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Sunday, 25 September 2011

The Shelter by James Everington - Review


When I was growing up, I lived opposite a field with horses in it. In the dragging, oppressive heat of late summer, in the minutes before  a thunderstorm, they'd charge around the field like mad things, breathing hard, eyes wild. They knew the storm was coming.

The first half of The Shelter has that kind of feel. Everington is excellent at evoking a mounting sense of unease, turning to dread, that close, oppressive feeling when everything is still and ordinary, but the whole world is filled with the sense that something huge and terrible is just about to happen. The Shelter is set in late summer, in the heat and boredom of the long school holiday that I can remember from my own childhood, adventures in woods punctuated by occasional casual, random violence of  older kids. A group of teenagers at that confused, angry transition between childhood and an adulthood not yet understood, set out across the fields and woods  to explore an old air-raid shelter. The tension builds and builds, and then terror ensues, and that's the second success of this impressive novella.

Horror fiction often disappoints me, as the suspense and dread rises, but then you see the monster, and...is that it? The terror in The Shelter is mostly unseen, and mostly revealed through the actions of others, and as a result is far more unsettling and interesting. Just enough is explained, and more importantly for me, just enough is not, and all of this happens within a confident and controlled narrative and natural, convincing dialogue.

One of the best things about the growth of the ebook market is that it's far easier for writers to make available stories that might previously have been deemed 'uncommercial' in length, and this is a perfect example. The Shelter can be read in one sitting, which I think is one of the virtues of horror fiction at shorter than novel length, as the atmosphere can be sustained. Don't start it though if you have something to do, as you won't want to stop until you've finished.

Everington's The Other Room was one of the most impressive debut collections that I've read in some time, and The Shelter follows this up and takes it further, and would absolutely not be out of place in any print anthology. Start reading James Everington now, so when he's a star of the genre you can be smug about the fact that you've been reading him from the start.

Thursday, 22 September 2011

One Step Closer

We've made One Step Closer, the opening story from Nowhere To Go, free on Amazon from today as a taster for the collection. One Step Closer was first published in Hardluck Stories, and won the Derringer Award for best short story.

It's currently the number one free book in the Kindle short story charts on Amazon UK (eighth in the US), and it's ranked 126 across all free content for Kindle in the UK.

Interesting stuff, but will it draw people into shelling out for the collection? Time will tell.

Sunday, 18 September 2011

Gimme Shelter

Regular readers will know that I've raved before about James Everington's collection of strange and scary fiction, The Other Room (Amazon US | UK), one of the most promising debuts I've read in a long, long time.

James has just released a new novella, The Shelter (Amazon US | UK, Smashwords), a story of four friends in a hazy, lazy summer at the end of the Eighties. They go in search of a rumoured WWII air raid shelter, and when they find it...well, you'll have to read the book to find out.

It's also got an excellent cover that is disturbing and makes me not want to look at it for too long.



I've just grabbed a copy from Amazon, and I'm really looking forward to it. You'll find a review here soonish. (It pre-dates The Shelter, but you can also read an interview I did with James here).

Friday, 16 September 2011

The Innsmouth Look

Nice - and in-depth - review of Nowhere To Go posted at Innsmouth Free Press.

(Quite taken by: ' The story evokes the teenage wasteland of A Clockwork Orange, but if anything, it’s bleaker' and ' Rowan’s world is dark and pitiless'.)

Wednesday, 14 September 2011

We're all in this toge--actually, no, we're not

Two Tory peers who were jailed for fraudulently claiming thousands of pounds of parliamentary expenses have been released early after serving only a quarter of their sentences. (Guardian

I wonder if daft kids who stole a bottle of water through an already-broken shop window in the riots get the same consideration.

Actually, that's a lie. I don't.

