WRITEALOT

A 50-Year Wait-02

2012-01-15T03:20:00.000-08:00

In those far off days, I was drawing instead of studying for my GCEs...

This illustration is based on a scene from A Princess of Mars - John Carter's rescue of a Zodangan royalist. Drawn July 30, 1963. The original is 22"x10.5".

Even then I must have hankered after a split personality - ie using several pennames - as I signed it RWN-Morton and Ross Morton!

A 50-Year Wait-01

2011-12-18T09:41:00.000-08:00

Way back in 1962, I happened upon Edgar Rice Burroughs’ novel Warlord of Mars. I’d already devoured several Tarzan novels, published by Four-Square at 2/6d. I read this, the third in the original Martian trilogy and was hooked. Then I bought the first in the series, A Princess of Mars and like many boys of my age, fell in love with Dejah Thoris. I still have this book in my collection:

At the time I used to draw bookmarks for my favourite books. Here’s the bookmark for A Princess of Mars, drawn in 1962.

The story of John Carter’s first visit to Mars was serialised in the February to July 1912 issues of All-Story Magazine, then entitled Under the Moons of Mars, as written by Norman Bean. Bean was the early penname of Burroughs, though he’d used Normal, rather than Norman, but it got screwed somehow. The full novel was first published in book form in 1917, after Burroughs’ phenomenal success with Tarzan.

Burroughs’ Martian adventures – all eleven of them – inspired the scientists Carl Sagan and Arthur C Clarke and novelists Ray Bradbury, Robert A Heinlein among many others.

At last, in 2012, an epic film entitled John Carter is being released – 100 years after the publication of the original story, and 100 years after the publication of Tarzan of the Apes. Indeed, 2012 could be Burroughs’ year, and deservedly so. Burroughs was born in 1875 and died in 1950. A crater on Mars is named in his honour.

John Carter trailer
http://www.disney.co.uk/john-carter/?ex_cmp=sem_g_uk:movies:jcm:01211:1211#video

John Carter fan site
http://jcofmars.com/

Official ERB John Carter site
http://www.johncarterofmars.ca/

OLD GUNS - cover artwork

2011-12-08T09:50:00.000-08:00

Old Guns can be pre-ordered now from Robert Hale or Amazon or postfree anywhere in the world from thebookdepository. You can also get a glimpse of how the cover was designed by Tony Masero. Check out his website
http://www.artnillustration.com/featurepage1.html

July, 1892.

Sam Ransom, 62, learns of the death of Abner, his old partner. Abner left a warning note – the Meak twins were out to get Ransom and the rest ‘because of what happened at Bur Oak Springs’. Ransom sets out to alert his old friends, Jubal, Rory and Derby.
Bur Oak Springs happened over two decades ago. The place was a ghost town even then. Ransom’s family is put in jeopardy and they can only be saved by Ransom and his friends returning to the ghost town, to confront the Meak brothers and their gang. There’s a sense of déjà vu about this; yet, there are fresh revelations too. It’s a showdown: young guns against old guns.

Editing tips - Before you go

2011-10-27T10:24:00.000-07:00

Many writers – beginners and published – overuse the word ‘before’.

Storytelling or narrative should flow with ease and contain its own internal logic. People act and react. Conflict begs for a response, depending on the characters involved. The sequence of actions should be logical, too.

An example:
He closed the window before he left.
That’s okay, I suppose. Though why it couldn’t have been written as:
He closed the window and then left.

Another example:
Before he opened the drawer, he smiled.
That’s illogical in the chronological sense. Often we don’t see the character then opening the drawer – it’s just open. Better to write:
He smiled and then opened the drawer.
Logical sequence restored. Otherwise, we’re being told about an action out of sequence. The revised version shows us the actions in the logical order.

Another:
The large woman picked up a rag before reaching for the kettle. “Take the children back to their ward,” she said. “They still may have time to have their evening meal before they go to bed. See to it they have their uniforms returned and store their clothing.”
“Yes, sir.” She curtsied before reaching toward the children.

Maybe: The large woman picked up a rag, which she used on the handle to lift the kettle...
‘Before they go to bed’ is fine.
She curtsied and then reached toward the children.

So, before you dive in and use that word, think before you type!

Editing tips - Every which way

2011-10-13T12:57:00.000-07:00

Ups and downs of writing action can’t be overstated. Sometimes, the writer overwrites and overuses words without realizing it.

Here’s an example from an early draft ms I received.
Taking his chances, Rick slipped upwards around a steep pathway of rugged rocks. It was a close call as shot after shot split the air near to his body. The pressure only relieving when he heard the heavy sound of John’s Sharps taking up the action from below. Shots echoed up the hillside as John, recovered now, picked his favoured spots and blasted the crest of the hilltop where he guessed the sharpshooter hid. He left the way clear for Rick to rise and clamber up over the edge of the hilltop.

Exciting, but it needed a little work.
Taking his chances, Rick slipped around a steep pathway of rugged rocks. Shot after shot split the air close by. The pressure only lessened when he heard the heavy sound of John’s Sharps taking up the action. Shots echoed as John, obviously recovered now, picked his favoured spots and blasted the crest of the hilltop. That left the way clear for Rick to rise and clamber up over the crest of the hill.

So what did I change?
I removed: upwards, It was a close call, near to his body, relieving, up the hillside, where he guessed the sharpshooter hid. The latter removed because it’s making an assumption about what John was thinking and slows down the action. There may be countless ways the passage could be rewritten to improve it further, but the editor isn’t in the business of rewriting, just improving the narrative flow and identifying errors of spelling, word usage and internal story logic.

