BFS Journal Spring 2012

BFS JOURNAL
SPRING 2012
EDITORS
Lou Morgan Guy Adams Ian Hunter

DESIGN
Cavan Scott
First published in the UK in 2012 by
The British Fantasy Society

www.britishfantasysociety.co.uk Poetry editor: Ian Hunter. BFS Journal 2012 The British Fantasy Society Cover illustration Chris Roberts All contributions their respective authors / artists The moral rights of the authors and artists have been asserted. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior written consent, in any form of binding or cover than that it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
contents
REGULARS 8 EDITORIAL
Lou Morgan & Guy Adams
12 BFS NEWS & VIEWS

Lee Harris
18 RAMSEYS RANT
Ramsey Campbell
34 THE MARK OF FEAR

Mark Morris
94 THE DARK LORD AND THE GOOD KING

Sophia McDougall
130 A CHARACTER TO BELIEVE IN

Jared Shurin
201 CONTACTING THE BFS FEATURES 38 WHY Y.A?

Tom Pollock
56 WORLDS WHICH NEVER WERE

Sarah Pinborough and Will Hill
100 A GLOW BORN OF A DIFFERENT PROCESS

Chris Roberts
109 LAYING THE FOUNDATIONS

Simon Bestwick
134 A HISTORY OF THE SERVANTS

Michael Marshall Smith
156 BFS MASTERCLASS: WRITING FOR CHILDREN

F E Higgins
162 ENTERPRISING MINDS

Andrew Reid
171 PROGRESSIVE + INCLUSIVE = POPULAR

Amanda Rutter
192 ANNE McCAFFREY: A TRIBUTE

Various
FICTION 22 DONT YOU LIKE THE BIRD MAN

Jonathan Oliver
42 THE CALL OF CHAVTHULU

Neil Fulwood
64 JENNY KHAN
Rhys Hughes
contents
105 MOTHER BOY
Grant Quimper
114 LISTEN
Marie ORegan
140 THE KINDLY RACE

Fiona Moore
166 FAERIE MAILS

Allen Ashley
176 THE FABULOUS BEAST

Garry Kilworth
POETRY 33 MORNINGMARES
Zoe Elizabeth Barrett
41 SHADOW WHISPERER AT BLACK HOLE HOTEL

Kelda Crich
99 DOORWAYS
David Glen Larson
139 THE WHEEL OF WHUMPUS

John DesPlaines
editorial
W
hen you talk about YA (Young Adult) literature, you rapidly find yourself talking in questions. Is it a genre? A subgenre? A marketing tool? Is it as worthy as adult literature? Is it a new thing, an old thing; an American thing? Who reads it? Why do they read it? Whats it about? Whether we understand it or not, YA has become a powerful force within the publishing industry. With the Twilight juggernauts run coming to an end, the next breakout from YA to a wider, more mainstream readership is almost certain to be Suzanne Collinss Hunger Games trilogy, set in the near-future state of Panem, where children are selected as tributes and then thrown into a televised fight to the death. The big screen adaptation is one of this years most anticipated films and, with interest at a high, The Hunger Games and its sequels will likely be dominant in the book charts for some time. The last few years have seen a real development in YA literature. Once viewed as the upper end of the childrens section, major retailers are now moving teen-focused books to a full-blown area of their own, and theres a wealth of YA-only review sites
Lou Morgan
online. And its not just paranormal romance, either: prominently featured among the spines on the shelves are zombies (Charlie Higsons The Enemy), apocalypse (Ilsa J Bicks Ashes), and vampires of a distinctly unromantic bent (Will Hills Department 19). These can hardly be described as kissing books. The genre work thats happening in YA is, at its best, hugely exciting. But is it being used to introduce a whole new generation of readers to SFF and horror, or are the tropes we more generally associate with genre books simply being bolted on to romance for teenagers? I grew up reading
BFS JOURNAL
editorial
Point Horror and Christopher Pike books, and these, along with a copy of Alfred Hitchcocks Witchs Brew and a battered collection of M R James stories, were my very first introduction to horror a genre Im still immensely fond of today. What will happen to todays generation of YA readers, I wonder: will they, like me, move on to King and to Poe; to Lovecraft, Lumley, Stoker and Barker? Or will they forever wander the genre equivalent of the Asphodel Fields, never quite moving on? Only time will tell whether the readers of SFF and horror YA become the genre fans of tomorrow. For now, however, it looks like YA whatever it is is here to stay. This issues non-fiction focuses on Young Adult (and, to some degree, childrens) genre literature. Simon Bestwick looks back at the stories which influenced him as he grew up, and Andrew Reid considers the role the fantastic has in encouraging literacy among younger readers. Michael Marshall Smith considers his novel The Servants through a YA lens, and Sarah Pinborough and Will Hill discuss the challenges of writing for a teen audience. We have
What will happen to todays generation of Young Adult readers?

features from Strange Chemistry editor Amanda Rutter and author Tom Pollock, as well as a very special tribute to Anne McCaffrey, led by Juliet McKenna. Im also delighted to welcome childrens author F E Higgins for our second BFS Masterclass: Writing for Children, and our regular columnists Ramsey Campbell, Mark Morris, Sophia McDougall, and Jared Shurin. Whether youre already familiar with it or whether its entirely new to you; writer, reader, fan, editor hopefully theres a view of YA here for everyone. n
Lou Morgan first novel, Blood & Feathers will be published by Solaris books in August.
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www.britishfantasysociety.co.uk
editorial
N
o, I am Peter Coleborn, this is just what I look like under the beard. Oh, alright, its me, cluttering up your eyes with words again. My last involvement with the BFS committee was fraught and combined with the busiest period in my career up until that point. It was not always fun. Once I escaped I decided that, as much as I love the society, I wouldnt get involved again, not until I found a lot more spare time on my hands. Im such a liar. Its Lous fault of course, most things are. When she put that fish knife to my throat in Brighton, swearing that unless I took over as fiction editor shed cut me an orifice that whistled in high wind, I thought about it long and hard. Then said yes while all my liquids were still on the inside. Of course, its the writers you must feel sorry for. Let me get one thing sorted right off the bat: I will run as wide a mixture of material as I can, Heroic Fantasy (it needs the capitals dont you think? And possibly a really daunting helmet), horror, slipstream, limericks about the chairman... but you need to write them for me. The
Guy Adams
society has often received flak for its horror bias, sometimes deservedly so, but I can only run the very best of what I receive. So write it, or Ill fill entire pages with poems about my cats and then youll be sorry. This issue, Lou and I have tried to offer a bias towards YA fiction (shorthand for Geordie stories aimed at teenagers). While not all the fiction reflects this, we have a whopping piece from Rhys Hughes that certainly fits the bill. It reads like an overtly political Roald Dahl and is the first of many adventures for its horrid heroine. We also have a piece about the nature of storytelling from Marie
10
BFS JOURNAL
editorial
ORegan (a name that most of you will never have heard of, she has very little to do with the society but were trying to get her more involved). Moving away from YA, we have two horror pieces from Neil Fulwood and Grant Quimper, the former will provide a welcome, nostalgic look back to the poetic, young glitterati of Nottingham, I know how much we miss seeing them every year. We also have an age-old tale of drag-queens and insects from Fiona Moore; a flutter of wings from Jonathan Oliver; some manufactured meat product from Allen Ashley and a story of mythical beasts from Garry Kilworth. And theres more where that lot came from... but not enough! So get writing and submitting or you know what will happen: There once was a writer from Spain Who claimed it a terrible shame That the subs were so low He had nothing to show But shots of his cats again. n Guy Adams is the author of the novels The World House and its sequel Restoration. He has also written Torchwood novels, books about Life On Mars, original
So write it, or Ill fill entire pages with poems of my cats and then youll be sorry
adventures for Sherlock Holmes and novelisations of Hammer movies. He wishes hed written a little less but been paid for it a little more. for everyone.
11
ell, hello there. Are we really just beginning 2012? It doesnt feel like it. At the time of writing, it has only been two short months since the EGM, at which the new committee members (myself included) were officially appointed. It seems much longer, somehow, as so much has been discussed between committee members since then. Its been a time of ideas, and were going to see the start of the implementation of those ideas very soon. But dont worry, though we have plans to make the society even better than it is, we dont plan to change it beyond recognition the changes are evolutionary, not revolutionary. By the time the next Journal comes out, we expect some of those improvements to have started to appear, and as soon as they are past the initial planning stages, well post details on the website, and in the BFS newsletter. The committee have
bfs news & views chairmans chat lee harris

W
been whirling dervishes, and absolutely determined to help you get the most out of your membership fee; Id like to take this opportunity to tip my hat to them all their hard work and dedication is certainly making my job a lot easier. Elsewhere in this Journal, youll find details of the voting process for the redesigned British Fantasy Awards. The nomination period closes at the end of March. You dont have
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BFS JOURNAL
news & views
to have read a huge number of books or comics, or seen a huge number of films or TV series to vote if you read or saw something first published or broadcast in 2011 that you think deserves recognition, then please take the time to vote for it. Voting is open to members of the BFS, and members of FantasyCon 2011 and FantasyCon 2012. The jurors are also in place, and will be announced very shortly. Its not just the voting process that has changed, though those of you who will be at this years
FantasyCon should notice a small, but significant change in the way the awards are presented, too. Its all terribly exciting, you know! In the next Journal, well be able to talk in a little more detail about some of the work the committee has been doing on your behalf. Until then, enjoy the rest of the Journal, and remember to check the website for new, reviews and features. n Lee Harris is the editor at Angry Robot books and the publisher of the weekly fiction Hub ezine.
BRITISH FANTASY AWARDS 2012

Do you have a favourite fantasy novel of 2011 or a horror novel that kept you up all night? Then, we want you to tell us about them. Voting for the British Fantasy Awards is now open and will close on 31 March 2012. Members of the BFS, members of FantasyCon 2011 and members of FantasyCon 2012 (who register before voting closes on 31 March 2012) are eligible and encouraged to vote for works published for the first time in the English language in any part of the world in any format during the calendar year, January to December
2011. And dont worry, if your membership expires after you vote, your vote remains valid. Each member may put forward up to three recommendations in any category, expressed in preferential order. All recommendations should ideally be accompanied with publication details: year of publication, publisher, and title of collection, magazine or editor if applicable. Please note that you can not recommend your own material and that the British Fantasy Society discourages the practice of actively canvassing for votes.
www.britishfantasysociety.co.uk 13
bfs news & views

The four titles or names with the highest number of recommendations will go forward to form the shortlist of nominations. In the case of the award for best novel members are invited to list up to three recommendations in the categories of horror and fantasy. The new constitution for the awards may be found at www. britishfantasysociety.co.uk/ the-british-fantasy-awardsconstitution-ii and the all-important voting form is available at http:// bfawards.Britishfantasysociety. co.uk/index.php. Postal voting forms are available by request from the awards administrator, Sarah Ann Watts. Thank you for voting and please spread the word! Hal Duncan: Hals debut Vellum was published in 2005, garnering nominations for the Crawford, Locus, BFS and World Fantasy Award, and winning the Gaylactic Spectrum, Kurd Lasswitz and Thtivaeltaja. Hes since published the sequel Ink, the novella Escape from Hell!, various short stories, and a poetry collection. Maura McHugh: Maura is a writer, freelance web designer and IT consultant. Shes currently writing two comic book series (Risn Dubh and Jennifer Wilde) for Atomic Diner in Ireland, and she also works for the Irish Playwrights and Screenwriters Guild as their webmaster, blogger and newsletter editor. Esther Sherman: Esther is a medical underwriter, burlesque performer, voracious reader, computer games addict and geek culture fan. She is co-editor of Nasty Snips 2, a horror anthology from Pendragon Press due in Autumn 2012. Damien G Walter: Damien is a writer of weird and speculative fiction. In 2005 he was shortlisted for the Douglas Coupland short fiction contest, and more recently won a grant from Arts Council England to work on his first novel. He writes and reviews for The Guardian and IO9 among others.
STOP PRESS: INTRODUCING THE JUDGES

The British Fantasy Society is delighted to announce that the 2012 British Fantasy Awards will be decided by a jury of five volunteers, a first in BFS history. The jury consists of: James Barclay: James is the author of the two Raven trilogies: Chronicles of The Raven and Legends of The Raven, and the epic fantasy duology, The Ascendants of Estorea. He has written two novellas, Light Stealer and Vault of Deeds, and his latest book Elves: Once Walked With Gods is out now.
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BFS JOURNAL
bfs news & views

The jury will deliberate on a shortlist of four nominations as determined by the members of the BFS. The jury shall also have powers to add nominations where it identifies an egregious omission. Multiple entries are welcome, but only one free entry per BFS member Judging is anonymous. Allen has employed Sarah Doyle to act as Competition Secretary to ensure author anonymity. The decision of the judge Allen Ashley will be final. No correspondence will be entered into regarding the judges decision.
BFS SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2012
The BFS short story competition 2012 is now open to entries. Anyone can enter, regardless of how many times they have been previously published. The competition is open to entries from 1 March 2012 to 30 June 2012. This years judge is award winning editor and BFS stalwart Allen Ashley. Prizes 1st prize: 100, a years membership of the BFS, and publication in the BFS Journal. 2nd prize: 50, a years membership of the BFS, and publication in the BFS Journal. 3rd prize: 20 Rules Any kind of fantastical story is welcome. For example: fantasy, science fiction, horror, supernatural, fabulation, magic realism, slipstream, etc, or indeed any combination of those genres. The competition is open to both members and non-members of the society, but non-members must pay a 5 entry fee. Stories must not exceed 5,000 words and must be previously unpublished. This means they must not have been published in books, magazines, on websites or have been broadcast on TV/ radio.
Formatting the Stories Documents should be formatted as follows: Double-spaced text Left and right hand margins of at least 2cm 12pt font First line of paragraphs indented Pages numbered, but no other text in the footer or header Section breaks should be indicated by a single hash mark (#) or asterisk (*) Failure to submit manuscripts in this manner may lead to disqualification. Stories that exceed 5000 words will not be read but you may still be charged. Entering the Competition Entries should be submitted by email. Send to: shortstorycomp@ britishfantasysociety.org Head your email BFS Short Story Competition Attach your story as an rtf file In the body of the email give your name, title of the story, the word count and details of membership/ payment Format the document according to
bfs news & views

the guidelines given above. If you are not a BFS member, or if you are a BFS member entering a second story, there is a 5 fee per entry. You can pay by PayPal (details on the BFS website). Or by cheque, payable to The British Fantasy Society. Send to: BFS Short Story Competition, c/o 110d, Marlborough Road, Bounds Green, London N22 8NN. Email entries are preferred but if you wish to submit your story on paper, please post it BFS Short Story Competition, c/o 110d, Marlborough Road, Bounds Green, London N22 8NN. Include a covering letter with your name and address, title of the story, word count and details of payment/BFS membership, and if you require acknowledgment of receipt please enclose an SAE. of novellas and hundreds of short stories, including numerous appearances in Years Best anthologies on both sides of the Atlantic. Recent books include The Secret Journeys of Jack London: The Wild (co-authored with frequent collaborator Christopher Golden), and Echo City. His first fantasy novel, Dusk, won the British Fantasy Societys August Derleth Fantasy Award, and he followed this with several more critically-acclaimed novels published in the USA and UK, including Fallen (a Publishers Weekly Notable Book of 2008) and The Island. Forthcoming novels include Coldbrook from the Arrow/Hammer imprint, London Eye (the first volume of a new Young Adult trilogy) from Pyr, and a new fantasy novel from Orbit. Tim will be joined by awardwinning horror/ crime writer Joe R. Lansdale, the first Guest of Honour to be announced. Joe lives in Nacogdoches, Texas, with his wife, Karen. He is the author of more than thirty novels and twenty short story collections, with over two hundred short stories, articles, essays and stage plays to his credit. Best known for his popular Hap Collins and Leonard Pine series of mystery novels (including
FANTASYCON 2012
We are delighted to announce that British FantasyCon will be returning to the historic seaside city of Brighton in 2012. FantasyCon 2012 will take place from 27 September 30 September 2012, at the Royal Albion Hotel, Brighton. Membership rates and hotel booking details are currently available on fantasycon2012.org, along with a rough programming grid is now available. Until 31 May you can pick up weekend membership for the event for just 50 (for BFS members) New York Times best-selling horror and fantasy writer Tim Lebbon is to be this years Master of Ceremonies. Tim has had more than twenty novels published to date, as well as dozens
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bfs news & views

Savage Season, Mucho Mojo, TwoBear Mambo, Bad Chili, Captains Outrageous and Devil Red) and the Drive-In horror series (The Drive-In: A B Movie with Blood and Popcorn Made in Texas, The Drive-In 2: Not Just One of Them Sequels, The DriveIn: A Double-Feature and The DriveIn: The Bus Tour), his other novels include Act of Love, Dead in the West, Magic Wagon, The Nightrunners, Tarzan: The Lost Adventure, The Bottoms, Zeppelins West, All the Earth Thrown to the Sky and Edge of Dark Water. Joe has also written numerous comic books, graphic novels and animated TV series, his novella Bubba Ho-Tep was made into a cult favourite movie by director Don Coscarelli in 2002, and his story Incident On and Off a Mountain Road was filmed for Showtime Networks Masters of Horror series. He has received numerous awards for his work, including The British Fantasy Award, the Edgar for Best Crime novel, eight HWA Bram Stoker Awards, The Grinzani Cavour Prize for Literature, the Shot in the Dark International Crime Writers Award, The Sugarpulp Prize for Grandmaster of Crime Fiction, The Herodotus Award for Best Historical Crime fiction, the Golden Lion Award, the Booklist Editors Award, the Critics Choice Award, a New York Times Notable Book Award and The Grandmaster award from The Horror Writers Association. Without a doubt, hes got the most decorated mantle in all of Nacogdoches! Also joining us is our Special Editor Guest, Mary Damby. Mary was the fiction editor at Fontana Books from 1969-72. She edited thirteen volumes of The Fontana Book of Great Horror Stories (1970-84), taking over from then-editor Christine Bernard, and twelve volumes of the Armada Ghost Book (1970-82). Under her charge, she published Ray Bradbury, R. ChetwyndHayes, Sydney J. Bounds, Rosemary Timperley, Christine Campbell Thomson and Harry. E. Turner, alongside such newer names as Bernard Taylor, David Langford, Adrian Cole, Samantha Lee, Rick Ferreira and Tony Richards. Marys other anthologies include three volumes of Nightmares, two volumes of Frighteners, Realms of Darkness, 65 Great Spine Chillers, 65 Great Tales of the Supernatural and Great Murder Mysteries. An author in her own right, her imaginative and incredibly twisted tales can be found in her various anthologies, both adult and childrens, and she is the author of several nongenre novels and humour books. Her debut collection, Party Pieces: The Horror Fiction of Mary Danby, brings together her entire horror oeuvre and will be launched at FantasyCon 2012. Membership Note Anyone who signed-up to the now-cancelled Corby event at this years FantasyCon will be offered the opportunity to convert their membership to Brighton 2012 or will receive a full refund. Please wait to be contacted.
ramseys rant
ilming horror in b&w is, nowadays, a pretension too far. Yes, the maestro of the weird, David Lynch, got away with it thirty odd years ago, and you will find examples of monochrome chills/terror (from the post-silent era of 1950s/1960s) on many a top ten genre listing, but shooting in b&w is especially for 21st century productions just a selfindulgent affectation. So says Tony Lee in his DVD review column in Black Static 26. Forgive me if I worry the prose a little before addressing what I take it to mean. What are we to make of the postsilent era of 1950s/1960s, and why is it the only era he cites? Murnaus silent Nosferatu (for instance) is often listed among the greats; perhaps Mr Lee is discounting it and silent cinema generally because the films were sometimes tinted. Again, why does his formula exclude more than two decades, including all the Universal classics and the great Val Lewton films? Are we to assume, given his cut-off date, that all black and white films made from 1970 onwards are pretentious for that reason, or does the stricture somehow apply only to horror films? Well, let all that go while I disagree with his thesis.
18
ramsey campbell
I dont know whether it reflects the widespread compulsion to employ the newest technology (its in my mind that someone I thought Freud, but apparently not once commented that once we learn to use a tool we lose the ability not to use it). Whatever the merits of the latest stuff, creators shouldnt feel compelled to employ it; certainly they shouldnt be required to do so. Would we really suggest that photographers no longer take black and white photographs, or that plastic artists cease to work in charcoal? I feel the original stricture is akin to mocking writers for continuing to use a pen and paper. All my first drafts of stories are written that way, though admittedly not my non-fiction. This
BFS JOURNAL
ramseys rant
column is being typed direct to the screen, but surely thats the point; Im able to make the choice of whichever mode best suits what Im writing. Exactly the same should be true of filmmaking: the makers ought to have the opportunity to select the most expressive form for the film, including colour or its lack. Even if commercial pressures get in the way fewer people are likely to support a monochrome movie, or so I thought until recently thats no reason for reviewers to do so as well. Mind you, monochrome was often the product of commercial necessity itself. Again, that doesnt matter; all that does is whether it adds to the film. For instance, Hitchcock made Psycho in black and white (and used his television cameraman rather than the one who shot his theatrical films) because he wasnt sure if the film would be successful. Can we imagine the film in colour? Of course we can, since Gus Van Sants remake has shown us how it might have looked, and demonstrates how right Hitchcock was not to shoot it that way (or indeed to make the many slight but crucial changes of emphasis the length of shots, the order of shots in a montage that are present in the remake, often inaccurately criticised as a shot-for-shot imitation). Equally, four years before Psycho Hitchcock chose to make The Wrong Man in black and white in the midst of a run of Technicolor films. Its entirely appropriate to the grey Kafkaesque world of the tale. I would argue that
Whatever the merits of the latest stuff, creators shouldnt feel compelled to employ it; certainly they shouldnt be required to do so.
19
ramseys rant
the current fashion for applying a desaturated palette, or even a restricted one, to such material is a compromise with using monochrome. (In The Aviator Martin Scorsese does make expressive use of early Technicolor in the opening scenes, but then he was even able in Hugo to find striking new uses for 3D.) Im not suggesting that Mr Lee would ask for colour to be added to black and white films, a practice parodied by Jake and Dinos Chapman in their Insult to Injury versions of Goya. I have a DVD of the original King Kong that includes just such a version of the film as an extra, demonstrating precisely how redundant and distracting the gimmick is. (I hear that Laurel and Hardy fans never watch the I refuse to use the ugly neologism the coloured versions available on the massive boxed set of the teams best work; certainly I never do.) I would have to make a partial exception in the case of the recent DVD release of early Ray Harryhausen monster films, since the man himself oversaw the digital addition of colour. Even this looks artificial more precisely, it looks after the fact to my eye, and I find myself returning to the originals. Surely thats how they were supposed to look. This brings me to the simplest
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issue: beauty simple to appreciate, I mean, not to achieve. Take the extraordinary development of lyrical horror in the Italian cinema in the fifties and sixties. Drawing on the fogbound Gothic look of the Universal classics, Mario Bava in particular found beauty in the gruesome. So ferocious is some of the imagery in Black Sunday that it was refused a certificate by our censor in 1960 and remained unseen here until 1968 (in a cut version under a different title), and yet the contentious scenes are haunting as much for their visual splendour as their violence. This film and Bavas horror debut I Vampiri pretty well justify all by themselves the unique atmospheric power that the genre can achieve in black and white. Its only fair to point out that Bava went on to demonstrate how the same atmospheric lyricism could be married to gruesomeness in colour too, in films such as Black Sabbath and Blood and Black Lace, which were to influence Argento in the extraordinary Technicolor sensory explosion that is Suspiria. The point is surely that both modes have their merits, which are not interchangeable. Can anyone argue that Letter from an Unknown Woman would be improved by the addition of colour, or the same directors Lola Montes (which may
ramseys rant
Ive reviewed The Call of Cthulhu in my Video Watchdog column, and will discuss The Whisperer in Darkness there soon. To be fair I should report that the showing of The Artist I attended in Liverpool was almost full. Does this prove there is still enough of an audience for new black and white films to justify more of them? A last question. Would anybody want to see The Night of the Hunter, one of the greatest of all monochrome films, rendered into colour? Perhaps other great black and white films are yet to be made. Heres to the hope of them. n Ramsey Campbell is often described as Britains most respected living horror writer. He has been given more awards than any other writer in the field, including the Grand Master Award of the World Horror Convention, the Lifetime Achievement Award of the Horror Writers Association and the Living Legend Award of the International Horror Guild. He is the President of the British Fantasy Society and of the Society of Fantastic Films. He lives on Merseyside with his wife Jenny. His pleasures include classical music, good food and wine, and whatevers in that pipe. His web site can be found at www.ramseycampbell.com.
Would anybody want to see The Night of the Hunter rendered into colour?
very well be the most gorgeous colour film Ive ever seen) by reducing it to black and white? All this said, Im with Tony Lee to the extent of finding Michael Hazanaviciuss film The Artist overrated. It struck me as a mediocre silent film that, if it had actually been made in the period it apes, would be justly forgotten (though of course if it had been made then it would have been prescient in dealing with the sound era). It seems to have no essential reason to be silent, which makes the technique no better than a gimmick. I found the two films by the H. P. Lovecraft Historical Society much more impressive as they explore how adaptations might have looked if the Lovecraft tales had been filmed in the years they were first published.
fiction
dont you like the bird man?

T
jonathan oliver
he phone was ringing. When Kathy looked at her clock and saw that it was close to 2 am, panic pulled her quickly awake. This could be the call to say that Dad had suffered a heart attack. This could be the call to say that Michaels plane had blown up somewhere over the Atlantic. Snatching the handset from the cradle, she braced herself for the worst possible news and heard the sound of wings. Who is this? It sounded like a vast flock of birds taking flight, the rush of wings growing faint until there was only the distant cooing of doves. The line went dead. Kathy dialled 1471 and an electronic voice said, You were called, today, at 1.57 am. The caller withheld their number. She lay back and listened to her racing heart, feeling shaky, on edge. Sleep eluded her for hours, and when it did finally descend, the call of birds followed her into her dreams. The plane ducked down out of cloud cover as a jolt of turbulence gave the craft another good and violent shake. Michael gripped his knees and stared at the seat back in front of him. Like riding a bucking bronco down to the ground, aint it? the man sitting next to him said, looking exhilarated. Michael said nothing and concentrated on keeping his lunch inside him. He thought of Kathy lying in bed at home, and wished he were curled up to her warm back, listening to her sleep. They touched down at 7.12 pm and, with the tightened airport security, Michael didnt arrive at his hotel until after midnight. A hell of a storm was battering Manhattan, and he stood in his room watching the lightning flicker over the city. Michael wondered what the
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weather was like back home, and was going to phone Kathy when he remembered the time difference and decided to let her sleep. He took a whisky from the minibar and went through the illustrations that Derek had sent him as rain lashed the windows. When Michael had created his story of the bird-headed entity stalking the streets of a gas-lit London, Derek had been the first and last artist he had contacted. He had worked with him on a number of other titles, and Michael considered him one of the best in the business. There was something about his watercolours that perfectly caught the viciousness and sadness of Michaels tale. The depictions of the brutal murders had a strange, melancholy air; every shadowy street promised a phantom. By far his favourite image was the cover of the first issue. Beneath the title, in a barely lit room strung with entrails and soaked in blood, crouched a figure holding a surgical blade. He had the well-muscled, naked torso of a man, and the head of a crow. Michael looked at the picture and considered, not for the first time, that there was something vulnerable about the bird man. Kathy hadnt thought so. Having read A Murder of Crows she declared that it was the nastiest thing he had ever written. Perfect, wonderful husband, you are a twisted ghoul. Where do you get these images from? Most of your stories scare me, but this one really upset me. Dont you think theres something sad about the bird man? Dont you like him? No. I hate him. Dry bird shit crumbled beneath her feet as she climbed the stairs to the loft. The reek of guano became stronger as she opened the hatch and pulled herself into the warm, dusty room. The birds didnt seem to be disturbed by her presence. Remaining in their alcoves, they regarded her with eyes like ebony beads. She lay in a shaft of afternoon sunlight on the dirty boards. A feather floated down to her. Catching it, she stroked it against her cheek. Dust motes danced in the light. She listened to the warm, lazy cooing of the nesting doves and closed her eyes. When she opened them again the shadows were longer and the light was tinted a deep orange. In the centre of the room sat a man. He held a dove and
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whispered to it as he watched her. They dont like to be held, she said, sitting up. I know because once I tried and it wanted to fly away and I accidentally hurt it so it couldnt. Would you like me to show you how? He held a hand out to her. She walked over and he cupped her hands around the bird. The dove twittered nervously. She could feel its rapid heartbeat beneath her palms. I dont think he likes it, she said. A tickling sensation climbed her thigh and she looked down to see that the man had put his hands beneath her skirt. There now, he likes you. I can tell. The dove burst free, startling her, and she tried to move away but the man held her close. He smells like onions, she thought. The tickling sensation on her thighs had begun to move towards her knickers and the man was breathing heavily. She pushed away from him but he wouldnt let go. She squealed and raked him with her nails but his grip only tightened. The tickling sensation had turned into pain, and as his fingers sought their way into her there was the sudden sensation of hundreds of wings beating against her back. Well, first of all its not really a re-telling of the Jack the Ripper story. None of the victims are prostitutes for a start. What was your name again? Tad. Michael repeated this as he signed the dedication on the title page of the graphic novel. Well, Tad, I think youll find that the true victim in this story is the bird man himself. The boy in the leather jacket grunted as though he didnt quite believe him and moved aside for the next fan. Derek sat beside Michael, chatting to a girl wearing a Death t-shirt. She was gushing praise and Michael couldnt help but smile at the unconditional love that was coming the artists way. They never got this loving a reception in the UK. It hadnt been a bad day, all in all. At the convention the two of them had picked up several awards for A Murder of Crows and now they were at Midtown Comics, drinking complimentary booze and meeting the fans. This is for you, said a woman, placing a gift-wrapped box in front of Michael. Crikey! Thank you, thats very kind, now lets see what have we here. Inside was a small painted statue of the bird man. In intricate detail it
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depicted the creature looming over a little girl holding a dove. The bird mans right hand was bunched in the folds of her dress, the left was holding a knife. Thats, its Michael stammered. The woman looked down at the statue sadly and seemed to be about to say something more but left, leaving the books she held unsigned. Derek leaned over. This is incredible! We could commission her to make some more. We could market these. The fans would go nuts. Artistic integrity over money every time, huh Derek? Im all about the almighty dollar my friend. If I thought that for a second, I wouldnt be working with you. So, are you going to take this home as a present for your good lady wife? I dont think that Kathy would appreciate it. Shes not a big fan of horror as it is, and shes taken a peculiar dislike to the antics of the bird man. Michael picked up the statue. I wonder what made that woman add the little girl? Shes not in the comic. Artistic licence I suppose. Now look sharp, the queue is getting longer. Kathy awoke to a storm of feathers. A hole in her pillow spilled them across her face and the bed. Down stuck to the corners of her mouth, threaded her hair. Feeling grubby and drunk with tiredness she lurched to the bathroom and tried to wash away the night. In the kitchen she sorted through the post which was mostly for Michael and looked to be mostly from fans. She checked the answer phone to see whether he had called and then felt disappointed that he hadnt. This house was too big for her alone. Even though Michael had only been gone a day, she still felt at a loss as to what to do. That problem was solved a few minutes later when the phone rang. Hello Kathy love. Its your mother. Hi Mum, howre things? Good. Although your Dads been swearing at flat pack furniture all day, so the usual mix of chaos and hilarity. Listen, I have some news. Im afraid that your great uncle Robin has died. Uncle Robin? I dont remember him. No, well, no one was close to him. Anyway, the main thing is that I need your help. Ive agreed to go up to his cottage and start clearing stuff out. Ive
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hired a skip and I thought that with your eye for antiques and collectables you could advise me on what to chuck and what to sell. Id be glad to Mum. Ill go cabin crazy if I have to stay here on my own for too long. When do you want me? In about an hour? It was a hot day, and with the windows rolled down, the drive to the cottage blasted away the remnants of Kathys nightmare. Her mother, Laura, drove faster than Kathy thought was safe, but it was so good to be out of the house that she didnt say anything. The cottage stood on its own behind a row of pines. Its windows were grimy with neglect and several ancient automobiles stood on the drive, basking in the mid-day sun. Did he live here alone? Kathy asked as Laura tried key after key in the front door. Yes, he never married. Like I said, no one was close to him. We hardly ever saw him. Ah, this is the one. The hallway was crowded with stacks of newspapers and magazines. Well, all of this can go for a start, she said, flicking through an ancient copy of Peoples Friend. Tell you what, Kathy, take a look at the lounge. Ill check out the kitchen. In the lounge, bird cages hung from the beams. Each was empty and Kathy wondered what had become of the inhabitants. She could smell them just below the odour of stale smoke that emanated from the yellowed wallpaper. Kathy imagined her uncle sitting in here, smoking roll-ups and trying to hear the television above the screech of budgies. She imagined that he walked with a stoop and had small, intense black eyes. The furniture in here was old, cheap, and much repaired. A corner cupboard was full of mostly empty bottles and ugly porcelain figurines. Picking up a statuette of a boy sitting next to a dog, Kathy took it to the kitchen where her mother was crashing around in the pantry. Find anything? she called. Bugger all Im afraid, Kath. Anything worth keeping in the lounge? I imagine that this could fetch up to 10p at auction, she said, giving her mother the figurine. Yes, well, I dont know quite why I imagined some hidden treasure trove. Lets have a quick look through the place and then well come back tomorrow
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and start filling that skip. Upstairs Kathy found a bathroom with a rusting tub half full of brackish water, a box room containing a few coins of out-of-date currency , and Uncle Robins bedroom. The bed was old, the headboard wrought iron, curlicued into elegant designs. The mattress was disgusting and would have to be burnt but the frame could certainly fetch some money. Eureka! Kathy shouted down the stairs. We have an antique. That? Laura sounded incredulous as she looked at the bed. Yep. That frame is, I think, genuine Victoriana. Kathy looked out of the window onto an untamed English jungle as her mother examined the find more closely. Sunflowers nodded. Through the trees she could see the outlines of a barn. What about that? Is that part of the property? The barn? Well, I suppose it is. Shall we hack our way through the jungle down there and take a peek? They didnt need to look for a key to the padlock because when Kathy gave it a shake it fell apart in her hands. The heat had found its way inside and intensified. The smell that rolled out was a strange mix of animal and machine. In a far corner a ride-on lawn mower had became a home for spiders and rust. Gardening equipment and tools littered the work surfaces and floor. Stairs lead up to a hatch in the ceiling, and part of Kathy wanted to stop her mother as she ascended, because she had begun to realise what they would find there. It was quiet above. The alcoves were empty but for the occasional clump of feather and bone. The floor was so encrusted with dust and guano that it crunched beneath their feet like snow. Id forgotten that he was such a fan of birds, Laura said. In fact, I seem to remember that he cared more for birds than people. There was something on the floor, and as Kathy bent down she saw that it was a pair of childs knickers. She felt the brush of a wing against her cheek and turned, startled, but it was only the touch of her mother. Kathy love, whats wrong?
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When the muse hit, Michael was trying to force himself into sleep; trying to shake the jet-lag. He called room service for some coffee. Opening his laptop, he placed the statue of the bird man and child on the bedside table. He had been thinking of how the creature related to the humans in his story, and looking at this small statue had provided a spark of something. The bird man can love but how, and with whom? Michael typed. And how does he see children? Reading through Michaels notes over breakfast the next day, Derek appeared to be distinctly uncomfortable. I know that this is a horror comic, but this is pretty strong stuff. Well, the bird man doesnt see it as abuse. The bird man is in love. He doesnt understand humans the way we do. To him, he is consummating a passion he thinks is shared. The little girl doesnt fear him. In fact hes her only friend. The horror of the violation is offset by the tragedy of the bird mans ignorance and that, in the end, is what will kill him. Hang on! Hang on! Okay, two things disturb me here. First, the story, although I realise thats kind of the point. Second, the bird man dies? We cant keep him alive forever, Derek. My accountant would like to disagree with you. And why now? I thought that there were other places we wanted to go with this. I thought that there was going to be some sort of redemption involved. Ive changed my mind. I want to end this on a black note. Yeah, pretty bloody black. Where do you get your ideas from? I should slap you one for that, Derek, but since you ask Michael placed the statue on the table. That fan gave it to you yesterday. Strange the places inspiration can come from, isnt it? Michael looked at the bird man looming over the little girl. Yes, it is. Theres something struggling inside and Kathy looks down. Her belly is taut against her dress. She runs her hand over the smooth bulge and feels it again. Its not the kick of a tiny foot or the nudge of an elbow. Its the beating of wings.
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Kathys scream rose to a high pitch as she struggled awake. Reaching for the bedside table she found a blank wall, and panic almost set in before she remembered that she was sleeping in her parents guest room and was not back in her own bed. The nightmare began to loose its hold, but the anger and shame was still there. Her discovery in the barn had brought with it a wave of revulsion as the memory had surfaced. Kathy had rushed from the loft to the car, and there she had thrown up. Thats a dreadful thing to say, Kath! Laura said later, as they sat in the gaudy caf of a service station. I know, but its real. The dream last night and now this. I must have buried it when I was young. Do you not remember anything? We only took you to visit Robin once, and that was so long ago. I cant really remember much about that day. Kathy, look. Have you been over-doing it at work? Perhaps you and Michael are going through a rough patch? I am not having a breakdown if thats what you think! Kathy, I didnt mean to please calm down Lets just go. Back at her parents house, dinner was eaten in the shadow of an uncomfortable silence. Her father, confused by the sudden gloom, tried to break into it with small talk, but Kathys mother had stared at her husband until the silence resumed. After the meal Kathy talked and her parents listened as she told them what she remembered about uncle Robin. Her mother, flushed with shame, spluttered something about it being ridiculous. It was just a nightmare. But it wasnt, Kathy knew that now. Dad, what do you remember? Not much. He was a bit of a strange man, a loner. Never married. I always thought he was gay, actually. Do you remember that day, Dad? Your Dad wont remember, love. You know whats hes like. He cant remember what day of the week it is sometimes. Mum! Kathy glared at her mother. She wasnt taking this seriously and that hurt almost as much as the memory of what had happened.
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Im not that useless, thank you very much, Laura. I suppose we felt kind of sorry for him, out there all on his own. Felt that someone in the family should at least acknowledge his existence. He probably would have rather been left alone but, you know, being good Christians and all that What did we do that day? Kathy pressed Had lunch. Talked a bit. Had a drink. Actually, I remember that you got very upset at one point. We had to go home early you were grizzling so much. Your mother and I were relaxing in the lounge when you ran in. You were screaming something about your uncles pigeon loft. Seemed youd almost fallen down the steps. Uncle Robin said that hed caught you just in time. I didnt fall down the steps. Well this is ridiculous, Kathy! What do you expect us to do now? Her mother shouted through her tears. It was years ago. Robin is dead. We cant just dig him up and have him arrested. Lets just bury this. Were sorry, Kathy, we really are, but we didnt know and there is nothing that we can do. Kathy lay in bed, feeling so angry and frightened that she couldnt get back to sleep. Her mother was right. There was nothing that they could do. The anger and pain could only go back inside where it would yell and caper at Kathy from her dreams. There was no redemption, no resolution. Robin had abused her and had died without having faced retribution. Throwing on a dressing gown, Kathy went down to the kitchen where she poured herself a glass of water. She looked out the window as she drank. Her mothers car sat in front of the garage. Its wheel rims were still covered in mud from their country drive. Kathy closed her eyes against a sudden rush of grief, and when she opened them again she saw the car keys sitting on the kitchen table. If Robin couldnt be punished then she didnt want anything of his left in the world. No one deserved to gain from him. Taking the keys, Kathy went upstairs to get dressed. It was almost dawn when she arrived at the cottage, and two hours later Kathy watched it burn in the rays of a new sun. The barn added its own smoke to the dark pall. Kathy thought that she saw feathers spiralling through the updrafts but it could have been a trick of the smoke. Kathy
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had begun to giggle like an errant school child as the flames had started to take, but now she was crying as the cottage roof collapsed into the quickly spreading flames. Derek and Michael spent the last few days in New York working on the final bird man story. The preliminary sketches that Derek produced didnt satisfy Michael, and the artists patience was sorely tested by his friends insistence that the panels be darker still until almost nothing could be seen of the bird man. Only the sheen of light on his eyes was visible in the blackness. Im not convinced that this is going to work, Derek told him on the way to the airport. Im not sure I can produce exactly what you want. Dont worry, Derek. Ill get the text to you over the next month or so and well organise to meet up again later in the year. Trust me, this will work. The bird man will find a way. Michael started to drift off as soon as he got himself settled into his business class seat. He was woken by a rush of cool air, and he thought that someone had opened a vent until a black wing slapped his cheek and something ragged and dark began pounding itself against the seat back in front of him. As he made a grab for the bird his hands were torn into by sharp talons, but for just a moment he had a hold on the creatures body and could feel a rapid, panicked heart beat. Then the crow barrelled into the window and lay still on his lap, its neck broken. Oh my God, sir, youre bleeding! Michael looked down at his hands. Bloody red lines criss-crossed his palms. A stewardess was leaning over him, looking unsure whether to attend to the bird or Michael first. We tried to catch it but it just caromed straight through the cabin. Weve no idea where it came from. We are so sorry. On behalf of United, I apologise most sincerely. If there is anything we can do It wasnt your fault. Here, take this, Michael said, handing her the dead bird, and if you have any whisky going spare that would be just lovely. After the drink Michael closed his eyes. He opened them again some hours later, and was convinced that something vast and dark had been pacing the aircraft, but looking out the window all he could see was a new moon and, far below, a silvered ocean. The man sitting next to him shifted in his sleep, snorted and rested his head on Michaels shoulder. Michael pushed
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him firmly but politely away and thought, wistfully, of being at home and enclosing Kathy in his arms. The answer machine tape spooled back to the beginning. Kathy pulled it out of the machine and threw it in the bin. She had memorised most of the messages anyway. Kathy its your mother, please contact us. I know youre at home, Ive seen you through the window. Please get in touch, love. Were not angry with you. We just want to know that youre okay. Kathy unplugged the phone and then went around the house closing all the curtains. She climbed into bed and tried to sleep, but it still wouldnt come. She lay, exhausted and tearful, willing the hours away. Eventually she floated through a kind of slumber, but her thoughts ran a million miles an hour, and sometimes Kathy wasnt sure whether she was conscious or not. Cold silence descended, and it seemed so loud that it made her sit upright in bed. Someone was standing in the doorway watching her, and she only knew he was there from the light of her alarm clock reflected in his eyes. Kathy rolled on her side as he entered the room and lifted the duvet so he could slide in beside her. She sighed as his comforting weight made the mattress dip and stretched out in delight as a wing enfolded her. Kathy stroked the tips of his black feathers as his beak lovingly ruffled her hair. Dont you like the bird man? he asked, pushing himself against her. No, Kathy said. I love him.
Jonathan Oliver is the editor-in-chief of Solaris and Abaddon books, is the author of two novels in the Twilight of Kerberos series Call of Kerberos and Wrath of Kerberos as well as a handful of short stories. He lives in Abingdon with his wife, Alison, their daughter, Maia, and their cat, Fudge.
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morningmareselizabeth barrett zoe

