. The door opened and a woman with a smile like a row of bombed houses came out.

“You looking for a tumble mister? Me names Pol” I pushed her son towards her, turned and walked away.

I saw his final future in that touch. I saw it all, right up until his death a month later. I saw that the next week he led another customer to her. This one killed the whore-mother, shredded her parts and cut off a breast.

And so I left Whitechapel.

The boy died from neglect in a workhouse soon after admittance. I could have helped the whore-mother, but to what ends? Her trade was flesh. If not that madman than perhaps another a month later. It seemed to me like cutting a cancerous tumour from the meat of a person already dead.

I garnered a pencil and paper and a waxed sheaf from a priest, and wrote a brief. It was more like a diary of the fact. Similar to this, which is a culmination of such letters that I left for the Circle to unearth after each undertaking.

I went back out into the countryside where man wouldn’t marvel and build what they saw as impressive structures and keep preserved as a thing of beauty.

I had more time now, less haste. I had performed my duty, but had discovered something else. Something important that the Circle must be informed of.

I died three hours later, an unnamed man who was given an unmarked grave, forgotten. I didn’t mind, they had given the pill flavour, flavour in an unsavoury world was welcome.

The Circle was pleased with my findings and evaluations. They were more delighted with the potential. Although my findings needed extra study and more experimentation before any conclusion could be drawn. This they told me after they had reunited my memories into my matured clone. I nodded.

They were the Circle.

They were the minds.

They were the clever ones.

They pontificated for the better part of a month. And during that time I enjoyed life. Living again. I don’t know what my clone felt like growing up. All I knew is that when my mind was back within my body it felt good, like there had been no death.

The Circle decided another ride was worthy of research. This ride was to be a fully planned excursion. Not just a tourist jaunt. Again they took my memories. They would use the original D.N.A but my new memories were updated to the file. Those that they decided could only make me more valuable next time. There is no point in asking at a party for a fool to perform a slight of hand card trick that he never knew he had performed before. It would end up as a fifty-two card pick-up trick with loud sighs from the audience. And so I rode the past again.

1910 Vienna. That time I rode the past alone. They had more Temporalamotives but after what happened to my last time-riding companion I was to go alone. It had been proved that I had a genetic make up for Past Riding, the original time migrant.

To Be Continued. . .maybe.

This week

2010-08-22T08:13:00.000+01:00

This week should see the dawning of the end of the Osseous Box, well first draft. The wife read the first half last night and said it was 'good' so I'll take that as a compliment as she's always honest and does tell me if a story is wank, though such testimonies displease me lol.

Looks like Lame Goat Press has done it again, as far as I'm concerned I won't ever be pimping that place again. Wide Berth Warning on it. A lot of us decided to give the man another chance, and, well, screw him, Chris over at Static Movement and now Mark at Red Skies will happily take our work.

Mark Critteden has opened up his own imprint to make sure Their Dark Master gets to see the light of day. The press is called, Red Sky Press

This week I'll also be tpying up another review, yes it's with those fundamental questions that the other authors answered. But this one is a bigger kicker for me as the author wrote the first of the books in the flat beneath me. Wish he was still there instead of the fucking Lithuanian deadbeats and their drum and base, if I kill, they will die first, they've stopped responding to stamps on the floor, and my appearance at the door only quells it for an hour. Thanks, just needed to rant, saves me ending up doing chokey.

A few things

2010-08-17T09:45:00.000+01:00

The hopes of having the OB novel finished during my two week holiday were scuppered through two factors, firstly, I didn't find enough time to actually get down to it, secondly I came up with some more ideas for the plot to make it richer and meatier and am now writing those scenes in and shuffling a few others to keep it making sense. I'm starting to have a feeling with the word-count it may have to become a two-parter which is what I wanted to avoid, but if it means keeping the story the way I want it, I guess I've no choice.

There's a scutch more open anthologies over at Static Movement if anyone wants to go and have a mooch, you never know, you might have a story lying in the trunk that would fit right in.

I know a lot of people were pissed off at how things went with Lame Goat Press a few months back, me most definitely being one of them. And it's good to see a lot of good writers giving the press a second chance, Gregory Miller is releasing a chap book through them called The Sounding of the Sea, five short stories, only one of them is a reprint. I don't think there could be a better reboot to the anthologies than with having Mark Crittenden editing another anthology, Their Dark Master. It is paying, it is now open for submissions and you can find out more details here. Don't know if I'll get around to doing something but all you dark horror writers should go look here.

Not dead.

2010-07-27T09:30:00.000+01:00

It's been a while since I last posted. I had some big decisions to make concerning direction. I was trying to do too many things at once, work on the novel and attempt to get into every anthology going lol and every comp too. Then it hit me, I could have all the time in the world to do the shorts and the comps AFTER I got the novel done and had it doing it's month settle before re-writes. So that's where I've been and glad to say there's light at the end of the tunnel. The Osseous Box is running at 90k words and the end is in sight. I've a 2 week holiday coming up and have been granted full permission by the wife to bring the laptop along and 'get the damn thing finished' First draft is looking to run at about 110k, but by the time I've done the old wheat from the chaff bit and tore out everything that doesn't move the story along it'll land at about 85-90k.

I have to admit it's been more fun than I thought, expanding on the characters, bringing in new ones and making the whole Osseous Box world a lot bigger, more of an adventure, instead of the characters just turning up where they needed to be I've been able to walk with them, drive with them, like turning a black and white world to a colour one. Just looking forward to typing 'THE END'

Laters, Lee

Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Fucking Gonna Do Ourselves In

2010-07-01T21:03:00.007+01:00

The bone of his palm scratched the glass. Her cheek bone did the same. They could see the survivors on the other side, guns at the ready in case of a breach. Tommy looked to Carrie and made a guttural grunt. She grunted back in the way that only lovers can. He turned and pushed his way through the gathered mass of undead that were busily in the various stages of unnatural leprosy.

They stumbled through the streets. They scavenged a leg. Tommy started at the knee meat whilst Carrie worked upwards from the toes until they met at the shin with a kiss. She passed him his lower lip back and he ate it. They nodded to each other.

They still remembered the pact, the one they'd made when people had started getting vertical after getting dead. They'd made a proper night of it. Flowers, candles, wine, good food, good fucking and then readying themselves to partake in a little lover's suicide pact, neither wanting to end up one of the abominations. What they got was being made a desert of by the next door neighbour who let themselves in and chewed the infection into them.

They'd tried to kill each other repeatedly, each time however they got up. They'd gone to the mall in the hopes of getting the survivors to do the job proper. Then a couple of hundred other zombies had pitched up and ruined shit.

Tommy made a couple of other grunts. Carrie showed him her middle finger before putting it in her purse and following him towards the gun shop. They both knew that there'd be survivors there.

Tommy launched rocks at the slats of metal that had been drawn down to shield the windows.

He grunted. Carrie took his hand in hers and they waited. They didn't wait long.

*

Guidelines:

*
Word count: maximum 1.000

* The story must be a romance between two zombies. Make it as horrific as you like. ;)

* Stories containing animal cruelty, torture, graphic sex or violence, any form of exaltation of violence, racism or other forms of prejudice will be immediately disqualified.

* Post your entry on your own blog, with a title resembling this:

Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Story Title

* Leave your story title and a link to the story entry post as a comment at mari's randomities: http://marisrandomities.blogspot.com

* Copy and paste the contest logo and the guidelines at the end of your entry post.

TKnC up and Running with an extra editor

2010-06-28T18:12:00.002+01:00

TKnC goes live once more from the 1st of July. And I'm well chuffed to finally be allowed to state that I've been made the 3rd co-editor. Matt the man that knows how to thrill will be handling thrillers, Col, he knows his crime and his noir will be handling those and I'll be getting to read your horror stories. Please bear with me for a couple of weeks whilst I find my footing and am looking forward to getting to read your stories!