Here’s another excerpt:
Rick staggered. He heard the loud screech of complaining timber over the sounds from below and he felt the gantry shift as aged support ropes beneath him snapped. The barrow that held him began to slide dangerously as the platform tilted. He struggled to clamber over the sides, but the steep angle of descent made it difficult. It appeared that Rick was heading for a messy death among the remains of the mining sheds far below.

Again, a good action set piece.
Rick staggered. He heard the loud screech of complaining timber over the sounds of the gunfight and he felt the gantry shift as aged support ropes snapped. The barrow that held him began to slide dangerously as the platform tilted. He struggled to clamber over the sides, but the steep angle of descent made it difficult. He was heading for a messy death among the remains of the mining sheds far below.

Here we had over, below, beneath, tilted, over, steep, descent, below… Too many directions. By simply getting rid of a couple, it’s a little less haywire, I felt. Note I also removed ‘It appeared that’ which tends to jump out of Rick’s POV.

Editing tips - With one mighty leap

2011-10-08T03:25:00.000-07:00

Usually, our fictional characters don’t possess super powers. They can’t see through walls, for example.

In this example from one ms, we’re in the POV of the main male character, Jack.

He said, ‘We’d better be going.’
Jane excused herself so she could get dressed. Back in her room she flung open every drawer in the dresser, wondering what brought Jack to their unit. Tops went flying until the floor disappeared under the mass. She reappeared, looking a picture of wide-eyed innocence, in a simple jogging suit.

So not only do Jack's eyes follow Jane through the walls, he gets into her head too. An abrupt and totally unnecessary POV shift. I’ve seen this time and again – and it’s probably the movies that are to blame. The viewer shifts wherever the director decides to go, and rarely settles on a main character viewpoint. Visualise, yes – but make it sensible and realistic.
The offending words were excised at the editing stage, thus:

He said, ‘We’d better be going.’
‘I won’t be long, I’ll just get dressed,’ Jane said and rushed into her bedroom. Minutes later, she reappeared, looking a picture of wide-eyed innocence, in a simple jogging suit.

I replaced the ‘tell’ with Jane’s actual speech. Also, Jack – and the reader – can see her moving to her bedroom now.

Editing tips - Phony

2011-10-04T09:50:00.000-07:00

The telephone conversation is another potential pitfall for the unaware writer. It can come across as phony – pun intended, but you probably guessed that.

Here’s an example. Several contemporary mss I receive might replicate this.

Brent listened, unimpressed as Joe tried to bullshit him again with computer jargon. ‘I don’t give a shit about any of that! I want it taken off the net…’ he demanded.

‘What do you mean it’s not that easy?’ Brent incredulously asked. He sighed and Joe started again.

And so on…

This scene is from Brent’s POV. So why doesn’t Brent – and the reader – hear Joe speaking on the other end of the phone?

Writers watch TV and movies and see only one side of a phone conversation (unless the director uses a split screen technique) so they jump in and do the same. The difference is, the story on the screen isn’t from the character’s POV. The viewer isn’t in the character’s head. On the page, the reader’s in the character’s head until such time as the POV changes.

If Joe had a few lines of speech, it would be a little more credible. Brent could have encapsulated the rest in his narrative head. Such as, ‘Hey, Brent, it isn’t that easy,’ Joe whined. Then Brent makes his outburst. Getting Brent to repeat the words the reader doesn’t hear is for the stage, not the book. Instead, Joe should have said those words.

Just a hang up of mine, I guess.

Editing tips - Clause for confusion

2011-10-02T08:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve come across this kind of mistake a few times in submitted mss and even in published books.

Again, an appropriate example from Broken Silence:

‘Gibbs had once been a heavy-weight boxer; successful in his time… Since retiring from the ring, Madley had decided to keep him as a pet; a fierce, snarling, slathering Rottweiler at that, all bite and no bark.’

Good phrase to end with. It’s a pity that the sense is confusing, though, as the two clauses actually relate to different people. What the second sentence suggests is that Madley retired from the ring, which isn’t the case at all. It should have read, ‘Since Gibbs retired from the ring, Madley had decided to keep him as a pet…’

So, make sure the words you use mean what you intend them to mean.

Editing tips - Just a word

2011-09-30T07:48:00.000-07:00

There are a select number of words that just force themselves on the writer. I’ll get round to them, eventually. Just for now, though, let’s look at that particular word, ‘just’. (Word repetition intentional…!)

The word insinuates itself into paragraphs. It needs excising unless it’s really doing its job.

Take, for example, a paragraph in Lonesome Dove (again, I’ve recently read it so it’s readily available with an example; many other books, mine included, probably have similar paragraphs that still need further editing).

… For a moment his spirits rose, just from the sound of Gus’s voice. It was Call and Gus, his old companeros. It was just a matter of making them realize what an accident it had been, him riding with the Suggs. It was just that they had happened by the saloon just as he was deciding to leave. If he could just get his head clear of the whiskey he could soon explain it all.

Just too many repetitions (5), I feel. Such repetitions are referred to as word echoes – they’re hovering around in the writer’s head at the time and spill out at the slightest provocation. Self-editing should cut them down – or remove them altogether.

Anon, I'll supply a few other echo words that crop up too frequently.

Editing tips - Shifting POV

2011-09-29T01:44:00.000-07:00

We’re all told to maintain a consistent character Point of View (POV) within a scene. There's a good reason for this and, for genre fiction, the advice makes sense. The reader is involved with a particular character in his or her head. Jumping from one character’s thoughts into another’s breaks that tenuous link and reduces the reader involvement.