We are the ones who lurk all night in darkness, deep as death, and hide ourselves away until dawn bears its glowing teeth. We store up horrors for the time Your mind seems most at peace: When curtained early morning finds you Lolling, half-asleep. You fools who have so long considered Sunrise your salvation, Prepare to meet your purest fear In stark illumination: Her hair is slick with crimson, her face is jutting bone, her eyes are gone, her arms outstretched, My darling, welcome home! For there are those that haunt by day and those that hunt by night, and those, worse still, that slither inbetween the dark and light.
Zo Elizabeth Barrett is a creative writing student at Kingston University. She developed an obsession with horror films in her teens that slowly eats away at her brain to this day. She will be forever grateful to Dad for reading her E. A. Poe stories at bedtime.
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the mark of fear morris mark

W
hy do writers write? What compels them to commit their thoughts and ideas to paper, and then to present them for the scrutiny, criticism and approbation of others? A recent Facebook update from Gary McMahon gave me pause for thought. In it he claimed that he was only ever truly happy when he was writing. Not when he had completed a piece of work to the very best of his ability and was basking in the glow of a job well done; not when he had the finished book, complete with groovy cover and that delicious smell of fresh ink, in his hands; not even when fans were telling him how much they loved his work. No, it was the act of writing itself that he loved the process of sitting at a desk and trying to express the tangle of ideas in his head in some kind of coherent and readable way. For me, writing is tough. Its hard, brain-aching, often exasperating work. Dont get me wrong. I love my job. I love creating characters, and telling stories, and building what I hope are convincing worlds around them, and tapping into thoughts and emotions that, if Im lucky, convey themselves to the reader. But I wouldnt describe myself as happy during the actual process of writing. Im happy when Ive
are all writers driven by demons, if not necessarily personal ones?
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written or rather, when Im satisfied with what Ive written. But during the act of writing itself Im thoughtful, pre-occupied, sometimes frustrated, and occasionally fleetingly selfsatisfied at a particular line of dialogue or turn of phrase. But happy? No. Garys words prompted me to ask him, and a number of other writer friends, what actually motivates them to write. Garys response was characteristically heart-felt and passionate. Why do you assume I have a choice? he said (I imagine him strangling a kitten while he speaks these words. Or at least, I would if it wasnt for the fact that he emailed his reply to me). Why else would I deprive myself of sleep and of precious time with my family? Why else would I push myself so hard that I end up making myself ill? Why else would I spend so many hours labouring over sentences to try and make them perfect when a good percentage of the people who might read them are only bothered about a fun read? I write because Im driven to do it. Driven by emotional damage, personal demons, and the constant struggle to try and pin my fears down on the page so Ill recognise them better, and be better equipped to battle them when they invade my life. Note that Gary says not if they invade his life, but when they do. Clearly here is a man who expects the worst, a realist who knows that life is tough and that the idea of a happy ending is a myth. But are all writers driven by demons, if not necessarily personal ones? Perhaps not surprisingly, fears, phobias and uncertainties certainly seem to be motivating factors among those who work within the horror genre. Stephen Volk believes that writers (and horror writers in particular) are largely neurotic in nature. Everything in the outside world is fearful, to me anyway, so I think there is an urge to control and order, to make patterns out of chaos and unpredictability and the randomness of real life. The idea that if we put things together in a certain way, it will reveal meaning. Its probably a complete fallacy, scientifically, but I think human beings are pattern seekers and pattern makers, and thats what we do. A need to make sense of the mad, chaotic, incredible, baffling universe and our place within it a need to understand. I can certainly relate to that and so can Nicholas Royle. I write, he tells me, because its the way I make sense of the world
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and of my place in it. Or its a way to at least ask questions about these matters, to which I dont necessarily ever find out the answers. Im not sure I ever make sense of any of it. Writing has become my default way of dealing with the world and my experience of it. Its a compulsion. I love it and couldnt live without it. Strange that amongst all this angsty talk about being driven by a need to expel demons and to understand ourselves and our lives and the world around us, words like love and happy keep cropping up. Is writing, then, a positive way of dealing with negative emotions or even sometimes of communicating positive emotions? Conrad Williams thinks so. I write because I cant help myself, he admits. When Im doing it Im happy, and the longer Im not I become more and more distressed. Perhaps related to this point is the philanthropic desire to pass on, to share, not only a personal love of words, but of the genre itself? This is certainly true in my case, and both Ramsey Campbell and Stephen Volk (again) are in accord. Ramsey tells me that he started writing in an attempt to pay back some of the pleasure the field has given me. Thats still a good reason, I think! I carry on because it isnt just what I
Perhaps related to this point is the philanthropic desire to pass on, to share, not only a personal love of words, but of the genre itself?
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do, its at the core of what I am. Ive got more ideas in my notebooks than Ill ever have time to write, but I hope a few of the stories may not fall too short of the vision I have of them. One other reason I come up here to my desk every day is that I like to surprise myself. If I write something I didnt know I was going to write until I got to it, then I feel I havent altogether lost whatever I may have had. Reading this, Stephen Volk concurs that Ramsey is exactly right. I was so excited by those formative influences growing up Stephen King, Nigel Kneale, Hammer than I can think of no greater pleasure (or honour) than having that kind of effect on others. Formative influences are certainly a strong motivating factor. Adam Nevill admits, I was born a daydreamer, which equipped me for little else. And when I was old enough to properly identify my compulsions, writing felt like my purpose. A slight variation on the compulsion to pay it forward, as it were, is provided refreshingly and optimistically by Paul Cornell. Ill leave it as the last word on this subject for now, not because Ive covered all the bases (on the contrary, I believe Ive only scratched the surface), but because Ive already used up my word quota. Paul says, I think I write because of an insatiable need to entertain an audience, to check in with them, to see if my thoughts get an echo back, like with a stand-up comedian. I think the attitude I write for myself and if other people like it, thats a bonus is just bollocks, in my case. I get the same sort of joy from social media and from being on-stage. Im a show-off, basically. n
Mark Morris is the author of 18 novels and dozens of short stories. In 2007 he edited the highly-acclaimed Cinema Macabre, which won that years British Fantasy Award. His latest work includes the official tie-in novel to zombie apocalypse computer game Dead Island, a novelisation of the 1971 Hammer movie Vampire Circus, several Doctor Who audio dramas and a short story collection, Long Shadows, Nightmare Light.
>> Have your say

Why do you write? Share your own reasons on the BFS forum go to britishfantasysociety. co.uk/forum
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why y.a?
When I tell people Im a writer, Im typically asked three questions in quick succession. The first is: Oh really, what kind of books?; and then when Ive told them, I get: Fantasy? Oh God, really? What, you mean all that stuff with dwarves and fairies in it? The third question usually comes after Ive explained what YA stands for, and theyve rolled the initials around their mouth with the sceptical slowness of a distrustful child sampling a new and foreign foodstuff. But but why? I get that question uniquely when I say that I write Young Adult books. Even those poor souls who turn their noses up when I tell them I write fantasy dont ask me to explain why I do. Thats the point, they already know. The very reason for the increase in olfactory altitude is their embarrassment in finding themselves stuck in a conversation with somebody whos just plain into all that stuff. Apparently, its less easy to believe that I could just be into YA. They want to know why I dont write for grown ups. YA, it is assumed by
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Tom Pollock, whose debut novel, The Citys Son, will be published this summer by Jo Fletcher Books, looks at the appeal of writing for a younger reader
tom pollock
almost everyone, is writing for kids, and therefore limiting. Even those who respect childrens writing appear to believe this. They nod sagely and murmur ah yes, Ive heard writing for children is the most challenging thing an author can do, as if Im levering myself into an artificial stylistic bind, to test myself, like a poet writing a sestina in Cyrillic. Im not. Ive also had it said to me that YA is a vacuous category. Authors had been writing these sorts of stories for decades, Im told, before anyone thought to call them YA. Its a vague label that refers to nothing specific, slapped apparently haphazardly onto childrens books in an attempt to appeal to teenagers, because teenagers read a lot. It isnt. Heres the thing: YA, isnt a reading level. It doesnt describe the audience, intended or otherwise of the book: it describes the book itself. YA is a genre, defined as any other genre is, in a woolly and exceptionridden way by its tropes and staples.
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why Y.A?
before anyone called it fantasy. And so what if its hard to work out precisely what YA refers to? Genre labels dont need to be precise to be meaningful. Dont believe me? Then get a bunch of science fiction fans together in a pub and ask them to agree on a watertight definition of SF. Offer to pay for the drinks until they agree. I hope youve got deep pockets. Speaking of alcohol Genres are like drinks. You can take them straight, but you often do better mixing them, and while a visionary (or plain crazy) bartender can knock out a killer cocktail from some pretty far-fetched ingredients, genres, like spirits, have their natural affinities. Thats what drew me to YA in the beginning, its affinity with fantasy. Ive always loved fantasy, and YA is the tonic to the fantasy gin. The two genres have complimentary chemistry. Fantasy stories map bizarre and threatening worlds, and YA stories map the act of discovery. Fantasy stories are stuffed with magical powers, and YA stories describe the process of coming into ones own. Fantasy dystopias are dark repressive empires, and YA narratives encompass both the instinct for and act of rebellion. Sometimes the two genres run so close together its hard not to mix them, even when it might be
Exploring an urban fantasy world is at once utterly commonplace and terrifyingly other: just like growing up
Just like SF, Fantasy or Horror, Crime or Romance, YA has its traditionalists and revisionists and radicals. It can be Stephanie Meyer, but it can also be Mal Peet. A Young Adult might sound like a kind of reader, but really its a kind of story. And yes, writing YA can be limiting, as can any genre, but its enabling at the same time. So what if the stories predated the label? Id be astonished if the first tale with a magic spell in it wasnt told
why Y.A?
more interesting not to. After all, how often is the flaxen-haired, sword-ofmass-destruction-toting chosen one in a fantasy story a teenager? Of all of fantasys various flavours, its urban fantasy, that genre suburb of weirdness in the here-and-now, whose morphology tracks YA most closely. The magic in urban fantasy is closeat-hand, hiding behind the bushes at the end of the garden. It infects the familiar with a sense of the strange, and allows the strange a resonance that makes it half-familiar. Exploring an urban fantasy world is at once utterly commonplace and terrifyingly other: just like growing up. Ah yes, growing up. Once you allow that YA is a genre, and only parasitically upon that fact a readership, rather than a readership and parasitically upon that a genre, it follows that stories about growing up arent solely for people who are growing up. Sounds obvious enough, but its worth spelling out, because more than one reader has dismissed YA to me on the grounds that they arent a kid any more. As if, for a story to be relevant to them, they have to be able to map themselves with painstaking literalism onto its protagonist. SFF readers have the least excuse of all to make this mistake, after all who among us has ever cast
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a real spell or toppled a real empire (except in cosplay, obviously)? Ah, Im told, but the spells and empires are metaphors. To which I reply, of course, but what about growing up isnt? YA is about danger and discovery, about crossing the border of a strange world and coming into your own. Its about being told life isnt fair and saying screw that, lets make it fair. And I write it, because I am just plain into that stuff. n
Tom Pollock writes novels, invents monsters and may once have gotten into trouble for blinding a US spy satellite with the glare from his shiny, shiny head. His debut YA Fantasy The Citys Son is coming in June from Quercus. He puns a lot on twitter at @ tomhpollock
dont you like the bird man? shadow whisperer at black hole hotel kelda crich
Twist and turn the genetic skein, and produce a viewing machine. Here is the peculiar woman, born and bred for the uncanny. In the Black Hole Hotel cusping singularity held in stasis, dark shadows stutter on the walls. Standing at the foot of your bed, Your future-lives, bled from her head. Here made real. Dont get too close to the peculiar woman. Dont look into ink-space face. Or twist and turn, youll fall, within her mystery. And youll never leave, The Black Hole Hotel. Add you life to the residents list. You never had a future, only the longing.
Kelda Crich is a new born entity. Shes been lurking in her creators mind for a few years. Now shes out in the open. Find her in London looking at strange things in medical museums or on her blog: http://keldacrichblog. blogspot.com Her work has appeared in Lovecraft Ezine and in the Future Lovecraft anthology.
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the call of chavthulu

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neil fulwood
e gorroff bus at West Bridgy and walked it. It were in Edwalton, where we wuz goin. If yer not frum Nottingham, West Bridgy scuse me, West Bridgford is ovver Trent Bridge, other side ov city. Edwaltons a bit further on frum that. Any further and yer boggering off ter Rudd (thats, like, Ruddington, innit?) or Bingham. Though what tha fucks in Bingham fuck knows. Tell yer whats in Edwalton, though. Fuckers as got all tha money, thats who. Liam had this scheme ter rip one ov em off. Helped that fucker were dead. That were tha real clever bit. Ever got picked out ov a line-up by a dead bloke? Me neither. So were edgin out ov West Bridgy and houses is gettin bigger and motors on tha drives flashier. Liams whistlin like hes just won lotto n hes on a promise off Katy Perry. I know worrees thinkin: easy fuckin money. Im thinkin same n all. Mikeys bein a pussy little fucktard, though. You can tell when Mikeys sweatin summat. He kind ov does this draggin thing wiv one leg n he hunches his head into his showders. His face sinks into his hoodie like fuckin things empty n there aint no face like hes Grim fuckin Reaper. Cept insteada scarin other people, hes pissin himsen. You wudunt think he were owdest ov us. Your bird sure about this? he asks Liam. Ah towdja, dint I? sez Liam. Well fuckin tell us agen, Mikey sez. Its Asbo or juvie for you twats if we get nicked, but Id ger down proper. How far back dyer want us ter go? When I met her, where I first gev her one? Just tha bit about fuckin house.
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Well shurrup n I fuckin will. Well fuckin go on then. Well fuckin shurrup then. This went on a bit n only stopped when Liam smacked Mikey one. Then Liam towd it agen. I didnt listen much cuz Id heard it before, but worrit boiled down to wuz this. Liam was shaggin this bird whose mam were a carer for owd people as couldnt gerrout much. Housebound was what she called it. Any road, this bloke shed been carin for in Edwalton had snuffed it n he dint have any family n shed sed summat about him dyin in tess-tayt. That meant guvvermuntd get his shit cuz hed not left it ter any bogger else. Well, Liamd thought what any bloke wiv half a braind think n figgered guvvermunt cud get fucked them greedy twats cream enough fer themsens any road we might as well have it. What made it real fuckin sweet were all the stuff this birds mam had towd her about owd bloke in Edwalton while he were still alive. Codger dint go in for security. No alarm to start wiv. No CCTV. No UPVC windows. Owdfashund wooden windowframes, wood all crumbly wiv age. Carerd nagged him about gerrin place done up safer, at least gerrin burglar alarm, but he dint have any ov it. It werent like hed got latest flatscreen or Blu-ray player or X-Box or owt, but its a safe bet wiv codgers that theyve got money lyin around. Them as were born when it were owd money yknow, shillins n that theyve never gorron wiv debit cards n online bankin n shit. Cash in hand on pension day, innit? Stingy n all, codgers are. Wont spend owt if they dont hafta. So Liam figgered two things. One, itd be a piece a piss to break in. Two, wed at least get what cash hed stashed away before he snuffed it. House wuz empty waitin for council to do summat. Itd be gloves on, break in, nick shit, fuck off, jobs a good un. Any road, Liam were still tellin Mikey all this when we found the place. Garden were overgrown. Big hedge, hadnt bin cut in ages. Ten foot fucking tall n growin out all ovver the place. Sweet. Nobodyd see what we wuz up ter. We pulled us gloves on n Liam pushed gate open n we walked up garden path. But norrup ter front door. Nah, we werent fuckin stupid. Round back where it wuz nice n dark n quiet. Steve-o, Liam whispers.
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Wazzap? I whisper back. Got yer tool? I reached inside me jacket n pulled out this long-andled screwdriver what wuz me dads before he fucked off wiv some barmaid frum his local n left me n me mam on us own, the twat. Any road, Liam teks it off us n goes ter work on this back window n frames as rotten as what that birds mam had sed. Were inside in no time. Got torch, Steve-o? Liam sez n I pull it out me jacket like Id just been waitin fer him to say it. Fuckin right little tool shed, me jacket is. Torch werent me dads, though I nicked that fucker. Liam pulled the blinds ovver window before he switches torch on. Thats why hes the brains ov the outfit, is Liam. He thinks about shit like that. He went round closin all the other blinds on ground floor n all, then we started on tha place proper. Right shithole. Dust everywhere. Grubby carpets. Nasty wallpaper, dark n wiv patterns like there wuz fuckin vines climbin the walls. Lightbulbs wuz feeble n buzzed like they wuz gonna go out any minute. Come ter think on it, it were a wonder leccy wuz still on. We twatted about downstairs fer a bit. Found a bit ov change, wernt much, just 1ps n 2ps. Wudnt buy a fuckin pint. Like wed figgered, there wernt no TV or DVD player or owt we could flog down t boozer. Tell yer, more shit gets bought n sold down boozer than at Cattle Market. So anyway, Mikey figgered hed have a look in kitchen n see if tha owd codger had left any booze in fridge. Liam went upstairs wiv his Stanley knife out n I guessed he wuz gonna rip open mattress cuz ov how owd codgers often keep money in there. I wuz gonna foller him up but itd look a bit gay n I dint want fuckin Mikey takin piss. So I wuz kinda pokin round not really doin owt when I saw this bookcase n all tha books wuz same size n dint have any writin on tha edges ov em. It wuz like in cartoons when bulb comes on ovver someones head cuz theyve just thought ov summat. What I was thinkin wuz that them books wuz false n there wuz a safe behind em. Course, I dint know fuck all about how to get into a safe, but Liam wuz a smart un n hed probly know, or else hed know someone who knew. Yknow? So I grabbed at books n fuck me if they wernt actually real books. I mean, fuck! One ov em falls on floor n opens. Writins not like printed out like normal but done in handwritin. Dunno why I pickt it up cuz I dont give a
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fuck about books, only ever read one in me life n that wuz a guide on how to do cheats on X-Box. This book wuz diffrent. Only looked at it fer a coupla seconds but it wuz like tha wordsd crawled off page n into me eyes. I blinked n I cud see whole chunks ov writin. Cud remember it word fer word: What we brought back from the Orient the Thing which at first struggled against our efforts to contain it, which warped the boundaries of reality and reminded us how tenuous the barriers between worlds has seemed to slumber of late. Of late? Hah! I try to fool myself, to pretend its inactivity has been a recent and unremarkable phenomenon. But the truth is unavoidable. The wounds I received in our pursuit of it the wounds from which some of us never recovered have hastened the decrepitude of old age. I have tried to remain optimistic, told myself night after night that the ancient gods will soon arise from their deathless slumber. God knows, the world has become complacent enough to have forgotten them. And I banked upon this complacency this over-reliance on the logical, the scientific, the technological as the Achilles heel. I remained convinced that this complacency would be reckoned as a debt that could be settled only in the ledger of human existence, the final total inscribed in the ink of blood. But here I am, an old man, alone but for my faithful nurse and companion, a woman who treads these creaking floorboards in perfect ignorance of the Thing we interred there so many decades ago. Whose return I now fear I will not live to witness. Most ov this dint mean fuck all, but that ink of blood malarkey wuz some trippy shit. I wuz wondrin if tha duded bin smokin summat a bit strongern Owd Virginya n whether there wuz owt ov it left, when Mikey gave a shout frum kitchen n I went runnin. Liam wuz right behind me as I went skiddin into kitchen. Mikey wuz kneelin down near this trapdoor what hed opened. He looked back ovver his showder n snapped his fingers at me. Giz torch, Steve-o, he sez. Normly Idve lamped cunt fer that finger-snappin shit but I figgered hed found summat what wuz gonna mek all this twattin around worth it, so I gave him torch n dint say owt but reminded me-sen that he wuz due a slap next time he got leery. Mikey shone torch into tha darkness, then gev this gasp like hed just clocked Megan Fox wiv her tits out.
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Worrizit? Liam asked, but Mikey dint say owt. Just stuck his head down into cellar. All we cud see wuz these flickers as he shone torch around. Fuckin worrizit? Liam sez agen. Then Mikey pulls his head outta hole n rocks back so he guz frum bein on his knees to sittin on his arse like hes at assembly in junior school. Then he spins round ter face us n grins like a spaz. Its fuckin awesome, he sed n dangled his legs ovver hole. Then he like pushed his-sen up wiv on his hands n went forrards. Dropped feet first. He cudnt ov fell fer more than a coupla seconds, but he made two sounds, dead different, in them coupla seconds. First un were like the sound yer mek when yerve got lucky wiv some bird n yer goin in-out-in-out like a good un n yer about to cum. Second were like her boyfriend n his twat fuckin matesd gorrowd ov yer n yerd just had a kickin. It were fuckin creepy how them sounds come one after other like that. Daft cuntd took torch wiv him, so Liam poked around kitchen n found this box ov matches. He lit one ovver hole. There wuz some wooden steps goin down which made Mikey a even bigger twat for jumpin. Liam called Mikeys name as he went down steps, wiv me followin. Mikey kinda groaned. Match went out as Liam reached t bottom so he chucked it n rummaged in box fer another. Then we heard Mikey say, Ow, yer twat, thats still fuckin hot, so we knew he were alive. Liam struck another match n we saw Mikey lyin on floor, legs twisted under him. His face wuz white n there wuz blood on his lips. Chucked match were on his forehead. Torch were a few feet away n Liam picked it up n clicked it on n off. Gave it shake like what yer do when battriesre a bit low n yer tryna gerra bit more life out ov em. Fuckin had magic touch, did Liam, cuz torch come on n we gorra proper look round cellar. This wuz when tha weird shit kicked off. Start wiv, cellar wernt like Id figgered. Floor wernt concrete or owt. More like hard soil, yknow when yerve packed it down. But not colour ov soil. More like sand or dust. Cellar stretched further than yerdve thought n all. House were normal, like, but fuckin cellar looked like it just went on n on. When we wuz at school, they took us down Caves ov Nottingham once. It wuz alright, better than sittin in class or goin ter see that cunt Shaykspeer at Playhouse. The Caves wuz man-made, I remember em sayin. Big fuckin caverns. Tell yer, they wuz fuckin rabbit holes next ter that cellar.
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About twenty feet frum where Mikey wuz lyin, tha floor worrever it were made frum started slopin away n when Liam pointed torch ovver that way there were this like faint glimmer as if summat were reflectin. We stepped ovver Mikey n went ter av a look. We kicked up dust as we walked n I cud see in torch beam that it wernt settlin back down agen but kinda swirlin in tha air. Fucked up thing wuz, there wernt no breeze in t cellar. Dust were just swirlin around in these weird patterns. I wanted ter tell Liam ter shine beam up at em cuz Id swear they wuz formin shapes faces but I knew itd sound stupid, like I wuz seein things or bein a pussy. Floor started breakin up closer we got ter tha bit where it sloped away. Dunno how to put it other than that. Cracks, like when yer lob summat at a car windscreen. Spiderwebbin, they call it. This wuz like the floord spiderwebbed. Big dark lines like gaps in reality (fuck knows where I got that frum, but it kinda fits) n we slowed down as they got closer together n the gaps got bigger. Just where all tha spiderwebs merged into one wuz where floor sloped away n there wuz this big pool ov what looked like pure blue water wiv sun glintin off it but wernt. I dunno what were strangest, tha spiderwebs comin together round edges ov pool so it looked like it were floatin by itsen in some kinda void, or tha water-that-wernt-water in tha pool. It rippled like water n it made this soft kinda noise like it were lappin at tha shore. It glinted when torch beam hit it. But it were too thick to be water. Too heavy. Kinda like summat that had been solid n started meltin but hadnt full on turned liquid yet. There wuz a smell comin off it n all a smell like treacle n bleach mixed together. Fuck sake, Mikey sed, his voice all weak. Quit pissin about n gerrus outta here. I think I need ter go ter ospital. Liam swung torch away frum pool n into Mikeys face. Yeah, n tell em what? he sez. We wuz doin a B&E n you fuckin launched yersen down into cellar like you wuz fuckin Superman? Fuckin Wonder Woman, more like, I sed n it gorra laugh from Liam. Fuck off, yer twat, Mikey sed. Im in pain. Just gerrus to ospital, yeah? Ill tell em I jumped off a wall or summat. As he wuz talkin, I heard this sound like someoned got their boot stuck in mud n itd only come free after a lot ov pullin. Yknow, a wet suckin kinda sound. Then summat snaked past me n Liam. Liam shone torch on it n we
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both gaped. I thought it were a snake at first n I were about to jump back n mek a run for tha stairs n boggered if anyone thought I were scared. But it were covered wiv these like suckers n I realised it wernt a snake it were a tentacle. Then Mikey screamed n next thing he wuz dragged past me n Liam n into tha pool. Liam dropped torch for a second n scrabbled ter pick it up. His hand were shakin n it took him a bit to gerra proper hold on it. Beam went flickrin everywhere n I saw these split-second images dust-faces hoverin above Liam like ghosts, tentacle round Mikeys ankle, shadows movin way back in tha distance. Then Liam wuz holdin torch steady n we watched Mikey get dragged into pool screamin. He wuz still tryna scream as he went under, then he made this sound like he wuz gaggin. That wuz when Liams nerve broke n he ran like fuck towards steps. Seemed like he wuz mekin right move so I followed him, like, double quick. Just as we got to tha steps, we heard Mikey say summat. Wernt words. It sounded like Yurg sod off. We looked around n he wuz stumblin outta pool. I thought hed managed to claw his way out or summat. Dint bovver me as weird or owt that hed come out wiv that Yurg sod off rammel cuz Id heard him say stuff like that before. I mean, itd normly be after too many pints ov lager or a dodgy kebab n he wuz barfin his guts up, but it wernt a surprise or nuthin to hear him say it. It were a surprise when his face ripped open, though. Fact, I nearly fuckin kakked me-sen. I gotta say two things here, right? First, his face dint rip open so much as fold in on itsen n this black n dusty light ov a millyun dead stars pored out on it. (Dunno where tha fuck I got that frum, either, but agen it fits.) Sekund, I aint some fuckin chickenshit pussy, yeah? I know I said I followed Liam, but it wuz his nerve broke what broke, not mine n besides if Liam who wuz fuckin hard as me got fuckin scared by tha shit what went down in that cellar, then that proves summat, right? It proves that what happened wernt ov this fuckin world. It shunta happened n we had evry fuckin right to want ter fuck off outta there. But Liams nerve broke before mine n that what meks tha diffrunce. I might ov wanted ter leg it up steps after him, but this wuz where Id mek me fuckin name. This wuz where itd go down. I felt like there wuz this part ov
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me whatd bin gettin ready fer this shit fer years. So when Mikeys face folded in on itsen n that black n dusty light come pourin out, I fuckin stood me ground. It wuz one thing some fuckin tentacled cunt draggin Mikey down into pool (thatd mek anyone think about runnin run fer it) but seein Mikey all fucked up by worrever nameless fuckin evild got its cunthooks in him, well that were summat different n it put me right in mood fer a proper ruck. Yknow, like when red mist comes down that feelin when yent gonna bovver wiv talkin no more n other fuckers gerrin his head kicked in n thats all there is to it? Well, it wuz same now. Red mist wuz startin ter drift in front ov me eyes. It were funny, that, cuz black mist what wuz comin out ov Mikeys faceless face were also driftin in front ov me eyes. Driftin n swirlin like sand or dust or worrever it wuz whatd got kicked up frum floor. Driftin n swirlin n formin shapes n becomin all these weird clone like things. Clone things, right, what looked like Mikey? But not like Mikey before but what hed turned into. Faceless Mikey. Mikey wiv an hole in his head n nowt but fuckin blackness inside it. Not tha Mikey I knew. So I pulled me switchblade n went at em. I were shoutin summat like Cum n have some, ya fuckin cunts. I dint know how many clone thingsd spilled outta Mikeys face. It were knda like that Matrix film wiv that cunt in tha suit n suddenly theres fuckin dozens ov him n theyre all givin Keanu Reeves a right hard time. But I went at em, blade slashin n carvin. Them clone things wuz splurgin this black oily stuff what must ov bin their blood, jettin it all ovver when I fuckin cut em. Ive bin in a coupla knife fights n I know ter keep movin, blade wavin around. Jinkin side to side, stepping back. Keep cunt yer up against off guard, mek him unsure what yer gonna do next. I like to think Ive gorra sixth sense in a ruck. So even though Id cut down a few ov em n yerd think I wuz getting upper hand, there were summat happenin wiv remainin ones n I got this tingle down me spine n I knew ter get tha fuck outta there. Even then, I dunno worrit wuz what made me drop ter ground n roll over out way instead ov just turnin n leggin it. But it saved us life, Ill tell yer that. Tha clones what wuz left formed this semi-circle n opened their mouths like they wuz gonna scream. But what come out wernt that black n dusty light
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like before. It wuz more like oil. As I rolled over, I saw it jet out their mouths. Five streams ov it hit Liam right in his face. I jumped up n headed for steps. Looked over me showder n Liam wuz blinkin n tryin to gerrit out ov his eyes. Then they let loose wiv another blast n it shot straight into his mouth n he doubled over, gaggin. I reached steps n started climbin. Coupla seconds later I wuz runnin through kitchen. Only it wernt kitchen no more. It were this fuckin ledge n I only realised in time n come to a stop just a inch or two frum where it plummeted away. Like I towd yer, I aint scared ov no-one, but when stuff starts happenin what shudnt, yer cant help it yer get shakes n sweat breaks out all ovver yer. Yer breathin gets fast, big panic breaths. It took me a bit to gerrit under control. I edged back frum precipiss wivout lookin down. Summat come into me head about lookin into abyss n summat lookin back at yer. I know that sounds wanky but its weird what guz through yer head when yer in tha zone. I looked around n steps down ter cellar wuz gone. Ledge stretched fer about ten or fifteen feet to either side. On tha left, some steps went down frum it n out at an angle. On tha right, steps went up n out at a different angle. Across frum ledge there wuz two other sets ov steps which went up to nothin. They just kinda met in tha middle. Them what went up frum ledge linked up wiv this other set, but not in any way what made sense. It wuz like my eyes were sendin layout ov it ter me brain but me brain wuz sayin it wernt possible n refusin to believe what I were seein. Dint help that there wernt nowt between tha steps. Just darkness. But not like darkness coz there aint no lights on. Proper inky black dark like a pool. I got this thought that if I reached ovver ledge n touched it, itd be wet n cold n slimy n summatd reach up n pull me down into it. This one time at school, when I wernt skivin, I wuz in a art lesson n teacher started talkin bout this MC Eshur dude. Me ears pricked cuz I thought it were some DJ Id not heard ov. Turned out he were this guy drew all these fucked up pictures wiv stone steps n corridors n all these angles what looked like they all linked up but when yer started lookin it at proper it wuz all impossible. Teacher said it were summat to do wiv perspective but were bored by then n this bird called Shazza were sittin at desk opposite wearin this dead short skirt n me mind started wandrin.
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Any road, what I wuz seein now looked like summat that MC duded drawn. I thought about it a bit, then went left along ledge ter where steps went down. I figgered goin down wuz safer than goin up, what wiv whole place bein a giant headfuck if I started goin up, Id probly get all dizzy n fucked up n go fallin to me death. I wuz part way down when everythin shifted around n next thing I wuz walkin up n comin out at right hand side ov ledge. I doubted me-sen n thought I gone wrong way, so I legged it along ledge n started goin down again. Same thing happened. I turned round n went back down agen. Then I wuz goin back up n comin out on other side. I did this fer what seemed like hours n I started screamin at worrever wuz mekin it happen. Reckon I pissed it off cuz steps started crumblin n droppin away n there wernt nuthin beneath em cept fer this swirlin mass ov black n red that sometimes seemed ter move like water n sometimes seemed to ripple like flames. Then ledge started to drop away, bits no biggern pebbles at first, then tha size ov yer fist, then massive fuckin chunks ov it. I know worrah sed before about not lookin down, but there wernt no choice now. I started to mek out shapes under surface ov that weird black n red swirl n another bit ov that book Id picked up floated through me mind. There I wuz, standin on ledge as it crumbled away to nothin and this fuckin rammel starts up like someones readin it aloud inside me head: I have grown weaker, more dependent. The doctor greets me with his tight brave smile more regularly now. If he gave me the sentence of death in precise and unsentimental terms I would have more respect for him. As it is, he is emblematic of the insipid and morally degenerate society we had hopes of destroying when we stumbled upon the lair of the ancient one. The fakir who took us to the dark place left a book in my possession, an ancient and mouldering thing whose pages have long since deteriorated. I managed to transcribe much of it before its inevitable degeneration. My health is failing and my access to research materials is limited, but having determined from archive correspondence that the phrase phnglui mglwnafh Cthulhu Rlyeh wgahnagl fhtagn translates to in his house at Rlyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming, it has been possible to chance a rendering of the cryptic final page of that volume: And he who calls forth the ancient one will be staunch in his hatred
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but malleable in other ways, his hatred unfocused and therefore allencompassing, his humanity corrupted by the batterings of his supposed masters. A son of the oppressed, forged in the flames of societys contempt, the hard steel of his anger hammered out on the anvil of his black and pitiless heart. Just when me head wuz threatnin to burst wiv all this fucked up shit, tha last bit ov ledge turned to dust black dust like what come outta Mikeys mouth n I wuz fallin. It wuz like a plane takin off. Yknow, how it pushes yer into yer seat. Only tha other way round. Not bein forced up into clouds, but bein yanked down, like some big invisible hand latchin round yer guts n snatchin yer down so far n so fast its like it aint gonna end, yer just gonna plunge down forever. I dint fall into tha swirlin red n black stuff far below I fell through it. It closed over me n tha last thought I had wuz fucked if Im goin down wivout a fight n I opened my mouth n screamed, Fuckin sleepin ancient evil fuckin wanker, cum n get some! Then evrythin broke apart n world went dark. Dont remember owt after that. Think I mightve blacked out. Sirens wuz screamin n me head felt like it wuz full ov oil or smoke or sludge. I gorrup n looked round. I wuz in kitchen n Mikey n Liams bodies wuz lyin next to us. I knew it were Mikey n Liam cuz ov what they wuz wearin n ringtone what wuz comin from Mikeys moby (fuck knows who wuz tryin ring him; dint they know he wuz fuckin dead?) n this bit ov bling what Liam had round his neck wiv FTW on it what meant fuck tha world. But cept fer that yer wouldntve known it were em cuz bodies looked like theyd bin rottin fer fuckin ages. Skin like sandpaper. Eye sockets just dark holes. Blue lips twisted into frozen screams. I got tha fuck outta there so quick it dint even strike me that things might go all fucked up agen before I reached window wed come in through. All I cud think ov wuz that it seemed like a million years since we clambered in n started lookin for money or shit we cud sell. I dint even know if it were same night, or a week later, or a month. Figgered it were same night, though, cuz ov tha sirens. Some cuntd seen summat n called cops. It wuz only after Id sprinted out garden n headed
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down a bunch ov side streets (only a twatd ger down main road towards West Bridgy; fuckin pigsd nick yer soonern look at yer) that I started thinkin what if housed tried to stop me leavin, made floor disappear, or doors merged into walls, or floor n ceilin change places n throw me arse over tit n break me fuckin back? But it dint n I wuz out n runnin n keepin to shadows n thankin fuck Id never been pulled in fer owt. Even if they got me fingerprints, thered be no match. I wuz thinkin that Id best keep a low profile fer a bit, maybe think about movin, stayin wiv me cousin in Lincoln till things blew ovver. I hung round the back streets fer a coupla hours. Fucking millyunaires row, Edwalton. Marked out a coupla places looked like I cud rip em off pretty easy. Once Id lied low fer a bit, like. Made me way back through Bridgy after the sirens died down. Found this kiddies park n kipped under this wooden house what had a slide comin out ov it. Checked ground fer broken glass n needles n dog shit. Got lucky clean. It wuz four in tha mornin when I woke up. Fuck all buses. Walked back into town over Trent Bridge, bastard feet wuz killin me. Went straight ter bed when I gorrome. Slept fer two days. Dreamed about cellar n Mikey gettin dragged into pool n clones made out ov dust pukin oil into Liams mouth n evrythin breakin up n eldritch creatures ov immortal provenance risin frum stygian depths. Even in tha dream I wuz fuckt if I knew where Id gorrit frum, words like eldritch n provenance n fuckin stygian. Sometimes I came awake frum dreams, but I wuz so shagged out I slipped straight back into em agen n they took up frum where theyd left off, or just started all over again like they wuz on a loop. Two days out ov it, stuck in these fuckin loop dreams. I woke up, burstin fer a piss coz I hadnt bin since fuck knows when. I wuz standin bleary-eyed at bog n pissin like a racehorse when there wuz this split-second moment when it seemed like evrythin had bin a dream. Man, it wuz fuckin reem. Like Id bin strugglin uphill wiv some bastard heavy weight strapped on me back n suddenly itd bin lifted. Then I turned n looked in bathroom mirror n it all went ter hell. It wuz me own reflection, all right, but me eyes were black. Me skin grey. When me mouth dropped open all surprised like, this smoky mist come out ov it. Before I could even think let alone do owt, mirror turned into this
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watery surface. Nah, not water. Quicksilver. That wuz when tha reflection reached out n pulled me through. Other side ov tha mirrors pretty much same as tha world I left, but yer just see things diffrent. Sometimes its like one ov them out-ov-body jobs, like Im lookin down at me-sen. Thats when I can see all tha ways its changed us. Me legs av gone squat. Bellys bloated like Im worlds fust pregnant bloke. Theres these boils all over me chest n belly wiv tentacles snakin out ov em. Them fuckin tentacles that wuz when it proper started tekin me over. They burst outta me n slithered through tha flat n next thing two ov em wuz burrowin into me mams head. Then when Liams brother come over coz Liam hadnt bin seen fer a bit, they jabbed into his skull n dragged him into livin room. For two days it wuz him n me mam sittin next to each other on sofa, eyes white n faces blank. It felt like tentacles were pumpin summat into em. Some other people come askin questions n they got same treatment. I lost count after a bit. Im sleepin about ten hours a day now. Me dreams is mixed up, like them tentacles av bin suckin out their dreams so as to mek room fer worrever its fillin their heads wiv. Pullin their dreams out n shovellin em into me while I sleep. One thing that crops up in all tha dreams though is tha city burnin. Nottingham up in fuckin smoke n not just Nottingham. Derby, Sheffield, Manchester, London. Fire ragin through buildins, rubble n bodies in streets. Cops in riot gear n helicopters ovverhead, rotors choppin through gouts ov black smoke. Petrol bombs lobbed at cop shops, windows kicked in. All them lyin cunt politicians on TV talkin about civil disturbances n state ov emergency while tha whole fuckin shithouse guz up in flames around em n theyre left spoutin bollocks that dont mean owt n everyone sees em for fuckin wankers they are. Then evryone gets in on it n all tha resentment whats bottled up since that fuckin bitch Maggie wiv her Bride ov Frankenstein hairdo fucked tha unions ovver n put me uncle n a load ov other good blokes out ov work n turned police n army agenst men what wuz just strikin to get a better deal all ov that resentment comes to boil n it fuckin guz down hard n violent. Course, these kind ov things need a push. Footsoldiers to trash fust shop or lop fust petrol bomb n tek fust blows when cops turn up n break out
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truncheons n rubber bullets. Rubber, like its a fuckin toy. Dont mek me laugh! Them bastards can fuckin concuss yer. But someones got ter be on front line sos them who wuz sittin on fence or confused as to what side they wuz on can get their fuckin mad up when they see armed cunts in Kevlar vests kickin seven bells out ov unarmed blokes. Thats when regular people tek to tha streets n push back agenst what theyve bin towd to accept all their lives. Thats when it proper guz down. Thats when balance ov power shifts n tha owd order is destroyed. I dunno why tha ancient eldritch evil fuckers or worrever they are (tell yer what, bein one ov em dont necessarily mean tha cunts explain owt) are so intrested in all this, but an hour ago one ov tha tentacles flipped TV on n there was some unrest simmerin nicely away in London. Isolated incidents in other cities. Pressure cooker atmusfear, that wuz how tha smug twat what wuz readin news described it. Which is a poncey way ov sayin about ready ter blow. All tha people whove come here, whove bin brainfucked by tha tentacles, they started twitchin when this malarkey was playin on TV. Ter tell yer truth, Im fuckin ready fer it too. Theres already sirens over towards Sneinton n smudges ov smoke ovver Meadows and Bulwell. All its gonna take is a few folks whats fired up n dont give a fuck n this citys gonna burn like rest ov fuckin country. Tha owd godsve got a pretty big stake in all ov this, but Im not kiddin me-sen that me n tha army ov twitchin zombies in me flat is gonna be around to work owt out after dusts settled. Even if we are, so what? We aint fuckin ambassadors. Aint what we do, rebirthing a new order frum ashes n rubble. We just create fuckin ashes n rubble. We destroy.
Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham in 1972. He published a film studies book, The Films of Sam Peckinpah, and was shortlisted for an Eric Gregory Award a few years ago. He is currently involved with the Alan Sillitoe Committee in raising funds towards a permanent memorial to Alan to be sited in Nottingham. He designed the website www.sillitoe.com
worlds which never were and will hill in conversation sarah pinborough
her YA trilogy, The Nowhere Chronicles with The Double Edged Sword in 2010, followed by The Traitors Gate in 2011 and concluding with The London Stone later this year. The story follows Finmere Tingewick Smith, found as a baby on the steps of Old Bailey, as he discovers that theres more to his past than he ever imagined. 2011 saw the publication of Will Hills debut novel, Department 19, in which teenager Jamie Carpenter stumbles across a secret government department dedicated to protecting the population from vampires. It went on to become the bestselling hardback YA debut of the year, with the sequel, Department 19: The Rising released this Spring. Here, they talk about their books, the roots of their stories and the challenges of writing for a younger audience
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arah Pinborough (writing as Sarah Silverwood) began
Both your protagonists are teenage boys tell us a little bit about them and their world. Which came first: the character or their story? Sarah: Theres quite a cute tale behind the origins of The DoubleEdged Sword and Finmere. One of my best friends, Adrienne, was pregnant, and for her birthday, as she couldnt drink, we went on a London Walk The Secret Village of Clerkenwell. It was a beautiful August day and the walk which to be fair, I hadnt been convinced by as a birthday celebration was superb and full of interesting and unknown places and snippets of history. When shed first got pregnant, she and her husband had been driving around Milton Keynes and coming up with silly names for the baby based on places in our area. The funniest was Finmere Tingewick Smith (Finmere and Tingewick both being villages around where we live and Smith is their surname). I had already said that it was a great name for a character, and as we did the walk I kept saying stuff
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like Ooh, the Old Bailey. Finmere could have been found in a cardboard box on its steps, so he sort of grew out of that walk. Will: With Jamie, it was the world that came first, to be honest I knew who his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents were before I knew who he was. The world spun out of the end of Dracula it was one of those what if? moments, as in what if Dracula wasnt the only vampire in the world, what if there were others, then who would the authorities ask to deal with them? Like a Victorian Ghostbusters Who are you gonna call? In this case, I thought it would be the men who
had seen such things first hand, who would have the means and the expertise to protect the Empire. From there, it was just a straight line down through the twentieth century, until I ended up with Jamies dad, a secret agent in this secret organization, and then to Jamie himself. Hes an everyman, like most heroes are Joseph Campbells monomyth theory has maybe become a bit too slavishly obsessed over in recent years, but theres a famous quote from his introduction to The Hero With A Thousand Faces: A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder.
Lou Abercrombie
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This is why Luke Skywalker works, why Frodo and Sam work, why Harry Potter is one of the greatest creations in modern fiction because they create the sense in the audience that the amazing things that are happening could happen to them i.e. that you might be a Jedi, or you might be about to get your letter from Hogwarts. I wanted Jamie to be one of these, an utterly normal, almost boring teenage boy who finds his world changed forever around him. His surname unsurprisingly, is after John Carpenter, just as Matt, one of the other characters in Department 19, has the surname Browning. I love horror films, and
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these were my little nods to some of the great directors. Theres no meaning to Jamie, despite the fact that the JC initials mean that Ive had a bunch of people ask me if Im writing some Christ allegory. Which Im really not. Or at least, if I am I didnt know I was Sarah: For me, the world came later, although it has its origins in a short story I wrote for The British Invasion (ed. Tim Lebbon and Christopher Golden) called The Nowhere Man where a boy looking for his missing sister follows a strange man with a sword who cuts through to another world.