Caught by Darkness

2010-06-27T13:12:00.004+01:00

Static movement have announced some new antho's· They've done a stirling job with the ones they picked up after Lame Goat Press went tits up. These folks know what they're doing. No createSpace, it's done proper and they get them on all Amazons, Waterstones, Barnes and Noble etc. Which for us Brits is fucking top-notch, Howl cost the better part of $40 with postage and packing.

Caught by Darkness is one of them and I've wheedled my way in to it. The cover is shit-hot in my opinion.

If you want to see what else they've got on offer and want to submit, get your frame over to www.staticmovement.com

Here's the cover for the one I'm in.

Second Review: Matt Hilton's Slash & Burn

2010-06-24T17:02:00.006+01:00

Slash & Burn Review

Joe's back and he's got another problem to fix. Slash and Burn, the third in the fast paced series of Joe Hunter books. A man that knows how to kick ass since joining the army at the age of 16 before moving on to the 'Throw yourself out of planes' regiment and at 20 getting drafted into the experimental coalition-counterterrorism team which had the code name 'Arrowsake'

Since 2004 he's been a free-lance security consultant.

***

Everyone knows about the author and how he got to where he is now. So when I asked him some questions, the same ones that I posed to Gregory Miller, he was good enough to answer them. We'll get them out of the way before I tell you all what I think of the book.

1: When you were a kid were you the first to climb to the top of the tree(or lampost depending on how urban you were) or did you stand back egging the clown on that would?

I was 'the sensible one of the group', but that all depends on your perspective. When I was a kid I used to knock about with one of my older brothers who was a bit of a harum-scarum type. You'd often find me saying things like, 'No...please don't set fire to the corn field!' and such like. Invariably he would, then when I was trying to put it out, I was the one that got captured. Great days! We often laugh about things like that now, and my brother says I was his misplaced conscience.

Maybe I was a boring fart as a kid...I dunno. But I loathed people causing damage and pasting grafitti around and would often try to stop them. Maybe that was the vigilante in me...or maybe I just thought I'd problems to fix. Then again, it was maybe just the Arthur Fonzerelli in me. I was heavily into the rock'n'roll/Rockabilly scene of the eighties, and doing stuff like that was 'uncool'. Heeeey!

2: Did you ever get stung by a bee at school, and if so, did you go to the nurse and request a plaster?

Nah! In those less than politically-correct days, if you did stuff like that you'd have been called a 'bummer' and ostrasized by your mates. You took your knocks and then cried about them when you were hiding in your bedroom later.
I remember once when I was about nine years old, I had seen Master Po, the blind kung fu guy, snatching a fly out of the air and thought I'd have a go. Only the fly I snatched turned out to be a wasp and stung my plam about half-a-dozen times. I remember my mam lathering me with a bicarbonate of soda poultice, and then watching a programme about bears fishing for salmon on a black and white portable TV in a caravan. God, I haven't thought about that for years. I feel real nostalgic now.

3: At school did you bring a packed lunch or risk food poisoning...if you brought your own was a carton of Um Bongo in it?

Um Bongo? No...they only drink that in the Congo, don't they? I was one of the poor kids. One of five brothers all at school at much the same time. I got 'free school dinners'. It was very embarrassing. You had to line up outside the head's office, then go in and be handed these copper discs. You traded the copper discs for items on the menu, with your rich mates sneering over your shoulder while sipping at cartons of Um Bongo. Three discs could get you three scoops of chips. There was no Jamie Oliver fighting our cause back then, so you went for the stodgiest thing you could find to fill you up.

4: Were you ever a cub, or a scout?

Neither. I did go to Sunday school. Albeit it was only for the three Sunday's leading up to the annual Christmas party; you had to go then to get your tickets, so it was a case of needs must. I remember the organiser-guy pulling me and my older harum-scarum brother to one side afterwards and saying, "I know you only come for the party...don't bother coming again next year." Very Christian. Here's a funny story that happened just after that. As we left the party full of cake and jelly and clutching our cheap toy from some fat alcoholic dressed as Santa, my next door neighbour challenged me and my brother to a race. He obviously wasn't as stuffed as we were, because he took off like a rocket, right into the main road just as a double-decker bus was coming...
He went right under the front bumper, the bus braked like crazy and he popped up at the back and kept on running, totally unhurt. Mind you, when we got home and told our mam, she did the neighbourly thing and told his mam. He got a real hiding, poor sod!
His legacy is that there's now a zebra crossing where he went under that bus.

5: Where did your dad try and hide his porn?

There was no porn in our house...very puritanical. My parents were very old-fashioned in their attitudes. Makes me wonder how I managed to get four brothers...ha ha! No, seriously, porn was taboo. So were things like playing cards or gambling of any sort. We were raised to be moral and dignified. The closest a gland-controlled teenager got to in our house was the lingerie section of the Littlewoods catalogue...or trying to see what the model looked like through the semi-opaque shower curtain in the bathroom section. I was a bit sheltered, I guess. You could count the porn movies I've seen on the fingers of one hand (fnar fnar).

We used to live near to a print factory called the 'Web Offset'. Half the kids in our neighbourhood used to break through the wire fence in the compound and nick copies of 'Roy Of The Rovers' or 'The Beezer'. Sometimes you got real lucky and found a 'Penthouse' or two lying around...but I think they belonged to the security guard. I remember him chasing me and about three mates for a mile along the River Eden, and he wasn't doing that for no minimum wage.

Going back to your original question about hiding places. We lived in a council house, and in the bedroom walls they had these air vents with drop down hatches. I remember hiding stuff in there. The only problem was, if you weren't careful, your treasures would slip down into the cavity wall. An uncle's war medals went that way, amongst other heirlooms. I recently returned to my old neighbourhood and my childhood home has been demolished. I wonder if the medals were ever found by the construction crew? Every kid in 'The Raffles' - that's the name of my old neighbourhood - used the old air hole hidey-place in their houses. To think there could be lost antiquities jammed in cavity walls everywhere...it'd be enough to bring Inidiana Jones back out of retirement.

***

Before I get started a couple of things to mention. It's a thriller, it's supposed to be a wild ride, some escapism into a world where people are willing to do whatever it takes. Proper book reviews have praised the Joe Hunter books across the world, but you'll always get a couple of naysayers with a soap box. One Amazon reviewer in particular slated Judgement and Wrath and scored it poorly. The same reviewer returned and did the same for Slash & Burn. My original thought was, why buy another if the other was so shit? Then I clicked on the persons other reviews. Tadaa, 5 stars for every Lee Child 'Jack Reacher' book. It reminded me of the Twilight fans that will hate any other book with a vampire in because Stephanie Meyer invented them, same with Werewolves.

I read the Reacher books as well, the only thing they've got in common is that both Jack and Joe are good at fucking shit up. Other reviews have said about Hunter getting beaten up, knifed and shot and still getting to the end of the book. Firstly it would be a bit poo if he died on page 47. But more importantly, if you ever watch any of the special forces documentaries on Discovery etc and listen to their accounts of being shot and still managing to hold a post or continue on with the mission because they had to you'd start believing what these trained soldiers are capable of. And as for the remarks about a lack of morals and his ability to go around shooting bad guys. Watch the same documentaries on the SAS sorting out hi-jackers etc. They've been trained to get the job done. One SAS bloke said, "Threw in the stun grenade, they were confused then they saw the end of my gun and that was the last thing they'd remember" The bloke was so calm and unemotional as he said it, it's just all part of the job, and his reasoning hadn't changed in the years since he had left the forces.

*Backflips off his own soapbox*

S&B starts off with Joe just wanting to take it easy after the last batch of problems that needed sorted. He can't have everything as Kate, the sister of an old member of Arrosake pitches up wanting his help. Her sisters gone missing up in the Appalachians. Even if he didn't feel obliged to help because he knew their late brother he'd still step up to the crease. So with his trusted SIG Sauer P226 he throws a few things into a bag and off they go to Kentucky. I won't go into any more of the story, as there's some twists and turns and it'd spoil it.