Tuesday, 13 September 2011

Circus of the Grand Design and Infinities

Robert Freeman Wexler is an excellent and dazzlingly imaginative writer, and his book Circus of the Grand Design has just been re-released via infinity plus ebooks. You can read much more about the novel over at Keith Brooke's blog, but check this out for a quote, from the excellent Graham Joyce.
“Robert Wexler is an author who walks between the sea and the sand. He has a genius for configuring the state between waking and dreaming, and the delicious anxiety of never confirming which of these states presides. It’s a superb trick, used to brilliant effect in Circus Of The Grand Design.”
– Graham Joyce

In other infinity plus news, the sampler/catalogue/book of rare delights Infinities is now free at Amazon, and currently #2 in the genre anthology charts. 100, 000 words of short fiction and novel extracts from:

Eric Brown, John Grant, Anna Tambour, Keith Brooke, Garry Kilworth, Iain Rowan, Kaitlin Queen, Linda Nagata, Scott Nicholson, Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Steven Savile.

All free. Check it out.

Stories from Nowhere To Go #2 - Chairman of the Bored

The August riots in the UK prompted a lot of soul-searching about what it was that caused a local protest to flare up into something which drew hundreds, thousands of people on to the streets.

A lot of this debate missed something very important, in my opinion. A lot of the people were on the streets not because they were making a socio-political statement about Coalition policy, and not because they were feral career criminals doing the bidding of their gang leaders. A lot of people were on the streets because tearing stuff up is a buzz. It's fun. It's a thrill. Don't take this to imply approval of any kind, but to pretend that this isn't the case is just sticking your head in the sand and ignoring human nature. A lot of kids throwing stuff at the police were doing it for the same reason that men in their thirties organise fights down back-alleys on match day.

They get a buzz out of it. It's not dull. A lot of life is. This isn't. It makes them feel alive.

In an otherwise routine life, transgressing the rules, doing something wicked, has a charge to it, a powerful feeling of freedom and control in a life in which, day to day, control is largely absent. Doesn't make it right. But it makes it happen.

Chairman Of The Bored is a story told into a tape recorder by a boy. He's making the tape for a reason you'll find out about if you read the story. He's a smart boy, with a very low tolerance for boredom, and quite possibly the most broken, disturbing character that I've ever written. He starts the story by explaining that although everyone will assume he's done the terrible things he's done because of some trauma in his life, abuse or bullying or drugs, that's not the case. He's had a good upbringing, a loving family. The reason he does what he does, has something in common with why otherwise ordinary people decided on a spot of looting and assault.



So, I've got none of the usual excuses you lot trot out. But I am still a bad lad. I've done bad things to good people. And I didn't do them because I was damaged, mad, poor, a victim. Generally, I just did them because I was fucking bored. 
Take the first time I killed someone. 
I was messing about in a factory unit on the industrial estate. I'd been piss bored, gone out for a stroll, ended up there, and thought hey, that looks like a challenge. There was nothing there that I really wanted, but that wasn't the point. I got two storeys up a fire escape and onto the flat roof, and then in through a skylight that didn't fit properly. I wandered the factory a bit, looking at the machines. They made doors there, the white plastic ones that people put in when they get double glazing. Imagine, spending your whole life making the same door, day after day. Can you imagine that? Well that's how life feels to me. Day after fucking day. 
Thinking that it wouldn't be a proper burglary if I didn't nick something, I went to the office and found a few quid in the petty cash. I considered taking a laptop but I couldn't be bothered, I don't get on with computers, they go wrong and tell you that it's your fault, and I hate that. In the end I had a brilliant idea. Mam was always complaining about our microwave at home not working properly, and it was her birthday coming up. I found a little kitchen and they had a good one in there, 800 watts, and not minging dirty either. I thought I'd clean it up a bit, stick it in a box and she'd be happy as larry. It weighed a fucking ton but I was so pleased with my good idea, I didn't let that put me off. 
I was about to climb down the fire escape again, when I saw movement. I flattened myself against the roof and peered down. Some fat bloke poured into a turd-brown security guard's outfit was peering in windows and trying door handles. Must have been an alarm. He didn't seem to have thought of the fire escape, though. He was losing his hair, a big bald patch expanding out from the crown of his head, just to add to his other problems, and for a minute, hanging my head over the edge there looking down on him, I was really tempted to gob on it. Instead, I tracked him around the building, lugging the microwave with me, waiting to see if he would go away. He was a few yards from the bottom of the fire escape, and although he was bound to be stupid, what with doing the job he did, even a rentacop like him might put two and two together once he'd seen that all the doors and windows were secure. And I was getting bored up there. 
In physics, we'd learnt about the scientific method. You know, you form a hypothesis, based on observations of the world around you. And then you carry out an experiment designed to test whether your hypothesis is true. That's what's led to progress and the advance of the human race through history, we were told. So I thought to myself, hypothesis: if I drop this microwave off this roof now, it'll kill the fucker. Force of gravity, inertia, momentum, metres per second, blah blah blah. So I did, and so it did. QED. I bought me mam some slippers instead.
Read the rest in my collection of eleven crime stories: Nowhere To Go, available now on Amazon and Smashwords, price slashed throughout September.