Do particular themes lend themselves well to whats become known as YA literature? Could you have told the same stories with adult characters or would there be fundamental differences? Sarah: Its hard to say because to be honest - although I used to be a teacher - I dont read a lot of YA. I think the themes are probably the same, but there is a different approach to them because your main characters are younger and therefore tend to see things in a much more black and white way - simply because they are more innocent whether they like it or not. Its why in the main, children are such terrible liars. its not that they dont want to do it, they just havent had enough practice. Will: I agree with Sarah on this one I think the themes are largely universal ones, but I think writing teenage characters allows for more exploration of the new and the unknown. Writing characters with less life experience means that there is so much you can introduce to them for the first time theres such a lot of the world, both the exterior and the interior worlds that are confusing, or unfamiliar, or new to teenagers, both characters and readers. And everything is so authentic when youre a teenager, everything seems to matter so much, even small things. It all lends itself to tension and drama What are the challenges of writing for a teenage audience? Sarah: I think the main challenge is to try and remember what you enjoyed when you were younger and to not cheat them. The plot doesnt have to be any less complex for a YA novel than for an adult one. And try not to patronise your audience. Keep thinking like a teenager... which at my age, takes some doing! Will: Honesty, authenticity. As Sarah says, patronising teenagers is just about the quickest way you can get them to stop caring about what you have to say. There was a quote I read once, which Ive never been able to find again, it might have been from Meg Rosoff but Im not sure, which went along the lines of Write about teenagers, not for teenagers. I tend to agree with that I dont think Id have written Department 19 any differently if I was aiming it at an adult audience. Id have probably sworn quite a lot more, which
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probably wouldnt have actually improved the book at all I swear a lot in real life (which my mum always used to tell me was a sign of a poor vocabulary) and I quite like the challenge of having characters express themselves without just using fuck as a cheap way of making it clear that they really mean what theyre saying. But thats really the only challenge (or restriction, if you see it as a negative) the boundaries of what can be done in YA novels, or even childrens novels, have been pushed a long way in the last decade or so. Its not quite anything goes, but its really not far off What has led to the explosion of the YA market: were the books always there, but split between adult and childrens fiction, or are we seeing the development of a new area? Is its rapid growth a good thing, or should we view it with caution? Sarah: I think its simply a new market. I cant see it going anywhere at the moment although someone did tell me that apart from the huge bestsellers, YA is starting to level off. I cant say much, because I dont know much! Will: I dont remember there being the type of novels that are now called YA when I was a teenager, although that doesnt mean they werent there. I remember going straight from Roald Dahl to Stephen King, whereas now there are so many books that I would have loved to have read when I was a teenager myself. I think its a cyclical thing publishers saw that books aimed at teenagers were starting to do well, so they commission more books aimed at teenagers, so authors write more books aimed at teenagers, and so on and so on Sarah, as youve mentioned, you used to be a teacher: how do you
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A good YA novel can have all the magic of an adult novel with very little of the pretention that can be found in adult writing sometimes

think your background informs your writing both for adults and for younger readers? Sarah: Well, I started teaching at the same time as I started writing, so Im not sure how much that job in particular informed my writing. Everything we do is of course some kind of experiential research, so I guess it probably made it easier for me to write the teenagers when I started writing the Silverwood books. Also The Language of Dying was based on real events in my life and I think it has some of my most powerful writing in it, so yes, I think all our experiences inform our work, but probably more our personal experiences than our work ones. For me, at any rate. There seems to be huge crossover appeal to YA books now, and theyre often read by just as many adults as they are teens: its not unusual to meet adult readers who say they prefer YA. Why do you think this is? Sarah: The cynic in me says that perhaps its because a lot of people dont read with as much depth as they used to and want shorter, faster
stories, but the rest of me thinks that a good YA novel can have all the magic of an adult novel with very little of the pretention that can be found in adult writing sometimes. When writing adult fiction, its hard not to wonder what your peers/ reviewers will make of your style and the technical side of your writing. Kids just care about the story and how vivid it is which actually is all most readers care about and so YA writing is free of those shackles. The fun in writing it comes out on the page.
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inarguable response. But the rise and rise of Harry Potter, which was a publishing one-off that well never see the like of again, made it more and more acceptable for adults to read books aimed at children, and once the door was open, once people started to discover some of the great novels that were being written, novels that were really universal, that were just pigeon-holed as for children by the publishing houses, its stayed open. I think a lot of it was Sarah said that YA books provide good stories and interesting characters, which are all an awful lot of readers are looking for. Stepping away from your own writing, theres obviously been an explosion in the number of paranormal romances aimed at teenage girls - what about the paranormal aspects do you think give them so much appeal? Sarah: I have no idea and Im not the person to ask, because I dont read romance stories to start with and Ive never made it through a whole paranormal romance. Will: Obviously, what started the explosion was Twilight. But as to
Its a really old clich, but with Department 19 I really was just trying to write the kind of book I liked when I was a teenager
Will: Harry Potter, to put it simply. I was a bookseller when it really started to take off, probably in the run-up to The Goblet Of Fire being published, and we were selling as many of the first three books to adults for themselves as we were to kids and parents buying them for kids. The Philip Pullman His Dark Materials books were starting to go the same way, but apart from those two series, you couldnt get adults to read kids books. Theyre for kids, was the most common, pretty
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why its become so huge, Im not really the person to ask either. I suppose teenage girls have always liked to read about hot teenage boys, and the supernatural elements just give them added mystery. But I dont really know, as I dont read them either, Im afraid. Will, you used to work on the publishing side of the industry: do you think this has given you a greater understanding of what makes a book work for a specific audience? Will: I worked for an adult publisher so I didnt really know that much about YA from a professional perspective. And to be honest, if publishers knew how to tailor books to an audience, then there wouldnt be so many books that flop so badly a huge amount of something
working and finding an audience is always luck, and timing. Its a really old clich, but with Department 19 I really was just trying to write the kind of book Id have liked when I was a teenager I had no grander ambitions than that. My hope was that teenagers wouldnt have really changed that much in the last fifteen years or so, that the stuff that interested me, and scared me, and excited me, would still be relevant to them today. n
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jenny khan
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rhys hughes
enny thought politics was rubbish. Lots of silly men kept knocking at her door, asking to talk to her mother or father. Theyre busy, she told them firmly, which was true in a fibbing sort of way. Dad was upstairs making a model of Mum out of matchsticks and Mum was in the garden kissing the neighbour, Boris, who was a vegan. Isnt there anyone we can talk to? the men persisted. You can talk to the cat, Jenny said. The silly men wore huge paper flowers on their coats, all different colours blue, red, yellow! But apart from this, they looked the same. They didnt want to talk to the cat, which sat on a chair looking out of the window and felt the same about them. Later, Dad came down and started washing the glue off his fingers. He had been working on his model for ten years. Only another ten years to go! he announced cheerfully. Jenny asked, Why do silly men keep knocking at the door? Oh, theyre candidates for the forthcoming by-election, Dad said, waving his arms. He went into the kitchen and started eating the cheese before mum finished with Boris. Jenny followed him. Whats a by-election? Dad spluttered crumbs down his shirt and said, Its when the people of the town choose a new person to speak for them in Parliament. The old one smoked cigarettes and died. But why do we need another one? Thats how the country is run. All the political parties want people to vote for them, so they knock on the doors of houses and make promises to grownups. If the grown-ups like the promises, they vote for that candidate. Then
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when the candidate wins, he or she makes sure those promises are broken thoroughly. Sounds daft to me, said Jenny. Its complicated, agreed Dad. I bet I could make promises like those, declared Jenny, after she had thought the matter over carefully. Dad chuckled. Then you must put yourself forward as a candidate. While he spoke, Mum came in from the garden and he was forced to hide the rest of the cheese in the teapot. Whats this about? Mum asked suspiciously. Im going to win the by-election and speak in Parliament, Jenny cried. Ill make my own paper flower and paint it purple. And Ill shout at everybody and nobody will be able to tell me off. And Ill kick the Queen off her throne and put the cat in her place. The cat twitched an ear but didnt look up. For no good reason at all, its name was Chairman Meow. It costs money to be a politician, Mum warned. You have to pay 500 pounds just to register your name. Ill save my pocket money! Jenny insisted. The by-election is next week, Dad pointed out, patting her head, and you dont even belong to a party. Youre far too young, added Mum. Jenny huffed. She thought she looked grown-up enough, thank you, to wear a paper flower and knock on doors. And she wasnt going to smoke cigarettes, so her rule would last for ages, at least until she had to go back to school after the summer holidays. Ill start my own party, she said. An independent! cried Dad. Well, thats asking for trouble. Youll only get two votes and then youll be ashamed and all the other candidates will laugh at you. Im not going to vote for her! exclaimed Mum. One vote then, corrected Dad, though Jenny guessed she couldnt rely on his support either. She was surrounded everywhere by traitors. When she was in power, things would change! Enough nonsense, said Mum, its time we went to see Gran. Youd better
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wash your face, Jenny. Jenny grumbled and took her time climbing the stairs to the bathroom. Mum tapped her watch and shook her head. Then she turned to Dad. Put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea, will you? If you absolutely insist, said Dad.
Jenny and her Mum walked down the lane to her Grans. They were going to deliver groceries, but Mum was in a bad mood. That tea tasted like cheese! she growled. Jenny decided to make complaining illegal when she won the election. She wondered what other things she could ban. Jenny was fond of her Gran because she lived in a small house without an upstairs and wore a woolly hat even in front of the fire. Gran listened to everything Jenny said and never made fun of her. While Mum unpacked the shopping bags, Gran winked at Jenny. Gran was so old she remembered a time before rain. When I was your age, she told Jenny, the sun was always out, even in the night, and we slept in the day. We never washed. Mum clucked her tongue. She didnt believe some of Grans memories. Jenny told Gran about the by-election and asked if she would knit her a big purple flower. Gran said that she would. When I go to Parliament, said Jenny, Ill abolish clouds. And Ill live on cakes and peanuts! And when Im full, Ill jump up and down until Im sick and start eating again! We didnt have jumping, said Gran, and sick wasnt invented, but cakes were much bigger than they are now. When Mum went into the kitchen, Gran put a finger to her lips and took Jenny to her comfy chair. She reached under a cushion and took out a wooden box. If youre going to become a politician, youll need some money. Ive been saving this for a hundred years. Pay me back when you become Prime Minister. I wont let you down, promised Jenny. Im pleased to hear that, said Gran, because politicians generally dont help old people, even when those old people are young. When I was your age I was forced to work as a pony in a coal mine and no politician came to my
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rescue. You must change the system! Thats exactly what Ill do, replied Jenny. Gran leaned closer and whispered, Dont forget to fight the powers that be. Theres a good girl. That be what? asked Jenny. That be in power, explained Gran. Jenny frowned, but the answer seemed to make a strange sort of sense, so she didnt ask for more details. She took the money out of the box and stuffed it in her pockets, just in time before Mum returned to see what she was doing and tell her off for it. Gran asked, Hows your affair with Boris going? Hes a vegan, said Mum, and his breath smells of pineapple. I expected it to smell of soya. Oh dear. Better luck next time, said Gran. She picked up her needles and started knitting furiously. Did you ever have a secret lover? Jenny asked. Gran nodded. Yes, but only before the Geneva Convention. Back then, everything was secret, even the letters of the alphabet, and it was a legal requirement that nobody know anything at all. If one fact entered your mind you would be arrested. By the secret police? wondered Jenny. I dont know, they refused to say, replied Gran. What are you knitting? frowned Mum. Just an idol, answered Gran. No, its not. It looks like a rosette to me, a political badge! I assure you its a false god, said Gran. But what for? snapped Mum. To worship in a shrine Ive constructed upstairs dedicated to the old pagan beliefs. That was the state religion when I was young. Such a bad state, it was an awful mess, it was! But you dont have an upstairs! Gran produced a withering stare. Exactly! Mum needed to use the toilet. She had a bladder infection of some kind but whether it was due to her infidelities was something that Jenny didnt know for sure. While she was out of the way, Gran said, Its not really an idol,
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but a purple flower for your campaign. Ill help you in any way I can, but we must be careful. Thanks, I appreciate your support, said Jenny. Heres some advice, said Gran furtively, try to get hold of a book by Machiavelli. You wont find it an easy read, because there are no pictures, but it may help you survive once you have gained power. I knew him personally, by the way. A charming man. Ill get it from the library tomorrow, said Jenny. Rule with a firm hand, added Gran. Ill do my best, said Jenny. Gran looked serious and shook her head. No, my girl. You must do your worst. Thats harder and better. Jenny remembered this advice in the weeks that followed. On the morning of the Election Day there was an explosion in the house of Mr Zosimus, who lived on the other side of the street. His windows shattered and clouds of black smoke poured out. The Fire Brigade rushed to the scene but by the time they got there the fire had gone out. They used a hose and sprayed water in every direction anyway. It seemed a shame not to. The black smoke formed a mist that spread everywhere. Carrington was a town that rarely had mists, so this was a novelty, but Mum shook her head as she peeped through the curtains. That Mr Zosimus! Hes a danger to the community and ought to be thrown out. Gran told me hes an alky, said Jenny. Dad nodded. That sounds right. Mum sneered. How would Gran know? She doesnt have to live near him. But he is a nuisance, thats for sure! Jenny finished getting dressed and looked in the mirror. She wore her most uncomfortable clothes, because politicians are meant to look boring. Only the purple flower made the outfit bearable. Mum frowned at her. I dont approve of this, you know. Allowing a twelve-year-old girl to stand for a by-election! I was shocked when they accepted your deposit. Five hundred pounds exactly! announced Jenny.
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She glanced at the clock. Time to go. Good luck, called Dad as she left the house. Jenny smirked, but she knew he didnt really want her to win. She stood on the pavement and blinked. The black mist hurt her eyes and she wheezed a little as she breathed. Mr Zosimus stood in his garden. He was sooty and crying and holding his face in his hands, but through the gaps in his fingers his eyes glinted. Are you an alky? Jenny asked him. He sobbed even louder, but she thought she saw the corners of his mouth turn up in a secret smile. It was none of her business, she decided. She had more important things to think about. She walked away, humming a tune. Jenny reached the Polling Station and a guard on the door held out his hand to stop her entering. You are one of the candidates, so youre not permitted inside, he warned her. But I must make sure the voters choose me! she protested. How are you planning to do that? Ill stand next to them and point at my name on the voting sheet when they make their mark with a pencil, said Jenny, and if they make a mark in the wrong place, Ill rub it out. The other candidates were standing nearby. One of them approached and said, You have to persuade voters to choose you, but you arent allowed to trick or bully them. Stand here with us and be polite to anyone who comes along today to vote. Jenny curled her lip and waited outside. The day passed slowly. The black mist faded away bit by bit until it was all gone. Jenny looked at the rival candidates. There was an elderly man with a blue flower on his jacket, a fat man with a red flower, a young woman with a yellow flower on her blouse. People came along the street but nobody entered the Polling Station. This is very strange! exclaimed the man with the blue flower. Ive never known anything like it. Apathy is what its called, said the red flower. Nobody cares about the issues, said the yellow flower. Then a church clock struck noon
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Jenny wondered how much longer she would be able to put up with this situation. But it was important that she remain here. She was yawning loudly when Gran appeared. Instead of walking past, like everyone else, Gran stopped by the entrance to the Polling Station and started to enter it. Suddenly the three political candidates were all shouting at her, begging her to cast her vote for them. Jenny laughed quietly. Gran came out five minutes later and approached Jenny. I voted for you, she said. Thanks for your loyalty! replied Jenny. Why dont you come with me? Im going to play Jingo with my friends at the pub. Jingo is like Bingo but uses imperialistic sentiments instead of numbers, said Gran. Learning a new game sounds quite nice, replied Jenny, but I must stay here to talk to voters. No one else will be along to vote, I promise. And the Polling Station doesnt close until eight oclock. Jenny sighed. Yes, thats a long time away. Gran said, At eight the ballot box that holds the votes will be taken by a guard to Carrington Town Hall. The box will be opened and the votes will be carefully counted. Then the result will be announced. That will be at five minutes past eight. Wont it take longer to count the votes? Gran grinned. Not this time. So provided Im at the Town Hall by 8:05 PM I dont need to do anything else? asked Jenny happily. Gran nodded. Leave these saps here. The other candidates narrowed their eyes and clenched their fists, but they didnt say anything. Jenny decided that saps was an interesting oldfashioned insult. As she and Gran walked towards the pub, Jenny asked, What happens if I do win? Its certain that you will. My vote has decided the issue. Youll have to go to Parliament in Westminster. Jenny made a sour face. Ill be just an ordinary politician? Gran shook her head. Oh dear no! At the moment theres a hung
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parliament. What that means is that no party has complete control of the government. Because youll be able to change your mind whenever you feel like it, youll hold the balance of power and be able to decide all the important decisions. Everybody will be pleasant to you and will try to be your friend. It should be a lot of fun! Great! Im really looking forward to it! Jenny would never forget the trip to London on the train. The morning after her victory, she packed her suitcase and said goodbye to Mum, Dad and Chairman Meow. Then Gran walked with her to the train station and waved at her when the train began moving and shouted, Dont forget its better to be feared than to be loved! Jenny considered this advice but it was too early to have such serious thoughts. She chuckled to herself instead, remembering the shock of the rival candidates when the results of the vote were announced. The Town Hall was almost empty when the Lord Mayor climbed up on the stage and spoke slowly into the microphone. Blue Party nil Red Party nil Yellow Party nil Purple Party one! I therefore declare Jenny Khan to be the new official Member of Parliament for Carrington! Mum and Dad seemed almost disappointed by the news. They didnt act in the way they should have and Jenny realised she had been right to regard them as traitors. She guessed she would be surrounded by enemies in her new career and she told herself to be very careful and not to trust anyone, apart from Gran, of course. She tried reading the book by Machiavelli she had borrowed from the library, but it was extremely boring. When the train reached London, a man in a uniform greeted her and told her he was her personal driver and that if she needed anything, she ought to ask him. His name, he added, was Tubbs. Then he led her to a large black car and she sat in the back. He drove her to the Houses of Parliament and she went inside the building and took a look around. It was full of old men and women. Ah, here she is at last! boomed a loud voice. Suddenly she was surrounded by politicians who were smiling at her and
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bowing to her. They were all charming, but Jenny knew they only wanted her to help them achieve their own aims. They didnt really care about her. They were false friends. Miss Khan, such a pleasure to meet you! said the loudest voice of all. It belonged to the Prime Minister. Apparently, on those occasions when theres a hung parliament, the person who was Prime Minister before the parliament was hung gets to keep the job. But theres not much power associated with it. The Prime Minister was a man with a smug chin. Together with the other politicians, he fussed around her for the next hour and she was very tired when Tubbs came to drive her to the hotel that had been booked for her. Its an early start tomorrow, he said, so Ill be waiting outside and Ill toot my horn at 6:30 AM. Why do I have to get up so early? she asked. You have to meet many people, including the Queen, all the foreign ambassadors, and the civil servants who will be working for you. And theres a television interview and Jenny groaned. Where was the fun in that? Tubbs kept talking, but Jenny stopped listening. It was clear that life as a politician wasnt going to be easy. And she was quite right about that. In fact it turned out to be harder than she feared! The hotel was a boring place and she sat up in bed and watched TV until she fell asleep. The next thing she knew, the car was sounding its horn outside her window. She got dressed and didnt even have time for breakfast before she was driven to a place called Whitehall that was full of men even more boring than politicians. These men were the so-called civil servants her driver had mentioned. She was polite to them, but they werent polite to her. They acted as if she didnt matter in the slightest. Imagine! Then she was taken to visit the ambassadors. One of them gave her a teapot as a gift, she never knew why. It was as tall as she was and made of copper. After that she went to visit the Queen. But before she had finished her third biscuit, it was time to go again. As
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she said goodbye to the Queen, she began to realise that her plan of kicking her off the throne was unrealistic. The rest of the day was dreadful! Instead of being able to make rules for other people, she wasnt even allowed to abolish the rules that already existed, and she had to continue working until the evening, even though the work didnt seem to have any point. She went to many places and shook hands with many people. The only good thing about all this activity was that she got the chance to make promises she had no intention of keeping. This is so dull! she moaned. I wish Gran was here! Life as an independent politician was almost like going to school, but not quite as bad. At least not yet Jenny sat on a bench in the House of Commons, which is where Members of Parliament hold debates. The place was packed because an important debate was taking place, something to do with hospitals. The Blue, Red and Yellow Parties wanted to do different things, and they were about to take a vote to decide who was right. There were 646 members of Parliament and the three different parties all had 215 members, so the deciding vote would belong to Jenny, but she couldnt get interested in the subject and her mind kept wandering as she listened to people arguing with each other. She decided to slip out for an hour. Nobody noticed as she ducked down and left the chamber. She went along a corridor and found a stairway. She walked down this to the very bottom and then followed another corridor. There was another stairway and more corridors at the bottom of it. This went on and on. Before long, she was lost. She knew these were the cellars but thats all she knew. Then she heard a distant noise It sounded like people shouting, but it wasnt like the debate above, it was somehow more mysterious. She kept walking and the noise grew louder. At last she reached a door. Behind the door, an unseen man was saying very seriously, My name is
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Mr Paracelsus and Im an alky! Then there came applause from other people. Jenny waited and listened. She heard a different voice say, My name is Mr Zosimus and Im an alky! A few days ago I relapsed! Although Jenny didnt understand what that meant, she was amazed. She recognised the voice of the man who had lived across the street! The people behind the door began clucking their tongues and muttering at Mr Zosimus, but then another voice said something that amazed Jenny even more. It was an old womans voice. He only relapsed because I asked him to. So dont blame him. We needed a special cloud that would make people lose interest in politics just for that day, so he created one. And it worked! Thats how Jenny managed to win the election We must contact her soon, said Mr Paracelsus. Jenny turned the handle of the door and opened it slowly. Gran! she cried. What are you doing here? The room beyond the door was dim. There was no electric lighting and only a few candles with flames that leaned first one way then the other. In the middle of the room was a long wooden table and large carved chairs were arranged around it, and on the chairs sat men and women with sooty faces and white hair. The walls were made of rough stone blocks and huge cobwebs vibrated in every corner. There was a fireplace full of dinosaur bones, but they werent burning, and a suit of armour stood on one side, but it had four arms and feet that pointed backwards. Very peculiar! On the shelf above the fire was a purple knitted idol Gran looked up at her and smiled. Hello Jenny! Welcome to Alchemists Anonymous! Jenny squinted. Are you all alkies? Mr Zosimus and Mr Paracelsus nodded. Yes, but were trying to give the habit up. Turning cheap metals into gold is bad for the health because of the fumes. We meet once a week to discourage each other. Thats what were supposed to be doing now. Jenny frowned. But why do you meet here?
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Gran said, Its where weve always met, at least since the time of Guy Fawkes, four hundred years ago! Was he an alky too? wondered Jenny. Gran nodded. Yes, and one of his experiments went wrong and some people thought he wanted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. They said that he failed to set off a bomb. Isnt that what really happened? asked Jenny. Gran laughed. No, my dear, it was just bad alchemy, but it was a very strange explosion. All the force went down, not up, and left the building standing, but it blew a hole in the ground. She pointed at a dark circle on the stone floor and Jenny realised that it was in fact the entrance to a secret underground cavern even deeper than the cellar. Whats down there? Gran shrugged. We dont know. Thats what we hope to find out. We think it might be a magical world. An entire world under this room? gasped Jenny. Part of a world, said Gran. Which part? demanded Jenny. The reception area, said Gran. Mr Zosimus spoke up. He said, The hole is too narrow for any of us to enter, but you are just the right size and thats why we need you here. So we helped you win the Carrington by-election to make sure you came to London and was allowed in Parliament. Did the smoke that came from your house and settled over the town stop people wanting to vote? asked Jenny. Mr Zosimus said, Most people wouldnt have voted anyway because of apathy, which is another word for laziness, but two people would have voted your Mum and Dad. Jenny blinked. Without the smoke, I would have won by three votes, is that what you mean? Gran cleared her throat. They planned to vote against you, Jenny. Jenny clenched her fists. Oh, did they? None of this is important, growled Mr Paracelsus. Cant we get on with the main topic under discussion? What would that be? asked Jenny.
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How you can help us, answered Mr Paracelsus. I was going to reveal myself to you this evening, said Gran, and bring you here, but you found us on your own. We want to lower you on a rope through that hole. We are convinced that something of great value exists down there, and we want it for ourselves. We have an idea of what it might be, but were not sure. Money? suggested Jenny. Gran shook her head. Not that, no. Sweets? Expensive clothes? Lottery tickets? Jewels? Power! announced Gran. Power? blinked Jenny. You mean Gran jumped to her feet and snarled, Yes, my girl! Power will give us the chance to do anything we like, anything at all! We can boss everyone else about and make them work for us, but we wont have to work at all. It will be the best time of our lives! Jenny took a deep breath. Fetch that rope! It was like being lowered down a chimney. At least, thats what Jenny decided as she descended into darkness. The circle of light above her shrank as she went deeper and deeper. The air grew warmer and suddenly she saw a green glow below her feet. Then the chimney widened and became a cavern with slimy walls that gave off their own light. She landed on an old carpet and untied herself. Then she looked around. The cavern was like a market. It was full of stalls! But the owners of the stalls werent people. They were purple and had four arms. Jenny looked at their feet and saw they pointed backwards, which probably made walking tricky. She wandered through the market, looking at the bizarre fruit that was for sale. The purple creatures shouted out things like, Forty ripe glums for a fiver! Kilo of numb nuts the same! Some stalls sold strange clothes including trousers with one leg twice as long as the other. Other stalls sold paintings that were in every shape except square. Everything was odd. Above one stall was a sign that said: THE YEAR 2014. ONLY HALF GONE.
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Nothing was on display, but the creature that squatted behind the stall beckoned her to approach. Are you a goblin? asked Jenny. What a stupid idea! laughed the creature. Maybe youre a gnome or a leprechaun? cried Jenny. No! Thats completely wrong! A troll? An orc? A moleman? Of course not! Im just an honest skargill. Ive never heard of those, confessed Jenny, but that doesnt surprise me because Ive never been so deep underground before. What are you selling here? I cant see anything. Im selling what my sign says. The year. Jenny frowned. Which one? The skargill also frowned. This year. What other is there? Fair enough. How much is it? What sort of a question is that, young lady? Have you come here to waste my time or make fun of me? I really want to know, said Jenny. The skargill sighed. The price is the same as what it says on the label. I dont haggle over things like that. Jenny finally understood. Ah, you mean the price is 2014 because the present year is 2014? That makes sense. Why do you think all years are numbered? Its the price! What else could it be? You didnt think the numbers refer to the date, did you? Now that would be really ridiculous. So the price goes up by one every year? Indeed. Im still amazed I havent got rid of 2014 yet. No one seems interested, but its such a bargain! Is it really? asked Jenny. What can be done with it? The skargills eyes widened. You really are a joker, arent you? If you own the year, you own everything inside it, which is everything in the world! That should be obvious. Jenny licked her lips. She didnt have that sort of money and so she didnt even bother searching through her pockets. She just said, Will you keep it for me? Ill be back later.
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The skargill showed his teeth. Sorry. I cant promise not to sell it to anyone else who might come along. Ill be as quick as I can! called Jenny. She ran back to the rope, tied it around her and gave it a tug. This was the signal for her to be pulled back up. She rose back into darkness and then she emerged in the cellar. Gran asked impatiently, What happened? Jenny said, You were right. Power can be found down there, but I need cash to buy it. I need two thousand and fourteen pounds. I only have 50p on me. Will you lend me the rest? Gran emptied her pockets and so did Mr Paracelsus and Mr Zosimus. In fact every alchemist in the room did the same, but together they only managed to raise 13.50. Jenny added her own coin and sighed. Where are we going to get the remainder? Thats easy, said Gran. Youre a politician now. 2000 is nothing to a Member of Parliament. All you need to do is claim for a thing called expenses. Its an old custom here. Please explain more, prompted Jenny. Mr Paracelsus said, Politicians make ordinary people pay taxes. In other words, working people must give lots of the money they earn to the government. The government is supposed to spend it on things that will improve the country, but some money always goes missing. The missing money is called expenses and politicians can spend it on themselves. Its a well known secret and quite normal. A voice from beyond the door cried faintly, Miss Khan! Where are you? You are needed for the vote! Thats Tubbs, my driver, said Jenny. Youd better go, advised Gran. When youve got the two thousand in expenses, come back here again. Jenny nodded and rushed out of the room. Gran was right. Getting hold of two thousand pounds was easy. She just had to go to an office and claim expenses for cinema tickets, restaurant bills and concerts she hadnt gone to. There was no need to provide any proof. Then she was allowed to dip her hand into a large jar labelled TAX MONEY and
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take what she needed. As soon as she had it, she returned to the cellar and was lowered down the hole a second time. The skargill was still there and the year was still for sale. He watched her count the banknotes. When she was pulled back up by the alchemists, she held a document that proved ownership of the year. Good work! said Mr Paracelsus. Hand it over! Jenny shook her head. Its mine. Gran studied the document over her shoulder. It has her name on it. No use arguing. Then she winked slyly at Jenny. Well done. You did what Machiavelli recommended! I followed my own instincts, said Jenny. Even better! approved Gran. Mr Paracelsus pouted. So I have to obey a little girl, do I? I didnt become an alchemist to be told Put a sock in it, you sap! ordered Jenny. Instantly, Mr Paracelsus shut up. What are your plans now? asked Mr Zosimus. Jenny turned to Gran. What do you think? I ought to employ you as my main adviser. Thats my first decision. And its a good one, replied Gran. If I was you, I would make Mr Zosimus chief in command of your army. I dont have one! pointed out Jenny. Sure you do. You own the year! Every statue in London will come alive and do whatever you say if you give the word, and some of those statues are mythical monsters too! Great! said Jenny. In that case, Mr Zosimus is the new general of my army of statues. What next? You should dissolve Parliament, said Gran. In acid, you mean? asked Jenny. No, I mean you must kick out all the other politicians and declare yourself a dictator. Then you can join Fascbook. Facebook? Im already on there. Gran smiled. Not Facebook. I said Fascbook. Its a social networking site just for dictators. Im sure Adolf, Benito and Pol Pot will add you as a friend
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and theyre useful contacts. Jenny frowned. She didnt recognise those names. Gran said, Dont expect everyone to let you push them around. There will be resistance to your regime. You must be strong and determined and be prepared to crush all opposition! Im ready for anything! declared Jenny. Good girl! Theres no time to lose. Lets march into the House of Commons and declare a putsch. Thats a funny word, said Jenny. Yes, but they wont be laughing when they see us! It just means that the old government is finished and you are in charge now and nobody is allowed to do anything against you. Hurry up! roared Jenny. They left the cellar and walked down the corridor to the stairway. But how could a young girl and a bunch of ancient alchemists overpower the guards on duty in the debating chamber? Jenny had an idea. Many statues can be found even inside the Houses of Parliament. Most of these statues are of obscure politicians who lived and died a long time ago, but some are just random gargoyles or exotic animals like pelicans and panthers. As she passed each statue, Jenny waved her document in front of its blank eyes. The statues came alive at once and jumped down from the pedestals on which they stood. Follow me! she ordered. And they obeyed without question, knees squeaking as they lurched unsteadily down the corridors behind her. Soon they arrived at the doors of the debating chamber. Im scared, said Mr Paracelsus. Maybe we should turn back? Do that if you want to, said Jenny, but this ladys not for turning. Onwards! And she flung open the doors and rushed inside, followed by the alchemists and the statues. What is the meaning of this? demanded the Prime Minister, turning his smug chin in her direction. Parliament is now dissolved, cried Jenny, and democracy has been abolished. This country is now a dictatorship and I am in total command. If
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you disobey me, youll be She frowned and whispered to Gran, What should I threaten them with? Sent to bed without supper? Gran shook her head. Too mild. Beheading is better. Torn limb from limb by weasels is another option. The Prime Minister didnt wait for this whispered conversation to be completed before he took action of his own. He jumped off his seat and ran towards Jenny with his fists raised. Jenny saw him out of the corner of her eyes. Stop him! she barked at one of the statues. It stepped forward and knocked the Prime Minister down with a stone punch. Then it jumped up and down on him for ten minutes until he stopped screaming and his smug chin was flat and coated with a thick red sauce, like pizza. Let that be a lesson to the rest of you! snarled Jenny. When the other politicians saw that this girl was the new source of power in the land, they rapidly did what politicians are best at doing. In other words they grinned, fluttered their eyelashes and thought about protecting their own interests and saving their own skins. They had a quick vote and decided to award Jenny every possible medal for every reason they could devise. I dont care about trinkets! yelled Jenny. Gran rubbed her hands together in glee. Why dont you herd all these buffoons into the cellars and lock them up securely? You dont need their praise. You own the year, remember? Good idea, Gran. Shall we keep them as hostages? We might be able to ransom them for hard cash. Whats the point of that? You can snatch as much money as you like directly from the banks. Just give the order to have them all beheaded. Im sure those statues are strong enough to actually pull their heads off their necks, so an axe wont be needed. Jenny nodded. Despite the fact she was a dictator, she wasnt too full of self-importance to ignore a wise suggestion from her top adviser. It was clear she intended to avoid the pitfalls that previous tyrants had fallen into. When the chamber was finally cleared, she sat in the highest chair in the room and dangled her legs. I suppose we ought to break the news now.
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Gran said, Ill inform the BBC and all the papers immediately. Within the next hour, the entire population of Britain will be aware that a radical new regime has just taken over! Jenny rubbed her face thoughtfully. Do you think there will be much resistance to my administration? Gran smiled. Im sure there will, but it can be smashed easily enough. When I look to the future I seem to see the rivers flowing with blood. Ah well! You cant make an omelette without breaking eggs, and you cant forge a dictatorship without breaking heads. But at the end of the day, the citizens of Britain will count themselves fortunate. The only thing they truly have to fear is fear itself. That sounds very wise, approved Jenny. I was joking! chuckled Gran. They have more to fear than that! A lot more! Im glad Im not them! What shall I do about the Queen? wondered Jenny. Kick her off the throne, of course! A proud figure in an ermine cloak with a crown balanced on its head stood in the doorway. No need for that, it said in a posh voice. I intend to abdicate as soon as feasible. I had a strong feeling about you, Jenny. I knew you were a figure of destiny. Come inside, Mrs Queen, said Jenny. Thanks. When we had those biscuits together, something magical happened. I realised that you were the solution to my problem. I have been very bored all my life. I need the excitement of a revolution and civil war to make me feel young again. You are offering me your support? asked Jenny. My loyalty, loot and life too. Slowly, with appropriate humility, the Queen stepped forward and knelt before Jenny, kissing her feet with reverence. It will be the greatest honour of my reign to serve you! Welcome to the team! roared Jenny. Gran was right about the levels of resistance. The poor people of Britain were happy to accept Jenny as their supreme leader, and the rich people didnt really care because they were too drunk to realise what was going on, but the
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Middle Classes decided to fight back. For some odd reason, they didnt want a dictator in charge. Mr Zosimus handled the conflict that erupted. The Middle Classes organised themselves into small bands of rebel fighters armed with hedge trimmers, strimmers, petrol bombs and various kinds of silver cutlery. They applied guerrilla tactics, but that doesnt mean they lived in the trees and ate bananas, not all of them anyway. They had to be taken seriously, especially when they managed to launch an attack against Parliament itself. A group of about thirty accountants and dentists tried to sneak past the guards and enter the House of Commons. They carried their own shotguns, which they used on weekend breaks in the country for clay pigeon shooting, and their plan was to assassinate Jenny Khan and restore democracy. But the guards werent fools, despite the fact they had mineral brains, and they moved quickly to block the doorway. A fierce battle raged at the entrance to the debating chamber. Loud bangs and smoke spoiled the afternoon tranquillity and the statues were pitted with holes all over their bodies, but they defended themselves. Five minutes later they had won The only survivor was a dentist who limped away as fast as possible and managed to disappear in the crowd that had gathered outside. When Jenny heard the news of the attack she went to consult her Gran. There was a private room where meetings were held to decide what to do next whenever the regime was under threat. The Queen was also present. She had offered to help Jenny in any way possible, so Jenny had given her the important secretarial job of making careful notes about every meeting. She sat with crossed legs on a stool and held a notebook and pencil. Her crown caught the light of the single lightbulb that illuminated the room. Jenny slammed down her fist on a wooden table. I cant stand the fact that the Middle Classes refuse to accept my rule. Its not fair! How can I convince them to follow me? Gran shrugged. It may be too late for that. I think it will be better to exterminate all of them, just to be on the safe side. I know that dentists and
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accountants are needed in society but well have to train new ones from the ranks of the poor people. Is that feasible? asked Jenny. Its certainly worth a try, said Gran. Very well, agreed Jenny, Ill give the order for total war. The time for showing mercy is long past! And she reached across the table to the fruit bowl and seized an apple in her hand. The hour has come to crush the opposition like rotten fruit! She squeezed the apple as hard as she could, but nothing happened. The Queen leaned forward, took a plum from the bowl and passed it to Jenny. These are better for crushing. Jenny squeezed the plum. Juice spurted up her arm. Ha ha ha! laughed Gran. Ha ha ha! laughed the Queen. Ha ha ha! laughed Jenny. She knew that dictators were supposed to laugh in a certain way and despite her inexperience she managed to make the required noise like an expert. You ought to hold a parade, said Gran. A military show, you mean? Yes. It will demonstrate your strength to the rebels and cause them to tremble in their expensive shoes! Very well. Make the necessary arrangements! Jenny called an end to the meeting and stood up, but suddenly there was a knock on the door. Before she could shout, Come in! it opened and Mr Paracelsus ran into the room. Whats the meaning of this? Jenny demanded. I have some news, said Mr Paracelsus. Tell me what it is! cried Jenny. I have discovered that your parents arent on the side of the rebels. Even though they are Middle Class, your mother and father have made a promise to remain loyal to you. Well thats a relief! How did you learn this? Through my secret agents. Remember that I am head of your secret police! Thats the job you gave me. Good work, Mr Paracelsus! Ill find some way of rewarding you. Go back
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to work and Ill summon you when I have thought of a reward. Im so happy that Mum and Dad made the right choice! I didnt have much regard for their intelligence before this. But Gran seemed troubled. After Mr Paracelsus had gone, she turned to Jenny and said, I dont remember you giving him that job. I didnt even know you had a secret police. Neither did I, admitted Jenny. I just assumed they were there, but too secret to reveal themselves to me. Now there came another knock on the door. Mr Zosimus entered. He wore a homemade uniform and his cheeks were very red. He gasped for air and wiped sweat from his brow. I have some news! he spluttered. Tell me what it is! cried Jenny. Mr Paracelsus is a double agent. He defected to the other side. Hes working for the Middle Classes! I thought as much! snarled Gran. I learned this from my own secret agents, said Mr Zosimus. Hes a disgrace to all other alkies! What shall I do? asked Jenny. This means that what he told us cant be trusted. In other words, my parents are disloyal to me! In fact, they are probably the rebel leaders. Typical! grumbled Gran. My advice, said the Queen, stretching to take another plum, but chewing on it rather than squashing it, is to make an example of the traitor. Do it in public during the parade. In fact, why not make it part of the parade? A warning to all defectors! Good idea, agreed Jenny. The following day, the vast parade took place in London. Jennys army of statues marched down the street outside the Houses of Parliament and the ground vibrated as thousands of heavy stone feet came down hard on the tarmac. But this was only half of her available force. The other half was too busy fighting the rebels in the provinces to take part in the show. The people stood and watched in silence. London was now full of empty pedestals and plinths, for every single
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statue in the city had been drafted to serve Jenny. She kept a straight face as she reviewed her troops. Dictators are supposed to look very serious in public, Gran had said. Jenny saluted the statues as they matched past her with a wave learned from the Queen. The citizens dont seem very enthusiastic, she sighed. Maybe they are feeling shy. Why dont you order them to clap their hands? Itll improve the atmosphere, suggested Gran. Jenny nodded and gave the order. When the applause came, it seemed artificial and a bit hollow, but it was better than nothing. Instead of marching in ranks, as is normal when an army is paraded, the statues marched in single file. There was a reason for this, though it also meant the show would last longer. The reason was as follows: Mr Paracelsus had been captured and now had his hands tied behind his back. His feet were also tied together and he was stretched out on the road in front of the soldiers. As they statues reached him, they stepped on him with their cold brutal feet. He squeaked as they trod on him one by one. Ouch! Yow! Glak! Ooof! Over time his squeaking grew more and more feeble. After treading on him, the statues left red footprints in the middle of the road and these would have to be cleaned up. Eventually Mr Paracelsus was completely quiet, but the statues continued stepping on him. When the soldier who was last in line reached him, there really wasnt much left. Jenny gave a final wave and turned to go inside. I think we made a good example of him, she said. Yes indeed, nodded Gran. Jenny went to have a snack, but her mood remained sour. The war was going well and the Middle Class rebels were being swept from the entire land, but she still felt dissatisfied. The thought that her own parents were leading the enemy depressed her. And this bad feeling slowly grew worse The days passed slowly but they eventually turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. The war continued. The rebels only controlled a small area centred on Carrington now and they were clearly getting ready to make a last stand there.
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One day, instead of staying indoors and signing death warrants, Jenny ordered Tubbs, who had remained loyal, to drive her about the capital, but none of the usual attractions of London cheered her up. Not even the fact that a waxwork of herself had been added to the dictator section of Madame Tussauds made her smile. Back at the Houses of Parliament, she confessed her worries to her Gran. What you are feeling is perfectly normal, said Gran. Is it really? asked Jenny. Yes, its called disillusionment and it happens to every dictator. Its a stage in a psychological process. I dont like the sound of that, said Jenny. What if I get stage fright? Not that kind of stage, explained Gran. Are you trying to tell me that even power doesnt bring happiness and that controlling other people is not always a satisfying thing to do? I dont think Im ready to believe that! You have made the mistake of confusing power with happiness. The point of power, Jenny, is that its worth having for its own sake. When the rebel leaders are brought to you in chains, youll feel a lot better, trust me. It will do them a lot of good too. Jenny said, Mum and Dad always took me for granted. I look forward to teaching them some humility. Gran nodded. Ill help you with that as much as I can, but all this talk is making me tired. I think Ill have a nap. Jenny ordered one of her servant statues to carry Gran to her bed. The statue picked up the old woman in its muscular marble arms and began to walk out of the room. Then suddenly it froze. Whats wrong with it? demanded Jenny. I have no idea, said Gran. Something has broken, frowned Jenny. Im not sure about that, replied Gran. A statue isnt a machine. I fear that the magic has worn off. Impossible! I own the year! I paid for it! Did you keep the contract safe? Jenny reached into a pocket and pulled it out. Here it is! It all seems to be in order. I dont think any clause has been violated. This
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really is strange said Gran. Mr Zosimus appeared and he looked very worried. More bad news? asked Jenny. Mr Zosimus took off his cap and wiped sweat off his forehead. Im afraid so. All the statues have frozen, every single one of them! So we are defenceless against the rebels! When they realise this, they will probably regroup and launch a counter-offensive against London and there will be nothing we can do to stop them! I just dont understand, fretted Jenny. Maybe we should surrender? suggested Mr Zosimus. Jenny was shocked. Never! Gran said, We ought to make preparations for our own last stand, but I do need a little nap first. And I need a big milkshake, replied Jenny. By the way, do we have any bazookas at our disposal? Mr Zosimus shook his head. None at all, Im sorry to say. They dont sell them in the shops anymore. Can I get them online, maybe on eBay? asked Jenny. Youre not over 16, Gran said. Jenny logged onto Fascbook and updated her status. She wrote, Tide of war turning against me. Hope my regime isnt doomed! and she waited for some advice from her contacts, but she only got one thumbs up, from a fellow by the name of Idi Amin, and the only comment came from the always sarcastic Adolf who said, Better stock up on the cyanide capsules. LOL! And that was of no use at all. She switched off her computer and called for her driver. He appeared and bowed very low, as she had instructed him to do. Take me to the London Eye! commanded Jenny. In silence they drove over Westminster Bridge to the giant wheel that dominated the south side of the River Thames at this point. Jenny entered one of the capsules and was slowly taken into the sky. At the highest point she had a superb view over London. And there to the southwest, on the actual horizon, she saw a column of black smoke and flashes of orange. Then a dull booming sound came and
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vibrated the glass of her capsule windows. Explosions Heavy artillery? Had the counter-strike already commenced? Were the Middle Classes already on the outskirts of her capital? Jenny felt like crying with frustration but she restrained herself. There was always hope in any situation. If there were no statues to fight for her, why not force the citizens of London to fight instead? Even the remaining alkies could be sent to fight! Perhaps she would also send the Queen into battle, and as a last resort even Gran. The important thing was never to give in! When her capsule reached the ground, she returned to the Houses of Parliament and gave orders to her followers. The citizens of London were going to be conscripted into a militia, a force of largely amateur soldiers that would ensure that every square mile of territory would be defended to the bitter end. Jenny didnt expect this force to win against the more determined Middle Classes, but she hoped it would buy enough time for her to get her magical powers working again. Mr Zosimus was put in charge of the new militia. Each recruit was given only one hours training and sent off to fight with whatever weapons were available. Then Jenny held an emergency meeting with Gran and the Queen. I need to go back into the pit under the basement, she said. The skargill who sold me the year is the only one who can explain why my special powers no longer work. Thats a good idea, agreed Gran. At the very least you deserve a refund, said the Queen. Lets go there now. You can hold the rope and lower me down. We are running short of time, it seems. They got up and hurried along corridors to the stairway and down the stairway to the bottom and along more corridors and down more stairways until they reached the secret room with the long wooden table and large carved chairs and fireplace full of dinosaur bones. The circular hole in the floor was still there, with the rope coiled next to it. Jenny tied one end around her middle and nodded. Gran and the Queen huffed and puffed as they lowered her slowly into the
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narrow pit. Jenny went down and landed on the soft carpet again and found herself back in the cavern that was like a market. She searched the stalls until she found the skargill. He was reading a newspaper with two of his hands and scratching his purple body with the other two. He didnt even look at her as he said: Im closed. Come back next year. But Im from the upper world! cried Jenny. The skargill folded the newspaper and scrutinised her. Yes, I remember you. What do you want now? Its about the year you sold me. It has stopped working. I want you to repair it for me, free of charge. His nostrils widened and he inserted a finger into the left one, pulled out something purple and flicked it at her. Sorry. Im an honest skargill and I dont care for opportunists. Im not one of those, said Jenny helpfully, but a dictator. Bah! You tried to cheat me! Jenny narrowed her eyes. What do you mean? The skargill sighed. Are you trying to mock me, young lady? You paid in pounds instead of euros! I didnt notice until after you had gone. We stopped dealing in pounds years ago, down here. How was I supposed to know that? protested Jenny. The skargill shrugged. Let the buyer beware. Well, anyway, said Jenny reasonably, the pound is stronger than the euro and worth more. The last time I checked, the exchange rate was something like 1.198 for every 1. So in fact I paid more for the year than I should have and you owe me money! The skargill shook his head. That might have been the rate a few months ago, but since this country has been a dictatorship the value of the pound has dropped relative to other currencies, especially the euro. Dictatorships arent good for the economy, you see. Jenny was alarmed. Whats the current exchange rate? The skargill picked up his newspaper and scanned the financial pages. Then he pursed his lips. One euro is equal to just under 700. Because you short-changed me, the contract became void, in other words the year 2014 no longer belongs to you. It has returned to me and I intend to make it part
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of a rollover offer with 2015. So Im closed for business until the first day of January. Goodbye. Jenny was frantic. Wait! I have access to plenty of funds now. I can make up the deficit easily. Wait here for me and Ill fetch the missing cash. Ill give you as much money as you ask for and more! The skargill gritted his teeth and clenched his fists at this offer. His sense of honour was clearly offended. Whats the matter? asked Jenny. Young lady! he roared. I told you before: Im an honest skargill. I have a sense of pride in my work. I care more about a job well done than about money. I must refuse your offer and bid you farewell. If you refuse to leave this cavern Ill summon guards to throw you out. He folded his four arms and jutted his chin at an angle, but Jenny didnt go yet. Some of those guards have tentacles! he added. Jenny decided to return to the upper world, but she was very upset and she dragged her feet. When Gran and the Queen had hauled her back to the secret room, she told them the bad news. Oh dear, said the Queen. It seems I backed the wrong horse. Jenny shook with rage. Im not a horse! Gran said, Its too late to punish the Queen for that insult. The Middle Classes are already outside the Houses of Parliament and they are trying to break the door down. The militia were rubbish at defending you and most of them are dead. The streets are slippery with blood. And guts. And other slimy things. Yuck! We ought to decide what to do now. Shall we make a last stand or shall we surrender? Despite what she had said earlier about never surrendering, Jenny felt too tired to continue the struggle. I suppose we should give up. With tears in her eyes she left the room and began climbing the stairs back to the surface level. Somehow she had snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, but she didnt remember seeing any jaws. Maybe it was just a metaphor. She was too miserable to care. The army of the Middle Classes entered the Houses of Parliament and went in search of valuable paintings and decanters of brandy to loot and take home as spoils of war souvenirs, Gran called them. Jenny and Gran were arrested.
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The Queen was allowed to return to Buckingham Palace in shame. Nobody enjoys arresting Queens. A quick trial was held and Gran whispered to Jenny that this was a kangaroo court but Jenny didnt see any kangaroos and the judge looked more like an accountant than a marsupial with a pocket in his stomach. It took hours before a verdict was delivered. Mr Zosimus was found guilty of war crimes, and also of making life more difficult than it already was, in other words of being a nuisance, and it was agreed to execute him by hanging, the sentence to be carried out immediately. The driver, Tubbs, was found guilty of being a collaborator and sentenced to work as a galley slave for the rest of his life. Gran was too old to merit the death sentence or the galleys, and Jenny was too young, so they were merely exiled. They were forced to return to Carrington They were escorted to a train that left Victoria Station and headed southwest. During the entire journey, Jenny didnt feel like speaking. The train moved very slowly, even more slowly than it normally did, and finally she could keep silent no longer. Why is it moving so slowly? she asked. Gran grinned. Because of the recent war. During wartime, things like fuel and sugar are in short supply and are rationed. When I was your age, trains ran on sugar instead of coal, but that was mostly because they were pulled by horses. I once travelled to Scotland on a train pulled by giraffes but they fell over in a strong wind. Jenny nodded. Thanks. Im always grateful for your wisdom. No problem, dude, said Gran. What do you think Mum and Dad will say? Gran considered this question very carefully. I imagine they will be furious, but Im sure theyll get over it eventually. Just smile sweetly at them and try to play them off against each other. How can I do that? Jenny wondered. Read Machiavelli and youll learn how, winked Gran. The afternoon crawled past and the sun went down. It was midnight before the train pulled into Carrington station. Gran and Jenny got off and began walking back to the house. It was cool and the stars were bright above
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them. Somewhere an owl hooted. With luck theyll be in bed and we can sneak in, said Jenny, without them knowing that were back. Gran shook her head. They were approaching the house and they saw that Mum, Dad and Chairman Meow were waiting for them on the lawn. Even Boris the neighbour was leaning over his garden fence. There was no way to escape a telling off! But just before they went to face the music, Gran halted Jenny by tugging on her elbow. Dont look so glum, Jenny! Dont you know that all that happened to us was just a dry run? A practice for the real thing, for a much bigger and better prize! What do you mean? asked Jenny. Gran pointed up at the sky. The stars, Jenny, the stars! Why conquer one little country when we can rule the cosmos? There are millions of planets out there, billions of them, all waiting for a strong leader to come and take over and squeeze them dry! Then she taught Jenny a new gesture. She reached up with her long arm and pretended to grasp the twinkling constellations in her fist, pulling them down to the level of her face, as if she would eat them. She repeated the action many times. Uncertainly at first, but with mounting enthusiasm, Jenny copied her. Then they both opened their mouths very wide and laughed as hard as they could.
People say that Rhys Hughes lives with his head in the clouds, but his head is too big and heavy for that: it would fall through and take him with it. He does live with his head, yes, but under the clouds: in Wales, a land where it never stops raining.
the good king sophia mcdougall