What I will say is this. You can tell that it's book 3 in the series. Matt Hilton has become incredibly comfortable with the character and has probably become like a close friend. As with the others he shows his humurous side, more so when he mate Rink gets into the picture and the banter begins. There are a lot of things that you notice, one is that Matt Hilton must have worn out three or four Google Earths getting everything so precise. Then there's the vast array of weaponry and vehicles, he's done his research good and proper as you read it and wonder if he's taken a few of them out for a spin. The baddies in this one are more down to earth, I say down to earth, they're just as fucked up as ever, but not in the way the last two baddies have been exotic. I admit one thing, when reading and meeting the Bolan Twins I did for a moment think of Bebop and Rocksteady, but homocidal psychotic versions. He's also coming out of his shell with screwing with your emotions as well. In the other books there was always a feeling of danger. But in this one there were a couple of times he made me feel uneasy(which is pretty good going), which then heightens the story because you're actually bothered about the characters.

The only thing I will complain about in this one is that he has lowered the violence and the body count. Guess he can't please all the people all the time.

You can buy Slash & Burn at Amazon

If you're a Brit - here

If you're a yank - You'll have to wait until until it's released - August

Find out more about the author here

Next review is Chris Ewan's Good Thief's Guide Series.

Début at Flashes in the Dark

2010-06-21T08:21:00.002+01:00

Today I'm making my début over at Flashes in the Dark with a story called Seventh of Many, it's an entry into their Resurrection competition. You can read it here

Hope you like it.

Laters, Lee

Lame Goat Press Closure

2010-06-14T10:40:00.003+01:00

Bad news for everyone who had stories accepted into various anthologies. After over a month of being on the virtual missing persons list and causing concern from everyone from editors to the cover artists and down to the writers themselves there was a message last evening from Christopher Jacobsmeyet stating we are all released from our contracts. Which comes as a relief as they were for 18months lol. Though a little reasoning would have been nice not just a 'You're all released from the contracts.' But hey ho, we live and learn and just need to be a little more selective in future of where we submit to.

There is some good to come out of it. Chris Bartholomew, an established publisher of StaticMovement.Com is going to take the antho's they were guest editing and run with them. After all they put a helluva a lot of effort in just to let them go to waste. Obviously you need to let them know you are still interested.

Details can be found here

Just a quickie about the British Fantasy Awards

2010-06-12T17:28:00.003+01:00

Cern Zoo has made the final six nominees for best anthology! Gettin there. The ceremony is at FantasyCon. So if you haven't bought it yet and want a blinding read(though I would say that) Here's the link

TT Week

2010-06-10T08:59:00.002+01:00

Some of you might have heard of it, others won't have. It's a bike festival on the island where we double the number of inhabitants for 1 week to 2, depending on how much of a petrol head you is. 40thousand folks come by boat and plane to watch some mentalists doing 200 miles an hour around the mountain road. Luckily this year the death toll(so far, still 2 days left) hasn't been as wonky as in many other a year. Most memorable a few years ago a woman finding an arm in her garden, but hey, she got a watch out of it. I just like the TT because they have beer tents and it brings over the fair. Anyone not from the Isle of Man ever been over?

Updates and Stuff

2010-06-01T08:03:00.004+01:00

Trying to be a little more constant with posts so you know I'm not dead and just working on the novel. Which is coming on at an astounding pace. The bare bones and characters are still there, but without the 2k constraints I'm able to widen the scope of the story.

Later this week I'll be posting my next review. Matt Hilton's Slash & Burn. He was kind enough to answer my 5 questions too, think you'll have a chortle.

A short story, Curlife's Fair is now slated to be in October's Issue over at Death Head Grin.

On the 21st of this month my entry into Lori Titus's Ressurection comp over at Flases in the Dark will be put up.

And that's about it. Oh reading a Western at the moment. Never really bothered with them before and saw it and thought why the hell not. Actualy really enjoying it, so don't be too surprised if I add Westerns to the genre list I'm willing to have a bash at!

Laters.

A fuck yeah moment.

2010-05-22T09:48:00.004+01:00

Whilst doing my early morning web wandering, came across this. Now me, I'm a meat eater, hell, hunting doesn't bother me, more flesh the merrier. But bull-fighting is always a one-sided affair. Bit of ducking and diving, tossing a few darts, wearing the bull down to nothing and then finishing it off, that's not sport. So seeing this picture of a numpty who is in critical condition, but who cares? He decided to fight the fucker in the first place and deserves all he gets.

What a complete asshat. Have it!

A Vampire Short

2010-05-21T16:57:00.002+01:00

Been grinding away on the novel, but took a little time off a couple of times over the last two weeks to pen a few shorts. One went up on The New Flesh Magazine today, it's called Anything More than Two, you can read it here
First ever vamp story, hope it's something a little bit different.

Have a few more out that I'm waiting to hear about, but I've got a date for a story I wrote this week for over at Flashes in the Dark's Resurrection comp. It goes up near the end of next month.

Still working on the reviews, the next one will go up next week.

Have a blinding weekend and hope you all get proper trolleyed.

Gregory Miller's Scaring the Crows

2010-05-18T07:43:00.004+01:00

Gregory Miller's

Scaring the Crows: 21 Tales for Noon or Midnight published by StoneGarden

First up is Gregory Miller with his short story collection. You know you're going to get well written stories if they're done by a man who gets this accolade:

"Gregory Miller is a fresh new talent with a great future." – Ray Bradbury

If I got a sentence like that directed at me I'd be doing a little sex-wee in my pants.

I decided before actually doing the reviews to give you a little hindsight into the authors by sending them 5 quick questions, none the kind they've probably/hopefully never been asked before. Gregory was game enough to provide answers.

1: When you were a kid were you the first to climb to the top of the tree(or lamppost depending on how urban you were) or did you stand back egging the clown on that would?

It depended on the height of the tree, and who was watching...

2: Did you ever get stung by a bee at school, and if so, did you go to the nurse and request a plaster?

Yes and no.

3: At school did you bring a packed lunch or risk food poisoning...if you brought your own was a carton of Um Bongo in it?

Brought lunch when I was little, risked food poisoning when I was older. I have no idea what Um Bongo is.

4: Were you ever a cub, or a scout?

Yes.

5: Where did your dad try and hide his porn?

He didn't have any...Or at least I never found it, if he did.

Now I'm in no way saying I'm a reviewer with any skill. Just gonna say what I thought.

Scaring the crows, as the title suggests is filled to brimming with a selection of stories ranging from horror, nostalgia to drama.

The stories with horror elements reminded me a lot of the old Pan Book of Horror stories. Great and chilling tales that managed to get by without the need for excessive violence, gore and profanity. The tales were told with great prose and got by on style.

The books opener: Scaring the Crows. Is about a woman Edith Krepps with a decent amount of mental issues and deals with her escalating madness, which roots lay in how men have treated her. I won't say any more. He definitely chose the right story to start the collection with as the crisp writing geared you up for what's to come.

Arachno is another tale that has the creepy theme to it. This one knocked my socks off with its originality.

Lorna Gould's Roses is a sharp one and cements the reason why you should never trust old people.
I really loved this line from it.

"Well, the wife was fat and wore dirty shirts and said dirty things. And the husband swore enough to turn the grass black…"

The drama ones, the likes of The Hunt set on the outskirts of a town where the winter has been harsh and now the wolves are starving and have gotten too close for comfort. The men have to deal with it. In this story he manages to take you away to a remote place where winter is thick on the ground and makes the threat feel very real as the men did what needed doing.

Goodbye Friend, the empathy that Gregory wrote this with makes me wonder if it happened to him. It actually got the wife crying(Not me, I only cry at the end of Karate Kid when Jonny gets up after being crane-kicked and says, "You're okay Laruso!" and hands him the trophy).

The Day After, It handles the problem with dementia without a softly-softly approach and doesn't condescend either of the main characters.

You can tell that Gregory feels very strongly about family as a lot of the stories revolve around them in an earthly way, no sit-com dads, or soap-opera mums.