(previously: A Walk In The Park).

Monday, 12 September 2011

Forty Noises That Built Pop

This is a lot of fun. Wouldn't be the same without the samples. #35 is right though. The Yamaha DX7 is the piano sound that Satan uses for the muzak in hell. (Over the top of gated reverb drums a la 29)

Writers talk about writing - Darren Sant

Darren Sant is a mixed up soul. He writes dark tales but inside of him there is a kitten that always wants to give the reader a happy ending.  Extensive shock therapy should eventually cure him of this. Darren's a relative newcomer to publishing, but I've had the pleasure of reading a couple of his short stories recently, and am sure we're going to hear a lot more from Darren. In 'A Good Day', the first of his stories set on the Longcroft Estate, he shows a strong eye for telling detail, and easy, natural dialogue. His disreputable protagonist scams and robs his way through most of the story, manages to find some redemption, but there's a nice touch at the end which keeps him well in character. 'Community Spirit' explores the Longcroft further, and is a heart-warming little story about the neighbours turning out with more than a cup of sugar, and some very pointed political grafitti. It's going to be interesting to read more of the stories as they come out and flesh out more of what I'm sure is going to be a very productive and gritty setting. As regular readers will know, I do like a bit of flash fiction, and Darren's also turned out some nasty little tales of revenge in his flash fiction compilation.


Anyway, on with the interview:

We're in a lift, I'm someone important (come on, pretend), you've got thirty seconds (tall building, slow lift) to tell me about your latest book.

Tales from the Longcroft Estate will be a series of stories all set in the fictional Longcroft housing estate. The first story A Good Day Amazon US | UK) deals with a man who is a drug addict. He doesn’t work and spends his time trying to get the money for his next hit by criminal means. He begins to notice flash cars that don’t belong on the streets of the Longcroft turning up outside of his flat.  His new neighbours seem somewhat quiet and mysterious in a place where everyone knows each other’s business. He makes a surprising discovery that eventually leads him to a moral dilemma.  Does he do the right thing or seek personal gain?  You could say the story is a morality tale that looks at that idea that all people have a shot at redemption.  The question is do we take that shot or go for the gold?


Uh-oh. Not sure lifts are meant to stop suddenly between floors like this. Guess we've got a bit more time. Ignore the flickering lights and creaking sounds above us. Would you like to tell me about other books or stories that you have available?

The second Longcroft tale, Community Spirit (Amazon US | UK), has already gone to the publishers for final edit. In addition I am excited to say that Trestle Press also have a collection of short stories of mine to publish soon called Flashes of Revenge.  This is six short, very different, stories all based around the broad theme of revenge.

Short stories by me can be found in Byker Books excellent Radgepacket series volumes four and five.

The ePocalypse: emails at the end which is an anthology published by Pill Hill Press featuring a collaborative story with Nick Boldock and myself is available in paperback or on kindle (US | UK).