orality thats black and white and unexamined. Change that comes from without and is always bad. Goodness defined by siding with the heroes, who are good because as they were probably fated to be theyre against the Dark Lord. A Good King who must eventually take his rightful throne, a bygone era of peace that must be restored... China Mieville complained in a 2000 interview of certain fantasy novels: They tend to be based on feudalism lite: the idea, for example, that if theres a problem with the ruler of the kingdom its because hes a bad king, as opposed to a king. Kit Whitfield further summed up Fantastic Conservatism as part of an online discussion with Jonathan Mcalmont. In the mindset of an authoritarian person, the barbarians are always at the gate. Now, think about the nature of the standard tome fantasy plot. Theres a Dark Lord, right? And probably hordes of minions.
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Theres a quest that needs to be undertaken, and if it fails, the world will be plunged into darkness. The barbarians are, in fact, actually at the gate. The world in a fantasy really is the way authoritarians believe it to be. Claiming ones right to reinvent the world is a potentially radical act. Yet that conservative strand, full of nostalgia for Tolkien and his imitators and wary of anything else, undoubtedly still exists finding rather extreme expression last year in an article by Leo Grin The Bankrupt Nihilism of Our Fallen Fantasists, which equated deconstructing Tolkienesque tropes with smearing a crucifix in faeces. In the literature itself, Eragon, (while also carrying a healthy load of tropes from Star Wars), locates everything that is wrong in the world in a far-off Evil King, and adheres maniacally to the polarisation of good and evil to the point of sociopathy. J K Rowling talks the talk when it comes to freedom of moral choice in her Harry Potter
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series, yet heroes and villains seem to fall into predestined roles, our destined saviour is another middleclass white boy and no one dreams of better world than the magical societys status quo, minus only that pesky Dark Lord and the consistent wickedness of a house in a particular boarding school. I sometimes worry that when I talk about genre and its real or perceived flaws, I turn into the child protesting being scolded but all the OTHER genres were doing it TOO! If I say that Fantasy is for the most part only reactionary to the same extent and for much the same reasons as other genres, one could reasonably inquire: If all the other genres jumped off a cliff, would YOU? Still its worth remembering that the history of any genre inevitably includes a phase of overrepresentation of the concerns, dreams, fears and prejudices of the relatively privileged because privilege makes it much easier to get your art noticed. But writers react against as well as embracing the tropes they inherit, so most genres develop into a conversation or a fight between nostalgia and impatience for change. Thus theres also a clear conservative strand in Crime (a criminal disrupts the benign status quo, which the detective must restore); in Romance (women triumph by marrying men with money). As for Literary fiction, I pointed out in my last column that the SFF community, when it gets into one of its periodic strops, likes to point to the white, middle-class stodginess of it. In such matters SFF has a fair-sized log in its own eye. Nevertheless, its not unfair to observe that a lot of literary fiction remains locked in the adulterous bedrooms of the anxious bourgeousie, even while it should be acknowledged that that strand of literature can produce good art, and that a growing number of works venture outside. Likewise, there are
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crime novels and romance novels that pull away from their genres particular brand of conservatism. Similarly its easy enough to prove Fantasy isnt inherently reactionary one need only point out that numerous works dont have anything to do with Dark Lords and Good Kings, dont posit worlds in which such figures would make even the slightest sense. (What would a Dark Lord find to do with himself in, say, Nights at the Circus?) But what of those little bands of heroes off to overthrow a Dark Lord? Is their quest to vanquish the evil Other always at least a little sinister? Is the optimism when a Good King takes his rightful throne always misplaced? Even relatively straightforward heirs to this tradition have examined and undermined its premises for years. In The Chronicles of Prydain, a series which, on balance, has not aged very well, there is a Dark Lord who is terrible and evil just, you know, cause. There is an orphan hero, Taran, who longs to know the secret of his parentage a secret which seems to be part of the conditions of a riddling prophecy. There is also a magic sword that can only be wielded by one of Royal blood. An early attempt to draw
success is only ever temporary and to be under threat is a permanent condition of life
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the sword nearly kills Taran, but at the denouement, he siezes it again on instinct and successfully strikes down the sagas Dark Lord. Is Taran, after all, a scion of kings? Well, no. It turns out that royal blood is a mistranslation and should read noble worth, a quality he has now achieved. As for his ancestry, there is no secret to be discovered by any amount of questing. Tarans parents were not merely poor and ordinary, but having died in a massacre of villagers, unidentifiable. His roots prove, to his own surprise, unimportant to his story. With thoughtful handling of the meanings of human goodness and external, supernatural evil, its possible for the conquer the Dark Lord quest stories to go considerably further. His Dark Materials the Dark Lord who must be overthrown to save all that is good in the world is the Judaeo-Christian God. Writing the tale of His downfall, making the restoration of the status quo merely the foundation on which a Republic of Heaven can be built, Pullman appropriates the story of fated chosen ones battling evil into a revolutionary narrative. Meanwhile, the structure of the fantasy stories made for television tends to complexify the Overthrowing Evil narrative by sheer weight of repetition. Its quite common for a TV fantasy hero Buffy, for example -- to spend a season fighting a villain bent on destroying the world, triumphing in the finale only to encounter yet another threat as soon as the series is safely renewed. Repetition may seem like a bad vehicle for progress, yet oddly, when multiplied, Ultimate Evil becomes more of a background for the various shades of human drama than one end of a moral pole. In Doctor Who, there around around a million Dark Lords and Dark Hordes, each fanatically obsessed with ending life on Earth. Theres thus no single status quo to be defended; all that consistently matters is the right to self-determination. Success is only ever temporary and to be under threat is a permanent condition of life, so in a sense, theres no point defining yourself by it, and no real virtue to be claimed in being antiDalek any more than in being anticancer. Meaning becomes focused in how, not whether, you fight for survival, and how well you treat each other along the way. The cartoon series Avatar: The Last Airbender lovingly reproduces some of the classic tropes. Peace and harmony reigned a hundred years

ago, but now thats all gone to hell. A Fire Lord, ruler of a belligerent nation, wants to rule the world and is happy to destroy large tracts of it en route. There is a Chosen One who must travel the world before overthrowing the Fire Lord and restoring balance to the world. And eventually, after a lot of fighting, theres a Good King, too. Yet Avatar refreshes the wellworn stories, in part simply by rendering them more inclusive. Fantasy Europe has been abandoned for Fantasy Asia, with some Native American influences. None of the characters are white. The evil Fire Lord remains a relatively two-dimensional figure but he is, at least, the product of a certain political history, not an aberrant, out-of-nowhere monster. The quest to defeat him which is aimed at seven-year-olds becomes a vehicle for unexpectedly nuanced ideas. Is the death penalty justified? Is anyone born evil? The heroes learn that good nations are full of imperfection, and the people of the Fire Nation prove to be as fully human as the rest. A tragic portrait of a rich culture fallen into militarism emerges, as we visit a Fire Nation school and see the children learning revisionist history. We watch a young
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man brought up to be a fervent imperialist struggle to find a new way to be Fire Nation. Is it wrong that his quest to come to terms with his nations past, his moral coming of age, culminates in becoming the new Good King? Within the world of the show, its hard to see any other way. Not every kingdom can plausibly become a democracy in the timescale of a given story. That doesnt mean the lives of individuals - and the power mechanics of a flawed structure cant be interesting, or that progress within the structure is impossible. It appears, in the pending Avatar sequel series, that at least part of the kingdom has moved on to become a technologically advanced Republic. Fantasy doesnt need Good Kings (the odd Good Queen might not hurt) or Dark Lords. But so long as it wants them, it can find new ways to write them. n Sophia McDougall is the author of the Romanitas trilogy, set in a world where the Roman Empire never fell, published by Gollancz. Besides modern Romans, she has also been known to write about fish robots and ghost Nazis. You can find her online at sophiamcdougall. livejournal.com
doorways
I was twenty-one When the doorway appeared, Freestanding in a car park. I tried the handle But the door was locked, So I knocked, and another knock Echoed from the other side. I stepped back, afraid As the door opened And watched me step through From another universe. Once over the shock I asked him what was different But he being me didnt know. So we switched places. But it was the same, Not one thing different, Only now Im more out of place Than I was before, Stuck in an identical Universe thats not my own.
david glen larson
After studying film and philosophy at the University of Southern California, David spent more than a decade as a film and television writer before rediscovering his love of speculative prose and poetry. More of his work can be found in Inkscrawl, Zouch Magazine, Ideomancer, Nightblade, and in upcoming editions of Star*Line, Scifaikuest, Beyond Centauri.
A glow born of a person different process roberts artist spotlight: chris

Our cover artist this issue is Chris Roberts, whose mixed-media work may be more familiar under the name Dead Clown Art, and who has produced covers for PS Publishing and Helen Marshalls poetry collection, the Stoker preliminary ballot-nominated Skeleton Leaves
Tell us a little bit about your artistic background: what inspires you, when did you realise you wanted to pursue art as a career? I was that kid who spent much of their free time huddled over the desk in their room, doodling, drawing, making. I wasnt a pasty outcast shutin; I had friends, a dirt bike, plenty of cracked roads to navigate, wooded areas to conquer and streams to splash and fish, in any of the small Iowa towns where I grew up. But Ive always been interested in making things; and when given the choice between spending time outside or making stuff inside, I often chose the latter. Choices lead to habits lead to obsessions... which brings us rapidly to present tense. What inspires me: music (Radiohead, Portishead, Grizzly Bear); art (Dave McKean, Henrik
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Drescher, Ted McKeever); movies (David Fincher, Wes Anderson, Darren Aronofsky); books (Tom Piccirilli, Seb Doubinsky, Michael Marshall Smith); and random observations of the broken, jumbled yet oddly magical world around us, via the numerous portals available. And I realised I wanted to pursue art as a career both 27 years ago and yesterday. My art career hasnt arrived as such, but then it feels like its always been right there, just below the surface. And I wouldnt be able to coax any of my bumpy nonsense to life without the support and patience of my pretty wife and clever daughter. A lot of your work is mixedmedia, and you use a number of found objects: whats the reasoning behind this - and whats the most surprising thing youve found & been able to incorporate so far?
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artist spotlight
What a great question! Why mixed media? Ive always had a fascination with objects (usually old and broken), found paper (usually faded and stained) and junk (usually rusted and bent). Im an avid collector of stuff; drawers and containers full of it. The hunt is certainly an important alien, photo of a boy surrounded by chickens, railroad spike, toy train set, salt shaker and printers drawer. Will that be, um, all sir? Yep, wrap it up and bag it! And my most surprising nay perfect find? Shuffling and rummaging through a local thrift shop, I stumbled upon an old desk calculator; a hulking beige dinosaur with an endless paper tongue. One of the dull grey keys read FEED perfect for a piece that eventually became a two-headed mixed media monster called Robot Zombie. That FEED button fit quite nicely near the stomach area of those brainmunching metal menaces, Moan and Groan. Yes, I named them both. Youve produced a number of book covers - including work for PS Publishing - and you recently illustrated Helen Marshalls Skeleton Leaves, which has just appeared on the preliminary ballot for the Stoker
part of my process, and Im a process junky. My wife thinks Im crazy when I pick up abandoned bits of scratched plastic and gnarly metal from the ground. And the people at the antique store? Pretty sure they think Im a batshit loon. Recent purchases for Andy Duncans The Pottawatomie Giant and Other Stories (PS Publishing, February 2012): chicken squeak toy, wee metal
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Awards. Talk us through the process of creating a cover or an illustration. What are the specific challenges involved in this kind of piece? Where the artist discusses the importance of his swell pals Luck and Happy Accident... Iowa boy meets Canadian girl at WHC 2011 in Austin. What a wonderfully random love story! Whod have thunk that chance meeting would have led to the collaboration that became Skeleton Leaves? And that Skeleton Leaves the little poetry book that could would land on the Bram Stoker preliminary ballot? My swell pals Luck and Happy Accident, thats who! And do you think I show them the door when its time to start making art? Hell no! Theyre with me in my cluttered office until the bitter end. Im never 100% certain where any piece personal or professional is going to nudge/pull/drag me. Never 40% certain, who am I kidding? With Skeleton Leaves I read it (and its brilliant by the way!), took a handful of visual notes (I rarely sketch), then started the Gathering of Stuff phase of my process. Then blurs and streaks of blades and paper and junk and various sticky glues and tapes. Flashes of pens and crayons, pencils and paints. And let us not forget that fun-filled stage that I like to call Drying Time! Im SO impatient with my materials! DRY DAMMIT DRY! Once Ive done all I can with my hands, and my work table is sufficiently destroyed, I grab my digital camera, head outside and start snapping. Then into Photoshop and walk the plank and down the hatch and Bobs your uncle. POOF! ZIP! BANG! The only challenging bit I can detect in all of the swirling rubble is my grinning nemesis Time. Luck and Happy Accident are the best friends a guy could ever want. Time... hes an asshole. Always barging through my office door, tap-tap-tapping me on my aching shoulder... are you done yet, are you done yet, ARE YOU DONE YET?!? So theres that. What was the question again? (Also: Too many congrats and thanks to manage to Helen Marshall, my cheeky Canadian con chum!) Mixed-media obviously creates strong, physical artworks, but an increasing number of artists (such as Vincent Chong, who provided our Winter 2011/12 cover) are choosing to work almost exclusively in digital
artist spotlight
media. Do you think this requires a different mindset or attitude as an artist, and what impact do you feel a particular medium has on the resulting piece? Vinny and I had a rad chat about this very question at WHC 2011... or so Im told. Really wish I could remember more of that chat, but copious amounts of alcohol and nicotine were absorbed, and sleep just wasnt in the con cards. While I certainly pitch my tent in the mixed media camp, and Vinny his in the digital, I think this answer narrows down neatly to preference and aptitude. Even if I wanted to, I couldnt make covers like Vinny does. Were just very different monkeys, banging on hollow logs with very different hands, poking things with very different sticks. Loose and messy lights me up. Every bit of exposed paper, every raised piece of whatsit, every scratched and sanded area of acrylic paint... flips my switch, makes me grin and hum. Theres a glow that my process leaves behind. Stains. Echoes. Ghosts. Half of them hiding in the cracks and crevices, half of them hiding in plain sight. So much to TOUCH with your eyes. Which is NOT to say Vinnys covers are cold. His is simply a different warmth. A glow born of a different process. HIS
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ghosts. MY ghosts. Theyve certainly met. They just dont haunt the same houses. Setting all of that aside monkeys and ghosts and cracks and sticks the art chooses the artist as much as the artist chooses the art. Style is such a loaded word. I dont enjoy corners and I loathe cages. Mixed media artist. Digital artist. Bizarro abstract hobo artist. Theres room for all of us on the many covers of the many books by the many authors released by the many presses, big and small. The art that chose me tends to befuddle some publishers. No alarms and no surprises. Ive had a blast making covers for incredible books by incredible authors released by incredible presses; and I make every cover like its my last, because you just never know. Never fear though, Ill keep making art because I need to... whether it lands on book covers or ends up collecting dust in the closet in my office. n
Chris Roberts would like to thank Luck and Happy Accident; Pete and Nicky; Seb and Scott; Helen and Vinny and Lou! Hed also like to tell Time to Time piss right off. Check out his work at deadclownart.com
fiction
mothers boy grant quimper