When first writing a scene, it’s possible that you’re not sure whose POV to use. Once it’s down on the page, then decide – usually the person who is affected the most emotionally. If you’re sticking with a single character POV throughout the novel, then there should not be an issue – but make sure no other character’s thoughts creep in!

Here’s a brief excerpt from Broken Silence, a first novel by Danielle Ramsay.

‘In fact he needed to make a call. One he didn’t want Conrad overhearing. He walked over …’
(This paragraph in his POV goes on for nine lines, then it’s followed by a new paragraph.)

‘Conrad studied Brady’s figure from the safety of his car and wondered what was going through his head… He watched as Brady took out his mobile phone, curious about who he was calling.’

Then the narrative switches back to Brady’s POV.

This is lazy writing and editing and unnecessary. All that needed to happen was something like this: ‘Brady glanced over his shoulder. Conrad was watching him. Doubtless wondering who he was calling. He swore under his breath. None of his business!’

Moral: double-check your POV stance.

If that switch is really important – divulging another character’s secrets or inner turmoil, think about making a ‘scene break’. Or convey the other character’s thoughts in dialogue and body and facial responses. Or consider using the character’s thoughts elsewhere, when it’s that character’s longer consistent POV. Usually, though, you can delete these POV switches without much loss to the narrative – and thus maintain a consistent link with the reader.

Editing tips - Don’t tell me and then show me

2011-09-26T03:45:00.000-07:00

The adage for a public speaker is ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to say, then I’ll say it, and then I’ll tell you what I’ve said.’ Fine, that kind of repetition is to register the salient facts with the audience.

Some writers tend to follow this adage, and I feel they’re doing themselves a disservice. They tell us what is about to happen, then show us. In fact, any dramatic effect has been lost.

Any number of books can be used to make this point – including my own, I’m sure. Anyway, take, for example, this excerpt from Lonesome Dove. I’m only using this book as I’ve just read it, and it’s well worth reading. (I’ve removed the character name, so as not to spoil it for any subsequent reader).

'He found them an hour later, already stiff in death. He had raced as fast as he could over the rough country, not wanting to take the time to follow the river itself but too unsure of his position to go very far from it. From time to time he stopped, listening for shots, but the dark plains were quiet and peaceful, though it was on them that he had just seen the most violent and terrible things he had ever witnessed in his life…

(three paragraphs later…) He could see the three forms on the ground as if asleep…'

So there’s half a page of dramatic, suspenseful writing, but it’s wasted because we already know the outcome. There’s probably a name for this literary device that anticipates and waters down the dramatic scene. I’d much rather delete that first sentence and show the reader through the character’s eyes and emotions how he came upon the three ‘stiff in death’.

Heroes of Fukushima get Award

2011-09-24T07:08:00.000-07:00

Those brave heroes of Fukushima who risked high radiation to battle the nuclear disaster in Japan have won Spain’s prestigious Prince of Asturias Concord prize this month.

On 11 March this year, the towering wall of water from the tsunami battered the cooling systems at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant, triggering reactor meltdown and leakage of radiation into the environment. Tens of thousands of people within a 20km radius were evacuated, but selfless workers endured high doses of radiation to combat the crisis.

The Prince of Asturias Award jury stated, ‘This group of people represent the highest values of the human condition by trying to prevent, through their sacrifice, a nuclear disaster… disregarding the grave consequences that this decision would have on their lives.’

As a result, many workers developed chronic pathologies such as arrhythmia and hyperventilation. The jury identified three groups of heroes of Fukushima: the 50 volunteer employees of the plant operator Tokyo Electric Power Company; the firefighters who worked to cool the reactors; and the Japanese armed forces who dumped water on the reactors from the air.

In conclusion, the jury said, ‘The behavior of these people has also embodied the values most deeply rooted in Japanese society, such as the sense of duty, personal and family sacrifice for the greater good and dignity in the face of adversity, humility, generosity and courage.’

The original fifty who stayed on at the plant swelled by a few hundred as time passed.

Winners of the Prince of Asturias Award are endowed with 50,000 euros, a sculpture and a diploma. The actual presentation will be made by Crown Prince Felipe, the prince of Asturias, later this year.

Lonesome Dove - a point of view

2011-09-17T03:44:00.000-07:00

Published in 1985, Lonesome Dove has rightly gained many accolades and is a firm favorite for thousands of readers. At almost 850 pages, it’s a mammoth account of a cattle drive from Texas to Montana, affecting a cast of twenty or so characters. Its size alone deterred me from reading it until now. (I’ve read War and Peace, Gone with the Wind, and the Pillars of the Earth, among other lengthy novels, so I’m not averse to long books; it’s just that I didn’t think I’d be held by a book about a cattle drive for over 800 pages. I was wrong – mainly because of the characters.)

A quotation at the front, from TK Whipple, Study Out the Land, perhaps sums up McMurtry’s intention. “Our past still lives in us … what they dreamed, we live, and what they lived, we dream.” McMurtry seems intent on debunking the myth of the cowboy; here we find they’re ordinary, not particularly bright, with simple empty lives in a gritty unforgiving world devoid of much culture. Yet, despite this, some of his characters grow into mythic proportions. Going on, though belabored by heart-rending grief, is heroic, and that’s what many in this book do: go forward, go on.