I have short stories published on various excellent online magazines such as The Flash Fiction Offensive, Shotgun Honey, Thrillers Killers ‘N’ Chillers and Pulp Metal.


Please stop repeatedly pressing the emergency button. The comment about building a ladder of bones to reach the ceiling hatch and get out of here was just blue-skies thinking. So, what are you working on now?

I’m working on a collaborative story with a sci-fi flavour with Giovanni Gelati of Trestle Press.  I have a story going in a crime themed anthology that will be out soon.

I am working on more Longcroft tales on an ongoing basis.


The Longcroft Estate sounds like a lovely place to live. Tell us about it.

The Longcroft Estate is like every other large housing estate you have ever visited. The only difference being that you, the reader, get a birds eye view of the action.

There are good people doing bad things and bad people doing good things.  Bailiffs, loan sharks, repo men and football hooligans populate its streets. You can have a beer in the Red Lion.  You can have a kebab at the Kebab King.  If you like a flutter there is always You Better You Bet the bookies. The Longcroft is a place for the shades of grey not just the black and white. Every street corner and every alleyway tells a story.


A lot of your stories deal with people living on the edges. What draws you to that, rather than other kinds of crime fiction?

I suppose it’s the fact that people who have fallen on hard times are more desperate. They can be more unpredictable due to the stresses they are under. The blurred edges away from the conventional likes of me that work nine to five. Am I really more than a few pay packets away from being a thief myself?  To committing a desperate acts to help feed my family? I’ve studied sociology, psychology and counselling. I even did voluntary work for the Samaritans for two years. So it is fair to say I am interested in people and what motivates them.  Part of me wants to help.  Another part, the storyteller, wants to entertain and explore ideas.


What pushes your buttons in crime fiction? Conversely, what bugs you?

 I’m fairly new to the crime fiction scene to be honest.  What pushes my buttons in any fiction is a good story told at a good pace with interesting lively, unpredictable characters. What bugs me is over long clunky stories that dwell too much upon things not essential to the plot.  Sometimes the reader wants a light lunch not a ten-course banquet.


In your own writing, what do you think you do well, and what do you wish you could do better?

I think all writers have a bit of a blind spot when it comes to their own work. I believe that I do well with pace.  I can tell a story in relatively few words and it doesn’t meander needlessly. I wish that I could characterise better.  Since I write short stories and have yet to work on a novel my stories tend to be plot driven.  Taking that fantastic writer Ian Ayris as an example he can build a character very quickly with a strong voice and still makes it a short, sharp punchy story.


Can you remember what made you sit down to write your first book or story?

This is an easy one for me.  I’ve been an avid writer since the age of about ten.  I love all kinds of fiction and ever since I first picked up a book I’ve wanted to be able to create the magic that has always captivated me so much.


Do you have a book or story that you're very fond of, but you think should get more attention from the world than it has.

I know it has always had a cult following and now a feature film but for me Douglas Adams’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series deserves more attention than it gets.  I like writers who can make me think. Adam’s made me laugh and think at the same time, a rare gift.  A man who summed up the now old fashioned idea of an Englishman in a way no one before or since has been able to.  By that I mean he had a terrific grasp of our humour, irony and our thought processes.  Another genius that left this mortal coil too soon.


Print publishing is a doomed but still predatory dinosaur rotting from the feet up. Ebook publishing is the vomiting out of the world's slushpiles onto the market. In the ongoing war of words and hyperbole, where's the happy medium to be found? Where do you think the publishing business is heading over the next few years, and what are you doing to be ready for it?

I think as with most things it will settle down and find a happy medium. Part of the problem over here has always been the mentality of the publishers. The big publishers have always wanted to have their cake and eat it. It’s all about the money now and not the big picture.  Well, life and writing is not that simple.  Some things don’t easily fit into a genre. Just because vampire fiction might be popular doesn’t mean that is all readers want to see. Some fiction is different, speculative but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth putting out there. They have been too rigid for too long and now they are suffering because of it. They need to adapt and to speed up the way they work.