W
hen his mother screamed, Jeffrey was scrubbing cooked fat from the surface of a baking tray. The shrill noise made him drop the metal dish into the soapy water, splashing the front of his carefully ironed cotton shirt. He swore quietly and rubbed at the damp mark with his fist. His mother was panting now and he decided to leave the washing-up for later. He switched on the kettle and placed a tea bag into a mug. It was large and white, a cartoon character printed around its middle. Looking at it he smiled, stroking the picture gently with his thumb. Hed had the mug for years, a birthday present from mother. A souvenir of the happy times before the babies had started coming The kettle switched itself off and he filled his mug, reaching for a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer. His hand fell onto the wooden grip of a carving knife and he paused for a moment to enjoy the soft feel of the handle on his fingers. It felt powerful that knife, full of possibilities. Many were the times that he had held it and enjoyed the firmness in his fist, imagining what it would feel like penetrating his Stepfathers flesh, slicing through skin and muscle until it ground against the satisfying obstruction of bone. He scrabbled for a teaspoon in a cutlery drawer filled with rubbish he could never be bothered to tidy. Lashing at the teabag until satisfied with the drinks strength, he fished it out and dropped it into his palm, wincing as the water scolded his skin. Quite right too, bad thoughts shouldnt go unpunished. He clenched his fist, squeezing the boiling water between his fingers. He began to cry, but he held the bag for a few seconds longer, taking his medicine like a man. Just as his mother had always taught him. After wiping the drops of tea from the sideboard and linoleum floor, he splashed
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some milk into his mug and took a chocolate biscuit from the barrel by the window; after all good boys deserve treats dont they? Sitting at the kitchen table he nibbled at his biscuit, cupping his hand under his chin to catch the crumbs. His mother screamed again. Jeffrey blew cool air across the surface of his tea; making ripples like captured ocean waves. When his tea was drinkable he took a cautious sip. The regular sound of panting coming from the bedroom meant he would have to go through soon. To comfort and assist. That was what he was there for. That was why his Stepfather let him live. It wasnt a job he relished; the sight of the deformed children made him sick. He was glad their creator took them away quickly. He couldnt have looked after them himself, of that he was certain. Their liquid screams, the way their wet flesh hissed and peeled when it met the air... No, it was more than he could bear. He didnt like that sort of thing, had to look away when Embarrassing Bodies came on the television. Squeamish. Always had been. He began to drink his tea in larger mouthfuls, conscious of the lack of time. Outside, he noticed that it had begun to rain, the water running in streams across the window. Gazing down on the world below their flat, he watched the trees and plants bending and breaking against the force of the wind, they didnt break, they were strong like him. He drained his mug and washed it clean under the tap. He swabbed his hands with the pump of unscented soap that rested on the windowsill and moved through to his Mothers room. As he got closer his hair follicles tightened. No matter how often he went through this, it still terrified him. He had hoped that his sensibilities would have become numbed by now, dulled by the constant repetition of the births. How many had there been? One hundred? Two? He couldnt count anymore. It brought tears to his eyes. The pain in every cry his mother made, the sweat that soaked her bedsheets... He entered the stifling atmosphere of her room. The curtains were drawn, windows closed. The sun was not meant to fall on the creatures that were born here. He snatched at gasps of uncontaminated air like a diver preparing to dip beneath the oceans surface, then moved to her bedside to mop her brow with a damp flannel. Her eyes were tightly closed, teeth clenched. He felt tears coming
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and pinched the flesh of his scolded hand, using the pain to focus. She began to shake violently, the joints of the bed screeching. He moved to the foot of the bed, eyes peeled for movement, watching for signs of a head or limb emerging. After a few moments, she began to open, flesh parting as the creature forced its way out. Her screams grew with every inch of bloated meat that came, their volume making him dizzy. He gagged as the beast took form, his disgust changing to panic as he realised the creatures size; its head was far too large, the skin scabbed and flaky, greenish with oil-on-water shimmers that moved and pulsed beneath the translucent outer layer. He grabbed at the crown, trying to guide its passage. The sheets were tearing in his Mothers fists. A spray of blood splattered his cheeks as the head broke free, its teeth gnashing and tearing at the flesh that bound it. Jeffrey pulled desperately, trying to tug it free, but it held on inside; claws sunk deep into the only safety it knew. Mother was silent now and, gritting his teeth with the strain, he yanked the thing free, pleased that she was unconscious to the pain. He flung it to the floor, uncaring for its safety. Wiping his bloodied hands on his shirt he tried to ignore its mewling and babbling, turning his eyes away as it dragged itself into the comfort of shadows. He moved to her side and stroked her face. Her chest wasnt moving, her eyes glazed and frozen. He searched for a pulse, knowing it was pointless but unable not to try. The tears that he had held back earlier flowed now, dripping onto her face as he kissed her forehead. Behind him, he heard the lonely wail of the child, empty and pitiful. Whirling around, he hunted for it in the darkness. It huddled beneath the bed, reaching out to him as he came into view, eager for warmth and nourishment, the cold of this world not to its liking. Jeffrey yanked it from its hiding place, hurling it against the wall, grinning at the sound of bone splintering on contact. Pulling itself onto malformed feet, it swayed deliriously, hissing and spitting at its attacker. Unmoved by its defences, Jeffrey brought his foot down upon it, stamping repeatedly until he could feel no obstruction beneath the sticky sole of his shoe.
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A few minutes later, Jeffrey kissed his Mother goodbye and went back to the kitchen. He flicked the kettle on and looked out of the window. Waiting. The kettle switched itself off but Jeremy didnt notice. He was watching the man walk along the street towards the apartment block. Watching the way that the rain evaporated to steam about his shoulders, watching the way the grass browned beneath his feet as he crossed towards the front entrance. The man stopped and looked up at him, aware of course, always aware. Jeremy looked back into his Stepfathers eyes and, as usual, he sniffed the tang of sulphur that may or may not have been purely his imagination. He stepped over to the knife drawer and pulled out the carving knife. He sat back down at the kitchen table and ran the pad of his thumb across the knife blade. He wouldnt have to wait long.
Grant Quimper spent the last twenty years working in the secret service and can assure everyone that its nowhere near as interesting as they think. Still, data will not analyse itself and at least it gave him time to dream up stories, not all of which are as sick as this one.
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laying the foundations
simon bestwick
What makes a horror writer? What makes any writer, in fact? When we consider authors work, its impossible not to wonder about their own influences - not just immediate ones, but the things they read as children; the things that have been rattling around in their heads their whole lives. Here, Simon Bestwick takes a look at the stories that made him
When I was your age, television was called books. - Peter Falk in The Princess Bride m crap with fixing dates. I can remember specific events with total clarity, but if you asked me to tell you the year or how old I was Ill draw a blank. So the scattered reminiscences arent necessarily in any kind of chronological order; theyre just Your Humble Scribe recalling, often randomly, as best he can. So, having got that out of the way: Im not as old as the Grandfather in The Princess Bride, although some of the sprogs I work with in my day job make me feel that way at times; when I was a boy, television was actually called television. Even though there were only three channels (increasing to four when I was about ten or eleven years old.) Video, on the other hand that was called books. In On Writing, Stephen King suggests that his was the last generation of American children to grow up without television and having only books to turn to for stories on a day to day basis. My generation might have been the last to grow up without video and DVD. We had TV, but it was strictly rationed and my family didnt get a VCR till fairly late on in the 80s; by then Id grown up with the idea that if you wanted to see a TV programme or a film again, you bought the book. Like pretty much every other boy my age, I loved Doctor Who; my local library was stuffed to the gills with novelisations of the series, and so were the local bookshops. The Robots Of Death, The Invasion Of Time, The Planet of Evil, The Invisible Enemy, The Sontaran Experiment the list just goes on and on. Anything that smacked of science

fiction or horror appealed to me. Fantasy too, to a lesser extent- we read The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe at school and before that, my Dad used to read The Hobbit to me as a bedtime story. (I later pestered him into doing the same with The Lord Of The Rings, despite him explaining patiently and repeatedly that it wasnt the same kind of book- he was right, we gave up after only a couple of chapters, and it probably put me off the damn book for life!) So Doctor Who, Blakes 7 I even watched the original Battlestar Galactica, for Christs sake. And, of course, there were the scariest things ever to appear on TV- 1970s public information films, which were basically designed to terrify the living shit out of as many children as possible. Believe me, they worked. I still look both ways before crossing the road. The first fiction I read that wasnt strictly for children was science fiction or horror. There were no shortage of anthologies around- Richard Davis Space and Spectre anthologies were crammed to the gills with wonderful tales by the likes of Joseph Payne Brennan, the vastly underrated Tim Stout (whatever happened to him?), John Wyndham and Tony Richards (I only realised a few years ago that several stories Id read and loved and
The first fiction I read that wasnt strictly for children was science fiction or horror
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had thought for years were by Richard Matheson were actually by Tony he was quite flattered when he heard!) and, greatest of all, Ray Bradbury. I fell in love with Bradburys writing very early on for me, still, The Scythe is one of the most brilliant, poignant and frightening stories Ive ever read. Oh, and I also began to realise that stories didnt have to have happy endings. Then there was Ramsey Campbells The Gruesome Book, which contained more crackers the one that always stuck in my memory was Nigel Kneales The Pond- blackly funny, inventive and gruesome, all centring on this old man who kills and stuffs frogs- although Henry Kuttners The Graveyard Rats is even more terrifying to me now. I remember the 14th Fontana Book of Great Horror Stories, edited by Mary Danby, which included stories like Andre Maurois Thanatos Palace Hotel and Dorothy K. Haynes The Boorees. I havent read those stories in over twenty years maybe closer to thirty and I can still recall them, particularly the latter. Oh, and it had Tony Richards first published story, Headlamps in it. And yes, I spent years convinced it was by Richard Matheson. And then there were Ronald Chetwynd-Hayes Armada Monster
Books. And Helen Hoke, who composed anthologies with beautifully alliterative titles like Demonic, Dangerous and Deadly, with stories by John Collier, Bradbury (again!) and also a tale called The Warlock (aka Schizo Jimmie), whose authors name Fritz Leiber meant nothing to me at the time. (Similarly, the one story I recall from the Thomas Disch anthology Bad Moon Rising is The Whimper Of Whipped Dogs, but the name Harlan Ellison wouldnt mean anything to me till years later.) And, when I was eleven, I picked

up a copy of a book called Shock 3 at a school jumble sale. It had a gruesome-ish cover and I recognised the authors name Richard Matheson- from one or the other of the Richard Davis anthologies. It was still is like a masterclass in writing intelligent, imaginative fiction that provides invention, great prose and characterisation and, above all, great storytelling. I found a copy of The Horror In The Museum in Hale Library- revisions by and tributes to H.P. Lovecraft, and in my teens that I found a copy of The Haunter Of The Dark in the school library. But But there was another book. And I cant for sure remember how old I was when I first read it. Nine, maybe? Perhaps younger, perhaps older. The book belonged to my grandfather. It was big and thickroughly the size of a bible- and green, with a cover displaying a sword, a flying bat, and the grinning/mourning faces of Comedy and Tragedy. It was called A Century Of Thrillers: From Poe To Arlen. Michael Arlens The Gentleman From America was in there, along with Blackwoods Secret Worship, Le Fanus Sir Dominick Sarsfield, W W Jacobs The Monkeys Paw and Nathaniel Hawthornes Dr Heideggers Experiment; there was
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a rich seam of Ambrose Bierce tales like A Tough Tussle and Among The Missing. There was a story called The Lighthouse at Shivering Sand by J S Fletcher, which I loved but dont think Ive ever encountered since. And there were a selection of stories by this chap called Edgar Allan Poe. There was Berenice. There was The Cask Of Amontillado. There was The Pit And The Pendulum and William Wilson. And there was The Masque Of The Red Death. Now I think I may have mentioned that Id come to realise that stories didnt have to have happy endings. But I dont think I ever read an ending as bleak, as utterly black and despairing, as that storys. I was frightened. Genuinely terrified. Not so much because of any individual image in the tale. It was that final line: And darkness and decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. Its one thing to read of the death of a single character, of course. Its sad, its painful, but hey-ho, thats how it goes. But this didnt deal with one characters death. It didnt even deal with the agony of someone losing everyone they cared about. This was worse. Illimitable dominion.

Dominion mastery, control without limit, without end. Over all. Over everything. This was a world utterly without hope, without any chance of survival. I was quite glad to realise that, of course, this was a work of fiction. Because, well, the world was still here. I hoped. Of course, there was more to read than that. I was just starting secondary school when I read James Herberts The Rats and the grim and gruesome novelisation of The Terminator by some bloke called Shaun Hutson. And some years later Id start reading Ramsey Campbells fiction in earnest. And but youve got the idea by now. All of this helped shape the writer and the person I am today, for better or for worse, but covering all of that would be a great, wobbling tower of a story, and this feature is about the foundations. Some people wondered when Id grow out of the weird stuff I read. Well, so far I never have, and hopefully I never will. Because there are only two kinds of writing: the good kind, and the other. I had the luck to read a lot of the first sort at an early age, thanks to the encouragement of my parents and grandparents and that wonderful invention, the library card. If you take anything away from this feature, let it be the knowledge that libraries are not outmoded or a luxury. They are literally lifelines; they nourish the soul and feed the brain. Those who sneer at or dismiss them are bigots, fools or have a hidden and ugly agenda to have the mass of people grow up ignorant and emotionally and intellectually impoverished. Treat their counsel with the contempt it deserves, and know them for your enemies. Thats my obligatory rant over, anyway. Im off; I have some reading to do. Which brings me, full circle, to where I started. Theres this book I want to leaf through again, you see; its bible-thick with worn green binding and a cover depicting a sword, two masks, and a bat in flight. It was my grandfathers. I have it still. n
Born in Wolverhampton, Simon Bestwick escaped to the wilds of Lancashire aged two, where he remains. His latest novel is The Faceless. When not working on his next one (and sundry short stories and novellas,) he tries in vain to have a life and catch up on his sleep.
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marie oregan
hildren walk hand in hand with danger. Thats the first thing you have to understand. What adults see as fraught with peril a cup of coffee or a just-boiled kettle left carelessly on a kitchen counters edge, the panes of a glass door just at the right height to break into a million splinters when you run into them, running along the top of a brick wall in the garden that overlooks a rockery several feet below children see as exciting, with no thought of the mishaps that may occur. Perhaps this is what keeps them safe, this lack of fear, lack of care. Perhaps too much caution is what causes danger to become actual harm, tempted into being by fear itself. There was certainly no thought of danger as the children scampered for seats in the front row that Saturday morning, sunlight beaming through the windows of the childrens section of the library onto the head of the Storyteller. Brian ran faster than just about any of the kids there. Hed been waiting for this all week, ever since hed seen the poster for todays event last Saturday when his mom dropped him off at the library for the morning, as she always did on the way to her waitressing shift. He loved stories, made his mom read to him every night, even though she said that he was too old now. He was nine. Brian didnt see why that was too old, just because he could read them himself. He didnt stop enjoying listening just because he was nine, any more than hed stopped enjoying playing ball with his dad on a Sunday when he came over. What difference did being nine make? He reached his favourite spot, in the centre of the group, a few rows back from the front. Far enough back not to stand out, far enough forward to be able to see and hear clearly. Perfect. The Storyteller looked, to them, like the oldest man in the world, his hair
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all shiny and backlit by the sun so it looked as if there was a halo around his head. He was leaning against the librarians desk, arms folded, a tiny smile etched on to his face like he was everyones favourite grandfather. He looked down at the eager faces, pink with excitement, and the smile stretched, just a tiny bit. The room hushed slowly, as latecomers straggled in and sat behind their peers, begging them to budge up, Please, we cant see! The Storyteller was a wise man, used to the ways of children, and he waited patiently for them to settle. Finally, there was quiet. The air in the room seemed to still, as if waiting for the magic to begin, exhaled on the mist of the Storytellers breath. And so he began. He leaned forward, rested his hands on his knees, and looked at each child in turn until they were squirming with excitement, desperate to hear what he had to tell. Listen, he said. Can you hear something? All the children strained to catch what the Storyteller was bringing to their attention. They couldnt hear a thing. Even the man and woman standing by the door at the back, loathe to leave their daughter till they were sure she was happy to be left, held their breath. The air was laden with anticipation. The Storyteller grinned, and held his hands aloft as if they encompassed the whole world in their span. Exactly, he said. In the beginning there was nothing, nothing at all. He could say anything from this point on, and theyd lap it up. He could see it in the awe on their faces; hear it in the shallowness of their breathing, as if they were afraid of not hearing properly should they breathe too loud. This was his time; this was what he lived for. So he relaxed and began to enjoy himself, secure in the knowledge of their capture. Then came the wind, he said, and the children instinctively moved closer together as the room seemed to fill with whispers borne on the breeze, the air as full of sound as it had been of silence only moments before. Some of these whispers seemed to soothe, some caused disquiet, and more than one child glanced over his or her shoulder quickly, as if fearful of what they might find there. One little boy stood out. He sat straight, head high, and looked around slower than the rest, aware that things might not be quite what they seemed. He wasnt scared, not yet, just careful he wanted to see where all this was going. The Storyteller saw him, and nodded to himself. There was one here more awake than the others. That was to the good, he thought. That made
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things interesting. The wind was full of the noise of animals, and of men, of howling and screaming and roaring louder than you could ever imagine, he continued, and there was such turmoil in the air it darkened as if night itself were coming does anyone know why? One little girl timidly put her hand up a little, then snatched it back down again. But it was too late, hed seen her. Do you know why, honey? Is is it because they didnt have anywhere to rest? Her hands were kneading each other in her lap, now, the knuckles white. What if she were wrong? A dim voice in the back of her mind not unlike her mothers whispered, There might be consequences. She looked behind her for her parents but, thinking her happy, theyd departed till this was over. Again he flashed his teeth, but you couldnt really call what he did a smile. There was no kindness in it, no joy. Thats right, honey. Its because the land wasnt there yet, or the water. Just the wind. But how? Ssh, and Ill tell you. The little boy whod dared voice his question sank back, frightened, though he didnt know why. Not yet. He looked at the floor, unwilling to say any more, or risk a peek. The air sounded like there were things in it The wind was full of possibility, you see. Thats what could be heard as if it were the breath of God himself, willing everything into being. He looked around at his audience, his face a little stern. Do you see how that could be? The children nodded. Almost as one. Yessir, they could, that nod said. We can see anything you want us to, just dont get mad. One little boy, the more awake little boy Brian didnt see, but he wasnt stupid enough to say so. Looking around, he saw that neither were the others. All the children knew that danger was here, but most of them still thought it was only in their head. If he was to make a mistake, Brian thought, it wouldnt be that one. The wind sighed again, and a boy to his left flinched. He rubbed at his neck absentmindedly, and Brian saw that his hand came away a little bloody. This wind had teeth. He turned his gaze back to the Storyteller, lest he realise that Brian saw. And worse, that he was beginning to realise what it was that Brian could see. Thats right, children. The wind was the sound of Gods Creation, and it filled the void in a second. Filled it with what? This from a moppet in the front row, all honey116 BFS JOURNAL
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coloured curls and dimples, spellbound by his story and unaware of what was going on all around her. This question met with the Storytellers approval, and he leaned closer to her, his face a mask of kindliness and good humour. Why, with us, honey. With people, and with the land for them to live on, and the beasts of the air, water, and earth for people to eat. God made us, and it was all good. The children nodded sagely, realising that this was starting to sound a lot more familiar now God was part of the equation. Hadnt their moms and dads and Sunday School teachers taught them that God made the world in seven days? They were back on home ground now, and all thoughts of danger of things not being right receded. Truth to tell, children, he went on, not everything was good. How could it be? For everything good theres something bad, we all know that, dont we? Again the children nodded, images of apples and Eve and the devil dressed up as a snake running through their minds. Brians mind, though, swam deeper waters. You know the stories your parents protect you from? Smaller nods now, glances to the right and to the left, seeking reassurance where it could not possibly be found. Sure you do, he said. His voice seemed rougher now, harder edged, though his words still seemed to reassure. You know, the tales about vampires, and werewolves, and ghosts The Storyteller smiled, and this time there was humour there, Brian saw. This time he was delighted, and what made him so happy was the fear on the childrens faces, the sudden dawning of the notion that now they were in uncharted territory, a land so far from what they knew they might never find their way back, and they were scared. Brian could see some of the smaller kids looking to the door, hope that their mom or their dad had come back for them written across their faces for all to see because then it would be over, then they could go home. The story would become the stuff of nightmares, and in time it would fade but not if the Storyteller could help it. The Storyteller stood, and started to prowl. Where do you think all those stories come from? Can anyone tell me? No one spoke, and Brian saw that the Storyteller really didnt want anyone to interrupt. He was getting into the swing of it now, he was on a roll he reminded Brian of a preacher he had seen on TV, asking people did they want to be saved, and to praise Jesus. A holy-roller, his mom had called him but only after calling him
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something else that Brian had got into trouble for asking her to explain. They are around because theyre true, kids, just like were around theyre the opposite of Gods creation, and they seek to destroy us. No! This was from a little boy at the back, and when Brian turned he saw that the boys face was wet with tears. As he stood to run to the door for his mom everyone saw the wet patch on his pants. They started to laugh, nervously at first, then louder and louder till they were almost hysterical and Brian realised that was out of fear, too. The laughter allowed them to let the fear out, in this shrill cacophony of noise that sounded so much like screaming that Brian couldnt see any humour in it didnt find it funny at all. The little boy stood by the closed door; his back pressed tight against it, and knuckled his face dry. I want my mommy, he whispered. I want to go home. And you will, son, dont worry. The Storyteller had made his way all the way to the back of the crowd without making a sound, getting behind the children somehow, though Brian couldnt see how hed done it so fast, nor so quietly. Theres a happy ending, dont you worry. No need to be so scared. He placed his hand on the boys shoulder and turned him firmly away from the door. Then he took his hand (he had to work at that, the little boy didnt want to hold his hand, didnt want anything to do with him, that was coming across loud and clear) and led him to the front, sat him in the middle right in front of him, where he could see him all the time. The kids already there shuffled aside nervously, eager to make room, to get away from any chance the Storyteller might touch them. As if he were sick, Brian thought. As if they thought they might get infected. All the fight seemed to have gone out of the boy, Brian saw, his eyes were dull and his face was slack with fear. When he sat down he put his thumb in his mouth and started to rock, without even knowing or caring whether anyone could see. The Storyteller sat on the edge of the desk once more, and surveyed the children sitting in front of him. They were a subdued bunch now, for the most part, all wide eyes and fidgeting. He waited for them to calm themselves, so hed have their full attention when he started again. Things were about to get even more interesting. The air had quieted a little, but it was still too full of hisses and whispers for the kids to be truly calm. That small boy had been right, Brian thought,
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there were things in it. He let his mind roam, and tried to keep himself calm, as free of thought as possible so he could just listen. This was a trick hed learned whilst listening to his moms voice every night, as she read to him. Didnt matter what the story was Hansel and Gretel, Where The Wild Things Are, Were Going On A Bear Hunt it made the stories come alive in a way that just listening never could. When he stilled his mind like that, and let it wash over him, his moms voice faded and changed until it was overtaken by all the characters voices, their real voices. His bedroom faded and hed find himself walking through the forest, or sitting in the boat, or running from the bear. He became aware that the air was a little darker where the noises were loudest, and he could see the first signs of shadows, of things moving amongst the children. Here and there a child would flinch then look round, quick, as if trying hard to see who had pinched him, or nipped at him. The air around the Storyteller, though, was clear. The shadows grew clearer, and now Brian could see figures creatures from his nightmares solidifying as they moved towards him, only to pull back when they got within a few feet. Brian could also see the reason they retreated. There was a glow emanating from the Storyteller. It was a hateful glow, all slimy and greeny-yellow, like radiation in those old sci-fi movies his dad let him watch when his mom was out for the night with her friends, or visiting grandma, and he came over to babysit. The creatures flinched away from that glow, as if it could hurt them. Or worse. Looking round the room, Brian tried to see if anyone else was glowing like that, but no one was. No one could see the shadows, or the figures that lurked within them, either. He was the only one. The shadows roiled around the room, and Brian thought he could hear more than just monstrous howls and screams in it. He thought he could hear sighs, and even tears. He saw the Storyteller looking at him, and fought to appear as upset as the rest of the kids, yet still obviously wanting to hear more. The Storyteller examined Brians earnest expression for a moment, then nodded. The boy was a little more awake than the others, true, but he didnt think he could see clearly. Not yet, anyway. He allowed himself to feel a little of what was seeping towards him from the children, and shivered slightly at the surge of energy that even the littlest piece of the whole granted him. This was going to be a feast, by the time he was finished. He wouldnt need to feed
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again for quite some time, he was sure. Time enough for the tale of todays adventure to die down, and be added to his repertoire. He glanced down at the little boy whod tried to escape, and could see that his spirit was broken. If all went well, then this little fellow was going to be with him for a long time. A long time. The boy his parents would be taking home would be missing something vital. And all theyd know was that he seemed to have withdrawn into himself, though theyd never know why. Doctors and psychiatrists would be called, he was sure it had happened before. A personality disorder would be diagnosed, then the kid would be classed as special needs, allowed to be as quiet as he wanted, so as not to upset him further. And the Storyteller would be one soul richer, with no one the wiser, unless they caught sight of him in the shadows that surrounded his tales, and very few could ever do that the ones that did could be added to his following, easily enough, they tasted the sweetest. He took a deep breath, and the children hushed in an instant. Now, where were we? Ah yes, I remember. I was telling you that all the bad stories are true, when our young friend here, he paused to smile benignly at the lad, who remained unaware of anything outside his own mind, got scared. Boy, did he, huh? There was a little ripple of laughter now; they were starting to relax, though not by much. And I meant it, you should understand that, but perhaps not the way he thought I did. Of course there arent vampires outside your window, hanging from the lintel trying to get you to invite them in; and of course there are no werewolves, howling at the moon every time its full and looking for fresh meat. There was no laughter now, nervous or otherwise. What is true, though, kids, and here he paused for effect, and searched their faces with all the seriousness of a preacher, is that fear exists, fear is real and its out there even as it walks among us, and thats where all these stories come from. Do you see the difference? Again, they all nodded, heads bobbing up and down eagerly as they sought to reassure the Storyteller that yes they did, indeed they did, just tell us how to sleep tonight when were alone in the dark and no one can help us. Brian risked a look around him, keeping his head low so that the Storyteller might not notice. Might not. The words hed just heard had crystallised everything that had been running around in his head since this tale started he knew what was going on now. He sensed one or two of the
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shadows in the room coalescing near him, while others further away from him stepped up their activities, forcing little yelps of fear from the children even as the shadows cringed themselves in fear of the Storyteller. Some of the kids were crying for their mothers now, very quietly, almost under their breath. They understood not to let the Storyteller hear too much, even though they didnt know why or how they knew. Brian tried to focus on the shadow nearest to him, and thought he saw teeth that were far too long in a thin, bony face with eyes like coal. A voice rumbled inside his head. Do not try to see us too clearly, my friend. We do not wish to be made to harm you. Harm me? The words were out before he could stop them, and even though hed tried so hard to whisper he felt the Storytellers rhythm falter as he sought to locate the source of this interruption. Tension built, and Brian held his breath as he fought to escape detection. Children started to grow restless, sensing something new, something changing, and the Storyteller turned his attention to them once more. He couldnt lose them now, so near the pay-off of his tale. The rhythm strengthened as he went back to telling the children how it was fear itself that made them afraid that fear was a real thing, not just imagination. And it had teeth. He wasnt telling the whole truth, Brian knew. It wasnt fear that had teeth, it was him. Fear just held you prisoner, kept you in its grip, ready for him to feed. Silence, boy. Hell hear you. There is no need for words spoken out loud, you know. We are creatures of the mind, we can hear what you want to say without you saying it out loud for all to hear. Who who are you? The creature sighed, a sound so full of loss and desperation that Brian felt tears start to form and had to fight not to shed them. We are for want of a better term what your films have called creatures of the night. We are the stuff of myth and legend, vampires and werewolves, shape-shifters and ghouls. Your Storyteller, as he styles himself, has kidnapped us, and we want to go home. Home? Brian wondered where home would be for such creatures. Graveyards? Hell? The vampire that had to be what he was, Brian thought smiled sadly, and shook his head. No, child. Our home is here, he tapped his head. We belong in the imagination, not in the real world, forced to hurt those who
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dream us best so that the Storytellers lust for pain might be sated. He leaned closer to Brian, and became, as he did so, a little clearer. All of a sudden Brian was scared right down to the base of his spine, with the little hairs at the back of his neck all prickly, like when he watched scary movies and he shrank back from the apparition before him. The vampire smiled. You see? That is where we are supposed to live, in your imagination. That chill down your spine, that clenching of your gut, that is what feeds us. And we are happy with this, we need no more. Not for us the tastes of the flesh. He smiled again, a crueller expression this time. Or even the taste of flesh. Brian sought to calm his mind, and tried his best to keep the fear out of it. He thought he made a pretty good job of it, considering he seemed to be in the middle of a conversation with an honest-to-God vampire. Even if they werent actually talking. Not out loud, anyway. So what happened? What changed? Another voice spoke this time (it was easier to think of it as speaking, Brian found, it troubled him less than the alternative), and the vampire fell silent content to leave this part of the tale for someone else. The newcomer was far more powerful, to look at him. He was tall, and broad, and muscles seemed to almost burst out of his shirt, along with hair. His voice was rough inside Brians head, as though his throat was so sore from howling that speech of any kind, even imagined, was painful for him. He did. The Storyteller, as he calls himself. He virtually spat the name, and Brian understood a little of the pain these creatures had been forced to feel and wanted rid of. He was as we are, once, a creature of imagination, no more. Not real? Not as you would understand it, no. Think of the fairy tales the Storyteller started as one of these, much as the Pied Piper, or Rumpelstiltskin. He was made up by one of your human storytellers. For a while, he lived in tales and was happy with that a device used to tell, and frame, a story. He paused and stared bleakly at the Storyteller, who appeared distracted. Time grows short, boy. You must listen well now, before we have to go. Before he makes us He cannot, if we are quick. Hurry! The vampire was decidedly edgy, baring his teeth in a vague gesture of warning, though at what, Brian couldnt see.
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The point, child, is that he grew greedy Brian felt as if his mind had split in two somehow. On one side, he was watching the Storyteller sniff the air, searching for the cause of his distraction and he had a feeling he was narrowing in on them. And then? He didnt want to know what then. On the other side, he was listening intently to these creatures that seemed to want to help him, and by helping him all the other children. As a species, we are singular. We do not need food, as you understand it. We are content to live in the imagination, to hide there, in the shadows and recesses of the mind. He sniffed the air, and licked his lips as if savouring the freshest meat before continuing. And the spaces in between what is, and what is not. Again he sniffed the air, and Brians nerves got the better of him. And then? The wolf-man who seemed to be growing more wolfish by the second and far less human lowered his gaze and stared into Brians eyes. The boy couldnt look away from that pinprick gaze of baleful yellow. And then he learnt the trick weve worked hard to forget. The trick we thought wed been successful in banning. We? I thought you were all stories. Arent you as old as each other? No. Tales spawn tales; one word can give birth to a million, if its the right word. Can you understand that? Brian nodded, sensing the rightness of what he was hearing. It felt true, even if he didnt completely understand how it worked. We he gestured to his companion, the vampire, himself, and a wraith-like figure of a sobbing woman that hovered silently nearby, we are the old ones. We are the first. Humans spoke of us and trembled, and we were content. People embellished the tales, over time, and other tales were born. This is the way of things, the natural order. This is how you humans tell what was, what is, and what shall be. Brian didnt understand. So how? Im getting to that, boy. Be patient, bide your time and all will become clear. Humans started to tell the old tales, of us and our kind, but prefaced them with Once upon a time or made them into fables, with a fable teller that was part of the story. Do you see now what happened? This Storyteller our storyteller, was one of those. He wasnt real. Not in the sense you mean, no, he was thought rather than flesh, word rather than deed. But he grew stronger each time the tales were told, until he
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became flesh and with the flesh came the hunger. A hunger greater than you could ever imagine, making him hunger incarnate. Brian didnt understand everything hed just heard, but he understood enough of it. He understood enough to make him mad. And he likes to chew on fear, is that it? A big, fat fearburger anytime he wants one, just by terrorising a few kids. No one spoke, even in his mind. The monsters lets face it, Brian thought, thats what they really were, who were they kidding? had the good grace to hang their heads, as if ashamed. He scares us too, Brian. Its not just the children anymore. How else could he make us hurt you? Why would we hurt you when you are the source of our selves, of our very being? He forces us to do his bidding so that he might scare the children more each time, and we get nothing but the scraps from his table! This last was spoken in a roar, as the wolf-creature struggled to retain its human aspect in spite of its rage. The Storyteller was aware of them now, Brian could feel it. And he was coming for them one step at a time, so the other kids wouldnt see. You must forgive us, son. The vampire was terrified, his teeth bared as he turned one way and then the other, sensing danger though he couldnt yet see where from. Were so hungry. And each time he tells his tales and makes us hurt your kind, one or more of you join our number, and thus we grow weaker, as theres less nourishment to go round until finally his is the only tale left. Do you see? Brian nodded, dumb now with the shock of what he was hearing. This is why we must destroy him! This is why you must help us, Brian. Cant you see? Brian could, though he didnt want to. He wanted his mother. He wanted to curl up at her knee as he had so many times, while she read to him of dragons and elves, of trolls and fairies and children who had their dearest wish if it were a true and unselfish wish made true. He couldnt have that any more though, not now the time for that was past, and he had to put it aside. Now he had to be the one who told the tale, and held the power. He had to be strong, for all of them, so that no more kids ended up scared of their own shadow because on some level they understood that it wasnt theirs at all and that it could bite. The Storyteller was staring at him, he knew it. He couldnt bring himself
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to look just yet, but he could tell by the way the skin on the back of his neck was crawling, and by the way the creatures that had tried so hard to get through to him were cringing even as they tried to make him see. Looking around, he saw that a space had opened up all around him, as the children, too, had shuffled a little away from him, leaving him alone, and in plain sight. He didnt have long, but what could he do? He was shaking, and he could feel the fear eating away at the edges of his brain it wouldnt take much for him to lose it, and end up as one of the Storytellers acolytes, doomed to follow him and collect the fear from children just like him. It wasnt fair! He wanted to yell it at the creatures, at the Storyteller, to make them see what they were doing to him. He was just a kid, for Chrissakes! He sensed, rather than saw, the creatures around him start to dwindle, their disappointment in him palpable. He looked at the little boy all the way in the front, still rocking, still unaware of anything except his fear. And all of a sudden he understood what to do. So let me get this straight. This guy is just a story? In essence, yes. Or he was. Im not altogether sure thats all he is now. Brian looked at the Storyteller with new eyes, and now he didnt look quite so awful. The yellowy-green glow had dimmed a little, and to Brians eyes, the Storyteller didnt look quite so solid. He looked as if he wasnt entirely there, in the library with all the little kids who wanted their moms, wanted to go home because this was too scary. He looked at the Storyteller, and he looked at the monsters the vampire, the werewolf, the ghost and the ghoul, and all the other shadows milling around (theyd stopped hurting kids, he saw, maybe the Storyteller knew what was coming) and he felt power begin to rise in him. He could feel it clean and pure and pulsing right through him. He closed his eyes and thought about that, thought about the power and realised it had a colour he could see. It was blue, clear and bright as the sky, and it was all his. The blue pulsed out from him, spreading around the room, and he saw the Storytellers sickly greeny-yellow aura begin to fade under such brightness. He saw the other kids start to brighten in response to it, becoming more alert, though they couldnt have understood why this was happening. Even the little kid all the way in the front stopped rocking, and took his thumb from his mouth. Brian thought he heard him say, Mommy? The monsters had turned towards him now, Brian saw. They were waiting.
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There was an air of restlessness in the room, like a fresh breeze on a baking hot day. Still, Brian wasnt sure. He turned to the vampire, the wolf-man, and the ghost the oldest of the tales. So if hes just a story who forgot thats what he is, I can fix it, right? Thats what we hope for, Brian. That is our fondest wish. Brian felt the blue glow starting to build, even as the fear left him. So what I have to do is untell him? Make him back into a story, a what did you call it? A device? If you can, yes. If he lets you. Please, Brian, try This last was the ghost, and she was fading even as he looked at her. He was running out of time, he knew, so he took a deep breath, and got ready. He stood up, and took control. Hey! All the kids turned around to watch him, and the Storyteller managed to look outraged and flat out scared all at the same time a mixture Brian hadnt thought possible up until now. Shh, boy, weve not finished the story. The poisonous yellow glow was fading, barely showing around the Storyteller now. Oh yes we are. We dont want to hear the rest of your story. Its mean. Simple words, simply spoken, yet they broke the dam of fear that the Storyteller and his prisoners had fought so hard to instil, and the children were starting to break free. And as they did, so did the monsters. Brian looked at them all staring up at him, and he looked beyond them to the creatures that had materialised behind the Storyteller. They were standing eagerly behind him, the hunger shining bright and fierce in their eyes. He thought, though, that he was probably the only one here who could see them, because no one seemed scared, or worried, about them at all. Not even the Storyteller, though he soon would. Brians time was coming, it was nearly here. Brian took a deep breath, and let all that clear blue light flood through him, and started to speak. Want to hear a proper story? Yeah! The cry was unanimous, and the Storyteller quailed at the sound of it, diminished. Brian stood tall and proud, and puffed his chest out to throw the words right to the back of the library, the way hed been taught in class. He wanted everyone to hear him, especially the Storytellers creatures.
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Once upon a time a mother told her son a story, except she wanted to make it sound all important, she wanted it to carry a lesson. So she started the story with Once there was a storyteller which of course made him real inside the story. All the children nodded in agreement, it seemed perfectly logical to them that what was in a story was real inside that story. Just like all the really good stories start with Once upon a time The boy told his friends the story, and his friends told their friends the story, and so it went on. And each time it was told, the storyteller got to be a stronger piece of the story. Do you see how that happened? As one, the children nodded their understanding. Everyone knows that once a storys told a certain way, that version of it is out there, its set in stone, almost the foundation for all future versions. No. No, stop it. Stop it at once The rest of the Storytellers words were muffled by the giant paw that clapped itself over his mouth, though no one other than Brian could see it, of course. The children were lost in his story of how a story got real, and hadnt even heard the Storytellers latest outcry. Brian had a suspicion that that might have been because his voice was growing a little weaker every minute. The problem with that was well, can you guess what the problem with that was? A hand went up, and Brian was happy to see that it was the little boy that the Storyteller had dragged all the way to the front. I think I can. Brian nodded his encouragement and smiled, and the little boy carried on, stronger now. The storyteller forgot he was just a story, didnt he? Thats right, Brian said, and the little boy blushed, delighted that hed got it right, and that this story was nowhere near as scary as the one the bad man had been telling. All thought of the Storyteller being anything other than the Bad Man was gone, as was the power hed held. The Storyteller got very strong, but forgot he wasnt real. He didnt see that if he was real hed eat regular food like real people; he just knew that fear made him stronger, stronger than the other stories the ones our moms protect us from. I dont need to say what they are, do I? The children were unanimous on this one. Nope, you dont need to say another word, we get it. Brian saw that the creatures had solidified even more, surely someone would see them soon? He looked the vampire square in the eyes and heard
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its voice in his head: No one will see us, Brian, except you. You are the new Storyteller for these children; you are all the voice we need. Good, cause I dont like to hear them any more than you do, believe me. Children and monsters alike laughed at that, and Brian thought that they sounded about the same. The other stories, though, they didnt forget. The Storyteller held them prisoner, cause he was stronger than they were, and he made them live his stories, scare the children badly so thered be more fear to feed on. He was a Bad Man, all right. A really Bad Man. His voice cracked, and he was surprised to find he was near tears, sorrow for the plight of the creatures that had been forced to hurt those that had dreamed them into existence (their Gods, in a way) making his eyes tear up and his throat all scratchy. So do you know what the older stories did? Noo!!! This was the Storyteller, aghast that hed been so caught up in Brians story that he hadnt realised he was hearing the tale of his own ending, and Brians beginning. He made as if to part the children like a wave, so he could bear down on Brian and stop him before things went too far, before he lost control. Too late. A thin, bony hand clamped itself on the Storytellers shoulder, the fingers digging in deep a thin ribbon of blood (black like ink, Brian thought) drawing a dark line down his chest. On the other side, the werewolf was growling into his ear, or was he chewing on it? Brian didnt want to look too close that wasnt a story he wanted to be telling in years to come. Not to kids, anyway. Kids deserved so much better than that. The older stories waited until they found a special kid. One who dreamed brighter than most, and remembered his dreams. One who would believe. Then what? This from the little moppet whod been so scared earlier, honey curls bobbing with excitement as she waited to hear the ending. This story was going to end right, she could tell. This story was going to be awesome. Brian smiled, and the light seemed to stream from him, making the library a brighter, warmer place than it had been all morning while they listened to the Storyteller. Then they told him a story, of how it had all happened and how it had all gone wrong. And the boy believed them, and told the tale again only this time he started it without the Storyteller, turned the story back to what it should have been in the first place. Which is what? Brian
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yelled this last, scared that the Storyteller was going to break free, scared that the monsters were wrong and his tale wouldnt be enough. It wouldnt work, and the Storyteller would have his soul, before moving onto fresh meat, and starting all over again. He waited, scarcely daring to breathe, he was so scared. Right here, right now, he wanted his mom. And more than that, he wanted his dad to be standing right behind her, backing her up as she defended her Brian. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked hard, fighting them back. There was a puff of yellowy-green smoke that reeked of rot, and a fading roar of monsters that had been sent back to the night, and to spaces between spaces, and that had taken their prey, still bleeding black ink, right back with them. There was one cry, loud enough to bring the parents running, eager to see why their kids were so excited. JUST A STORY! Brian did cry then, tears of relief streamed down his face as he saw his mother elbowing her way through the crowd of adults looking for their kids. She looked scared, like she always did when she couldnt control things, and she couldnt keep Brian safe in her orbit, had to let him go out into the world of bullies, and crime, and dads that couldnt stay because they loved booze more, and had let it win. He saw all of that and none of it in her face, because she would never have told her son what she was so scared of that her sons innocence would be spoiled too young, and blight what remained of his childhood. He saw his mom, worried because she couldnt see him, and that was enough, even though on some level he surely sensed the rest. He saw his mom, his world, arms extended and a smile spreading across her face as she saw him. And he ran to her.
Marie ORegan is a British Fantasy Award-nominated author and editor, based in Derbyshire. Her first collection, Mirror Mere, was published in 2006. Her genre journalism has appeared in magazines like The Dark Side, Rue Morgue and Fortean Times, and her interview book, Voices in the Dark, was released last year. She is co-editor of the bestselling Hellbound Hearts and Mammoth Book of Body Horror, plus editor of the forthcoming Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women.
a character to believe in
J
ane Rogers has published eight novels, written original television and radio drama, and adapted work (her own and others) for radio and TV. Her novels include Mr Wroes Virgins, Island, and The Voyage Home. Her writing awards include the Somerset Maugham Award, Writers Guild Best Fiction Book, a BAFTA nomination for Best Drama Serial, Guardian Fiction Prize runner-up, and an Arts Council Award. She is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. Her most recent novel, The Last Testament of Jessie Lamb, was longlisted for the Man Booker prize and shortlisted for The Kitschies, a rare feat of recognition from both genre and literary prize panels that ranks her amongst authors like Kingsley Amis, Kazuo Ishiguro, and Margaret Atwood. Jessie Lamb takes place in a world caught in the grip of an unknown virus one that wipes out all pregnant mothers before they can bear their child to term. Sixteen-year-old Jessie Lamb suddenly finds herself in the last generation of human children. Although the doomsday scenario is fascinating, Jessie Lambs
jared shurin
critical success stems from its compassionately written protagonist and realistic depiction of the dynamic between parents and children. As genre fiction, as literature, and as young adult fiction, The Testament of Jessie Lamb is an exceptional novel. For his column, Jared Shurin spoke to Ms Rogers to gain some insight into how she approached her novel and its compelling heroine. What do you keep in mind when writing a teenage protagonist? Do you approach them differently from adult characters? To state the obvious, every character is different, and I think what I try to do is find the characters voice (particularly for first person, like Jessie, but also for
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third person the language reveals the character). So what mattered in writing Jessie was to find a teenage voice which I could hear in my head and which rang true. Once the characters voice has come clear, I find it fairly straightforward to know what she would care about and understand, and what would be outside her ken. So no, the approach is not different from the way I approach other characters each character is different, and age is only one difference. I guess I drew on many sources for Jessie: my own teenage years, my own childrens teenage years, the teenagers I have loved in novels and films, and so on. A key for me, in writing Jessie, was thinking about the kind of fierce idealism that teenagers can have how they hate hypocrisy, and how the world can seem very clearly black and white while adults see in shades of grey, and everything is complicated and dependent on other things. That idealism comes with a cost. How do you convey the frustration of being a teenager without turning off readers? It was something I grappled with, and it is where the other characters and their subplots come in. At those points where Jessie herself is blocked
and frustrated in the things she wants to achieve, either something happens between her parents (with hints of her mothers affair, and the rows between them) or with her aunt, who veers from manic to deeply depressed, or with her friends (Sals rape) or in the wider world for example, the birth of the first MDS babies. Having quite a few subplots going helps to generate suspense at those moments where Jessie herself is stalled. Why have a flawed teen for a hero (navet, warts and all) when you could have a more idealised protagonist for readers
interview
to follow? For me, character is the most important ingredient in a novel, I need a character I can believe in as Virginia Woolf said, You start with the little old lady on the train. Im not interested in super-heroes. Despite the sweeping changes going on in the world around her, The Testament of Jessie Lamb is very tightly focussed on the relationship between Jessie and her parents. Why was this the priority? For me the core of the book is the parent-teenager relationship. I wanted to explore that moment when a young person becomes independent and defines herself against her parents: I wanted to look at it from both sides. The dystopia I created is there in order to make that coming-of-age moment more extreme and dramatic. What does the books near future setting add to or take from the story? I wanted Jessie to take an action which her parents would find appalling, and I wanted the reader to have divided sympathies. We have all been teenagers, we can all identify with the need to reject our parents world. Initially I thought of setting the
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novel in the present and making her a suicide bomber. But I wanted to give her a cause which readers would not feel prejudiced about. I didnt want them to dismiss her because they didnt like her politics. So I had to shift it either into the past or into the future. Since I have set two novels in the past, I decided to move into the future. I wanted a scenario where a young woman might be called upon to sacrifice her life, and I wanted it to be difficult for me as the writer, and for my readers, to know if she was doing the right thing or not.
I wanted to give her a cause which readers would not feel prejudiced about. I didnt want them to dismiss her because they didnt like her politics
The futuristic setting also allowed me to explore a range of subjects about which young people are quite justifiably angry, and also to generate some black humour. I was interested in the idea of heroism, also, and Kazuo Ishiguros Never Let Me Go was very much in my mind: his novel is set in an alternative version of our world. Heroes in genre fiction normally dont have the problems that Jessie does. Jessie wants to rescue the human race, but she encounters practical barriers in her quest. Why cant Jessie be a normal hero and save the day? Labels for fiction are often problematic. I dont see Jessie Lamb as genre fiction, and it also seems to me that the best genre fiction is not escapist in the way you describe: that kind of escapism can lead to rather two-dimensional characters. The essence of drama is conflict. That is to say, the protagonist has to overcome many obstacles surely that is at the very heart of all good story-telling? What young adult protagonists do you find personally influential or memorable? Huck Finn, Holden Caulfield, Vernon God Little, Cassandra Mortmain, Maggie Tulliver, David Strorm from The Chrysalids, and the narrator of Miles Franklins My Brilliant Career. But most important of all, and also the voice that helped me most in writing Jessies voice, is the nonfiction book, Anne Franks The Diary of a Young Girl. I read this over and over while writing Jessie. Hers is the most moving, funny, profound, trivial, engrossing, heart-breaking teen voice I have ever read. Do you have any other suggestions for novelists writing young or teenage protagonists? Talk to teenagers. But I am sure they already do! Thank you very much for your time. Jared Shurin is co-editor of Pornokitsch and the Pandemonium series, as well as the co-founder of the Kitschies, the genre literature prize sponsored by The Kraken Rum. He is a partner in Beyond the Blurb, a consultancy providing brand and digital support to publishers.
>> More info