McMurtry employs the omniscient point of view (POV), beloved of so-called literary writers. Not for them the struggle to maintain consistent POV, rather they’d opt for the rather lazy head-hopping that thrusts the reader into the minds of several characters in the same scene. There’s nothing wrong with this, of course – though modern agents and publishers tend to prefer consistent character POV.

The main drawback with the omniscient POV is that the reader doesn’t get into any particular character’s head long enough to form a bond. So when a main character dies – and McMurtry does tend to kill off people the reader’s getting to like – the effect isn’t as devastating as it might have been if the character had been more deeply lodged in the reader’s psyche. By its very nature, omniscient POV isn’t as intimate as individual POV. The author is not only playing God, he’s letting you know he is.

That apart, I enjoyed the book immensely and was moved in parts. I felt that the creation of Gus McCrae is a classic – though inevitably we learn most about him from his voice, not his intimate thoughts.

So, don’t be put off by this tome’s length. It’s well worth reading. There’s a prequel and a sequel too!

54 nuclear reactors speckling the coast

2011-09-10T03:04:00.000-07:00

Contamination 6 months after the double whammy that hit Japan. It won't go away.

Food contamination from the nuclear plant is a big worry, besides affecting a lot of farmers’ businesses. Yet perhaps there’s good news too. Rice harvested this year in the Fukushima Prefecture went on sale this month, with farmers reassuring customers that it’s free from contamination...

I've been in contact with Yuri, an AP journalist and she has produced a very thoughtful and interesting despatch on this subject. There's no real alternative to nuclear energy for Japan. Here's the link to Yuri’s story:

http://m.yahoo.com/w/news_america/post-tsunami-japan-sticking-nuclear-power-012524603.html?back=%2Fworld%2F%3Fpage%3D3&.ts=1315621902&.intl=us&.lang=en&.ysid=2zRmu_94Ws0bsfRnRhDdZUnz

You can also gain further insight by reading Charlie Whipple's blog at
http://chucktyrell-outlawjournal.blogspot.com/

Hubris or political expediency?

2011-09-09T08:19:00.000-07:00

The future has arrived. Threat of nuclear meltdown was all too real in the last six months...

Japan’s heavy reliance on nuclear power is now seen as a serious mistake. Naturally, it’s easy to be wise after the event. And, to be fair, the damage sustained by the Fukushima nuclear plant was not in the Chernobyl league, serious though it is. Considering the tremendous forces that the plant withstood, the engineering safeguards seem to have worked – if only just. Hubris prompted siting many nuclear power stations on the cusp of the quake-prone archipelago. Maybe financial and political expediency had something to do with it.

Near the Fukishima Daiichi plant is the ghost town of Minamisoma, which suffered the loss of several hundred residents during the disaster. Then the remaining thousands were evacuated. Their lives and livelihoods are on hold until something can be resolved. How many more lives are in stasis – perhaps due to government intransigence?

See Charlie Whipple's website http://chucktyrell-outlawjournal.blogspot.com/ for a lot of detailed background and even moving images.

Japan's tragedy six months on

2011-09-05T09:34:00.000-07:00

September 9 is remembered for many deaths

9/11 is significant as the tenth anniversary of the mass murders of almost 3,000 people from many nations and religions perpetrated by Islamic fundamentalists. This terrible loss of life was due to man’s inhumanity to man.

As there are plenty of natural disasters that cut a swathe through countless innocent lives, it seems deplorable that anyone could contemplate killing innocent people simply because of a different value system. The terrorists’ twisted logic probably argues that no westerner is innocent, since they don’t follow a certain strict code of behaviour. Wars and conflicts happen for a variety of reasons, too complex to go into here; whether a quest for power or resources, or the imposition of ideals and beliefs. But there's another conflict - against nature...

9/11 also marks the six-month point of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami, a devastating double whammy from Nature against the islands of Japan that claimed over 20,000 missing or dead. In those months, like many, I’ve been moved by the resilience of the Japanese, particularly the many orphaned children, who strive against formidable odds to rebuild not only their lives but their nation.

I thought that in the lead up to this six-month marker, I’d open up some discussion on the effects and consequences of this natural catastrophe.

All author and publisher royalties go toward aid of the Japanese earthquake/tsunami survivors for these 2 e-books: WHEN THE FLOWERS ARE IN BLOOM by Nik Morton and A MATTER OF TEA and other stories by Charles T Whipple.

The Quiet Man

2011-09-05T09:23:00.000-07:00

TJ Miles is a member of the Torrevieja Writers Circle who wields a good observational and often humorous pen is also a successful artist, holding exhibitions in many countries. TJ' favourite film is John Wayne's The Quiet Man and his homage is a series of original paintings from that film. The exhibition was at the end of August in Dublin, but you can see the artwork online here:
http://www.the-quiet-man.net/49102938

Spanish Eye is a fabulous read

2011-05-31T07:18:00.000-07:00

Despite all the support 'systems' out there, writers can still seem alone. Even those with a few titles to their name. Strange, how stories affect people differently. I'm sure my book Spanish Eye has been read by several readers (not in the hundreds, to be truthful), but they seem reticent to comment; did none of the tales appeal, I begin to wonder. Then my doubts are removed when I see a rare but very welcome review.

Part of a new review of Spanish Eye on Amazon.com reads: "While reading these twenty-one exciting stories I experienced a myriad of emotions. I laughed, cried, and became incensed. I cheered and clapped, but most of all I felt a confirmation of universal values." Thank you, Elizabeth Sullivan, Ph.D.

That's the kind of review that makes a writer's day. For today, then, those self-doubts can go hang.