As for e-books I personally don’t care if they are not as well edited if it’s a great story. So long as it is isn’t awful and it’s been edited properly then I’m not a whinger. If you are paying 99p instead of £6.99 should you expect the same quality? It’s a point to be argued.  Pub meal mentality if you like. If I am paying £3.99 for Gammon and chips in my local pub I don’t expect the standards of the Ritz. E-books are giving writers a chance.  Ultimately it’s the reader who should be a judge of quality. If print publishers want to survive they will adapt to this new market with an open mind.


What book do you most wish that you had written?

If I could expand that to include a series of books. The Gunslinger series by Stephen King widely considered to be his Magnum Opus.  They have a bit of something for everyone and are a shining example of storytelling at its finest.


You're publishing ebooks now  - have you learned anything in that process?

Well those nice people at Trestle press do the hard work with regards editing my work and creating wonderful covers and helping to promote their authors. A very forward thinking publisher that are modern minded, approachable and nothing is too much trouble for that fine them.

As for what I’ve learned. I’ve learned that you have to get over your natural humbleness a little and sell, sell, sell. The way I get over that is I tell myself that if I’ve taken a little slice of my life writing something then I owe it to myself to promote it.



Do you do much promotion for your books? What do you think is the most effective thing you've done?

I use most of the social networks to bring my work to other people’s attention. In terms of effectiveness I think being a sincere reader and avid vocal enjoyer of other peoples work has helped a lot. I have a little blog where I review other people work:

Daz’s Short Book Reviews over at  HYPERLINK http://santsrants.blogspot.com/ http://santsrants.blogspot.com/

Writers are appreciative of a review and I like to be able to show my appreciation to someone that has entertained me a number of hours.

I also write as “Old Seth” over at  HYPERLINK http://www.craigrobertdouglas.com http://www.craigrobertdouglas.com.
Seth has been known to do a few author interviews himself. I believe people appreciate the exposure and are happy to reciprocate. It’s a tough old market out there so why not help each other out as much as possible?


What is it that really pushes your buttons as a reader? 

I have a widely varied taste in reading.  The thing that I enjoy most is a good story well told however that is achieved. I don’t mind if it is character or action led if it speaks to me I will read it.  I have a soft spot for dystopian fiction. Now I’m reading more crime fiction than ever and am loving it at the moment.


If you could give an aspiring writer one piece of advice, what would it be?

Keep writing.  We don’t all have the thick skin of a rhino but forget the rejection and keep on writing. I’m a firm believer that if you practice long and hard enough at anything then you will find your niche and discover where your own talents lie.


If you could tell an aspiring writer to ignore one commonly given piece of advice, what would it be?

I think that the best judge of our character is ourselves.  If advice works then take it on board. No one needs me to tell them what to ignore because what wouldn’t work for me might work for them.


Are you 'out' as a writer of fiction with work colleagues/family, and if so, what reaction did you get?

I am begrudgingly “out” now yes. Everyone has been very supportive.  I can’t have asked for more support really.  


Gibbons or tigers? (NB this question is to help me in compiling my List of People Who Are Wrong).

Tigers of course.  They are sleek, powerful and stealthy. Tigers is the nickname of Hull’s football team so I’d be lynched if I didn’t pick Tigers.    


What inspires you as a writer?

I am inspired by events that are at odds with the ordinary.  I saw a woman wandering down the street the other day wearing only one shoe and carrying a saw.  Who wouldn’t want to understand how she came to be in that situation?  Curiosity inspires me.

Meticulous research is both enjoyable and important / what's the point in writing fiction if you can't just make stuff up - discuss.

Depending upon what you are writing research is important. However, it’s not necessarily essential. You don’t want to suck all the joy out of writing a great story for the one pedantic person who will pull you down on a silly little detail. The kind of short fiction I am writing at the moment doesn’t require extensive research. Writing about what you know is perhaps the best way for a writer to start anyway.