The Piano is another that deals with the elderly, their worries and their secrets.

All of the stories are so original. Hell he even threw in one with a time machine that had me grinning at the start with its nostalgic references to Atari 2600, Transformers, Star Wars and He-man action figures.

I do have one criticism and that was there seemed about two stories that finished a little abruptly. But, hell, that's not bad going out of a book of 21 stories to only find a couple of things I didn't like.

I'm not going to go and list all 21 stories. I think you need to read it to find the gems for yourselves.

If you're only into hardcore splatterpunk, this book isn't for you, you've gotta have a bit of soul about you.

But if you're looking for a book you can just dip into for a short burst of a story and either want a story that leaves you feeling warm, or one that abandons you nursing a chill, then you can order your copy from here if you're a yank, or here if you’re a Brit. And at a price of £5.95, or $7.95 you pretty much can't go wrong.

Quick Link

2010-05-15T12:18:00.003+01:00

I'm typing up the first review and gathering all needed bits and bobs. Should be a fun thing. I sent 5 questions to each author, not the kind they usually get asked that will be before the actual review itself.

Main reason for this post is that I've entered Jason Dukes Red Hot writing competition.

It's a crime story, hope you like it.

Find it here

A mixed bag

2010-05-06T08:25:00.003+01:00

I know I said I was starting a series of reviews this week but the weekend proved hectic with writing, and then bank holiday on Monday. It will commence this coming Monday.

My story for Nemonymous 10: Null Immortalis got short listed, but alas didn't make the final cut. I knew this would be a challenge, it being the last in the series and it needing to go out with a bang. Also I probably didn't do myself any favours by ditching a story and then doing a different one right up to the finish line, oh well, all part of the game. So good luck to D.F Lewis and the fine writers that made it in!

The scores now stand at 6 - 6

Horror writer Lily Childs asked me some questions for over on her Feardom Blog. If you fancy going having a gander here's the link

Gonna be doing a few shorts and flash pieces, just kinda in that mood this week and then it's back to the novel.

Laters.

A little game of catch-up.

2010-04-30T08:26:00.003+01:00

It's been a while. But things are gonna return to a more normal run. The novelisation of The Osseous Box is going well. The 13 parts of it that went on TKnC each part usually ran for roughly 2k, which has translated to say 7k per part as I've expanded and bulked out the characters, which is something I wasn't able to do. Also there were scenes and parts that I cut out that now get to go back in.

I've also been working on a few stories for a few antho's and comps.

The most pressing of which is for Null Immortallis: Nemonymous 10. The deadline for which is midnight tonight and there's a fuck-ton of writing and editing to do. I had to backburner my original story as it was about biological immortality and a man's attempt to copy nature like we have done many times before, birds - planes etc. Then it got so confusing it was liking watching the film Primer, but nipping for a piss and then returning and wondering what the fuck you'd missed. The story started contradicting itself so shelved it. And started a new one, this one is about time, pretty much fitting as it has to be in D. F. Lewis's inbox by midnight tonight. Not even thought of the ending yet. But maybe the pressure will make me shine lol.

From Monday I'm gonna be running a few reviews of books. Not saying they'll be insightful or in any way decent, it'll just be my views on them. Basically I want a soap box, I usually finish a book and look to someone to either preach to, or rant to. It's my website and it costs me each month so I'm gonna say something on it, even if it's twaddle(Blogspot readers, I know this is free but me other one ain't).

The list so far, and if you want to add something of your own to that list, I know a few of you have stuff coming out in the next few months send me an email.

Gregory Miller: Scaring the Crows: 21 Tales for Noon or Midnight (He sent me that book for free so he gets first turn)

Chris Ewan: The Good Thiefs Guide to Paris

Matt Hilton: Slash & Burn

John Ajvide Lindqvist: Let the Right One in

Stuart MacBride: Broken Skin

The other main reason for doing a few reviews it to prove to myself I've paid attention to the story and noticed things, both the good and the bad that I can apply to my own scribbling.

Laters, have a good long weekend(If you is in England) I'll post in the morning whether or not I made the deadline.

A New Story

2010-04-02T10:10:00.002+01:00

I took a little break from the novel and wrote a short story called Mended. Some of you will be familiar with the main character Melvin.

It's over at TKnC if you fancy a gander.

Have a good easter :o)

Oh, also bought Best Horror of the Year Vol 2: I'm a whore for seeing my own name. The honorable mention made me grin, due to the thing called the alphabet my name's two places beneath Neil Gaimen's on the honorable mention page!! I bet he's showing his wife the book and saying, "Look, I'm two names above Lee Hughes!" ....or not lol

Been a while....

2010-03-24T06:54:00.007Z

Kinda been out of the blogosphere loop for a week. But figured I'd keep anyone interested up to-date. Writer and Editor Gregory Miller sent me a copy of his short story collection, a very handsome little book that I'm halfway done reading and will have a go at reviewing it once finished. Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal is now available on Amazon.

I'm slowing down now on the short stories whilst I work on two projects, an apocalyptic fantasy novel that is practically finished and also working on novelizing The Osseous Box. In short story format it reached part 13 and stood at 25k words. When it was a series I felt I had to make each part stand alone and at around 2k words which meant missing bits out. Hoping widening the scope improves it.

Don't forget Matt Hilton's Slash and Burn is released next week on the 1st, a must buy for all thriller fans, order it here.

Had good news this week. The antho I was in Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9 has been longlisted for the British Fantasy Awards in the anthology section, lets hope it makes it to the short list.

Got an email this morning telling me that my story from Cern Zoo has been given an honorable mention in Ellen Datlow's 'Best Horror Of The Year' book for 2009. So I'll be scooting to Waterstones this morning for a nosy.

Don't forget, this year is the final Nemonymous. Null Immortallis will be the last in the series by editor D.F Lewis. Submission guidelines can be found here

My story Turn the Crank from Cern Zoo garnered this review in Black Static print horror mag - "Somewhere just past the halfway mark we get a double whammy of horror stories, or rather stories that are more overtly horrific than their companion pieces. The world of street musicians is focused on in 'Turn the Crank', with a sinister organ grinder and his monkey wreaking havoc amongst the busker set, the back story stretching into the past, and a resolution that succeeds in being both downbeat and triumphant in the same beat. It is perhaps the most traditional piece on offer, but no less successful for that, with a skilled and beautifully paced delivery, and touches of detail that bring the life of street performers to the page with compelling authenticity." - Peter Tennant

I was rather chuffed with that.

Have a good'en

Three things...

2010-03-14T10:06:00.004Z

Firstly Matt Hilton's competition to win a signed copy of Joe Hunter's outing number Three, slash and burn, which is released in 3 weeks has opened up for votes. You can vote over here, the winning story will be posted on 3 sites. There are some cracking stories, and a click and it's done, easy as five minus two, just checked my maths, that makes Three.

This week I've been working on Three different stories. The deadlines are looming for all Three so been tinkering on them all to see which ones coming along the strongest out of the Three.

Item number Three, thinking of putting a piece on the side with open markets that I'm thinking off and their deadlines instead of just linking them here, that way if you miss something it's still on the side, for those that visit every Three days and might miss something.

Have a good Sunday.

Don't forget to vote here it only takes Three seconds.

Disturbing News Just In

2010-03-10T08:14:00.006Z

...This is your local news station FKCU FOF

Alarming news has just been released regarding the release of dozens of various creatures. They were thought to be held up in the minds of some writers. Apparently with a concerted effort from a Professor Mcrittenden and LGP, at this moment we're not sure what LGP means, it could be a terrorist organisation, but we are currently leaning towards a private labratory. The place where perhaps these beasts and creatures were held after handed over by the writers. Somehow, and we haven't been able to varify it, they were subsequently released into the wild. We warn you to be vigilant as there has already been a sighting over at click one eye witness was sure that a pack of mindbending monstrosities were heading towards the Amazon. You'll find out more, when we find out more.