Dan Brown meets Dracula

2011-05-22T09:59:00.000-07:00

Just had a review of Death is Another Life on Amazon and Goodreads. I wish I'd thought of that snappy strapline!

Dan Brown meets Dracula. Robert Morton's Death is Another Life is a fast paced, intelligent read that kept my pulse pounding until the last page. Vampires are certainly enjoying a revival, but Morton's take is entirely fresh, certainly not like the ones so overdone today. - Heather K Savage, author.

So, thank you, Heather!

PS - This in the same week that a reader told me that once he started the prologue of The $300 Man, he couldn't put it down. He even read it while walking the dog!

When the Flowers are in Bloom

2011-05-06T08:42:00.000-07:00

I've taken a leaf out of Charles Whipple's book (see A Matter of Tea below) and will be donating all my royalties from this e-book to the survivors of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami. As will the publisher, Solstice Publishing.

My Foreword says, ‘Reading about the cataclysmic devastation that hit Japan in March, I was greatly moved by the attitude of the survivors. People of all ages went out of their way to help each other. Looting seemed a rare event. There was a determination to overcome this terrible adversity. Lives and towns would be rebuilt, eventually, even if it would take years. The people would endure.

‘It is this theme, the strength of the human spirit that I have attempted to capture over the years in many of my short stories. Some of these tales may seem sad or traumatic but, despite that, I trust that hope, love, honor and integrity shine through, transcending the blight of evildoers, disability and natural disaster.

‘As writers, we strive to walk in the shoes of our characters. Fiction writers lie in order to grasp the truth. In some small way, I hope these stories reveal truths about the human condition.’

Blurb

These twelve diverse stories travel far and wide, over the globe and through history, to examine the human condition. Whether a quest for atonement decades after the Second World War, or to repay a debt of honor, Japanese characters reveal their fragility. In Sarajevo, Bosnia or the grim projects of New York, life must go on.

Characters show us that disability is not a handicap. Forgiveness and redemption are human qualities the world is short of today, perhaps. They’re needed by those who disinter the past and graves from an old war in Spain. Birth and death – they’re here. So is honor, duty, courage and love.

All royalties which would normally go to the author and the publisher will go directly to help the Earthquake and tsunami victims.

The e-book can be ordered from the Solstice Publishing site (http://www.solsticepublishing.com/) or other online outlets, including Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/When-Flowers-are-Bloom-ebook/dp/B004ZG6IXS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=A317O7WZ1CN6AQ&s=books&qid=1304685711&sr=8-1

A Fistful of Legends - a view of the Old West

2011-04-14T11:13:00.000-07:00

Jeremy L.C. Jones is a fan of the Express Westerns anthologies, A Fistful of Legends and Where Legends Ride. So much so that he's invited 8 contributors to AFOL to respond to his questions about the Old West, mostly prompted by James Reasoner's concise and illuminating Introduction.

The link can be found here:
http://booklifenow.com/2011/04/stand-up-be-counted-a-fistful-of-legends-discuss-the-power-of-the-western/comment-page-1/#comment-8955

His booklife pages are worth visiting regularly, too.

Old Guns

2011-04-13T09:59:00.000-07:00

Just sold my fifth Black Horse Western to Robert Hale, Old Guns. A tale with a difference, as it moves from 1892 to 1859 to 1866 as the past catches up with a number of ageing ex-lawmen...

July, 1892.
Sam Ransom’s looking forward to his 62nd birthday with his wife and two children. Then he gets a telegram from the Bethesda Falls sheriff. His old partner Abner was mortally wounded, but before he died Abner left a note – the Meak twins were out to get Ransom and the others ‘because of what happened at Bur Oak Springs’. Their families weren’t safe, either. Ransom sets out to warn his old friends, Jubal, Rory and Derby. But he’s too late to prevent another brutal death.

Bur Oak Springs happened over two decades ago. The place was a ghost town even then. The Meak twins seem set on a crusade of vengeance, but why?

Ransom’s family is put in jeopardy and the ultimatum is clear. He and his friends must return to the ghost town again, to confront the Meak brothers and their gang. There’s a sense of déjà vu about this; yet, there are fresh revelations too.

It’s a showdown. The young guns against the old guns.

A Matter of Tea and other stories

2011-04-11T09:05:00.000-07:00

An e-book in aid of the Earthquake victims.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/52655

"Delicate as bisque china, dangerous as a snake den, Charles T. Whipple's writing resonates across the seven seas. Tales of sacrifice and honor that flick at the heart and encircle the soul." – Marsha Ward. Stories include: A Matter of Tea, The Dragon of Torigoe, The Floating World, Kamo Ike, From Chojagasaki Bay, Masakado's Revenge, and Bonus Sections.

Royalties are for relief efforts in Japan.

Charlie says:

"The title story of this collection is the same story that won the 2010 Oaxaca International Literature Competition. This is the first time the story has ever been published. And with it, other stories I have written that are set in Japan, plus a look at a brand new series called Chronicles of the Dark Mirror. A full chapter of the first book, The Seeker.

The only thing I do well is write. When the earthquake hit Kobe in 1995, friends and I hauled food and necessities from Tokyo to Kobe. But this time, the damage and the suffering makes Kobe look like a picnic. (I apologize to the people in Kobe for that simile but the destruction and the death toll and the homelessness in Tohoku is so vast, it defies description.) Aerial comparisons of before and after are shocking to say the least. And the only thing I can do is write.

So I decided to let you read these stories and help the people in Tohoku at the same time. Buy this book for a buck -- well, for 99 cents -- and I and my publisher will give all the income we receive from your purchases to worthy charities that are helping in Tohoku. I will personally pick the charities and I will personally report to you about what has been or is being done.