Friday, 9 September 2011

Interview technique

I've been interviewed before, but never like this. Check it out, over at Nigel Bird's Sea Minor (and while you're there, follow the links to check out Nigel's own fiction).

Radio silence

Lost this week to the flu. No, not manflu. Slowly resurfacing. Sorry to people if I've promised reviews, interviews etc. this week, normal (well as close as I ever get) service will be resumed next week.

Monday, 5 September 2011

Can you say sales when it's a free ebook?

I've had my short story Lilies available as a taster for Ice Age for some time. I thought Lilies was a good choice, I'm as proud of it as I am any story I've ever written, and it was reprinted in the Best New Horror antho so I'm not just being delusional. Also, it's very me, and if people don't like it, well, they'd probably not like the rest of Ice Age either.

Thought I'd try an experiment with it. I've got Amazon to make Lilies free, by dropping its price at Barnes and Noble and Apple (via Smashwords). Without any promotion from me, within a few hours it was in the Amazon UK bestsellers list for horror, in the top ten free books in the genre, and just outside the top hundred free books across all genres.

Which is all very nice, but earns me nothing more than a warm - and illusionary - glow. The whole point of making it free is to get it in front of lots of readers, some of whom might like it enough to go on and buy Ice Age, or Nowhere To Go.

Will it do that? No idea. It might be that free simply ends up with the story up on the Kindles of people who hoard freebies, thousands of stories, hardly any of the read. But it's got to be worth a try. I'll let you know how it works out.

Sunday, 4 September 2011

If you like classic ghost stories and chilling and macabre fiction, you'll love the magazine Supernatural Tales.

Editor David Longhorn has been producing it for over ten years, and it's recently published its nineteenth issue.

This one's the first to come out as an ebook, as well as in print.

ST's published the work of excellent authors like Gary McMahon, Mike Kelly, Joel Lane, Gary Fry, Michael Chislett, Steve Duffy, Chico Kidd, Reggie Oliver, Simon Strantzas and many others. (Disclosure, I'm one of the many others).


Adminstrivia

Couple of quick updates.

I've finally got around to setting up a proper mailing list. Sign up if you want very occasional emails about new books, price changes, freebies or other news about my writing. Sign-up form is at the top of the sidebar, over to the right there.


(edit: just found out that MailChimp requires you to show your home address to everyone subscribing. Bollocks to that. Link removed, back to the Olde Mailing List. Link in the Get In Touch box in the sidebar).

I've also started a list of links of stuff I read regularly, and interesting places to go. Again, check the sidebar. Regular readers, if you think I've missed something (or even worse, that I've missed you), then drop me a line.

Saturday, 3 September 2011

Stories from Nowhere To Go #1 - A Walk In The Park


To go along with this month's promotion of Nowhere To Go, throughout September  I'm going to write a little about the eleven stories that make up the collection.

I've written a number of stories that grow out of a place, rather than an idea. A Walk In The Park and Nowhere To Go in this collection are both stories like that, as are the stories The Circular Path and Through The Window in my collection of weird/horror stories, Ice Age. A disused chapel, an empty rented house with an open window, part of a wood where the birds seem to suddenly hush and the silence is that of something terrible about to happen, the image comes first, and then the character and plot come out of that.

In the case of A Walk In The Park, the place was where I spent a lot of my life between eleven and eighteen. When I was eleven we moved to a small village in the Kent countryside, at the start of a long lane through the woods. If you followed the lane, the houses stopped after twenty yards, and the trees started. The lane ran under a disused railway viaduct, and past a small pumping station that to an eleven year old was a mysterious, blank-faced, humming place.



If you kept following it along the road for a couple of miles - and I did, a lot, because roaming the countryside on foot or on bike was how I spent a lot of my time - you passed a house set back from the road. The walls were topped with barbed wire, there was a security camera, and two Dobermans prowled the yard, going batshit crazy whenever you passed. Not your average house round those parts. Village rumour has it that the person who lived there was something to do with the Great Train Robbery. To this day, I have no idea whether this was true or not.