In other news there have been several reported injuries over at Fraggle Rock, a dozer construction collapsed. Terrorist involvement has not been rules out...

Scoreboard update

2010-03-07T00:49:00.002Z

After going even-stevens earlier in the week with that rejection just got an email stating I've been accepted into Lame Goat Presses Don't Tread on Me anthology with The Cat's Away. Notched up as a score we're back in the lead. They are still accepting submissions by the way if you have any revenge orientated stories knocking about your archives.

Usual end of week/new week post

2010-03-06T11:46:00.002Z

I submitted last week to two more Lame Goat Press anthologies.

Novus Creatura

&

Don't Tread on Me

So we'll see how those pan out.

Been reading a couple of short story collections this week. Philip K. Dick's Volume 5 of The Collectedf Stories and the man's a top dog when it comes to sci-fi. And also been reading the Conan Chronicles. As fantasy is one of the genres I love to read but have never really written in. Raymond E. Feist's Magician is in my top 5 books. And with the Sword and Scorcery 25 anthology looming ahead which I fancy having a go at it's good preparation.

Have a good'en

This week....

2010-03-02T06:47:00.003Z

Been away for a few days hence no posting.

Submitted a story to the Novus Creatura Anthology over at Lame Goat Press and will see how that pans out.

Extreme Creatures anthology rejected my Wild Dead Park story so that brings the score back to 5 - 5, I'm not too greedy, I'll settle for breaking even...for now!

For the last few months I've been caning the flash and short stories and now thinking it's time to get back to the novels. I have two to work at. The Apocalyptic one that's practically done in first draft form. Then there is the horror novel I started last year as well, a few of you read the first 50 pages partial and gave me some great feedback. Then there is a cult story that's been entertaining me during my daydreaming hours. I'll just have to pick on and stick with it until either my death or its!

Oh, in case you didn't notice the Howlers are gearing up for its impending release so decided to give the old blog a temporary makeover.

Have a good'en

Erm, addition, another accceptance!

2010-02-19T15:47:00.003Z

Just got an email from the splendid editor of the anthology No One Can Hear You Scream. They've accepted my story! gerrin there!

First time this year I take the lead, 5 - 4

Stonking!

End of the week update.

2010-02-19T12:21:00.002Z

It's been a good week, no rejections so far, jinxed that I bet.

Got those two pieces of lfash accepted into that abtho.
Sent Glory One off to EscapePod
Wild Dead Park was submitted to the Extreme Creatures antho.

Writing wise I wrote and polished a 4000 word short story for the Sci-Fi/Horror antho No One Can Hear You Scream and submitted it this morning, really chuffed how it turned out.

Still got some wrk to do on the Fearlogy story as it still doesn't quite feel right. The deadline's not looming so will work it out this weekend.

Been making a few notes on ideas for the Nemonymous 10 anthology. Not sure when I'm gonna start it, probably next week.

I saw a market today that I fancy having a go at. Submissions won't be accepted until April so there's heaps of time. Sword and Sorceress 25

Have a good weekend!

2 acceptences put me back in the game!

2010-02-18T05:31:00.002Z

Woke up to a nice email this morning from Lame Goat Press, they've accepted the two pieces of flash I submitted for their Flash Fiction Anthology. The Last Clown and First, Second, and Third will now be in it. I traipse over to have a look at the forum because they keep a list of who's been accepted, just wanted to grin at my own name, and low and behold whose name is up above mine, obviously accepted yesterday as well but our man from Hartlepool Paul D. Brazill. So far this year that's three books we'll be sharing space in, can't go anywhere! lol congrats Paul.

So the score is all even, Rejects V. Acceptances 4 all

Have a good'en

Too much fun to be honest.

2010-02-16T12:07:00.005Z

This is semi-writing interesting, semi-prattling. Having a lot of fun with the new story I'm writing for the No One Can Hear You Scream Antho. I mean getting giddy. It's actually just reminded me of playing Elite on the Spectrum and Elite 2: Frontier on my Amiga CD32(Only three of us in the world had that console) and the mooching about pirating, hero'ing and dealing in inter-planetary illegal drugs. Just re-reading the 2k words I done I've made up quite a few terms, that's not a freedom you get most of the time with writing. I made up terms for the sci-fi on Every Day Fiction too that made some chuckle. Basically I'm just rambling that with sci-fi and fantasy you basically can do whatever the fuck you want. You can in horror too, as long as it fits in a real world, or semi-real world.
Talked about this to another writer(One of the pub-bound important talks that occur after the first 6 pints) about my crime stories how they're fun for violence and crime but I feel restricted hence why I usually throw in something supernatural. I'm just waffling because sometimes you realise something and you think 'Shit', I can be God(more so than I am anyway)with this tale. I'll let you return to more important posts now.

New week, a few markets.

2010-02-15T16:49:00.005Z

As I posted yesterday was wondering what priorities I should have for this week. Came across Lame Goat Press's Flash anthology, it's filling up so you need to be quick. I sent off five pieces so let's see if anything comes of it. Details are here

I know some of you aren't into sci-fi but I've been writing it a bit more as a break from horror, and with this antho I can mix the two. I have a sci-fi piece in at EscapePod and sold one to Every Day Fiction and would like to dedicate some more time to it, starting with this antho.

New week, a plan of action

2010-02-14T08:50:00.002Z

Just sitting down to think about what I want to get done this next coming week and what stragglings stuff am I dragging through.

Last week saw 3 rejections, hey-ho, at least it keeps things interesting. Submitted Glory One to EscapePod but that place has upto 3months reply time, so I'll just forget about that.

Just sent off Wild Dead Park to Extreme Creatures antho, details for it are on a post further down. Wild Dead PArk was one of the most fun to write and my first proper attempt at a zombie story. Not counting Bustirapus as the zombie element was only alluded to. Bustirapus can be read over on my website here. It's about three boys and how far they're willing to go to avoid the school nutter.

I'll be submitting to Fearology this week as well. Wanna do one last polish of it, but can't drag me heels too much as its one of those the deadline will be as the book fills.

Laters.

New score update...

2010-02-10T12:13:00.002Z

Got a rejection from Zombie Zoology today so that changes the score to 4 - 2. Hey, it's still early in the game. Also got another rejection from 31 Days of Horror. But that's not counted as I've already been rejected by them the other day(so that just counts as that one! lol

Submitted to EscapePod this morning with Glory One.

Couple of things...markets and shit

2010-02-09T07:12:00.009Z

First off, this page I found funny on grammar, find it here

Working on the final draft of my Fearology story with the hopes of submitting it tomorrow.

Then I'm gonna put something together for At the Bijou.

Also noticed on the website for the rejection I got for 31 Days of Halloween, they want to see more than one story. So I've submitted another, let's see how that one pans out, then perhaps another! lol

There's also a new market for an anthology on Extreme Creatures, I have a story for that knocking about so will be submitting it. Details are here

Have a good'en

Okay, the goalie was bow-legged this morning but a forward player got a goal this evening!!!

2010-02-06T18:19:00.003Z

Swings and round-a-bouts. Got the rejection this morning for one anthology and an acceptance this evening for another. The Mending of the Broken has been picked up by Pill Hill Press for inclusion in 365 Days of Flash Fiction, it's set to be released in December. Clawed it back to 3 - 2.

Have a good'en

Keeping score, my goalie's bow-legged!

2010-02-06T08:14:00.003Z

As I said, keeping score. The score board is over to the right. It's now February and the standings are 3 - 1

Got a rejection from the 31 Day's of Halloween anthology. Not bitter, just gotta up my game and claw some back.

Hope you all fare better with that one.

Have a good'en!

A few new things

2010-02-04T06:16:00.003Z

First draft of the Fearology antho story is done, I'll do the usual set it aside for a week and then return to do the second draft.

Glory one is smoothed out so will be submitting that probably tomorrow after I've had an extra pair of eyes ride over it.