Help me out. Buy this book of stories about Japan. Get your friends to buy a copy, too. Spread the word. Help me help the victims of Japan's horrendous earthquake and tsunami."

You can also access it on Amazon, of course.

Death is Another Life

2011-04-11T08:48:00.000-07:00

Where there is light, there is shadow…

This cross-genre thriller is set in present-day Malta and has echoes from pre-history and also the eighteenth century Knights of Malta.

Malta may be an island of sun and sand, but there’s a dark side to it too. It all started when some fishermen pulled a corpse out of the sea... Or maybe it was five years ago, in the cave of Ghar Dalam?

Spellman, an American black magician, has designs on a handpicked bunch of Maltese politicians, bending their will to his master’s. A few sacrifices, that’s all it takes. And he’s helped by Zondadari, a rather nasty vampire.

Maltese-American investigative journalist Maria Caruana’s in denial. She can’t believe Count Zondadari is a vampire. She won’t admit it. Such creatures don’t exist, surely? She won’t admit she’s in love with him, either...

Detective Sergeant Attard doesn’t like caves or anything remotely supernatural. Now he teams up with Maria to unravel the mysterious disappearance of young pregnant women. They’re helped by the priest, Father Joseph.

And there are caves, supernatural deaths and a haunting exorcism.
Just what every holiday island needs, really.

My latest e-book, from Solstice Publishing.

Dateline Sendai, Japan

2011-03-25T03:49:00.000-07:00

This is a letter of thanks and rather uplifting news from a friend of a friend, which deserves a wider readership. The writer teaches English in Sendai.

Things here in Sendai have been rather surreal. But I am very blessed to have wonderful friends who are helping me a lot. Since my shack is even more worthy of that name, I am now staying at a friend's home. We share supplies like water, food and a kerosene heater. We sleep lined up in one room, eat by candlelight, and share stories. It is warm, friendly, and beautiful.

During the day we help each other clean up the mess in our homes. People sit in their cars, looking at news on their navigation screens, or line up to get drinking water when a source is open. If someone has water running in their home, they put out a sign so people can come to fill up their jugs and buckets.

Utterly amazingly, where I am there has been no looting, no pushing in lines. People leave their front door open, as it is safer when an earthquake strikes. People keep saying, "Oh, this is how it used to be in the old days when everyone helped one another."

Quakes keep coming. Last night they struck about every 15 minutes. Sirens are constant and helicopters pass overhead often.

We got water for a few hours in our homes last night, and now it is for half a day. Electricity came on this afternoon. Gas has not yet come on. But all of this is by area. Some people have these things, others do not.

No one has washed for several days. We feel grubby, but there are so much more important concerns than that for us now. I love this peeling away of non-essentials. Living fully on the level of instinct, of intuition, of caring, of what is needed for survival, not just of me, but of the entire group.

There are strange parallel universes happening. Houses are a mess in some places, yet then there’s a house with futons or laundry out drying in the sun. People lining up for water and food, and yet a few people out walking their dogs. And all happening at the same time.

Other unexpected touches of beauty: the silence at night. No cars. No one out on the streets. And the heavens at night are scattered with stars. I usually can see about two, but now the whole sky is filled.

The mountains at Sendai are solid and with the crisp air we can see them magnificently silhouetted against the sky. And the Japanese themselves are so wonderful. I come back to my shack to check on it each day, now to send this e-mail since the electricity is on, and I find food and water left in my entrance-way. I have no idea from whom, but it is there. Old men in green hats go from door to door, checking to see if everyone is OK. People talk to complete strangers, asking if they need help. I see no signs of fear. Resignation, yes, but fear or panic, no.

They tell us we can expect aftershocks, and even other major quakes, for another month or more. And we are getting constant tremors, rolls, shaking, rumbling. I am blessed in that I live in a part of Sendai that is a bit elevated, a bit more solid than other parts. So, up to now, this area is better off than others. Last night, my friend's husband came in from the country, bringing food and water. Blessed again.

Somehow at this time I realize from direct experience that there is indeed an enormous Cosmic evolutionary step that is occurring all over the world right at this moment. And as I experience the events happening now in Japan, I can feel my heart opening very wide. My brother asked me if I felt so small because of all that is happening. I don't. Rather, I feel as part of something happening that much larger than myself. This wave of birthing (worldwide) is hard, and yet magnificent.

Thank you again for your care and Love of me, with Love in return, to you all...

FFB - THE SIXTH LAMENTATION

2011-03-25T01:32:00.000-07:00

My Friday's Forgotten Book for today. The Sixth Lamentation by William Brodrick is a 2003 mystery novel. It takes place in 1996 and features Father Anselm, a monk at Larkwood Priory, Suffolk; he used to be barrister. For some reason Schwermann, a fugitive war criminal, seeks sanctuary here. Nearby, Agnes is dying and before she breathes her last she gives her granddaughter Lucy some notebooks, diaries that reveals secrets and hopes from Agnes’s days working in the French Resistance. Lucy’s interested in Pascal Fougeres, who seems connected in some way with Schwermann.

‘I wish he’d left the past alone. It’s not a safe place while it touches on the living.’

Threads that connect to the past, to tragic events in France in 1942. When there was betrayal and death. Apparently, the Church was involved in the cover-up of two escaping Nazi sympathisers who were responsible for the collapse of the resistance group called the Round Table – Agnes’s group. One of the hiding war criminals is discovered in Whitley Bay, my home town! There’s love and tragedy and forgiveness.