To find out more about Jane Rogers visit her website at www.janerogers.org
a history of the servants michael marshall smith

Michael Marshall Smiths work will be familiar to many BFS members: after all, hes a multiple British Fantasy Award winner. Here, he talks about the inspiration behind his book The Servants, and the function of fiction however young or old we might be
ell-known amongst pedants, word nuts, and bug-eyed smartarses everywhere is the fact that you cant have comparatives of the word unique. Like pregnant, uniqueness is a binary state: you either is or you aint, and so its no more possible to be somewhat unique than slightly up the duff. The same is true of death, of course, but while sentences like He was very dead may convey a certain laconic verve, very unique has no place except in the sales pitch of estate agents trying to puff a rather average gaff into marketability. Having said which, The Servants probably has the best claim to uniqueness amongst my stories. Its the fastest thing Ive ever written, but also the slowest. At 50,000 words its the only piece Ive written that sits in the wide open space between 20,000 and 100,000 words neither a short story, nor a full-length novel. Its the most overtly personal, in the sense
of being related to events in my own life. Its the only story Ive ever started with a soup-to-nuts plan, following the grown-up approach to writing that normally eludes me. Its the only thing that could apparently be read as Young Adult. Its the only book thats been published (in the UK, at least) under the name M M Smith, an addition to my arsenal of noms de plume that I could probably have done without. Its the only time something longer of mine has been simultaneously nominated for both the British and World Fantasy awards (and lost both of them, naturally). Its you get the picture. The Servants stands on its own, for better or worse. It may not be perfect, but it is what it is. One of the books main characters is the town of Brighton, a place where Ive spent a fair amount of time over the last decade, largely because my wife and I bought a holiday apartment there just before the millennium.
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a history of the servants

The impulse came from Paula, who had fond memories of the area from her youth, but Ive come to love the place too a heady mash-up of old and new, the flighty and expensive and the cheap and cheerful, the new and shiny jammed cheek by jowl with the unrepentantly dodgy. The town has often served as a bolt-hole in the intervening ten years, especially during periods when real life in London wasnt treating us very well. Ive spent many hours wandering its streets, and its a funny old nook or cranny of central Brighton that I havent stomped up or down at one point or another. Yet Ive only ever set one story there. Even though the town is a gift for the writer, its as if I was saving it for something. That story is The Servants. The idea for the book came in two widely-separated halves. The first arrived when we took a tour of a house being restored to Regency grandeur in the next square along from our apartment (this is the kind of thing we used to do before we had a child along with relaxing, and sleeping). The upstairs floors (the public portions, the houses presentation side) were mildly interesting. Colour palettes were being rigorously adhered to, snippets of original wallpaper meticulously preserved. Far more fascinating was the basement, the servants quarters. With the exception of a tiny flat at the front, forged from the former housemaids room, the below-stairs level had barely been touched in a hundred years, and
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was exactly as its described in the book sealed-off, undisturbed, left to gently decline into dust. You could still see the wax which the butler had used to seal the door to the drinks cupboard every night; the tattered remains of the range were still in place in the kitchen; the rusted meat store remained almost intact. The detail that most intrigued me, however, lay where the side corridor met the one that ran from front to back of the house. The point where they joined had been shaped in a curve, rather than the usual right angle. Our guide explained this was to enable the servants to shave a millisecond off their hurried journeys, and to help them avoid banging into a sharp edge as they scrambled to do the bidding of their masters in the bright and airy rooms upstairs. I was very struck by this, and by how machinelike it made the whole space, and I knew Id write about it sooner or later. It turned out to be much, much later. I let the idea rattle around for a long while, not making any notes about it I try not to overwork ideas I think might lead to a book, for fear of killing them, like pinning a butterfly to a collectors board. Then, two or three years after seeing the servants quarters, my mother died. Shed loved coming to visit us in Brighton, and had been fond of the old West Pier,
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and it was her death that contributed the backbone to the piece though that didnt happen right away either. It was a couple more years before the two components ran into each other at some cocktail party in the back of my brain, and realised they had stuff to talk about. And yet still I didnt do anything about it. I was busy. I had lots of work on. I think I sensed, also, that this was an idea which should be left to progress in its own good time. Generally, with anything shorter than a novel I like to get onto it as quickly as possible, before custom stales the idea and I get bored of it. Most of my best experiences with story-writing have involved an inspiration while out walking, then coming home and starting typing straight away, finishing a draft either that day or at the latest, the next. The Servants wasnt having any of that, however. The idea wasnt becoming any less interesting to me, but neither was it in any hurry to be written. I let it be. Another year or two passed. In the meantime I promised Paul Miller at Earthling that Id do him a longer piece a novella of twenty thousand words or so. I was already late on it having over-run on a novel, as is my custom and knew I had to pull my finger out pretty soon. Then one

afternoon, lurking in my study with the washed-out but restless feeling I get when coming off a long piece of intense work, I remember thinking: what about The Servants? Would that fit the bill? The piece already had a title in my head, evidently, and maybe finally it was time for it to come out. As it happened, a few days later I had to go to New York to attend Book Expo America. Sitting on the flight with not much to do notes on the just-finished novel still werent back I cautiously decided to have a think about what kind of story The Servants might be. I dont generally do much planning before I write. I start with a character or two, a central notion, a couple of sketchy scenes and sequences, some idea of the very beginning and the very end and see where this takes me. Its a policy that drives everyone (myself included) nuts, but its just the way I work. For some reason, The Servants announced it would like to be considered properly ahead of time. And so I did. By the end of the flight I had the whole thing blocked out, chapter by chapter, scene by scene. Within a few hours of landing I was at a publishing party on top of a building somewhere in Tribeca, and white wine and jetlag soon blanked everything Id done on the plane. The next couple of days were spent in a sweltering blur of chat, late nights and excess alcohol, but as I sprawled blearily in my seat on the flight home by now clueless as to what time zone I was in, and how much actual harm Id done my career I read through the plan for The Servants and realised it was pretty much there. The following Monday I started writing. My fingers were fired up and loose and accustomed to writing fast, as they always are when Ive just finished the first draft of a novel (as, by chance, I have as I sit and write this piece). I owed a friend a story. I even had, for once in my life, something like a plan. I wrote the book in ten days. Though actually, of course, it had taken about seven years; and its not really fiction, either. No, of course my life doesnt bear close comparison to that of the books young hero, and nor have I experienced most of the things that happened in the story, but its not hard to see how I was using fiction to rail against reality. I didnt intend it to be read as Young Adult when I was writing it, but I suppose its possible to do so though that may simply be a function of the subject matter. The death of a loved one turns us all into young adults: old enough to understand the horrific finality of the event, young enough to want to believe

that there must be some means of undoing it even if it means stepping outside the bounds of reality and into the chill waters of magic. After writing a particular scene about two thirds of the way through, I saved my work and then cried for about half an hour. Thats never happened to me before or since, but I suppose its the only time Ive tried to directly confront the fact that my mother was dead. When the event happened, I was too busy dealing with fallout from it in the real world to be able to pick the fact up in my hands and stare at it, to truly grip it, experience its terrible and irrevocable weight. Writing something down, even or perhaps especially when the dark gem is placed in a setting of make believe, takes it out of the jumble of day-to-day facts and places it in the heart. Its horribly painful, but its also what art is for. Facts and events and real life are chaotic and random and often wretchedly mundane. Theyre hard to take seriously. The purpose of writing and music is to sweep all the quotidian dust away and place events on a pedestal in the middle of an empty, searing-white room. By paring down and streamlining and stylising they make it easier to see the truth, and hopefully also allow us to eventually turn our heads from it and
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carry on with life. Writing takes the past and turns it into a museum or art gallery, framing events, helping us to see them in their most vivid and illuminating light. I dont know whether I managed to do this with The Servants, but I tried. In the end its a story about time, and about a boy and his mother, and the love between them. Its about how very much wed like to be able to hold back or overturn the terrible agenda of the dark stranger that stalks each and every one of us. In the real world, there may not be much we can do about him. But at least in stories, we can try and as Mark finds when it comes to skateboarding, sometimes trying isnt just the best we can do: its the whole point of being alive. n Michael Marshall Smith is a novelist and screenwriter. Under this name he has written Only Forward, Spares and One of Us, along with over seventy short stories - winning the British Fantasy Award a record four times. As thriller writer Michael Marshall hes responsible for The Straw Men series, The Intruders, Bad Things and Killer Move. He currently lives in Santa Cruz with his wife and son, and is working on a new novel. Find out more at michaelmarshallsmith.com
history the servants the wheel donta you likeofthe bird man? of whumpus john desplaines
Four and four daemons push the Wheel of Whumpus Designed by Messrs. Gilbert and one Conrad McBumpus Around and round turns this morality compass Til the needle might drop and every one of us jump-us! A faerie is shackled to the locus of the wheel a Rupert Vitali de Faerie surreal and the daemons all laugh and point and conceal for when the wheel shall land, theyll have their next meal. Come little daemons, wont you give it a whirl For inscribed thereare the names of every bad boy and girl Whilst Rupert only points to one name at a time Make haste with your selection Who will answer next for their crime? So dear little boys and dearest little girls Dont stick your chewed gum to good Mollys curls And dont filch a pencil, or sneak away from school For the daemons of the wheel, shant ever be fooled. Do best dotting is and crossing your ts For the wheels still spins wherever it pleez And just as the bees always follow the breeze, The Wheel of Whumpus must always reprise. John DesPlaines is a New York Innovative Theater Award-Winning Playwright and Award-Winning Indie Filmmaker from Chicago in the USA. His debut feature film was released in USA theaters in 2006. His recent plays will be published by Indie Theater Now in 2012, and his fiction/nonfiction has been published online and in Overflow Magazine. He reviews comics/graphic novels for Project Fanboy and Comics Worth Reading.
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I
fiona moore
f it would make you live forever, Tom asked me over the paintsplattered banner, would you sleep with a man? Tom, I did sleep with a man, I said, dipping my brush in the pink tin and considering for a moment before adding a little pink triangle under the legend Symposium Theatre Collective Supports Pride Day 78. Once, in my freshman year. If that makes you immortal, then its not worth the hassle. No offence intended. I just meant, like, a hypothetical, Tom said, sitting back on a pile of stage flats. Like, wouldnt you want to live forever? I frowned. Never really thought about it, I admitted. Of course you havent, youre twenty-one, Tom stood up and began to pace back and forth across the narrow stage or more properly stage space, which was a polite way of saying that our arts council grant wouldnt run to more than a stack of second-hand chairs and enough black paint to cover the walls and floor. Im nearly twice your age, you know. Really? I said, careful not to sound sarcastic or forced. Id never have known. To be fair, he did look pretty good for thirty-eight, could pass for twenty-eight or maybe even twenty-five if the light was dim. His hair was still thick and dark brown, and he wore it in that kind of long-fringe-andmoustache style that most of the younger men in the collective favoured which also, come to think of it, was a good way of hiding early wrinkles around the mouth and forehead. Or maybe its a lesbian thing. Woman living in harmony with the universe and the cycle of death and new life, something granola like that? Huh, I said. Dont forget I dumped Marla for talking that sort of bullshit. I waved a brush as a not-so-subtle hint, and he rolled his eyes
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but took the brush and knelt down again. Which one was Marla? The lighting tech. Why the hell are there so many lesbian lighting techs? Great way to meet girls, I shrugged. I wouldnt know. Nobody at the collective had an official title or function titles were patriarchal and/ or fascist and I was doing a teacher training qualification, so was about as far from technical staff as it was possible to get. Anyway, whats this actually about? You decided you want kids or something? No, but her father does. Tom looked coy. Tom, will you please start making some sort of fucking sense? Okay, Tom said smugly. You know Dawn? It took me a minute. The blonde trust-fund fag-hag whos always at the drag shows down at Bar Fifty-Four? Youre so catty. Its a lesbian thing, I said. Go on. Shes asked me to marry her. What?! I couldnt help laughing. Tom scowled at me. Its her dad, he said. He wants grandkids, but she hasnt met a straight guy she likes wholl meet his standards. So shes asked me. We get on OK, and my pedigree checks out, so to speak. Oh, yeah. Dimly I remembered that Tom was from some kind of family that could trace its ancestry back to the Roanoke Colony. So she reckons we could cut some kind of deal, Tom concluded. Okay, wheres living forever come into it? I said. I assume youre talking in the individual sense, and not in the my-genes-live-on-foreverthrough-my-children sense. Tom looked at the banner with satisfaction, nodded and began to put the lids on the paint pots. Her dad again. He owns some sort of big medical research company. Pharmaceuticals, vitamins, all that. And you know what they specialise in? Longevity? I laughed at Toms look of disappointment. Come on, you werent making it difficult to guess. Yes, you little bitch, longevity treatments. Maybe even immortality if they can get it right. Something to do with genetics, I dont know. But Id
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be in on the ground floor. And you think her dad wouldnt check? Wouldnt find out that youre a known faggot, semi-employed by an alternative theatre collective in the Gay Ghetto? I wiped my hands on my jeans, started putting the paints back in the box. She says it wouldnt matter, provided I could give her kids, Tom said. I mean hey, Oscar Wilde had kids. Are we finished here? Weve done the banner, the leaflets, the T-shirts for collective members going on the march, have we forgotten anything? No, Im pretty sure thats it, I said. Come on, lets lock up and go have a beer. We went to Bar Fifty-Four it was a five-minute walk away from the converted schoolhouse which was housing Symposium at least as long as we could pay the rent on it, through summer streets thrumming with cicada noise under an urban-purple sky, and discussed the line up for the next month (a cabaret, the usual poetry and folk-music open mike, a production based on Ovids Metamorphoses, and a German womens modern ballet dance troupe on a tour of the North American continent). I more or less reckoned hed forgotten about the marriage idea, but later, when the bartender began turning up the music and the disco lights and a few of the boys started to wiggle their arms and asses in a rhythmic way that was more like posing than dancing I saw him looking, not at them, but at the older men sitting at the corner of the bar, hair carefully cultivated and dyed, skin bronzed, their cynical, hopeful eyes darting from their drinks to the dance floor, as if they were hoping that by sleeping with someone young, they could get the youth to rub off on them. I didnt think about it too much over the next week, which was mostly spent in the preparations, experience and aftermath of the Lesbian and Gay Pride March, and then afterwards I was busy trying to balance preparing for the Metamorphoses show with school and with trying not to lose my rent-paying job at the coffee house. I didnt see much of Tom, but that wasnt unusual; the collectives members tended to drift in and out, being more or less involved as it suited them. It wasnt until later that the new lighting tech (Marla having got a full-time job at a dinner-theatre in
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the suburbs not long after we split up) turned up with a local paper turned to the Society page. Isnt that the guy who directed Death in Venice last May? she asked. I took the page. A greyscale, scrubby picture of a cleaned-up Tom with a shorter moustache, in a suit with a slightly plump blonde girl in white, with curly hair caught up in a gauze veil. So it is, I said. Huh, the lighting tech shrugged her black cotton shoulders. I thought he was gay. He is, sort of, I said, but she had already wandered off in search of coloured gels. I struggled briefly with anger and hurt that I hadnt been invited, and relief that I hadnt had to dress up in some kind of floaty nylon creation and answer questions about what I did for a living (and end up arguing with the caterer over their definition of vegetarian), and instead decided to drop round Bar Fifty-Four to watch their weekly drag show. Tom was friends with one of the emcees, Dusty Attic, and he usually turned up when she was in residence. This time was no exception, and I cornered him during the interval. Tom! I exclaimed, doing my best impression of surprise. How are you? Let me buy you a drink. Once I had him trapped behind a Budweiser, I asked, So, wheres Dawn? Tom read the subtext. Look, Im sorry we didnt invite you. Nobody from the Ghetto got invited, the whole wedding thing was a big society do for her parents sake. He got that funny-anecdote-coming look on his face. There was this one really fat guy who was, like, a Rothschild or something, and he I just cant believe you went through with it. Well, why not? Tom said. Uh because its a lie? I surprised myself with how bluntly that came out. Im not denying that Im gay But you are, I said. Because people are going to assume, if youre married to a woman, that a womans what you want to fuck. And you dont. Theres plenty of straight people out there whove had gay relationships, and nobody accuses them of denying their heterosexuality.
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Thats different, I said. And you damn well know the difference. I was expecting, no, I was hoping Tom would get mad at me, but he didnt. Im sorry youre angry, Cass, he said. Getting marrieds not going to change anything, really. Dawn and I have an open relationship, so Im going to keep on coming to the Ghetto, keep working with Symposium. Youll see. Want another drink? So I apologised, and admitted Id been a dick, and accepted the beer. But I didnt believe him. And of course, I was right. He turned up around the Ghetto occasionally over the next eighteen months for Dustys shows, or cruising, or, rarely, to attend a meeting of the collective, always armed with a funny story about some larger-than-life character hed met uptown. But he sent his apologies to the latter more and more often too busy was the usual reason, though we all speculated that alternative theatre was a bit too lefty for his current society-husband image and Dusty also said Tom had stopped turning up so often. It bugged me a bit, when I thought about it, but I was increasingly busy with my work placement and my final exams, and then, later, with sending my CV out to any place which might hire a teacher (specialities drama and French), developing a new production of The Changeling, and, for a rather misguided three months before she left me for the abovementioned lighting tech, dating a microbiologist. So it wasnt like I had time to care. And then one day he called up to send his apologies for the next collective meeting, and the excuse was, Dawns expecting any day now. Expecting what? I asked irritably, twisting the phone cord around a plastic pen. A plague of locusts? Come on, Cass, Tom wheedled. I thought youd be pleased for us. I sighed. Sorry, its been one of those weeks. Shamed, I made myself sound as cheerful and interested as I could, despite the creepy plural. Anyway, congratulations. You must be feeling proud. We are, yes! Again that creepy plural. Its such an amazing thing. Its like, you know what they say about the chance to pass everything you know down to a new generation And now, the creepy parenthood cliches. I cut him off before he could
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go any further with this. Talking of which, hows that longevity thing of her dads work? Well, I cant say very much about it, Tom said coyly, which I, in my cynical mood, assumed meant he didnt really understand how it worked himself. But its a process based on insect genes. Insect genes? Yeah, he said. You know cicadas? Yes, what about them? Well, theres this one species that lives for, like, seventeen years. And Joe thats her father reckons thats the key to longevity. That if we could understand their genetics, we could prolong human life similarly. Comparatively speaking, we could live for hundreds of years. But would you want to spend hundreds of years as a cicada? Tom snorted. Somehow I dont think thats going to be one of the side effects. Ill believe it when I see it, I said. Anyway, all the best to Dawn, and let me know when the larva emerges. Sicko, Tom said, but chuckling. All right, Ill give you a call. As it happened, he didnt I heard second-hand about the birth of Tom Junior, and, three years later, little Emma (Dawn Junior), through Dusty (who had gotten a lead role in a stage production of La Cage aux Folles and therefore become respectable enough for Tom to know again). I heard his father-in-law had given him a job as a marketing manager at his company, which I couldnt really picture Tom doing, but nonetheless he did. And then, he called, one day while I was unpacking boxes. Tom! I sat down on a carton labelled Books and Kitchenware. How are you? Im pretty good, he said. Jason at Symposium gave me your new number, I hope thats OK. No, its great, I said. You should come for dinner sometime. You havent met Denise, have you? I think youd love her. I was sort of not sure whether I wanted him to or not. On the one hand, I did miss hanging around with him, on the other, Denise taught industrial history at a nearby university, specialising in trade unionism, and I didnt know
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how the New Tom with Added Respectability (Marketing Management Optional) stood on labour activists these days. That would be nice, though Im pretty busy right now, Tom said. Anyway, I sort of called to get your professional advice. Okay, what on? There was a slight pause. Tom Junior, he said. Okay, I said, thinking. The kid must be about five or six, so probably just out of kindergarten, and his sister still in preschool. He Another pause. I dont understand him. Do you think you could meet with him and tell me if hes all right? Tom, you do know Im not a child psychologist? Yes, but teachers are supposed to know about these things, arent they? I teach high school, I said, but I could feel the familiar behaviour patterns reasserting themselves. Okay, Tom, Ill do it. Why dont you and Dawn and the kids meet me and Denise at the museum on Saturday? It wasnt too far from the new house, and might provide a nice neutral environment to introduce Denise into the mix. Tom hesitated. Um, Emmas got a bit of a cold, and Dawns being a fussy mother. Lets just you, me and Tom Junior go. A boys night? I teased. That used to be his name for our after-theatre drinking sessions together, when he would make fun of me for looking, he said, too butch. Yeah, OK, he replied, a bit distracted. Saturday then. I met them at the museum entrance. Tom had lost about ten pounds and the moustache, and gained one of those short-back-and-permed-fringe haircuts; from a distance it looked pretty good, but up close the colour was a little too even to look natural, the length a little too calculated to cover a lengthening forehead, the face a little too lined to go with the cut. He was wearing skinny jeans and they made his legs look really long, but he still seemed a lot shorter overall than I remembered. Tom Junior was friendly enough, blond, curly-haired and a little chunky, designer labels stuck all over his sweatshirt, jeans and shoes. We toured around a few child-friendly exhibits. Tom alternated
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between telling me stories about some of the companys weirder PR campaigns and cheerfully explaining the exhibits in simple, entertaining terms to his son, like a dad in a Fifties movie. Exactly like a dad in a Fifties movie. Like hed picked a role and was playing it. Later, when Tom Junior was playing in a childrens hands-on area near the museum cafe, Tom Senior asked my opinion. Seems like a healthy, happy kid, I said, watching Tom Junior arguing over the fine points of playing dinosaurs with a girl about his own age. He thought it was legitimate to have the brontosaurus attack the tyrannosaurus; she disagreed. Hows he doing at school? His grades are okay, Tom said. Its just whats with this Thundercats stuff? I laughed. Sorry, Ive just heard the same thing from, like, everybody I know whos got a kid under twelve. Its just heroic action-adventure with a moral, like Greek myths but not so many patriarchal sexual subtexts. If it werent a 30-minute-long advertisement for toys, Id say it was a good thing. I mean, at his age I just completely hated superhero stories, I liked The Lone Ranger and things like that Well, you can hardly expect him to be a little clone of yourself, I said, then stopped. From the look on his face, it was sort of like, well, he had. I tried again. Just give it time, and keep talking with him. You may find you have more in common than you think. I mean, its very different being a kid in the Eighties than being a kid in what I mentally calculated his age back, the Forties? Forties, Fifties, whatever, Tom said sharply, as if the subject was sensitive. Seriously, you dont look a day over thirty, I flattered. Is it the longevity thing? Tom preened a little, his earlier sensitivity forgotten. Its going well. Ive volunteered to be one of the test subjects, its true, but Joe says its too early to tell what the results will be. I invited him and Tom Junior round for dinner, but he declined. It was later, when telling Denise the story of the conversation turning it into a comedy, hapless Tom obsessed with youth but generation-gapped by his
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own children that I realised he hadnt mentioned Dawn at all, or Emma. Not once. Id thought Tom would have forgotten about me again after that, but a couple of weeks later, I got a phone call. Its Dawns half-brother, he said. Ive sort of talked him into investing in Symposium. He wants to be seen as some kind of big patron of the arts, hes made grants to a lot of little theatres, and I think he just might be willing to throw some money your way. Really? Well, thats awfully nice, I said, feeling slightly off-balance. I took down the number Tom gave me, called it, got a PA and a promise of a call back. I decided Tom had been overly optimistic when the phone rang and a rich male voice, introducing himself as Ray, asked if I would meet him for lunch at a fancy restaurant in the upscale district just West of the Ghetto. You turning straight? Denise joked. Do I look it? I flaunted the lapels of my best two-piece suit. Denise considered. Actually, you look sort of like youre turning into a gay man. Id wear the shirt without the ruffles. Ray was easily identifiable he had the same blond, curly-haired, slightly bulky look of the rest of the clan, although he ran more to muscle than to plumpness. He took my hand and greeted me in a patronising, doing-you-a-favour sort of way, though politely enough. Over lunch, I gave the usual pitch Symposium collective members (though we were calling ourselves the Steering Committee now, Jason and his yuppie friends having successfully argued that it made us sound more professional) gave to potential backers, showed him brochures, pictures of the last couple of productions, particularly emphasising the cross-dressed comic-opera version of Lysistrata which had won us a couple of theatre awards last year. Ray pinched his lips a little, managing to look patronising even while doing so. Awards are good, he said. The writing team who adapted that one are looking at doing an alternative Gilbert and Sullivan festival this summer, I said, pressing the advantage. Its hotly tipped for a Dora Award.
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Ray nodded. So what Im offering, he said, is that I provide a thirtyper-cent stake in the theatre, in exchange for fifty per cent of box office profits. Id have to discuss that with the Committee, I said. He nodded. Id also require some say over content. I thought a little. How so? He leaned back, took on a didactic tone. Alternative is good, but, to make it in the theatre world today, he said, you need to do a few productions which are a little more mainstream. Broadway. You know what I mean. I did. Later on, I asked Denise if she thought Id done the right thing. Well, on the one hand, you cant ask Symposium to compromise on content, she said, holding me a little tighter. She paused a bit. On the other hand, Im sure the money would have been nice. Theyre a really connected family, I mourned. And hes invested in lots of theatres, Tom says. I could have networked my way to New York, or California. Now Ill never work outside of alternative theatre again. Did you want to? she asked. I thought. Well, no, I said. Thats right, Denise laughed, hugging me. Screw New York. You screw it, I said. But somehow, the memory of the lunch with Ray just made me feel like Id made a mistake. Tom rang me up to hint darkly that he thought I was passing up the chance of a lifetime just on a silly point of principle, and I told him he was probably right. We only spoke a couple of times after that and, once Dusty came out as HIV positive, became the spokesperson for Drag Queens Against AIDS, and either Tom dropped her or she dropped Tom as a result, we more or less lost touch completely for a while. So it took me a few minutes to recognise the man who suddenly grabbed me and gave me a big hug in Bar Fifty-Four on Pride Day some years later. Cass! So good to see you! he exclaimed. A minute later recognition set in, sort of. Uh Tom?
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Yeah! The bartender handed me my beer, so I followed him through the crush of kids in Queer Nation T-shirts to the new patio area. So, howve you been? Never better, he said, grinning with too-white teeth. I like the, um I ran my hand over my scalp. Suits me, doesnt it? Its the Michael Stipe look. Tom vogued a little, showing off the new suedehead. The rest of him was not so much, though, I thought. He looked smaller, skinnier, a little knobblier in the joints. So what have you been up to? I asked, meaning, what are you doing here? Well, Dawn and I are separated these days, he began. Im so sorry, I said. No, its for the best really, he said, not sounding particularly concerned. Weve been living increasingly separate lives and all that Charles and Diana stuff. Basically, shes happy looking after the kids, and Ive got an apartment in the Ghetto so I can be me. Well, Im glad that works for you, I said. Do you see the kids much? Hows Tom Junior? Tom shrugged. Hes in high school now, taking every science class he can. Joes delighted of course, says hes exactly like Joe was at that age. Whatever. He took a pull on his beer. Im still working for Joes company, actually, so I see the family practically every day. Oh, I should tell you about this new girl theyve got in Legal and Compliance, shes such a scatterbrain. Are they still working on the longevity treatment thing? I asked. From the looks of Tom, it wasnt having much of an effect. Sure are, he said proudly. My face must have been too much of a giveaway, because he got defensive. Its longevity, not youthening. At the last tests, I had the internal organs of a twenty-two-year-old. You should give them back, I quipped automatically. A silly joke, but it made him laugh, and I was able to tell him about how the Symposium, having managed to survive the alternative scene for twenty years, was now officially respectable, and Id been able to quit my teaching job to work full-time as the Symposiums director of Education Programmes and School Outreach.
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We have education programmes? Tom mugged a little. We do, I said. Theatre courses for young people, writing and acting after-school programmes for inner-city kids, special matinees for schools, that sort of thing. Im trying to write up a course guide for teachers for Juliet and Juliet thats a Let me guess, all-lesbian production of Romeo and Juliet? Bit obvious, I know, but the girl playing Mercutio is completely hot. Tom grinned. You still with Denise? Ten years now, I said. She got a full professorship at Ever think of having kids? I shook my head. Too old now. You could adopt? Nah, its too much like my day job, I said. Somehow I always find it difficult to admit to people whove had kids that I never wanted any, and still dont. The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, but somehow Ive never been too worried at the thought of growing old childless, Denise and I, two crones like ancient Sybils. Both of our day jobs, come to that. Anyway, Symposiums doing a special Pride Day open mike tonight, want to come? Sure I will, said Tom. I didnt expect to see him there but I did; he was whispering in the ear of a twentysomething boy with a goatee and a slightly silly grin. At some point in the evening they left, and that was another Pride Day over. Now that he was back in the Ghetto, I did run into Tom a lot more than I had. He even started coming over for dinner occasionally, and to my relief he and Denise did actually get on. One night, though, hed seemed more distracted than usual, told fewer stories, and mostly about people from the Ghetto rather than his workmates as usual. After hed gone, Denise asked me, what was the name of his father-in-laws company? I told her. Thought so, she said, putting down the dishcloth. Wait a minute. I heard her go upstairs to her office and rummage around, then she was down again with a printout. See that? I dried my hands on the tea towel Id been holding, and took the edges.
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It was a news item, dated last week. The company was collapsing, amid lawsuits from the test subjects for the longevity treatment and allegations of financial mismanagement. Joe had fled to Europe with his family there was a snapped-by-the-paparazzi picture of them at the airport. Tom Junior and Emma were blonde, curly-haired and plump, as if their father had made no contribution to their genetics whatsoever; Dawn, apart from an updated hairdo, appeared not to have changed at all since I last saw her in the 1970s. There was, I noticed, an allegation that money-laundering had taken place using a series of small theatres, arts organisations and charitable trusts around North America. So whats that mean for Tom, then? Some of what it meant for Tom became obvious in the next few weeks, as he got a job working the counter at the Ghettos main video rental place, then a more comfortable one as PR manager for the Sexual Health Outreach centre. I took him out for coffee a few times, tried to ask about the longevity treatment, what was wrong with it. But he brushed off the questions quickly, segueing into another story about the latest crazy government-funded anti-STD campaign or just smiling with all his teeth to let me know not to ask. His face was thinner, his torso seemed bonier, and his big green eyes were starting to bulge a little, and he was clearly spending too much time on the sunbed. He smelled of cloves and eucalyptus. The one time the subject came close to emerging came when the Steering Committee were planning Symposiums thirtieth anniversary celebrations. Id persuaded Tom to come and give a talk as a founder member of the company, and hed agreed, a little reluctantly at first but rapidly coming up with a collection of scurrilous anecdotes he could string together into a monologue, and becoming more enthusiastic. The current steering committee were in Symposiums downstairs cafe-bistro in what had once been the stage space, back before we could afford to build the addition discussing the proposals for the season. A Seventies Nightthemed fundraiser dance was proposed and approved, as was a foyer exhibition on the history of the citys gay community, and a one-man-show about the Stonewall Riots.
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I think we need to do something with a Greek theme, suggested Jason, settling back. Well, you would said the stage manager, who fancied himself a stand-up comedian, but Jason dismissed the joke. Like Greek mythology, he said. I mean, the name Symposium and to celebrate the multiethnic heritage of this city. Why not revive the Metamorphoses show from way back? I asked. Or do another Aristophanes production? I was thinking more of this one, Jason dug a proposal out from the stack, handed round copies. Live performances of Sapphos poetry, set to music, with interpretative dance. That way weve got the gay and lesbian connection as well as the Greek. We looked at the one-page summary. Whats Tithonus? asked the stage manager eventually. One of those ironic stories the Greeks liked, Jason clarified. Tithonus was the lover of Zeus daughter, and she asked Zeus to make him immortal. He did, but she forgot to ask for eternal youth, so he just got older and older, until gradually he turned into a cicada. Sappho wrote a poem Something made me look at Tom. He was sitting at the end of the table, a pin-spot highlighting the white stubble on his head. His expression was strange angry, bitter, but also hungry, longing, desiring. Sad and frightening. I swallowed. I still think we need to do some Tennessee Williams, insisted a younger Committee member, who was writing a thesis on the subject, and the momentary ice was broken. I caught up with Tom before he left. I couldnt say exactly what was on my mind, it seemed so ridiculous. Finally I just said, what did she get out of the deal? Tom was so quiet I thought for a minute he was going to laugh, or cry, or at least tell me that Id gone crazy and none of this meant what I thought it did. The kids, I guess, he said. I never did completely figure it out. I didnt talk so much to Tom after that. Oh, I saw him a few times, usually
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in bars, increasingly tan and shrivelled, and standing at the back with the other hungry-looking hunters, and every time I did, I felt sick, almost a kind of panic. We hadnt been to Bar Fifty-Four in ages, but Denise suggested we should go. There was a tribute night for Dusty Attic, who had died last year, not long after celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of her diagnosis. I still felt a bit mixed about going there. I havent been to a gay bar in years, I complained. Itll be full of kids whove just come out. No more than usual, Denise said. Yes, but there was a time when I was one of those kids, and it didnt feel so strange, I said. Back when I was twenty-one, it had been important to me to go to bars, hang around the Ghetto, wear goddess jewellery, but increasingly being gay had become less who I was, and more what I was. I wasnt sure I wanted to remember the adrenaline and insecurity. Anyway, tonight itll also be full of people come to remember Dusty, so we wont be alone. Might run into a few old friends, Denise coaxed. Which was another good reason not to go, but I saw her point, and so we packed off to the bar, just an old married couple of sorts, out on a summer evening. As we walked from the subway station, I began to relax more; it was a warm, slightly muggy night, and I could hear the cicadas shrilling away from the trees. Apparently thats a sex thing, that noise they make, Denise said. Surrounded by a lot of noisy, flashy creatures out looking for sex? Welcome to the Ghetto, I joked. Careful, you nearly stepped on one, Denise grabbed my arm. Wait, Im not sure I bent down, looked at it more closely. Tom? I said. It looked like him, or him last time I saw him. Skinny legs, shiny head, slightly hunched and knobbly. What did you say? Denise looked at it. Him. Making a little, dry, highpitched raspy noise. I picked him up, and Denise exclaimed as he sat in my hand. Toms green, bulging eyes looked back at me. The godsll promise
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you anything, when they want something from you, I said. The raspy noise got decidedly sarcastic. I put him up in the tree, safely out of the way of feet. Nothing, I said. Just reminded me of someone. Come on, lets go. We left Tom to spend the rest of eternity in the company of the other cicadas, her discarded lovers, calling out in the warm, dark, heady atmosphere, looking for mates.
Fiona Moore is a London-based anthropologist and writer whose work has been published in short story anthologies, poetry and SF magazines, the latter including On Spec, Interzone and Asimov. She has also had two radio scripts, two guides to telefantasy series, and two stage plays produced (with more forthcoming), and is co-owner of Magic Bullet Productions, a SF audio-play production company.
BFS masterclass: 2 writing for children f e higgins