A Walk In The Park came from wondering who might live in a house like that, and who might want to pay them a visit. The characters came very quickly, and with them the plot. Not Dobermans though, in my story. Something different.

Mason's typical of the sort of character that I find interesting to write about. In the story, a London crime boss has brought in a hitman from Newcastle to pay a visit to an old acquaintance who is now hiding out in the Kent countryside. Mason's given the job of driving him down, keeping him company, and keeping him happy. I could have made him the boss' right hand man, his enforcer, a seasoned hard man himself.  Nah. Far more interesting to make him the gang's accountant.

"My job," Smith said. "So my rules. You stick it somewhere safe. You keep it there. You don't mess with it, you don't play around with it, you just keep it there in case I need a backup and ask you for it. You understand?"
"Sure, whatever you say. It's your operation."
"That it is. And one more thing." Smith still hadn't moved his face away. Mason could smell the coffee on his breath.
"What?"
"You point it near me--anywhere near me--and I'll kill you. You understand?"
Mason swallowed. "Yes."
Mason thought about just leaving the gun in the car, but he didn't want Smith to think that he was afraid, so he got out of the car and leaned in the back door. He pulled the gun from under the seat and put it into his jacket pocket, trying to handle it as if it were something that he did every day. When he turned back, Smith was standing by the side of the road, as motionless and dark as one of the trees, holding his gun down at the side of one leg. In the darkness, it looked as if he was pointing an accusing finger at the ground.
At first as they walked down the road the silence pressed in on Mason like a weight. After a few moments though, he realised that it was not silent at all. He could hear skittering in the undergrowth to the side, rustlings in the trees as if their footsteps were disturbing whatever was sleeping there. From a little way off into the woods came a noise somewhere between a grunt and a cough that made him jump; he looked at Smith to see if the other man had seen but the killer was walking ahead now, with cautious, quiet steps. They had reached the house.
The two men slunk across the road and into the shadow of the fence. Mason noticed that when they moved, Smith held his gun up high to the side of his head, as if he were listening to it, like people do in films. He loves all this, Mason thought. I bet he's got a bookshelf full of books about special forces. They waited at the fence, peering into the darkness of the garden, listening.
"What you reckon then?" Mason whispered. "Dog?"
Smith took hold of the fence, rattled it gently, waited. Then shook his head. "Would come running," he muttered.
"Might be in the house."
Smith just held the pistol up, then pointed it into the darkness and mimed a shot. Mason looked away. Killing a man was one thing, that was business, but killing a dog was just cruel. He'd always had a dog when he was little. He remembered how he'd cried when his red setter Rusty, as dumb as a plank but his best friend in the whole world, had run into the path of a delivery van. Smith climbed over the fence and into the garden, and Mason followed him. As he went over, the fence creaked, and to Mason it sounded like a tree falling. They hesitated for a moment, but no lights came on in the house, no doors opened.
Smith waved towards the side of the house. They were going to go in round the back. The two of them stepped cautiously through the shadows, following the edge of the garden around the house, walking silent on the soft grass.

Crossing Paths

Crossing Paths is where photographer Niall Macdiarmid posts his street portrait photography.

It's the best example of this sort of thing that I've seen. The range of characters that Niall manages to find, from the cool to the ah, different, is fantastic, and the portraits look fantastic, really letting the person shine through.

Well worth a visit. The new site's only got a few photos on at the moment (it's moved from its previous location where there were more), but it's updated regularly.

Friday, 2 September 2011

Ebook pricing

A typically thoughtful post on ebook pricing over at Keith Brooke's blog.

"What concerns me is trying to find a model that rewards the writers and encourages good writers to write, rather than making it harder for that to happen."

Thursday, 1 September 2011

flash fiction - Got My Dancing Shoes On

Left, left, right back and right and back and slide, slide, left, and stamp. No, no, should have been right. Fuck it.