‘But it was too late. Certain things, once said, can change at a stroke the interior workings of love, leaving the outside architecture untouched.’

This is an interesting, intriguing and convoluted story about history and the truths disguised as falsehoods – and the reverse. Brodrick’s characters come across as ordinary flawed people, some with mysterious pasts, others ignorant of their connections with bloody events. The writing style is eloquent, the words moving.

‘Lucy, you’ll find as you get older you start seeing yourself from the outside. Particularly your childhood…’

Brodrick used to be an Augustinian friar then left the order to become a barrister.
Different. Recommended.

Hell Fire in Paradise - Review

2011-03-23T02:50:00.000-07:00

Regular readers will know that I admire Charlie Whipple’s writing. He writes as Chuck Tyrell. This book was published in 2010. While the cover painting is well executed, it doesn’t do the story or book any favours. And what a story!

Laurel Baker’s husband is killed in a freak accident and her two sons are burned to death in the blaze that destroys their home by Paradise Creek. Grief and guilt and a deep emptiness engulf her. So when logging magnate Dunn comes by to buy her land, it’s an opportunity to sell up and move on. Despite the darkness that has entered her soul, she won’t give up. Her men are buried on this land and it’s going to stay hers. When fence constructor and widower Finn and his two boys pass through Paradise, Laurel invites them to stay to fence in her land. This new family lightens her darkness.

Dunn is plain stubborn, however, and as his dreams seem to dissipate in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, he determines to be rid of Laurel Baker once and for all.

Tyrell has deftly sewn a tragic and moral tale. Even the bad guys aren’t all bad. Dunn keeps taking reluctant steps to his doom, shoved by circumstances and his pride. As ever, the subsidiary characters seem to live – whether that’s good neighbour Seth, friendly Apache chief T’Pone, or town marshal Webber. As I’ve come to expect, the book brings alive the flavour of the food, the smell of the campfires and the sounds and sights of the West. And there are plenty of telling phrases employed; for example, ‘Time passed as if dragged by logging chains.’ Thoughtful and apt.

This is a first for the writer, a female protagonist, and he captures the character well. She’s feminine yet tough, gentle yet firm. She’s a match for Dunn and his cronies. A match that she lights to blow them to hellfire in Paradise.

Recommended, but then you’d guessed I was going to say that.

The Giant book of the Western

2011-03-02T00:39:00.000-08:00

Published in 1991 as The Mammoth Book of the Western, this is a reprint dated 1995 with a slightly revised title.Superb cover!

Twenty-seven short stories. Great value. There are excellent tales by the late Elmer Kelton, Willa Catha, Max Brand, James Warner Bellah, Elmore Leonard, Jack Schaefer and Loren D Estleman – several of them actually Spur winners.

Of late, there’s been talk about how revisionist westerns now deal with the Indians in a more balanced way. Yet the issue of the noble savage had been around quite a while, as editor Lewis points out in his introduction. ‘… amplified by the decision of the Curtis magazine group that the Indian point-of-view must not be shown in its journals, a decision which stemmed from the audience outrage that greeted Zane Gray’s fictional attempt in 1922 to depict a love affair between a white woman and Amerindian man, in Ladies’ Home Journal. From the 1950s, however, the American Indian began to be more sympathetically – and realistically – portrayed in the popular western…’

This can be exemplified by the included stories of John G Neihardt’s ‘The Last Thunder Song’ (1907), Oliver La Farge’s ‘The Young Warrior’ (1938), Dorothy M Johnson’s ‘A Man called Horse’ (1949), and Steve Frazee’s excellent ‘Great Medicine’ (1953).

Recommended.

Vulture Gold - Review

2011-03-01T09:38:00.000-08:00

This was Chuck Tyrell’s debut novel, and he hit the ground running. In fact, his main character embarked on the run of death against fourteen Jicarilla Apache warriors. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The story begins with a gold heist – desperadoes stealing from the Vulture Mine bullion room gold bars totalling $100,000. Vulture City’s town marshal is Cherokee half-breed Garet Havelock, nicknamed Iron Knee because he his kneecap was shot off by his nemesis, Barnabas Donovan some years back. He may have a limp, but he’s rigid in his determination to uphold the law, whether that’s to protect the same Donovan from a lynch mob or to save a group of whites by agreeing to undergo the grueling death run.

Havelock’s life is complicated by the fact that the Governor’s daughter has been kidnapped. Beaten, shot, hurting, he vows to recapture the escaped Donovan, rescue the kidnapped girl, and recover the stolen gold. A tall order for any man. But Havelock isn’t any man. Vulture Gold’s scope is verging on the mythic. Havelock is a believable strong character, whose integrity can’t be bought or twisted.

Throughout this gripping narrative, you believe you’re there, in the heat and dust, mixing with the incorrigible Pappy Holmes, exchanging jibes with the Yavapai Indian, Horn Stalker, and outwitting the enigmatic yet quixotically honourable Juanito O’Rourke. There are characters aplenty in these pages, all fleshed out, not least Havelock’s faithful bucksin horse, Buck and the Apache chief, Puma. And there’s a girl, the half-sister of Donavan, just to create more confusion and send Havelock’s troubled heart beating that little bit quicker.

If you want a fast-paced, literate, authentic page-turning adventure, look no further. It also happens to be a western.