In the second of our Masterclass series, Macmillan author F E Higgins looks at the process of writing for a younger audience
hen I meet my readers at events they invariably ask, What advice would you give to someone who wants to write? Stick at it, I say. Be a finisher. Cue glum faces. After all, it is not the most exciting advice ever doled out, and it is certainly not a shortcut to success, but it worked for me. I genuinely believe that perseverance is key. Writing is one of those jobs where there is no substitute for experience, and experience is gained by trial and error. Progress is made one word at a time. I suspect that the majority of the overnight successes splashed across the newspapers have many abandoned works in their wake. I wrote at least four Not Very Good books before The Black Book of Secrets was taken up by an agent, and ultimately a publisher. I am not even sure where my first attempts are, somewhere in a box in the attic. One of the main hurdles in writing
is actually completing a manuscript. After completion, then you have the luxury of quality control. Writing for children is not particularly different to writing in general; there are certain decisions you will need to make from the outset. Think about your target audience: what age group do you want to write for? I write for the junior fiction shelf in the bookshop, the upper age range of 9 to 12, and I chose that age group because I taught Year 5 for many years and thought I had a reasonable grasp of their skills and likes and dislikes. But that by no means made me an expert. Chances are, like me, your own childhood is in the dim and distant past, so it makes sense to take the time to read not only childrens classics but also what is out there now. Get a feel for what is popular with todays children. And dont just go for the big sellers. I used to think that I might be
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unduly influenced by other authors and inadvertently copy them. If you spend enough time writing, you will soon realise you cannot consistently copy someone elses writing style, but you should eventually find your own. My four Not Very Good books were a necessary evil, the practise runs, which helped me to establish my own style and voice. You will often hear said, Write about what you know. In my experience, that well soon runs dry unless you are an expert in your field, especially when it comes to childrens writing. I say, Write what
you would like to read, then you are more inclined to do and enjoy the research when the need arises. I have never consciously adapted my style for children. I read voraciously as a child and Im sure I didnt understand every word on the page, but I gleaned the meaning from the context. I have always been interested in words and their origins; I studied Latin and Greek, and I like to pepper my stories with interesting vocabulary (another reason I went for the older age group). I have met plenty of my readers who say they love the big words but, at the
bfs masterclass
cities and countries, with a hint of the supernatural but not what I would consider magic. One of the advantages of this is I dont have to worry about being historically accurate. There is a distinctly Dickensian feel to my first four books and a touch of Gothic, but to be honest, this wasnt necessarily by choice; it just came out that way when I started to write. You might find that when you start to write, what starts out as a modern day paranormal romance will morph into a Stone Age cave saga. Dont fight it, I say! Another question I am asked by adults and children alike is, Where do you get your ideas from? The difficulty with writing for any audience is certainly not a lack of ideas. Ideas are everywhere, and its vital to be receptive to them at all hours of the day and night. I never read a book without a pen handy to jot down concepts, facts, quotes or vocabulary (but always remember to note the source to avoid inadvertent plagiarism!). I keep notebooks in every room of the house. When struck by an idea in the car I phone home (hands free, of course) and leave messages to myself on my answerphone. So, there is no excuse for not
same time, I wouldnt want others to be put off by them. The trick with unusual words is to use them in a way that explains their meaning. This is particularly important if you have actually invented the word, another penchant of mine. If a child is really that interested in a word they dont understand, I am confident that they would ask someone or use a dictionary. When my readers ask why I use big words, the simple answer is, I use the words that I think best suit whatever it is I am trying to describe. As for genre, I write stories set in the past, in invented towns and
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writing for children

having an idea. The problem is how to use it in a novel way. One of the first things you have to realise when you start out is that most, if not all, the ideas you think of have already been used by someone else. I cannot count the number of times I have come up with what I am certain is a unique plot / character / twist in the tail, only to read the next day a review of a newly published book that describes in great detail the exact same idea. How, then, do you make an idea different? Turn it on its head is one way. I did this with Joe Zabbidou, the pawnbroker in The Black Book of Secrets. Generally pawnbrokers are portrayed as unpleasant moneygrubbers; I decided to make Joe a force for good he buys peoples secrets and promises to keep them safe, and pays very good money for them. But this is not to say that Joe is an all-round sound fellow he is a strong believer in just deserts, but his methods are slightly unorthodox. And that gives children plenty to chew over: what exactly is justice? Who is entitled to mete it out? What would you do in that situation? Children want black and white answers, but it is just as important that they realise life can be rather grey.
As far as plot goes, apparently it can be boiled down to three concepts: Man against man, man against nature, man against himself. Simple! Although it is not absolutely necessary to know precisely where your story is going to end up, it is helpful to be able to summarise it in one or two sentences. Imagine you are trying to pitch it to a film producer and you only have thirty seconds. That soon sorts the wheat from the chaff! It is worth spending time on your characters. If you can get your characters right, then half the battle is won. A strongly drawn character
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easily between the characters. This doesnt mean you have to have long paragraphs of physical description, or write all one characters dialogue with dropped aitches, but I find it helpful if each character has a particular catchphrase or a physical mark so the reader can envisage them every time they come across them. Dont forget, your characters need to grow in the course of the story. They have to meet adversity and, fail or succeed, learn from it. Pay attention to your baddies. Try to have a mix of adult and child adversaries. I like to get rid of the parents early on; if theyre not central to the story, they are usually in the way. I suspect that many childrens authors have very distinct memories of the books they read and enjoyed as children. I was a great Tolkien fan, but having re-read The Lord of the Rings trilogy as an adult, I was struck by how much I would have cut out of it. At the age of ten I didnt notice the repetition. Recently I have been re-reading an Enid Blyton adventure series. Leaving aside the fact that the books are of their own time (there are ways round this), what interests me is the way practically every chapter ends on a cliffhanger or with an intriguing question. Im not
will have a personality of its own and will let you know what he or she would do next. To get an idea of what each character is really like, write a brief Day in the Life piece about each of them (this was suggested to me by an editor). This is a very good way to get properly acquainted with your characters core personality. Children will not tolerate inconsistencies in character and you will lose them in an instant if one of the characters acts, well, out of character unless, of course, there is a very good reason, which can often be the twist in the tail. Make sure you can distinguish
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writing for children

saying this technique should be used without restraint, but the proof of the pudding is my own daughter saying, Dont stop there, I want to know what happens next! Blytons child protagonists also spend many paragraphs thinking over their predicaments, re-capping events and discussing their options with other members of the group. Again, I didnt notice this at first reading. Todays readers might prefer a faster-paced story, but there is still a place for this sort of consolidation. Readers need to be able to take a breather. Intersperse the action with a chapter or two of recovery. Plot consolidation comes as the story progresses. Get down to the crux of the story fairly sharpish. A good opener is to start the book at the moment the main characters life changes, usually for the worse! Back-story is necessary, but it can be drip-fed as required. Im not saying that every first chapter has to have an action-packed Mission: Impossible type opening, but it is important to get the readers attention from the outset. Establish the setting contemporary, historical, factual, or fantasy early on. In this respect there is a great deal to be said for that old chestnut Show, dont tell. Think George Orwell, 1984, It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen. If you are looking for some more thoughts on writing, search online for the Guardians Ten Rules for Writing Fiction. This is a compilation of personal dos and donts from established authors, from which you will conclude that there are no rules. The most helpful advice I have ever been given, obvious as it might sound, is to start writing from where you left off the day before. Dont give in to the temptation to go back to the beginning. You will end up with a book of two halves; the first good, the second bad. When it comes to preparing your manuscript and submitting it to agents and publishers, I cant add anything useful to the glut of information available about how to do this. Just make sure before you put your manuscript in the post to ask yourself, Is this the best I could do? If it isnt, dont send it. n F E Higgins is the author of The Black Book of Secrets and three other novels for 9+-year olds i. She is currently writing A Tangle of Traitors, the first book in a new series to be published in 2013. Find her at www.fehiggins.com
enterprising minds andrew reid
Genre literature particularly fantasy isnt always treated as literature as such. But for children, its an accessible way of looking at stories and, more importantly, of helping them to understand the world around them, as Andrew Reid explains
hats the meaning of life? With ten minutes to the end of the class, the day, and the week, opening the floor to questions from the thirty-two eleven year olds was a nice way to round off the lesson. It made the rest of the week easier, as students were encouraged to jot down the more obscure or curious questions that popped into their heads and save them for Fridays open forum. I enjoyed it immensely, as it was a challenge; improvisational and free-flowing, it made a change from the meticulously timetabled curriculum. There is always, however, a question that can give you pause. Luckily, one of the other students was ready to save me. Eyes wide, mouth an O of delighted surprise, his hand went up like a lightning bolt. I yielded the floor. Forty-two, he said. Great answer, I said. Do you know where its from? Yes! He explained to the class that it was
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from a book by Douglas Adams, and gave a brief summary of who Adams was. Someone else remembered that they had heard of him because he had passed away. What did he die of? was the next question. Its always the next question, when death comes up. Its never malicious, because they are genuinely curious about how it happens, and where you go. They all have opinions marvellous, wild, imaginative ones about what happens after. The slow corruption of our youth by lack of opportunity, inadequate education, and the internet, among other things feels like a common theme whenever discussion of how children progress comes up. One regular topic is how technology has resulted in a deluge of information; that children are bombarded from every angle and, consequently, their attention span is seriously hindered. I dont believe it. I was impressed that a group of eleven year-old children knew who
enterprising minds
This isnt a new observation. David Ng, a lecturer in scientific literacy based at the University of British Columbia, has previously used it as an establishing theme in his lectures. Show a filled lecture theatre a picture of a starling and few are able to identify it. Show them a picture of Pikachu, however, and the whole room is able to at least name the brand. In the classroom it goes much further. Some students are able to correctly identify the bird, as a starting point. With Pikachu, the information is even deeper what type of Pokmon he is, what attacks he uses, what other Pokmon he is strong or weak against. Ive used it in the classroom as a confidence-building task for lower ability students: even though its dealing with a fictional world, they are able to draw on a vast pool of collected knowledge they were unaware existed. Without thinking about it, they have become experts. Where it really starts to get interesting is when they run out of information. If given the space to express their own ideas, they begin to construct elaborate details and debate the relative merits within the framework of their own experience. Presented with photos of unusual animals such as a pangolin or a sloth, it becomes a natural transition for
I was impressed that a group of eleven year-old children knew who Douglas Adams was. One had read the Hitchhikers Guide, but the others hadnt. When had they heard of him, then?
Douglas Adams was. One had, of course, read the Hitchhikers Guide, but the others hadnt. Where had they heard of him, then? They couldnt say, but the information was there nonetheless. With a few details, they were able to recall something that they werent even aware that they had learned.
enterprising minds
them to apply the fictional rules of their fantasy world (quite simply, how would the animal defend itself and, if it came down to it, which would win in a fight) to reality. Not everyone agrees that this is a good thing. Mark Pagel, Professor of Evolutionary Biology at the University of Reading proposes that this kind of behaviour social learning, where knowledge is picked up second hand through observation or experience rather than through true innovation is a trend towards stagnation. By taking knowledge and re-mixing it, using that unconscious resource pool to address a problem rather than tackling it from first principles, humanity is moving away from an active, innovative, mental model and adopting a docile, imitative one instead. Its a fascinating idea, and he goes on to ask the question where does true innovation come from? Is it, in fact, anything more than a random set of decisions that serendipitously produce a successful result? While Professor Pagel sees this as a potential downside for the human race, its good to remember that the changes he is suggesting have taken place over the last 200,000 years. He suggests that the massive interconnectivity that
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the Internet introduces into society will cause an acceleration in this process, that individuals will be more prone to simply asking the hive mind for answers as opposed to working it out themselves, but does this really have to be a bad thing? When it comes to writing, that same social learning to ability to almost passively absorb, correlate, and extrapolate comes into its own. When I went to my first NaNoWriMo kick-off party last year, I was taken aback by how young the group were. A significant number of writers were mid-GCSE or A-level and they were all old hands at the NaNoWriMo event. On the forums, there were a lot more of them, all trading ideas, stories, and characters with heartening abandon. I was as jealous as I was impressed. I spent most of my teenage years hiding the stories I wrote, only really unleashing them on unsuspecting English teachers. I was in awe of how open and supportive the writing scene for young writers is. Even more interesting was how quickly ideas and influences were taken in, turned round, and repurposed. Schoolchildren with magical powers featured strongly. Vampires as well, appearing in both sparkly and non-sparkly varieties. Zombies,
enterprising minds
time-travellers, aliens, and crimescene investigators all made a solid appearance, alongside some classic sword-and-sorcery action. I was hard pressed to find a genre or pop-culture influence that wasnt represented in some form or another, although there was a telling lack of nuclear explosionproof fridges. Far from being inhibited by the information they take in, young writers are empowered by it. The limitations of their experience are surpassed by the massive breadth of storytelling that is available for them to draw on, and as a result they write with an enviable level of fearlessness and enthusiasm. Rather than presenting a threat to their development, the information they glean from the world around them is a wealth of material they can draw on to build their own ideas. The world of the fantastic is important to children, because it provides them with an internal framework that they can apply externally in order to make sense of reality. Almost all stories much like Pokmon have a consistent, logic that controls the narrative. The magic of Harry Potter might not exist, but it has rules. Likewise, the characters may not live normal lives, but they live out recognisably human ones. A welltold story isnt escapist: instead, it represents an experience that connects with the childs emotional development. Not all children have the same opportunities. Last year, the National Literacy Trust estimated that 3.8 million children do not own a single book. How much information they get from other sources such as television or the Internet is hard to quantify, but there are studies that correlate reading age and how much a child reads to overall achievement. How more children are given access to fantastic stories, and how they can gain the opportunity to express themselves is an ongoing challenge for parents, educators, and society as a whole. For those who write and publish them, the plan is simple: to keep going. The stories we share with the younger generations do so much more than simply entertain. They educate, and inspire. n Andrew Reid has worked as a scientist in the UK and the US. He divides his time between new research and teaching. He believes that being a scientist is as close as hell ever get to actually being a wizard. He can be found on twitter as @mygoditsraining
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faerie mails
allen ashey
You may not know this sender. You may not want to know this sender. From: Rumpelstiltskin rumpy@fairytaleland.co.whoknowswhere Sent: 7th day of 7th month in the third year of the reign of King Greedivus. From the Desk of Mr. Rumpelstiltskin, Goldstraw Sacks Development Bank, The Far Woods. Dear Friend, This message might meet you in utmost surprise, however, its just my urgent need for a real world partner that made me to contact you for this transaction. I am a banker by profession from The Far Woods and currently holding the post of Chief Security Guard. I have the opportunity of transferring the left over funds (27.8million Crowns) of one of my bank clients who died along with his entire family just four full moons ago in a horse and carriage crash. You can confirm the genuineness of the deceased death by tuning your crystal ball to the Royal Broadcasting Corporation news archive for that date. Hence, I am inviting you for a business deal where these untold riches can be shared between us in the ratio of 60/30 while 10% will be mapped out for my expenses. If you agree to my business proposal, further details of the transfer will be forwarded to you as soon as I receive your return mail and permissions. Your informations: 1.your name.................. 2.your unique wand ID.................
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faerie mails
3.age in Earth years........................ 4.age in magic years.......................... 5.sex................. 6.profession...................... 7.real profession.. Thanks, Mr Rumpelstiltskin Email slow, clunky, unreliable? Switch to Abracadabra! Xtra Mail, The Black Forests Favourite!
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Subject: Easy Money-Making Opportunity From: peasant@climbingandkilling.cloudcastle.com Sent: Via Goggle Hi. Call me Jack. You might think I need nothing from no one cause Im already a successful businessman with a golden egg and quick-gro bean plantation but now Im looking to go global and thats why Im getting in touch with you. Im offering ten per cent shares in my new start-up and for just 10 000 ducats you are guaranteed a tenfold return. What have you got to lose? Genuine message or scam? Install upgraded Sophistry Protection Ware to always be safe on the Word Web. From: Rolled X Watches Sent: Any time you care to mention Why be a jester and pay the full price when you can swan like a toff in our range of replica accoutrements timepieces, wigs, coronets, wizard capes, animal masks? Be the cock of the walk at a fraction of the price You may not know this sender. Mark as safe. Mark as junk.# From: Rumpelstiltskin rumpy@fairytaleland.co.whoknowswhere Sent: 33rd day of 12th month in the third year of the reign of King Greedivus. From the Desk of Mr. Rumpelstiltskin, Goldstraw Sacks Development Bank, The Far Woods. Dear Friend, How are you today. Hope all is well with you and your family, if you have a family and are true born. I hope this mail meets you in a perfect condition. You may not understand why this mail came to you. But if you do not remember me, you might have received a communication from me in the past regarding a money making business that I stumbled across in my position as gnomic security guard for Goldstraw Sacks Bank. We had a multi-million crowns business proposal which we never concluded. I am using this opportunity to inform you that this fortunate fortune affair has
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faerie mails
been concluded with another person who financed it to a logical conclusion. I thank you for your great effort to our unfinished transfer of fund into your account due to one reason or the other best known to you. But I want to inform you that I have successfully transferred the fund out of the security company to my new partners account in Bremen that was capable of assisting me in this great venture. Due to your effort, sincerity, courage and trustworthiness you showed during the course of the transaction I want to compensate you and show my gratitude to you with the sum of Kr.600,000.00. I have left an international certified bankers scroll for your worth, cashable anywhere in the seven kingdoms. My dear friend I will like you to contact me for the collection of this bag of gold. Im very busy here because of the investment projects which myself my new partner are having at hand. Therefore, you should send me your full Name, Password and Incantation along with the address of the tavern where you currently reside. Thanks be to the will-o-the wisps and may mighty God and his priests and nobility bless you and your family. I am very busy now I may not reply to any message for some time but please get in touch with me for our shared advantage. Best Regards Mr. Rumpelstiltskin Flash Alert: Tonight on Channel 4, dont miss Gok Wan choosing clothes for the Emperor of Denmark in the first of a new series of Oh, I Look Good Naked!
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Subject: Hey, Good Looking! From: Rapunzel girlintower@fairytaleland.co.whoknowswhere Sent: 8th day of final month in the tenth year of the reign of Queen Silicantha. My Dearest, I have read you across ether and I know we can connect. Even though we have never met but we will, my heart, I know that. I am 21 and living in castle surrounded by thorns. I am possibly European princess or heir to great fortune which I want to share with you when we marry and I am Union citizen. Official. Please reply to me with picture if you have sat for portrait in past five years. I am young, unmarried maid seeking brave, solvent man to climb hair ladder and rescue me from forced marriage arranged by lord of manor. You will come find me on white horse, yes? I promise many years of childbearing attempts for right guy who I think is you, my precious one. If you already married please forgive my message and pass on to younger brother. Always show content from this sender? Reply? Reply All? Why not!
Allen Ashley has a brand new book out in March 2012. As editor of Where Are We Going?, he has collected an anthology of stories on the theme Journeys. On Earth. No quests. For updates and other projects, go to www.allenashley.com
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progressive + inclusive = popular?

Y
oung Adult (YA) fiction is absolutely booming at the moment. Waterstones has a whole section dedicated to the category; YA book blogs are springing up like summer daisies all over the Internet. More and more recognised adult novelists are making a foray into YA fiction (Ian McDonald, Joanne Harris, and Philippa Gregory among them). Why is YA so popular, and where is it heading in the future? A lot of people would say that YA is so popular thanks to recent marketing spend and a rash of novels created to exploit the Twilight readers! There is so much more to the appeal of YA, though. And YA is definitely not a new initiative; even back in the nineteenth century novels were being released that would appeal more to a younger readership books such as The Jungle Book,
amanda rutter
In 2011, Angry Robot launched their YA-only imprint, Strange Chemistry. With the first books due for publication later this year, we spoke to commissioning editor Amanda Rutter about the the formula for YAs success
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and Alice in Wonderland. Many people say that they dont read YA, or that it wasnt around as a specific category when they were younger, but those same people undoubtedly read books such as The Hobbit, Z for Zachariah, and anything by Judy Blume. Even famous SF novelists such as Asimov and Heinlein dabbled in YA fiction the latter wrote Have Space Suit, Will Travel, which is YA all over. And Enders Game by Orson Scott Card has now been fully adopted into the YA arena. YA is pushing boundaries, and does not seem worried by publishing particular genres. For instance, weve seen horror become a side-lined and marginalised part of the adult market although some authors, such as Adam Nevill and Tom Fletcher, are
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Lindsay Barraclough and The Dead of Winter by Chris Priestley bring chilling ghost stories back into the mix. Just recently there has also been a real increase in the amount of SF appearing on YA shelves. Admittedly, a lot of it is dystopian fiction (The Hunger Games has a lot to answer for, considering some of the poor imitations now arriving in bookstores), but weve also seen time travel, body swaps, and spaceships (in Across the Universe by Beth Revis). It wont be long, mark my words, before there are genuine space operas published in YA fiction. So, YA fiction is progressive and exciting what else is making it so popular? I cant go any further without mentioning the romance. At the moment YA novels particularly the strand that showcases girls in ball gowns on the front cover are finding their largest market among women in the States in their thirties. Why would they be reading the novels? Because of the romance! YA novels featuring star-crossed lovers (we are now in the realm of Twilight and its ilk) remind people, women in particular, of their first love. Those breathless moments when you wondered whether the
YA is pushing boundaries, and does not seem worried by publishing particular genres
making a success of horror writing, many publishers now refuse to even look at horror submissions because it is so hard to sell. Now take a look at YA fiction. Zombies have been all over the shop, thanks to series by Michael Grant and Charlie Higson. Will Hill wrote a vampire story in the form of Department 19 that has heavy elements of horror. Long Lankin by
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boy you liked would kiss you. The days where you didnt see them seeming endless, when you thought of nothing but them. Twilight evokes this feeling absolutely, as do novels such as Hush, Hush by Becca FitzPatrick and Fallen by Lauren Kate. The aspect of YA fiction that I like the very most, however, is the inclusivity. When I say this I mean the fact that these novels have featured prominent gay characters (such as in the books of Malinda Lo). There have been people of colour (City of Ghosts by Bali Rai and Far From Home by Naima B Roberts). There have been tales of incest (Forbidden by Tabitha Suzuma). There have been books concerning rape and its aftermath (Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson). In the ultimate inclusivity, James St James wrote Freak Show, featuring a teenage drag queen (a gender obscurist, as the main character calls himself) who faces bullying and thoughts of suicide. YA novels are tackling many of the issues and including many of the people who gain little to no exposure
in adult SF/F books. Can you name an adult SF/F novel that features a central gay character? There are some, but too few. Can you name an adult SF/F novel that is not afraid to deal with matters of illness or suicide? Elizabeth Moon has tackled autism in The Speed of Dark, but she is a lone voice. This inclusivity is helping teens come to terms with ideas and

why I think YA is so popular right now. Hopefully Ive said something that might encourage you to pick up your first YA novel, if you havent tackled one until now. In terms of where YA is going in the future well, hopefully the first point I made in this article will let you know just how difficult that is to predict! YA is not afraid of trying new avenues, taking on different ideas. Weve seen floods of vampires, angels, zombies, mermaids, dystopia, steampunk, fae, high school paranormal, fantasy I can see two ideas that have been emerging recently which look set to run and run. One is the fairy tale retelling taking some aspect of a fairy tale and wrapping a YA novel round it: Jackson Pearce did this with Sisters Red, and were now getting a few more, including Cinder by Marissa Meyer. Another is the mythology angle using Greek and Roman myths as source material to create up to date
emotions that, otherwise, might not be dealt with. And, to be honest, I can imagine certain YA novels being of great interest and usefulness to adult readers as well. There are adults going through plenty of the same issues facing teens depression, bullying, suicide. Some of the messages in YA books might help. Those are a few of the reasons
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stories. These have been bubbling under, with novels such as Troy High by Shana Norris a retelling of the Iliad but this year they look set to explode. The Book Smugglers (a rather excellent blog heavy on YA fiction) are looking forward particularly to Gil Marsh by A C E Bauer, A Beautiful Evil by Kelly Keaton, and The Pillars of Hercules by David Constantine. I also have a suspicion that YA fiction will move beyond dystopia and start plundering the many different strands of pure SF. Im particularly excited about For Darkness Shows the Stars by Diana Peterfreund and The Void trilogy by Rhiannon Lassiter. My greatest desire is to have YA accepted as a valid category, an area of the bookstore that is open to everybody and appreciated for what it achieves. Hopefully your interest is piqued and you feel like trying something from the YA arena: if so, I can recommend some classics. Try absolutely anything by Patrick Ness he is a supreme talent in YA. The Uglies trilogy by Scott Westerfeld is intelligent and thought-provoking. Although not SF/F, but a fabulous example of what the best YA fiction can provide, try any of John Greens novels. Jennifer Donnelly writes very classy historical YA fiction, while Simone Elkeles is best at the love stuff! My personal favourite author in the YA field is still Tamora Pierce no one writes cracking adventure fantasies like her, while also celebrating strong and feisty heroines. If youd like to know more about YA fiction, you wont go far wrong by tapping up Ana and Thea of The Book Smugglers or Liz from My Favourite Books. The website www. strangechemistrybooks.com is also running a series of articles on YA Fiction You Should Be Reading. And you can even come and find me at conventions across the UK Im always happy to introduce new people to this wonderful area of fiction. n
Amanda Rutter was, until recently, an avid reader and blogger. Favourite genres included EVERYTHING! But a particular love for YA and a need for a YA editor at Angry Robot Books latest imprint Strange Chemistry led her to cross to the other side of the desk. Now she is happily immersed in reading manuscripts and sometimes making dreams come true.
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the fabulous beast garry kilworth