I kicked the rail on the side of the game, then looked around to see if the old sod or one of his gimpy sons had seen me do it. The three of them gave me the creeps. They all looked like they come from the fifties, quiffs and that, like Elvis, and stank of cigarette smoke and oil. They didn’t like kids thumping the machines in the arcade, and I was barred from too many of the others to risk getting thrown out of this one.

The man was leaning against an Addams Family pinball machine, watching me. I didn’t know how long he had been standing there.

“Good dancer,” he said.

“Done better,” I said. And I had. When I was really giving it some, I was top of the high scores. And if someone else beat me then I'd find the money from somewhere to stay on the machine until I beat them.

“You must practice a lot,” he said.

I ignored him. Blokes that hung around the kids in the arcades, well. Some of them were just simple, kids themselves in grown-up bodies. Others, they were grown up all right, and they wanted grown-up things.

“Got very quick feet,” he said.

“The best,” I said. “You a pervert, then?”

He went red, looked quickly around to see if anyone had heard. “No, no, I’m not.” Meant nothing, but at least he knew that if he was, I had him made.

“Give us a quid then.”

He thought about it for a moment, and then fished in his pocket and held out a coin. I went to take it and he pulled it back so I couldn’t get it. Here we go, I thought. But he surprised me.

“It’s for the dance game,” he said. “You can’t take it and spend it on whatever. I want to see you put it in the game.”

“Whatever turns you on,” I said. Not like I could do much else with just a pound, is it.

So I danced, and he watched. Most likely got his kicks from it, but at least I got to dance. And I was good. Got in the rhythm, got in the trance, when I’m dancing like that there’s nothing else in the world. And in my world, that’s a good thing.

I danced, he watched, and every so often he handed over some more money.

“I think that’s enough,” he said in the end.

I pulled a face. If I got in the high score top ten one more time, it would just be my name, over and over.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Instead, I’ll buy you a coffee, and we’ll sit down and have a little chat.”

You know what happens when you hit one of the machines too hard, or tilt it? Alarm goes off, loud as anything, and the old man or one of his sons comes over and kicks you out. Bar you from the arcade, if you do it enough. Anyway, my alarm went off, just like that. Coffee and a chat? Not a chance.

“See you,” I said, and I jumped off the game and walked away.

“No,” he said, “Please, wait.”

But I was away down past the slot machines and the air hockey tables, and through the big glass doors that opened out on to the empty night.

A little further down the road, I found a ciggy lying on the pavement, only half smoked. I picked it up, and fished about in my pocket for my lighter. Then there were footsteps behind me, and I turned around quick because I knew who they would belong to.

He held his hands up, look, I’m no harm, me. Smiled, even. “It’s ok. I just want to talk to you.”

“Aye, that’s what they all say.” I’d seen kids from the arcades go off with men like him before. We all knew the score. I’d done some things to get more money for the machine, I tell you, but I hadn’t done that. Had thought about it, once, but I robbed a few quid off these younger kids instead.

He took one step closer, and another. “Look, all I’m asking—“ he said, and then he didn’t say anything else because I kicked him hard in the balls and he went down on the pavement like someone had folded him up.

I looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching, but the street was empty. Round here, chances are they’d have turned and walked off anyway.

“Fucking pervert,” I said, and then I kicked him. Only meant to do it a couple of times, but then I felt the rhythm and I followed it, Left, left, right back and right and back and slide, slide, right, and stamp.

Fair out of breath when I was done. Not as much as he was, mind.

Went through his pockets. Found thirty quid in cash, some plastic I could sell for fifty a card, a picture of some woman with a nose twice as big as it should have been, and a load of leaflets about Jesus and some shelter place for kids on the street. Looks like he wasn’t a pervert after all. Ah well. How’s a girl supposed to know?

I stopped off at a corner shop, bought a litre of vodka and sixty Lamberts, got a bus into town, and headed for the arcade by the bus station. Wasn’t barred from there either. Got my dancing shoes on tonight.