I submitted to an new anthology yesterday 365 Days of Flash Fiction. It's only exposure but they are accepting re-prints so where's the harm in hoofing off something already rpeviously aired? None, get submitting. I bunged off The Mending of the Broken, so see how that fares.

Another I'm gonna think about today is 31 Days of Halloween this call for submissions is also accepting re-prints, and it's paying, but only token amounts and royalties if the antho out earns the flat fee.

Extreme Zombie Anthology is open for submissions. They're looking for novella length and paying a cent a word up to 150dollar max. Not sure if I'm gonna have a dabble at this one, see how much time I have.

I sent a query letter off the other day regarding an antho I submitted to back in November but heard nothing back. If any of you know anything about Side Show 2: Tales of the Bigtop and the Bizarre let me know if it's filled and I've just not receieved my rejection letter yet lol

Have a good'en!

A Guest at The NOT

2010-02-01T07:46:00.004Z

I'm Michael's Solenders guest writer today with a little short titled: Puppies and Ponds

You can read it here.

Plans for this week. Finishing up the story for Fearolgy. Then moving onto polishing a sci-fi story called Glory One to submit to Escapepod. As its a podcast need to make sure there's nothing clunky or too much of a tongue-twister. The story itself has been up on my website for the past 6 months. If you'd like to read it here's the link. Don't worry it's not 'Hard' sci-fi, I ain't that clever.

Then it'll probably be doing some research for an idea I've had for a concentration camp story.

So that's how I'm spending my spare time this week...thank the good Lord for blessing me with an understanding wife...it's probably more that she gets full control of the television.

A comment from 1976

2010-01-31T09:08:00.003Z

Yesterday I remembered about a second hand bookstall in a local market hall so went in for a nosy. What I was hoping for was some good pulp paperbacks from the glory days, or some more for my Pan Book of Horror Collection. I was hoping for some classic pulp westerns as I've never actually given them a go. Was denied them but found a treat. A Corgi Science Fiction book, Nebula Awards Stories Number 9 from 1976. What struck me was the first line by the editor of the anthology:

Kate Wilhelm:

"Conventional wisdom tells us fiction is dying, the short story is dead."

It made me chuckle, they're still saying that now, 34 years on.

50pence well spent for some classic Sci-Fi.

Problem now being I want to collect the rest of the now defunct series!

Kick-ass comp!

2010-01-30T07:52:00.003Z

Matt Hilton the author of the Joe Hunter series has announced a competition to win a signed & dated first edition hard back copy of Slash and Burn, which is Joe's third outing, putting things right and fucking bad-folks up.

And it's no lame competition where email number twelfty-three is the winner!

You have to earn it by doing a little bit of writing.

All the details can be found here

Good luck everyone!

Submissions and Markets

2010-01-29T08:36:00.002Z

Just threw my hat in for the Zombie Zoology Anthology. Deadline was tonight. So we'll see how that one gets on.

It took longer than I thought to beat into shape so I'll miss the deadline for a decent submission to the Beat to a Pulp Anthology.

I've still got to write one for Nemonymous 10: Null Immortallis, details are here for it. The deadlines not until March so plenty of time.

This market caught my eye as well. Fearology Anthology by Library of the Living Dead, details are here

Been listening to PseudoPod and EscapePod, thinking about trying my hand there too. Be weird listening to someone read your story.

I also want to write something for Pulp Metal Magazine and At the Bijou

Oh, I've a guest spot at The Not on Monday with a little bit of flash.

Have a great weekend, laters.

That bloke Paul. D. Brazill

2010-01-27T06:42:00.003Z

Yesterday I was skulking about blog updates and saw Paul D. Brazill's page had my name on it. He's only gone and given me a circle of friends award. A nice blue orb to put on the site. Now the rules are I now have to pass it on to 5 worthy blogs(Honest it's not a chain letter, but 4 puppies die everytime you don't)

In no particular order...

Col Bury's New Crime Fiction
David Barber's Fiction World

David Cranmer's Education of a Pulp Writer

Lily Child's Feardom

Chris Allinotte's My Leaky Pencil (It is a blog on writing and not anything he may have caught)

My Nemonymous Story

2010-01-21T23:38:00.002Z

Just received an email from the inimitable D F. Lewis, editor of the Nemonymous anthology giving permission if we so want to release which story was done by whom two months before the official announcement. The way it works is the author's byline isn't connected with the story so you have no idea who you are reading, you're just picking up the book without skipping to a favourite writer, or skipping a story because you don't like a certain writer.

Since its release last year it has been a killer now and again not being able to say which was mine. Especially when I'd read a great review of my story. The highlight being a great write up in Black Static horror magazine.

Without further ado, my contribution to Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9 was... Turn the Crank. Matt you were correct in your guess!

3rd I gots 3rd, does a little dance

2010-01-21T05:45:00.002Z

They've given out The Clarity of Night results. I didn't get in the top five for the judges result. I did however get an honorable mention and inducted into the forties club. But... The writers that sent in their brilliant entries got to vote on their faves, (270 of them) and I got a placing in that one, third and it gets me a voucher from Amazon, so three different colours of giddy, and I only got up to piss but thought I'd check. Had some great emails from friends saying thanks, better than Chrimbo. All chuffed now, but will get to work and sure someone will find a way to piss on my parade, but that's what bad thoughts are for and karma!

Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal Cover Art and Submission Details

2010-01-19T08:32:00.004Z

I know I've blogged about the submissions for this anthology before but reckon I'll post again. Mainly because the cover art by Mark Crittenden has been released and it is shit-hot. If the face looks familiar then it's because it belongs in reality to horror writer Erin Cole. The deadline for the anthology isn't until the middle of March so there is still time, and there are still spots open. Details for it are here

Lemme know if you're in it!

A few updates

2010-01-14T08:46:00.003Z

The Clarity of Night Silhouette competition is now closed and I'd like to thank all those that left me great comments about my story on it.

Read on Erin Cole's blog today about another competition. This one is a dialogue one, details are here.

Here's my entry.

"I'm going as far as Talbot, that any use to you?"

"That's perfect, thanks."

"Now it's a fucked up, creepy-ass world we're livin' in and I hate to ask, but I need to be sure. Ya carryin' a weapon?"

"No way, look, see."

"Had to be sure, didn't fancy getting' shanked or shot, ya know what I mean?"

"Yeah, of course, it's fine. I'm lucky to have gotten picked up at all."

"There is that. I am curious though."

"About?"

"Whether you're a spitter, or a swallower?"

"What?"

"See, I like to get my cock sucked, these long hauls they frustrate the fuck outta me, always have done."

"Is that a gun? Look, Mister, I ain't gay!"

"Me neither, nor were the others. I used to de-stress other ways but the cops work harder at finding missing girls. Now I want you to start lollipopping it real slow."

If anyone wants to see my entry(fnarr fnarr)

2010-01-09T06:47:00.002Z

My entry into the Clarity of Night: Silhouette competition has been posted. You can find it here

Just finished the first draft for the Zombie Zoology: A Natural History of Zombies.

Was going to go straight on to the Day Terrors Anthology but spotted on David Cramner's blog that the first Beat to a Pulp antho is still open. So gonna give that one a try. details can be found here and a little more update here The reason it's caught my eye is they needing a pirate yarn and I ain't never done me one of them tales. So gonna give it a whirl.

Have a good'en

The things that are afoot.

2010-01-08T15:53:00.002Z

Just sent off my entry into The Clarity of Night: Silhoette competition. There's still time to enter if you fancy it. The details are here

Finishing the first draft for the antho, Zombie Zoology: A Natural History of Zombies. It's still open, if you're interested the details for it are here.

I have one more story out, hope to hear about that soon, either way.

I've pretty much decided to give the next couple of months over to short stories for Antho's and sites, build up to getting back to novel work.

Have a good weekend!

Fairs Fair.