(A
ll creatures are hunted by some other life form: the deer by the lion, the fly by the spider, the spider by the bird. Those animals, fish, and birds which have no natural predator are hunted by man. And man is hunted by himself. If it moves upon the earth then there is something out there after it, ready to take its life, for whatever reason.) Despite its age the thatched cottage in Wiltshire is proving an ideal central location for the pursuit of fragments of the beasts skin, and their painstaking and oddly dangerous re-assembly. Not far from the cottage itself is a huge barn, out of time with the dwelling, but standing on secluded land common to both. As tenant of the cottage I am entitled to use of the barn. It is a massive wooden structure, criss-crossed with beams, at one time used not only to store hay, but also to house cattle during the winter on two storeys. There is a kind of drawbridge arrangement which drops the front of the first floor of the building to the ground, which once allowed the animals a sloping run up to the top stalls. When the beast is ready to enter the world, it will be by this ramp. Colonel Douglass himself was too obsessed with his personal goal to bother with the barn, but it is the perfect place to store and examine fragments of the beast as I uncover them. When I first discovered the barn, the structure was sound: the cross members, purlins, and yoke braces are all of solid oak, as strong now as they were in Elizabethan times. Some of the jack rafters need attention, and the planking on the walls has grown flimsy, but my handyman William Enifer is a fair carpenter and is up to renovating any rotten struts. The illumination is good, through the skylight windows which William fitted,
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and is almost of an artists studio quality: a soft, dusty light falls obliquely on the subject from both sides. Like most of the older buildings which look out over the moors, there is a window in the shape of a crucifix under the gables at the east end. A lamp within this window, when lit, helps to comfort and guide lost souls on the wasteland at night. Much to Williams chagrin I no longer light the lamp within the cross, since I want no strangers entering the barn, lost or otherwise. January. I have a room here in Amman in Khalid Ibn Al Walid Street (few of the road names consist of only single words) overlooking a market. The noise is bad but the privacy good. My Palestinian landlord is a discrete individual who knows of my interest in the Dead Sea Scrolls, and is of the opinion that those who sold the scrolls on the black market ought to have important parts of their anatomy removed and displayed for the benefit of the populace. He is a Christian, but believes the scrolls should have remained in Jordanian hands, in the country where they were discovered. At the time the scrolls were found at Qumran, on the north-west shore of the Dead Sea, modern Jordan was only a few months old, having been governed by the British since they had wrested it in 1922 from the Ottoman Empire. The Turks had administered it as part of Syria; the British called it Transjordan. In the winter of 1946-47 it became the independent Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan under the rule of King Hussein. A Bedu shepherd boy romantically named Muhammad-the-Wolf found the scrolls in a cave after one of his flock went missing. The archaeological treasures were in sealed earthenware jars, a total of seven, wrapped in linen. The scandal that followed the discovery, of marketing the scrolls, procrastination, incompetence, secrecy, and a host of other unfortunate occurrences, is now part of history. Those few scrolls which did remain in Jordan had been placed at my disposal due to the influence of an acquaintance of Colonel Douglass. I was in Amman to study The War Scroll to search for references for a book Douglass was writing. I had found nothing really to excite him in this scroll, though the passages where the sons of light fought with the sons of darkness might hold some interest. I had also however
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obtained a single fragment of a leather scroll found later in one of the nine further caves Cave 7, in fact on which there was a reference to a strange and marvellous beast. This was the kind of information Colonel Douglass was desperate to obtain, thin though it appeared to me. Yesterday evening, while I was studying this fragment, which like all those found in Cave 7 was in Greek, not Hebrew or Aramaic, there was a sharp knock on the door. I pulled back the bolt, fully expecting to see my landlord, only to find a stranger confronting me. The man stepped smartly into the room without being invited and shut the door quickly behind him. Mr David Wilkins? My name is Abdulla Rashid, he said in a low tone, and I am known to your master, Colonel Douglass. You are mistaken, I said. He had been in the process of undoing a hessian sack and he gave a little cry and started to re-tie the bag. You are not Mr Wilkins? I am David Wilkins, I replied, to put him at his ease, but Colonel Douglass is not my master, nor anything like it Im a freelance researcher, not a slave. He smiled at this, revealing several gold teeth. Ah-ha, you joke with me, Mr Wilkins. But I have here in this bag something you will not laugh at. I have found another amphora at the Pharos site Something dawned in my memory. Ahhh, youre the man Colonel Douglass met in Egypt! I remember he told me you had found several ancient parchments for him. Rashid gave a little bow and smiled again. He began undoing the sack. What I have here for you, this time, are two parchments no, not parchments, hides from the ancient time of Jesus Christ such as those you have come to see in Jordan. You mean scrolls? I said, excitedly. He shrugged. I think so. These are not made of paper or bronze, like some, but of animal skin you know? The language is Aramaic I have looked at it myself. The writer is talking of a strange animal that roamed the Earth before we came here before men walked in the world. You understand Aramaic?
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And Hebrew, and Ancient Greek what, you think I am ignorant? Why do you think I peddle in such things? B- because I know the worth of my goods.? If I were a goatherd, I would give them to you for nothing, but unfortunately for you, he grinned gold at me again. I am a learned man. Can you leave them with me until tomorrow morning? Ill meet you at the coffee shop on the corner of the market. If the scrolls are any good to me, Ill pay you then if not, you can have your goods back. You think I can trust you? he asked, but with a trace of humour in his voice. You most certainly can. Colonel Douglass will be my bond you know that. He nodded and handed over the sack. Treat my goods well, until they are yours, then you may burn them for all I care. With that he left. I bolted the door behind him. Feverishly I opened the sack and took out the two scrolls, wrapped in linen. I carefully removed the first one from its protective cover. Under the dim light of a twenty-five watt bulb I attempted to decipher the Aramaic script. The contents appeared to be a list, of arms and men, and I wondered if what I had here was simply another War Scroll, a kind of quartermasters inventory. The second scroll, which I laid carefully alongside the first on the wooden table top, disappointingly seemed to be a continuation of the first, though I did find a reference to the creature which we call The Mother, which seemed to me to be promising. While I stared at the second scroll, my eyes sore from working under such poor light, something happened to make me jerk backwards and stare in disbelief. It seemed to me that the two scrolls had moved closer together, independently, as if attracted to each other magnetically. Indeed, I subsequently only managed to keep them separated by some effort. It seemed as if the edges were melding together, melting into one another, as if made of soft hot wax. Unsurprisingly, this strange phenomenon interested me more than the texts on the hides. I studied the edges of the scrolls and found their rippling hems locked easily together like pieces of a jigsaw. From their markings they appeared to be two halves of one animal skin possibly a goatskin, or gazelle
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hide which had been cut right down the middle into two sections. I placed the two edges together again. Once more they merged at the edges. It was astonishing. This time I left the two parts to join thoroughly, seeing no harm in allowing their union. Within in an hour it was impossible to part them without the use of a sharp implement. This incredible curiosity excited me a great deal, and I knew now that Rashid had made a definite sale, whatever his price. July. I have acquired three more pieces of the strange hide. One was a covering for a scabbard which sheathed an antique Oriental sword belonging to the Museum of Macau. I recognised the hide by the unique markings, which reveal a close relationship with the two pieces (now one) I already own. Chinese pirates obtained it for me while it was on its way across the mouth of the Pearl River to Hong Kong airport, destined for an exhibition in Paris. The second, a strip, was a large bookmark in a sacred volume owned by Buddhist priests in Burma. And finally, the best and largest, there was a Zulu war shield, said to belong to Shaka himself, and used to decorate the gate to his kraal. The extraordinary markings their singularity, for in all my years of research in and around the museums of the world I have never come across such hide lead me to believe that they belonged to a creature which has been lost to human knowledge. A marvellous beast of some kind, like the sabre-toothed tiger, or the mammoth, yet even more distinct, more rare than either of those prehistoric creatures. If I can obtain more pieces and I certainly intend to try I shall endeavour to recreate the original shape. I am helped in this by the ability of the material to join with itself at the appropriate positions. August. Colonel Douglass is dead. In a way I am relieved. My research for him was getting in the way of my true work: to restore the beast. Since discovering the first two skins, which were luckily part of the same document, I have gradually been gathering more of the whole hide. Most of the sections though certainly not all have been used to record sacred works (not
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surprising, considering the nature of the pelt and the creature from which it came). Among those gathered, stolen, purchased, and permanently borrowed are: An ancient and sacred Native American (Pawnee) drumskin. A Tibetan religious banner, supposedly carried by those priests guarding the Dalai Lama, when he was taken to India after the Chinese invaded Tibet. It was stolen by badmashes on one of the mountain passes and sold on by them to a curio collector in New York. Three khana or sections of a Mongol-Kalmuck ceremonial yurt. A cloak used in the rituals of the two Afghanistan Pushtun tribal divisions the Ghilzai and the Durrani. (These two groups were forever fighting over ownership of the garment.) Book covers for a uniform edition of the works of Aleister Crowley, including his writings on Thelema and the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. (It was in one of these books that I found my first insight as to the original owner of the whole hide. Crowley writes of a unique fabulous creature which roamed the earth in prehistoric times, from whose womb sprang other forms of life.) Several of the pieces of the precious hide have come into my possession through diligent research. There are mediaeval stories of knights on quests: I have been on many quests in search of many grails. Fortunately I have no concerns about money. To put it bluntly, since Colonel Douglass died and made me his benefactor I am a rich man. Inherited wealth. I can think of no better purpose for my money than using it to restore a creature previously lost to natural history. In any case, it is an investment. The colonel stipulated in his will that his fortune should only go to me if I continued with his work: well, I believe I am continuing with his obsession. Oh, yes, it has also become an obsession with me, now. When I have gone as far as I can go with it, I am sure the museums of the world will be bidding for possession of it. What dreams I have in that recreation! My head is spinning with the wonder of it all. I am so lucky. So very lucky. To have found albeit by accident a previously unknown extinct creature which will ensure my immortality in the world. I will be up there with the Leonardo de Vincis, the Isaac Newtons. I will be the man who found and recognised an unknown fabulous beast. Even as I acquire my pieces, my strips, my sheets of hide, the great threewww.britishfantasysociety.co.uk 181
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dimensional jigsaw begins to take shape in the barn. I ponder on Crowleys sentence, especially on that word, unique. He surely could not have meant there was only one beast? A single creature with no means of reproducing its own kind? That would make it a direct creation of God or nature, depending on your beliefs. An Adam without an Eve. Or perhaps since Crowley seems to believe the beast produces other creatures, an Eve without an Adam. Yet and the thought makes my heart pound in my chest with excitement perhaps it could be so? If it were true, what would be the creatures lifespan? A hundred years? A thousand? Ten thousand? Or even forever? The pieces join, as if life were still in them. Perhaps the creature has not died at all, its many parts merely scattered too widely for it to show signs of life? October. This is unbelievably wonderful! I do not have to find all the pieces to the complete hide. Where there are gaps it grows between them. The area around these spaces has to be complete, but a hole the size of a broad-brimmed hat simply fills itself overnight. Even more astonishing, it is becoming a solid entity, not an empty skin which I later have to stuff. The beast constructs its own shape not only from without but now also from within. It continues to grow like a fungus feeding on its own remains, filling the empty sac. Bones have formed within, and flesh around those bones. Behold, the marvellous, an old poem begins. I now behold it. I dont know how its happening. Its not magic, I know that much. I dont believe in magic. It has some sort of science behind it a tree-grafting, flesh-grafting science which has been lost to, or was never ever discovered by, humankind. Once the hide was on its way to completion some sort of chemistry took over, began to produce secretions which encouraged the growth and reproduced the cells from what it already had. There is a racial memory there amongst those cells, which has been unlocked, and is now rampant. The beast forms itself by the hour, the day, the month. It will be whole before long. Following February. I decided to show my beast to William this morning. I took him into the barn, up the wooden stairs where he stopped dead at the top, stunned by the sight which he beheld in the shafts of dusty sunlight coming through the windows.
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It is a magnificent, enormous creature. No animal beauty, but awesome in its length and girth. At least twice the size of an elephant and, if I were to liken its shape to another animal form, I would say it resembles an Artic musk ox, though the hair is not quite so shaggy, nor so long as on that shambling herbivore. It has grown horns: marvellous high curving horns that start by going in, towards its massive skull, then sweeping outwards, slimming elegantly to finely-pointed tips. They grow with some kind of indigo pattern which appears to be etched in their surfaces. These resemble tattoos, on much the same design as the markings on the actual hide: centripetals, swirls, mazes. There are great hooves, these not cleft, on the end of its legs, and a broad, bushy tail trails the dust on the floor of the barn like a bridal train. As Crowley has written, it is of the female gender. William viewed my creation with awe in his eyes. Oh, Lord save us, said William, crossing himself. Im lost what to say, sir. Say nothing, William, I murmured. Just drink in the sight of a creature seen by no human before you and me. When this beast roamed the earth, Man was just a twinkle in Gods eye. What are you goin to do with im? Im not sure yet. William looked me directly. Why show it to me, sir? This was a good question, and one to which I had no satisfactory answer. I suppose I wanted a reaction, even from someone like William; some praise, possibly, for my work to date; a boost to the ego. I had performed a miracle, and I needed to be supported in my sense of achievement. There was no other living person I could show the beast to, except William, whose simple discretion I knew I could rely upon. Colonel Douglass had trusted William completely, because he was of that eremite breed which holds things close, does not gossip to friends, let alone strangers, and guards his secrets more jealously than the sphinx does hers. I thought you might like to see it. You must have wondered what I was up to in here. I wanted to satisfy your curiosity on that score. William gazed at the beast, his critical Wiltshire yeomans eye roving over the creature as it might do over some strange giant which had stumbled off
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the Salisbury Plain. He shook his head, wonderingly. What is it? he asked at last. Honestly? I dont know. Youre not having a joke with me, are you? He looked up and around, into the rafters and towards the back of the barn. You got some sort of mechanics? Bellows and what-not? Some sort of wind pump, eh? You made it up, didnt you? I was confused. You mean did I construct it myself? A fake? No, no. This is an actual creature which once lived on our planet. It is destined for some museum, I suppose. Museum? retorted William, edging back down the stairs. Zoo, more like. Its bloody breathin. That buggers alive. A chill went through me. I turned and stared hard at the beast. As I did so, it slowly lifted its great head and looked at me with clear hazel eyes. April. Thankfully William had the good sense not to rush out and blurt the discovery to the first person he might meet on the road. He did run away, but only as for as the nearest public house, The White Horse. There he quietly downed several pints of beer, slept the night in ditch, and returned to the cottage the following morning. He was still in a state of shock, but I managed to sit him down in a warm kitchen and put several mugs of coffee into him. All the while I explained to him that he and I were special human beings, chosen by some higher entity to witness the rebirth of an extinct creature. Who knows the secret of life? I said to him, as I plied him with coffee. Life as we know it simply sprang from the Earth in the beginning of the prehistory of the world, and though no such similar scientific miracle has occurred since, there is no reason why such a thing cant repeat itself I was making it up as I went along, trying to persuade this pragmatic man that such a thing was not supernatural, but simply the regeneration of a natural episode in the history of mother earth. In the end, so long as I could allay his superstitious suspicion that witchcraft was involved, that it was simply an unusual and rare kind of science that was responsible, a science that was of course sanctioned by God, he seemed willing to remain as the handyman at the cottage. My work, he told me, was nothing to do with him.
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He was a practical man, with not much learning, he told me. He didnt hold with woodland magic nor any of that wayland smithy stuff, but if I said it was a natural thing, though not usual these days, then he would try not to make a fuss. But I could see he was still not totally convinced, so I continued my gentle argument. There are patients in hospitals, I said, who have died on the operating table and they have been brought back to life with by administering a bolt of electricity to their hearts. You must have heard about things like that? I followed this with an outright lie. And you know, in Siberia mammoths you know what they are? Yes, of course you do well, mammoths have been found frozen whole in tombs of ice. They have been encased and preserved there since prehistory. Yet, when thawed out and treated with with electricity their hearts begin to beat again Theres much in the world Im not good at understandin, he said, and one of thems scientific things. Someone once tried to tell me how electric works and it seemed like magic to me. Exactly, William. No one alive really understands electricity, but we know its there and we know its natural. Whos to say our creature out there in the barn did not experience a bolt of electricity during that lightning storm we had the other night? Yes, that must have been it. That wild storm that came off Salisbury Plain? You remember, William. Theres our answer, eh? In the end, I had William in the palm of my hand. So, the beast is alive. How that has occurred is indeed an unsolvable mystery to me, but something in the original nature of the hides contained the secret of regeneration of life. No wonder indeed that those hides had been venerated by holy men since the beginning of history. No wonder that they had been used as parchment for sacred scripts. Priests and shamans had recognised in them something unique and wonderful. Here was a new and marvellous discovery, my discovery; and a huge wave of elation went through me as I studied the beast in the mellow light from the barns dirty windows. She is huge, but docile and bovine-looking. Her coat is now covered in symbols the indigo tattoos of which I wrote earlier and it would seem they are her camouflage. They look strangely like an enigmatic alphabet of
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some kind, though this might be just my imagination working overtime. Her fodder is hay, and she will eat fresh grass if allowed to roam in a meadow. I am still at a loss to know what to do next. Whom should I contact? What will happen to her when I do? I feel a strong possessiveness towards my beast. Why should I hand her over to others to do with as they wish? Would I be believed if I told the story of her creation, or would people think me mad? I have no doubt they would be intrigued by this creature, which appears to be unique, but would they believe she was given life by my hands? I very much doubt it. They will invent stories of me finding her alive on the plain and proclaim her origin to be an unsolvable mystery. If the worst comes to the worst, they might even put her in a zoo, or some freak circus for the public benefit! I listen to her slow, laboured breathing, her munching of the hay, and Im left in this quandary as to how Im going to launch her into the world. In the meantime, we have begun to allow her out to pasture. She is so camouflaged by her indigo markings as to be almost invisible from a distance. Certainly one has to be within fifty yards of her to make out any sort of realistic shape. She is able to roam over an area of the plain closely watched by one of us. We discourage the odd trespassing rambler and keep a keen eye for any legal army personnel. A vast area of Salisbury Plain has been the property of the Ministry of Defence for many a long year, and is used for army exercises and manoeuvres. In truth the farm is just inside the border of MOD property, but farms such as mine are permitted to continue their livelihood and ownership of private land that has been theirs for centuries on the understanding that the ministry has rights of access on occasion. Thankfully neither William nor I have ever seen a tank or unit of squaddies anywhere near the farm. I have purchased rifles for William and myself, so that we might protect her from any harmful animals, such as foxes or wild dogs. William asked whether he was to fire on any humans that approached our creature. I told him it was inadvisable, even though we were protecting our rights, but I voiced it in such a way as to give him the idea that the law would understand it if we found it a necessary action to take. William grew up with firearms shotguns to fill the pot and rifles to rid the land of rooks and is an excellent marksman. I have not had such an upbringing but my own weapon is of the
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best quality, and with telescopic sights is easy to handle, aim, and fire with accuracy. May. Staggering! Incredible! It was William who three weeks ago discovered that the beast had given birth to a creature, as prophesied by Crowley. But what an amazing creature! Since then there have been one or two more births, as astonishing as the first. My plain-thinking William is again upset and shaken of course by the wild strangeness of this turn of events. One would be. But I shall bring him round to my way of thinking, which is that this is a link that has been missing from Creation since Man came into the world. The first birth was a half-grown unicorn, its symbolic single horn unmistakable, though this appendage was pliable at first and only hardened later. There followed a griffin, then a fox-like creature but clearly one we would term mythical, followed by a senmurv and a winged lion known as a lammasu. All are fabled creatures that over the centuries have formed part of our different national cultures, but which most today regard as fictional. We all know the red dragon, and the green, both of which have been adopted as symbols of national pride. However, no one in todays civilised world recognises the dragon as a real creature, living or extinct, and simply accepts that it was an invention of Mans vivid creativity. A small cluster of mythological animals have been given birth. All of these creatures are, it seems, sexless. They appear to have no means of reproducing themselves, which was obviously why there was a need for a mother creature to provide the birthing function. The beast, the fabulous being which I have recreated, is the mother of those legendary creatures. William and I corralled our collection of fabled beasts in a large spreading outhouse once used for housing pigs, the individual stalls perfect for the job. Our minds were reeling with possibilities. Even William, in his state of ignorance, was now aware that we had the makings of everlasting fame and fortune in our hands. I needed time and space to think, it being crucial to make the right decision on how to present this discovery to the world. It is so big, so earth-shattering in its revelation, I know that even so-called incorrupt governments would have no hesitation in ignoring laws regarding ownership.
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I do not want my discovery taken out of my hands immediately I make it known to the world, which is what will happen if I do not take firm, prior steps to protect my proprietorial rights. I am uncertain how to do this, but I do not intend to proceed without establishing some sort of defence. As an aside, with each new birth the mother beast sloughs her skin. This shedding is not of the thickness of the original hides which I had fitted together to give life to my beast, but is nevertheless strong enough to serve as a fabric. I have made hooded cloaks out of the skins for William and myself to wear when we are out with the mother beast as she roams her pastures. I have also fashioned blankets for our horses. These provide camouflage and make us as invisible as she is herself on the rugged Wiltshire landscape. We are her outriders, ever watchful and jealous of her safety, our rifles always loaded and cocked ready for use. I have reached the point where I would have no hesitation in preventing anyone who tries to harm her. I am her protector. She is more precious to me, to the world, than any other living creature. There is not one other animal alive, including man or woman, who is more valuable to the heritage of our planet. A heritage lost until my discovery. June. The cloaks have become impossible to remove. They first stuck to our bodies, then melded, and now they form a new skin over the old. I joke with William that we have become Maori warriors, but he is quite traumatised by this state of affairs and scrubs himself with a floor brush incessantly, trying to remove the indigo markings. For myself I am happy with this new situation. I feel it brings me closer to the mother beast and her offspring, as if they are my siblings, the unicorn, the griffin, the wonderful dragon. I feel refreshed in my mind, and am experiencing a new beginning to my life. The rest of the world may rush by and headlong into new forms of music, pastimes, and fashion, but we here in our hidden corner of Wiltshire are happy to wait for the right moment to reveal to humankind a new page in the history of our planet. July. Disaster. I woke just three hours ago, at 2 oclock in the morning, with William shaking me by the shoulder.
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Fire! he yelled at me. Fire! Fire! Roused from a deep sleep I was befuddled, and all I could see by the strange flickering light coming through my window was a mad-eyed William. His voice was shrill and he appeared almost demented. I sat up quickly and shook my head, trying to clear it sufficiently to listen to his shouts. The piggery, sir! Its on fire. The piggery? I leapt out of bed and pulled on a pair of trousers. Then we both rushed outside and William pointed, unnecessarily. Indeed, the old pigsties were blazing, the flames reaching thirty feet in the air. There was the stink of burning hair and flesh, which made me gag on my breath. The heat was tremendous as the red and yellow inferno swallowed the blackness above it and oxygen rushed in from beneath to further fuel the disaster. Thankfully the screams of the trapped residents ceased after a very short while. Did you manage to save any? I cried, hopefully. The creatures, are any still alive? William shook his head as we both stared at the conflagration. Nothing inside that building was going to escape. The lower part, perhaps reaching three feet from the ground, was brick, but the upper walls and roof were timber. Inside the piggery there had been heaps of hay and straw everywhere. Once a fire started in there, it would have spread very quickly. I now see how inflammable the building was, but now is too late. I should have thought about it earlier, though if I am honest with myself I have not been attentive to ordinary matters lately, being on a higher plane with my dreams of triumph. William, I said, how did it start? Did you drop the hurricane lamp? No no, sir. I was in with Her Majesty, he answered, pointing to the old barn, but then theres more bad news there, eh? The hairs on the nape of my neck rose. What bad news? Shes gone. Busted out. Ran off somewhere. What? Not my fault, cried William, backing away from me. She just lit out, when the fire started and them animals started wailin. I ran over to the barn, but it was dark inside, and I had no torch or lamp with me. I fetched a torch and then returned to inspect the interior. The beast had indeed broken out, through the back wall of the barn. The planks there, old and somewhat rotten, had been shattered, leaving a huge hole. I gathered
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my thoughts. This was a terrible occurrence, but not a catastrophe. Once we had saddled the horses, we would probably soon overtake the mother beast and persuade her to return, as we did when she was put out to pasture. No doubt she would be highly strung after the nights events, but with calm handling I thought we would get her home. It was then I heard a sound, a low moan. I looked at her straw bedding and shining my torch I saw a naked form there, slick with afterbirth. It was the latest arrival from her anomalous womb, obviously abandoned by the mother when she panicked and crashed through the wall of the barn and out into a dark night on the plain. I stared at the creature caught in my torchlight. It blinked and then did something that chilled me to the bone, an indicator that this new mythical creature was more than just another fabled animal. There was astuteness there and other major differences. I knew for one thing for absolute certainty, that though it might have originally been born androgynous, somewhere in its history on the Earth it had developed the means to procreate. Oh my God, I whispered. I stood staring down at this fresh birth in horror. The implications raced through my mind as the creature reached out to touch me with one extended limb. William was just coming through the barn doorway carrying rifles and saying, Horses are saddled and ready, sir. Then he stepped up beside me and looked down at the thing lying in the straw. He let out a strangled cry, then said, Lord have mercy. Just as I had done he stared at the thing for a long while before shivering violently and whispering, Such a thing aint natural, sir. Then before I could stop him he had unslung his rifle and had shot the creature through the head, shards of bone and pieces of flesh flying everywhere. Despite my feelings of revulsion, I could understand why William had taken such a rash and unpremeditated action. It had to be done by someone. We carried the remains of the creature to the burning piggery and threw them into the flames. The place was still blazing and hot enough to melt the iron hinges on the doors. Such a fire would soon destroy any evidence and we could return later and bury the ashes out on the plain. Staring at the blackened carcasses of our erstwhile brood of so-called myths, I could make out certain shapes, and suddenly realised what had
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started the fire. It must have been the small green dragon, of course, who no doubt had just discovered his special gift. The dragon would have experimented with its fiery breath, once its throat had developed its potential to blast away, thus destroying not only its siblings, but itself in the bargain. Now we must mount our horses and go out to kill the mother. We must burn her hide so that she can never re-emerge, Phoenix-like, out of her own fragments of skin. It may seem irrational, but both William and I believe that if humankind were to discover we are not a natural species, but an aberrant life form produced by a deviant offshoot from what is regarded as normal and scientifically sound, then society would descend into chaos. I could be wrong. It is possible that such a revelation might eventually be welcomed as a wonderful and marvellous thing, but initially it would send the human race reeling from the shock of a discovery that might take decades and many violent upheavals to overcome. Old religions, cultures, beliefs and scientific philosophies would fall, new ones arise, and in that terrible mix there would be chaos and confusion, madness, terror and despair. I swung myself into the saddle, just as a new dawn was putting her torch to the sky in the East. William stared at me as I put my feet in the stirrups. You knew straight away, didnt you Mr Wilkins? You knew it didnt just look like us, but it was for definite one of us, said William, grasping the reins of his mount. You knew it straight off, eh? I nudged my mount forward. William, I replied, offering irrefutable proof that we and that final birth of the mother were kin, it gave me a smile.
Garry Kilworth lives between Spain and UK, winter and summer. He believes his forte is the short story, which he most enjoys writing. Garrys latest fantasy novel was written under the pseudoynm Richard Argent and is entitled Winters Knight, the life story of a knight templar.
anne mccaffrey: a tribute

When news of Anne McCaffreys death broke in late 2011, the response was staggering. Readers and writers, authors and fans all came together to express their sadness at the loss of a remarkable talent, and their gratitude for her work. A common theme was that she had been one of the first SFF writers that many had read: discovered in their teens or early adolescence. Something about the way she wrote drew them in and inspired them, giving them a love for the fantastic that - for many - remains an important part of their lives Here, we celebrate and remember Anne McCaffrey.
was a first year student when Anne McCaffrey gave a talk to the Oxford University Speculative Fiction Society about Moreta: Dragon Lady of Pern. Though Id not yet read anything by her, I decided to try that, once I realised it was a standalone. (Id been thoroughly put off trilogies by the Thomas Covenant books.) Thereafter you wont be surprised to learn I read everything else of hers that I could possibly find. But thats almost incidental. What struck me that evening and has stayed with me since is the way she talked both about the craft and about the business of being a writer. She discussed the tough choices an author must make to be true to both readers and characters. She was open
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about being hamstrung by what shed already written in the Harper Hall books, establishing that Moreta dies, talking with a glint in her eye about the challenge of keeping readers guessing precisely because they knew that ending. She enthused about typing on a word processor, especially for revising a draft, to end up with a finished book. Keep up to date with technology and make it work for you, she advised in 1983, when my college had one computer room with a handful of machines and online wasnt even a word. She was admirably frank about the vagaries of a writers career and the uncertainty of financial rewards with humour, verve, and fabulous American forthrightness. All the while making it plain thats not the
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point of writing, because an author is simply someone who cant not write. I recognised then she was telling the honest truth about her writers world, then as alien to me as any SF planet. So often thereafter, Ive learned some lesson about my own writerly life only to recall Anne mentioning it in her talk or afterwards in the Eastgate Hotels bar, where she chatted with a bunch of us for hours. At the time Id never heard of SF conventions and had no notion a real writer could be so friendly and accessible. Since then Ive tried to live up to her example. I had the great good fortune to meet her again when Id recently been published myself. I tried to thank her for everything I owed to her impartial advice offered to a room of complete strangers in Oxford. She waved all that away impatiently; Anne wanted to know about my book, about that dragon on the cover and, by the way, she advised with characteristic forthrightness, I must buy that fabulous Geoff Taylor painting. So I did, and the ones that followed. We
met a few times after that, and she was always keenly interested in what I was doing, what I had planned, and generous with pertinent, useful advice on both the craft and business of writing. It was a privilege to have known her personally, and invaluable professionally. I mourn her loss and I salute her achievements. Juliet E McKenna has written fourteen epic fantasy novels, most recently Darkening Skies
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was twelve, and I was bored. Id read my way through the school library, and the childrens section of the local public library, and Id run out of books that appealed to me. Everyone around me was raving about Forever by Judy Blume, because it had Rude Bits in it, but it didnt grab me. I was itching for something new. And then a friend of mine wandered into class clutching a book. You like The Hobbit, she said. Do you want to borrow this? It had a big yellow dragon on the cover, and a man leaning against its flank in a lazy manner. He looked cool. The dragon looked awesome. The book was Dragonflight by Anne McCaffrey, and Im mildly ashamed to confess that I never gave it back. In fact, I still have it, though its been read so many times the spine is cracked and illegible, and some of the pages have been lovingly restored with sticky tape. To a lonely kid, the idea of being a dragonrider, of having a dragon who knew your every thought and loved you unconditionally, and allowed you to be a hero Well, you can see why it was appealing. Even more appealing was the fact that there were girl dragonriders. Suddenly, in a fantasy book, women could do what the men did, and do it just as well.
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Dragonflight introduced me to Pern, and Pern showed me a whole world, of dragons, yes, but also of holders and Harpers and Thread, all unfolding like a map before me, beckoning me in, telling me that I could create my own world. My own massive, complicated world, with a vast history, massive landscapes, heroes of its own Creating that world was the thing that got me through High School, scribbling notes and maps on spiralbound pads. While the other girls were thinking about boys and make-up, I was thinking about swords, dragons, bar-room brawls and courtly politics. I always wanted to write, but now I knew what I was going to write. And I wrote it. Thank you, Anne McCaffrey, for Pern, for the dragons, for giving me a world I could believe in and inspiring me to create my own. Joanne Hall lives in Bristol with her partner, and writes about swordfights, tavern brawls, courtly politics, and the occasional dragon. Her blog can be found at www. hierath.wordpress.com nne McCaffrey tricked me into reading science fiction. I was twelve and combing through the school library. I had just been

teased by two boys and I was upset. I wanted to read a good, fun fantasy about dragons to distract myself from my troubles. I walked out of the library with Dragonsong, which looked very fantastical. It had a red-head in oldfashioned dress, little dragons, and it mentioned magic and music on the back cover. Sounded perfect. And during my history class, instead of paying attention, I read the book under my desk (sorry, 7th grade history teacher). I was slow on the uptake. It took me a few books until I realised I was reading science fiction it was set on another world, people had come to settle it via spaceship, the dragons were native aliens, and the Thread a danger from the stars. I was shocked. Before that point, I had refused to read science fiction. I thought it was lame and boring, though I couldnt tell you why. I just didnt like it, mainly because Id never read it. But once I discovered that you could have science fiction with a more fantasy feel, I grew into it. I read all of the Pern books and several of her more obvious science fiction titles, such as the Acorna series, although they still had a rather fantastic feel. For about two years I read mainly Anne McCaffrey, Mercedes Lackey, and Tamora Pierce, with the very slight deviation now and again. They were all so prolific and told the stories I wanted to read at the time, so I always knew what I was going to get. But out of McCaffrey, I found a love for science fiction and was more willing to take risks with my reading, enough so that by age sixteen I read Neuromancer by William Gibson, and other science fiction I wouldnt have gone near just a few short years before. So thank you for tricking me, Anne McCaffrey. I havent read your books in years, but they were utterly formative for me. You were my gateway drug. Laura Lam was born near San Francisco, California, the daughter of two Haight-Ashbury hippies. She relocated to Scotland in 2009 and at times misses the sunshine
hen I was thirteen, I found a second-hand copy of Anne McCaffreys Dragonflight. It was the late 80s and I was living in Istanbul, and it was pretty hard to get hold of English-language books. There was a British Council library and a school library, but they were both small and limited and didnt have much in the way of genre fiction. So Id read some

fantasy and science fiction before, but predominantly Tolkien, Lewis, Wells, and similar. In other words, books by men and about men or children. Once a month, my family would visit Ortaky market, where there was a stall selling used American paperbacks at greatly-inflated prices. One cover caught my eye a girl riding a dragon. I had to buy it, and I was hooked. I loved the mix of fantasy the almost mediaeval setting, feudal system, and the dragons and science fiction time-travel and Thread from the Red Star. Even more than that, I loved Lessas courage, cleverness, and independence. She survives her familys massacre, protects herself from discovery, becomes a capable Weyrwoman, proves that queen dragons dont just fly to mate, rediscovers time travel, and solves the mystery of the five lost Weyrs. And last, but by no means least, I loved the sex scene. When the queen dragon Ramoth has her first mating flight, chooses which male she prefers of those pursuing her and mates with him, Lessas psychic link means that she experiences everything Ramoth does and responds similarly with the successful males rider. I was terribly excited by this! My mother wondered why I kept going back to this book time
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and time again. The Science Fiction Hall of Fame citation describes Anne McCaffrey as a writer of romantic, heightened tales of adventure explicitly designed to appeal and make good sense to a predominantly female adolescent audience. Whether or not it was intended, Dragonflight got this female adolescent very hot under the collar. When I returned to England the following year, I tracked down the rest of the Dragonriders of Pern series, and have read many of her others since with pleasure; but Dragonflight was my first, and Ill never forget it. So, thank you, Anne McCaffrey, for showing a teenage girl that we can ride dragons, save a planet with time travel, and have a psychic foursome with a sexy guy and two horny dragons. Esther Sherman reads a lot, performs genre burlesque as Alessa Dark and would love to meet a dragon one day. ts been a long time, years, since I read any Anne McCaffrey. Ive grown up, moved on. And yet the two images that have stuck with me (and Im sure with many others) throughout the years are hatching grounds and fire-lizards. I have always wished I could ride a dragon, and if

not that then to have my own firelizard although maybe not as many as Menolly! When I think of dragons I see Pern ones; when I doodled in the margins of my notes at Uni, they were always fire-lizards (in my logic it was too small to be a rideable dragon). In fact I still have a dragon, based on the cover of one of the books, stuck on my wall almost ten years after I drew it. And then there were the Brain & Brawn books, the eeriness of a human encased in metal, and their relationship with the humans they carry: a new way to look at both the vulnerability and strength of people. If anything, even though the imagery of dragons has stuck with me, I favoured these, and the Crystal Singer books, much more. I think that McCaffrey was simply better at writing sci-fi; she struck the right balance between having enough science to be interesting, but not so much as to push the books into hard sci-fi. I think McCaffreys books were some of the first that introduced me, the teenager that I was, to stories with romantic sub-plots amidst all the action. Most of what Id read before were simply adventure novels following groups generally of kids or young teens. Suddenly, I was introduced to the heartache caused by the misunderstanding of two people who should clearly be together, and then the joy felt when all became right in the world. McCaffreys books were a staple of my reading diet when I was a teen, and I wonder whether Id have half the interests I do if I hadnt lost myself in her worlds. I havent read them all there were some that didnt appeal but I remember those that I did. They filled my early teen years, before I began to move on to other authors and series. I mourn her passing because it marks the end of an era, but I celebrate what she wrote, whether by herself or in collaboration with others. The books meant a lot to me, and they still have a place on my shelves. Lizzie Shelley is a writer, computer game, roleplayer, knitter, painter of minatures and an avid reader. She can be found at kaitharshayr. wordpress.com
n the old bookshelves in the English classroom, sandwiched between larger set texts and collections of sonnets (which seemed to be closing around the smaller interloper, as if hoping to eventually absorb it) was a dog-eared edition of Dragonsong. During long hot summers on the Pembrokeshire coast where the sun blazed through patio doors onto a

somnolent dog, and where occasional trips to the seaside town yielded a hard-backed, musty copy of The Rowan, Damia and Damias Children were quickly unearthed and devoured. Anne McCaffrey was the reading soundtrack to a single teenage year. My first fantasy since Tolkien, my first SF since Asimov, McCaffreys characters breathed in a way theirs didnt. Before I even knew the difference, she glued the two genres together with People I Just Enjoyed Reading About. Thats far, far rarer than youd think, especially when the audience is a sullen teenage boy given to fits of manic boredom. So so long, Anne. And thank you. Michael Molcher is the PR Coordinator for Solaris, Abaddon Books, 2000 AD and Rebellion. He is mostly tall and tired s an avid reader, my school had given me free rein of the fiction section in the schools library, but it consisted purely of the classics Little Women, Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, et al. I had read through most of them already, and was, quite frankly, bored of them. I was about twelve years old, and rifling through my mothers books, when the image of a strange creature
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caught my eye. I had never seen a white dragon before, and was intrigued. I spent the next few days buried in the world of Pern, and the life of Jaxom and the other dragonriders. I immediately fell in love with Ruth. Never had a young person had such a spectacular companion. I wanted one. There appeared to be small holes in the story, as if I was missing something, but it did not detract from my enjoyment one jot. It wasnt until my mother caught me reading the last few pages late in bed one night, that she informed me that I should have read the other two books first. The other two?

The White Dragon was the final part in the Dragonriders of Pern trilogy. It was only fear of further parental recriminations that kept me from creeping downstairs to find the other two books. Dragonflight introduced me properly to Lessa, and she was unlike any other heroine. Sure, there had been ladies capable of spritely discourse in the classics, but ultimately, they had all acquiesced to the demands of the male protagonist in their stories, as was the spirit of the age in which they were written. Here was a young woman of action who would not only fight against, but alongside, her male counterparts. I wanted to be Lessa. I wanted to experience flight aback a dragon, and war against the Thread just as McCaffrey had written it. So beautifully crafted was this world of Pern, I could almost feel the wind on my face during more fanciful moments. The second part of the trilogy, Dragonquest, increased the tension, and was full of politics and adventure. I developed a huge crush on the honourable and brave Flar, who would fight for his beliefs and those weaker than him. It says a lot for McCaffreys writing that a young woman could read the final part of a trilogy first, yet still get so much from it, that she become a lifelong fan. I have inhabited the world of Pern on and off for over thirty years now. I would stand Anne McCaffrey shoulder to shoulder with Tolkien for being instrumental in introducing a young adult to fantastical fiction. Lessa remains to this day one of my favourite heroines, and Ruth will ALWAYS be my favourite dragon. Nadine Holmes is a punk/ goth, growing old disgracefully. Webmistress extraordinaire, Michael Sheen fan, drinker of Diet Pepsi, Eater of Pasta, Prolific Swearer, Tattooed miscreant, Stephen King & Maine obsessive.
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the freeview box of doctor caligari
contacting the british fantasy society
The British Fantasy Society is run by many people, all unpaid, and in their spare time. Heres a list and contact emails for those currently involved in helping the BFS. If you would like to contribute to the BFS in any way, then please feel free to drop an email to the appropriate person. Committee President Ramsey Campbell President president@britishfantasysociety.org Chair Lee Harris chair@britishfantasysociety.org Membership Secretary Marion Pitman secretary@britishfantasysociety.org Fiction Editor Guy Adams darkhorizons@britishfantasysociety.org Non-Fiction Editor Lou Morgan prism@britishfantasysociety.org Journal Production and Design Cavan Scott journal@bristishfantasysociety.org Web Administrator Del Lakin-Smith webmaster@britishfantasysociety.org Stockholder Christopher Teague stockholder@britishfantasysociety.org Events Organiser Martin Roberts events@britishfantasysociety.org Treasurer Amanda Rutter secretary@britishfantasysociety.org Publicity Lizzie Barrett pr@britishfantasysociety.org Awards administrator Sarah Anne Watts bfsawards@britishfantasysociety.org
contacting the british fantasy society

Non-Committee Online News Editor Caroline Callaghan news@britishfantasysociety.org Indie & RPG Reviews Editor Craig Lockley indiereviews@britishfantasysociety.org Media Reviews Editor Phil Lunt mediareviews@britishfantasysociety.org Book Reviews Editor Phil Lunt bookreviews@britishfantasysociety.org Comics and Graphic Novels Reviews Editor Jay Eales comicreviews@britishfantasysociety.org Poetry Editor Ian Hunter poetry@britishfantasysociety.org Short Story Competition Allen Ashley shortstorycomp@britishfantasysociety.org Fantasycon Organiser/Chair chair@fantasycon.co.uk New Members & Con goers Di Lewis area51@fantasycon.co.uk Websites www.britishfantasysociety.org www.britishfantasysociety.co.uk/forum/ www.facebook.com/britishfantasysociety www.fantasycon.co.uk
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BFS Journal Spring 2012

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BFS JOURNAL

Lou Morgan Guy Adams Ian Hunter

First published in the UK in 2012 by

The British Fantasy Society

12 BFS NEWS & VIEWS

34 THE MARK OF FEAR

94 THE DARK LORD AND THE GOOD KING

130 A CHARACTER TO BELIEVE IN

201 CONTACTING THE BFS FEATURES 38 WHY Y.A?

56 WORLDS WHICH NEVER WERE

100 A GLOW BORN OF A DIFFERENT PROCESS

109 LAYING THE FOUNDATIONS

134 A HISTORY OF THE SERVANTS

156 BFS MASTERCLASS: WRITING FOR CHILDREN

162 ENTERPRISING MINDS

171 PROGRESSIVE + INCLUSIVE = POPULAR

192 ANNE McCAFFREY: A TRIBUTE

FICTION 22 DONT YOU LIKE THE BIRD MAN

42 THE CALL OF CHAVTHULU

140 THE KINDLY RACE

166 FAERIE MAILS

176 THE FABULOUS BEAST

41 SHADOW WHISPERER AT BLACK HOLE HOTEL

139 THE WHEEL OF WHUMPUS

What will happen to todays generation of Young Adult readers?

bfs news & views chairmans chat lee harris

news & views

BRITISH FANTASY AWARDS 2012

bfs news & views

STOP PRESS: INTRODUCING THE JUDGES

bfs news & views

BFS SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2012

bfs news & views

bfs news & views

dont you like the bird man?

dont you like the bird man?

dont you like the bird man?

dont you like the bird man?

dont you like the bird man?

dont you like the bird man?

dont you like the bird man?

morningmareselizabeth barrett zoe

the mark of fear morris mark

are all writers driven by demons, if not necessarily personal ones?

the mark of fear

the mark of fear

the mark of fear

>> Have your say

the call of chavthulu

the call of chavthulu

the call of chavthulu

the call of chavthulu

the call of chavthulu

the call of chavthulu

the call of chavthulu

the call of chavthulu

arah Pinborough (writing as Sarah Silverwood) began

worlds which never were

worlds which never were

worlds which never were

worlds which never were

the good king sophia mcdougall

the dark lord and the good king