2010-01-06T13:22:00.003Z

As I said, both acceptances and rejections will be posted. If you look to your right you will see a scoreboard, just to add some fun to proceedings. Monday I started off with a goal getting into Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal. Today I got two rejections. Uplifting stories didn't want Fiddler's Green and Lightning 100 didn't want any of the three pieces of flash I sent. All's good and quoting Jester from Topgun "The clock is ticking, and as of now we are keeping score."

Acceptance Woot

2010-01-04T08:12:00.003Z

Woke up this morning, did the usual checking of the emails and there was one from the guest editor of the anthology Howls:Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal saying they have accepted my submission. Couldn't have asked for a better start to the year.

Don't forget it is still open to submissions. Here the details.

Have a good 'en!

Open for Submissions

2010-01-03T06:52:00.003Z

D.F Lewis has released the guidelines for Nemonymous 10: Null Imortallis. It is to be the final in the series. I was luck enough to get into number 9, so will be having a go to get into number 10.

For full guidelines visit - Here

I've just submitted my effort for the Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal. The deadline isn't until march so there's still time, more details here

Another that caught my eye that I'll have a go at is The Day Terrors Anthology, details here

Still waiting to hear back from two other anthologies and an eZine.

Have a good 'en!

The Close of the Year

2009-12-31T07:59:00.002Z

Well peeps. It's been a great year. Last January I started submitting stuff and as it probably is for everyone there's been high points and low points, luckily there have been more high point.

I'm gonna enter into next year with a better work ethic when it comes to my writing, more disciplined.

But I'd like to list a few thanks for the people who've helped me along the way this year, their help improved my writing to no end.

First up the grammar tutors: Col Bury, Christopher Grant and Matt Hilton.

D.F Lewis for buying a story off me for his anthology, Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9, go buy it.

The folks that took time out of their own writing to critique a partial for me and red-pen edited it smooth: Col Bury 'again', Lily Childs, C.K Andrews, Michael J. Solender and Paul D. Brazill. I blame them all for it not getting picked up :P

Some thanks to places that let me wheedle my way onto their pages.

Matt Hilton and Col Bury for Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Christopher Grant for A Twist of Noir, Nathan Rosen for MicroHorror.com, William Pauly Jnr for New Flesh Magazine, Michael J. Solender for the Not, Lynn Alexander for Blink Ink, The peeps over at Every Day Fiction, MysteryDawg for Powder Burn Flash and Erin Cole for the great 13 Days of Horror she hosted.

Here's to all of you have a Happy New Year!

This weeks goings on.

2009-12-22T08:14:00.002Z

Usual task of getting this weeks part of The Osseous Box into shape.

Started work on a short story for another anthology. A man most of you know, artist MkCrittenden is the guest editor for this antho from Lame Goat Press. There's no cash for it, it's a '4 the luv. Details are here

Here's a few great stories I've stumbled across over the last couple of days.

Another writer you'll be familiar with, Chris Allinotte stepped away from crime and horror yesterday and had one of his observational/humour flashes published over at Every Day Fiction. It is definitely worth a read, Code Mustard.

Lily Child's Softly is a great pieace that's showing over at TKnC. It's told purely with dialogue and it works a treat.

Paul D. Brazill is over at TKnC with his unique ability to tell stories with When the Snowman Brings the Snow

Me, stuff and me family

2009-12-18T17:30:00.002Z

Another week done with. Had an email from a magazine that wanted to do a re-print of one of my crime stories. They don't pay, but it's exposure, so I am going with it, will give the name of the magazine I know it's going ahead for sure so I don't look a tool.

Part 12 of The Osseous Box has been put up over at TKnC, A Path of Flames

Sent another short piece to another eZine I kinda think of as home so hope that gets jammed up sometime this weekend.

And the family part. Well, my cousin, he's a hip-hop artist. Doesn't know I'm putting this up on here. His first single comes out in January and has an album going wild a couple of months later. A newspaper has done an article on him, here's the link. Me Cousin and his work.

Goings On

2009-12-13T10:02:00.002Z

It's the start of a new week. Got a few things done last week. My entry into the one word challenge over at Talkback, the word was Frantic.

An effortless drifting of her attention, coupled with a simple, momentary turning of her back, and he was gone.
Now, days later, she stands amongst the pigeons contained within the activity of the square. She voices her want for her child's return. The people of the open area, they tender up their console by evading eye-contact. Some even pitch pennies into the wishing-well and offer up a soundless hope for the child's safe revisit. The copper-coin dreams tumble through the ragged mesh that covers the maw of the well. No one ever wonders why the coins, they land, without their owing splash.

Still waiting to hear back from a couple of anthos, and submitted to another couple this week.

Today's gonna be spent hammering part 12 of The Osseous Box into shape ready to be let into the wild. Keeping my promise of getting it back to a weekly deal.

Finally, was having a rummage through the vault of old stories and found one of the first short stories I wrote. It's called To Buy A Panacea, I've bunged it up in the Stories to Read section, in case anyone wanted a nosy.

Part Eleven of The Osseous Box

2009-12-07T18:05:00.002Z

After a gap of a month or so,Think of it as Season Two, Part Eleven of The Osseous Box Saga: A Path Familiar has been put up on TKnC today. I hope you like it. Things are beginning to hot up...

Gonna be going back to releasing them weekly now that I have the time to do so.

My Christmas effort over at TKnC

2009-12-04T16:48:00.002Z

They asked folks to submit some Christmas themed shorts. Mine has just gone up at TKnC. It's called The Reckoning

I hope it makes you all feel festive!

A, well nevermind moment.

2009-12-02T15:34:00.001Z

I received an e-mail to say that the agency wasn't interested in my book. But, hey. Only been submitting stuff since January and had great success so far I reckon. I'm in print in a short story collection and been published at various online places to the tune of 50 stories so I'm not gutted, a little down but don't worry not going looking for a length of rope lol. Will take onboard the agents views and then in a month or so return to the manuscript. I have my other novel that I sat aside I think I will re-visit first. Will also return to the Osseous Box saga with part 12. Will probably do the fourth and final chapter of the Ed and Tony crime saga too. It is all a part of the game my friends.

A mention on a blog

2009-12-01T14:08:00.001Z

TKnC got a nice mention on a blog. They even went so far as to mention one of my shorts. That's always nice. Here's the link.

Neil Gaiman and Batman

2009-11-30T12:48:00.002Z

A new legends graphic...who am I kidding, comic has been released. Neil Gaiman did the writing for it and it's in 'Double U Aitch Smiffs' now. Quality read for only £2.90 Party II next month.

Blink-Ink

2009-11-28T10:05:00.001Z

Also have a micro piece up at Blink-Ink, Home

Up at the NOT

2009-11-28T08:04:00.002Z

Okies, www.LeeHughes.net is still up and running and I will be keeping it, mainly because I'd lose the domain name. Over there I'll mirror these blog posting and will continue putting up stories and links etc. But for day to day blogging this is my home.

I entered Michael J. Solender's Thanksgiving flash competition. Now it's a yank holiday and I know jack all about yams and what it's all about so I stayed away from that topic and wrote The Ride for it instead.

I'm back here!!!

2009-11-27T02:58:00.002Z

Though it'll take me a few days to get the house in order, then chaos can resume.

Got a guest blog up at Paul Brazill's place http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/2009/11/guest-blogger-lee-hughes-my-view-on.html

He's had some great talent having a talk over there. Now he's sullied it with mine! that'll learn him.

Part five of the Osseous Box

2009-08-25T20:40:00.003+01:00

Part five of the saga has gone up at TKnC: Bone Brother I hope you enjoy it. The chronological order of the parts and links are over at www.leehughes.net

Acceptence from Everyday Fiction

2009-08-22T02:55:00.001+01:00

Last Friday I mentioned that there was a request for a rewrite on a piece of sci-fi flash. I tightened up where they thought it needed it and just got the email to say they’ve accepted it. So The Backtrack has been sold to Every Day Fiction. They say they’ll get back to me with a publication date. So that’s pretty much got me dancing. Fingers now crossed for the other horses I have out racing at the moment!

Blood Sister: Part 4 of the Osseous Box

2009-08-21T17:10:00.001+01:00

Part 4 of my Osseous Box Story has gone up at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers if anyone is wanting to have a gander. It's called Blood Sisters

Some new stories

2009-08-18T08:04:00.002+01:00

A couple of new stories have gone up on the net. Over at MicroHorror is The Twelfth of Forever and The Daily Tourniquet has put up Burning Money. Tomorrow will be my FlasShot debut; I'll post the link once its live. Hope you enjoy the stories. Still waiting to hear about a re-write I did for a sci-fi one, so fingers crossed there.

Visit my website to find out more and for links to sites of literary interest and also there's a page where I link the best of the stories I stumble across on the net.

A new one up at A Twist of Noir

2009-08-13T18:55:00.001+01:00

I piece of crime flash has been put up over on A Twist of Noir by the title: The Goods If enough people enjoy it I might let you know what made his eyes go so wide...

A new one at TKnC

2009-08-11T18:30:00.004+01:00

The third installment of my Osseous Box series has gone up at TKnC, titled: The Island PeopleI hope you enjoy it. Find more stories and information at www.leehughes.net

FlashShot Debut

2009-08-09T07:46:00.003+01:00

Just noticed on the publication schedule that my debut Off The Hook is to go up on the 18th of August, so pretty giddy about that. If you don't read FlashShot go have a gander, all pieces are micro.

I've also put up a story of mine I had fun writing but it fell foul of word limits for most places, So I've bunged it up on my site. It's about two boy's going fishing, but you know the kind of stuff I write, so it's not gonna go well. It's called, Fishing at the Falls

Exceeded CPU usage

2009-08-08T06:57:00.002+01:00

Found out why my account got suspended. I went over the 10% CPU boundary. So I've stripped out any plug-ins, put in a cache one. And see how it goes from there. I found Just Host to be quick with their replies and the support team were very helpful and polite. So now It's time to trawl the net looking for ways to keep WordPress from throwing parties with the processes! So if you get bored, visit LeeHughes.Net as I'm begun linking out to great stories from other writers that I come across and also add writing resource sites. And do it all on tip-toes. Thanks once again for the rapid service from the Just Host Support Team. But just in-case I Do it again, gonna run the two blogs together lol

Maybe not the last post from here

2009-08-07T05:23:00.004+01:00

Well I gets up early this morning to do a bit of writing before work. Decided to check for any posts on new site. New site not there, just a nice big old sign saying 'Account Suspended' as it was a gift from my brother, it's still in his name, so he is the one that needs to get in touch, and he's away for the weekend. It's with JustHost, so I've done a little googling, and it seems that no one has a good thing to say about them. I supposedly have unlimited space and unlimited bandwidth. And as of the moment I went to bed (7hrs ago) I'd had 8 visitors, now unless word of mouth spreads fast and a million folks dropped in, well can't see it being that one. And as for content, 2 posts and a page of links leading only to story sites, can't be for illegal content. So through googling it seems, yes you do have unlimited space, bandwidth etc, but if you use over 10% of CPU policy your account is immediately suspended, as per their terms. Then reading the reviews I'm guessing I'm gonna get the same response as numerous others received on my brothers return 'You need to upgrade to a dedicated server' for more cash. So as for now I'm back home here, might just even stay, seems a lot of effort lol

So for those that didn't get a chance to see my site lol, I have a new one called, The Lunatic over at Michael Solender's blog as a vacation guest write.

Final Post Here

2009-08-06T07:53:00.002+01:00

Well, I have www.LeeHughes.Net up and running at a workable standard. Running word press with it so it's still a blog but I can just do a little more with it. So hopefully if you'll point your feeds there!

It'll just be easier to maintain my stuff, but also I can have a page dedicated just to what everyone else has out there at that time, a rolling story list from the likes of, Col Bury, Paul D Brazill, Christopher Grant . . and anything else any one can think of.

So...Catch you on the flipside!

Turning 31

2009-07-31T09:45:00.003+01:00

I'm on the cusp of being 31, tomorrow I'm gonna be in the grey area of life. But on the upside I get presents. The wife has got me The Watchmen dvd, a Watchmen t-shirt, Charlie Brookers Dawn of the Dumb book and has a table booked for a meal tonight, but I'm full of the flu. I also, from tomorrow will be the proud owner of LeeHughes.Net, my brother is more strict than my wife on giving in and letting me have my presents early. So I don't get the passwords to the site until tomorrow, Boo! So I'll point my blog at it or something. The site will just make it easier to do cool shit with I guess, and I get 300 e-mail addresses, ThisManIsATw@LeeHughes.net etc dreams if you wish long enough do come true. Second email addy I'm making will be, ColBAdmiresTh@LeeHughes.Net, 300 email addresses might not be enough.

Guest spot

2009-07-30T12:54:00.006+01:00

The esteemed Michal Solender is going off on vacation and has asked some of his writing friends to hand over the goods for whilst he is away so his blog home doesn't look abandoned. My The Lunatic, will be getting aired on the 6th of August. It's a ickle piece that works as a periphery to my Osseous Box effort which can be found at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers He's very sensible in wanting the stuff upfront instead of handing over the passwords and asking me to post live, guess we'll never know how my resignation letter on the behalf of Michael pans out. Even learnt about zoology too, sigh.

A few things

2009-07-30T06:30:00.002+01:00

Firstly some tidbits of mine about the place. Another short is up at MicroHorror.com with my artist in residence, Tobias Corbaux, titled: The Pavement There is a piece of ultra-micro up at Blink-Ink called A Man's Life, you try saying something in 50 words, harder than you think lol. And if any of you have enjoyed The Jesus People and The Shaman People I'm going to keep telling the tale at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers on a weekly basis from now on. And don't forget to read Christopher Grant's flash piece, Idle Hands either, powerful little piece.

A new one at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers

2009-07-27T17:08:00.002+01:00

The Shaman People has just gone up at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers. It works in tandem with my last one there, The Jesus People. Hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think.

A Twist of Noir

2009-07-24T19:19:00.001+01:00

A short crime one has gone up at A Twist of Noir by the title, The Wages of Sin

The Daily Tourniquet

2009-07-22T08:17:00.004+01:00

I've just had a short published on The Daily Tourniquet called The Sitter and the Sculptor. It's the first in a collection regarding an odd artist of the macabre called Tobias Corbaux to be published.

Blink-Ink

2009-07-20T14:36:00.003+01:00

There's a relatively new e-zine called Blink-Ink. It's edited by Doug Mathewson and Lynn Alexander of The Sphere and Full of Crow. All the work has to be under 50 words. My first effort titled, One Final Cycle went up today. I did a few more at the end of last week to get the hang of saying something decent in only 50 words. They've been submitted so we'll see if they get put up. You should all have a go, no one can say they're too busy for 50 words!

No room at the inn

2009-07-14T06:41:00.003+01:00

A short of mine got the bounce yesterday. I'm not too bothered, I'd sent it out to a pretty big magazine, might have been punching a little above my weight, but that's half the fun, you never know. So sent it back out this morning with a packed lunch, so fingers crossed. So at the moment, there's two waiting to go on websites/e-zines. Six that I'm waiting to hear from for websites/e-zines. One out to a magazine waiting on news. Two out for anthologies, waiting on news. The deadline for one is tomorrow, submitted 3 months ago, so see what happens. And have one to send in for a contest this week, another to submit to an online magazine and One to an anthology. Once I've got them all submitted and with the novel simmering in the 'cyber drawer' it'll be time to finish off the second part of The Jesus People, titled: The Homeless People. Part four of Ed & Tony's adventure now they've got the gold. And a fantasy flash one to finish.

Powder Burn Flash

2009-07-13T04:56:00.002+01:00

Just read a cracking story on Powder Burn Flash by Paul D. Brazill called The Postman Cometh. His references to cult media will make you grin and the observations of British life will make you laugh all bundled within a sinister shell.