Lust to read will never dwindle with a Kindle

2011-02-25T10:48:00.000-08:00

Some said it was the end of an era. After five years as Chairman of the Torrevieja Writers' Circle (TWC), I was stepping down. My last day wielding the gavel was Wednesday, 23 February. There were about 28 members in attendance and several apologies. The first half was a normal session of reading and critique, then cakes, buns (thanks to the bakers)and drinks for the halftime period. There followed a presentation of a Kindle, contributed by the members. I was very touched by this thoughtful present. (Some whispered I've been a bit touched for ages, hence the puns...) Mary K (Hasta Luego)and Chris (Woe...)read out poems, which were both appreciated and struck several chords. Several - about 22 stayed behind to eat a menu del dia. A really good day, thank you all!

I finished off with a small 'thank you':

After five years as Chairman, I ask myself, why do we come to the TWC meetings? Presumably, we all like to read – whether books or magazines. Most of us were brought up with a love of books – either imparted by our parents or our teachers. Even in this age of the e-book, books play an important part in our lives. As Cicero said, ‘A room without books is like a body without soul.’

The Canadian-Japanese Professor of English, Samuel Hayakawa said, ‘In a very real sense, people who have read good literature have lived more than people who cannot or will not read… It is not true that we have only one life to live; if we can read, we can live as many more lives and as many kinds of lives as we wish.’

They’re talking about books. But we aren’t a reading circle. We strive to write. As E L Doctorow said, ‘Planning to write is not writing. Outlining a book is not writing. Researching is not writing. Talking to people about what you’re doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing.’

So it’s the placing of your bum on a chair and writing. No pressure, there then.
Still, as we know – no pressure, no diamonds.

Many of you have written for years and received little or no pecuniary reward, but that doesn’t stop you, nor should it. Richard Bach, who wrote Jonathan Livingston Seagull, says, quite rightly, ‘A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit.’

So, if it isn’t for the financial reward, why do we write? Is it because we must? Katherine Mansfield said, ‘Looking back, I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was, too. But better far to write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all.’ Maybe we want to make sense of the world, or understand ourselves, our past. Indeed, the life of every person is like a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another.

I think I’ve used this quotation from O Henry before, but make no apology for using it again: "A good story is like a bitter pill, with the sugar coating inside of it."

Maybe that’s it: we just like telling stories! To know is nothing at all; to imagine is everything. Of course, you don’t have to rely on imagination; you can reminisce about your past. You don’t have to write fiction. You can write memoirs and poems, rants and articles. It doesn’t matter, really, so long as you write. You write to be read, however. You write for an audience, even if that’s an audience of one or the circle members only. You don’t write for praise, though it’s always welcome. You write to affect others, to raise a laugh, stir an emotion, elicit a tear. You don’t write to slavishly copy your favourite authors. Each one of us is unique, and we see the world and humanity in different ways. The secret is that in our writing we invite the reader to see the world – our imagined world – as we see it.

In my five years of Chairmanship, I’ve been privileged to listen to a vast array of writing from the TWC members – poems that made me think or cry, stories that made me laugh and empathise, articles that made me see some aspect of life with a fresh eye. Many of you have already done it, but I would recommend that in your writing, make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.

Thank you for putting up with my terrible puns over the years. I’ll miss banging my gavel, and inevitably I’ll miss several gems that will be read out in future meetings, since I will no longer be a regular attendee. However, to use a final quotation, in the immortal words of the Terminator, ‘I’ll be back.’

ENDURING LOVE - Raymond Chandler

2011-02-18T11:10:00.000-08:00

It took over fifty years but on Valentine’s Day this year, author and screenwriter Raymond Chandler finally got his wish and he was reunited with his wife. I haven’t read much about this – it was in the Los Angeles Times, and I noted it in the Craig Brown column in the Daily Mail. Craig Brown is a humorous writer, often bursting pompous bubbles. This piece is both straight and quite moving.

Chandler’s wife Cissy was much older than him. She died in 1954 and he never really got over it. He wrote, ‘She was the best of my heart for thirty years, ten months and four days. She was the music heard faintly at the edge of sound.’ He died about three years later, but unfortunately his alcoholism prevented him from properly finalizing the paperwork that would ensure his last resting place was alongside his beloved Cissy.

Then in 2009 Chandler fan Loren Latker unearthed the expressed wish of Chandler to be buried with Cissy. It was a wish, and not legally binding. Loren hired Aissa Wayne, daughter of John Wayne, and after eighteen months of legalities, the Los Angeles judge gave the go-ahead for Cissy Chandler’s ashes to be moved to her husband’s grave in the San Diego cemetery.

A cortege of cars of the Philip Marlowe period, accompanied by Dixieland jazz band, made the ceremony most memorable, and actor Powers Booth, who played Marlowe, attended with other celebrities.

The shared headstone has a quotation from The Big Sleep: Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.

Coming soon - The Riflemen

2011-02-13T03:57:00.000-08:00

The third Solstice Western will be ready soon. Keep an eye out for its striking cover.

Two men - against an army!

Mexico, 1868. Two men. One white, one colored. Proficient in only one thing. Shooting with the long arm. The greatest long range weapon of the age. The .50 caliber Sharps rifle.

When the two ex-sharpshooters, Nick Guardeen and Thaddeus Johnston receive an invitation from the Arizona State Governor, they answered his call out of courtesy for a fellow veteran. But he offers them something they've never had before. Land. The prospect of their very own homestead leads them to accept a highly dangerous mission across the border into Mexico.

Hounded by a merciless gang of assassins, they press on into the desert redoubt of the self-styled and ruthless General Wyatt whose crazy ambition is nothing less than reinstating the Confederacy. Their only help is the beautiful Christine Lenoir. Her hatred for the General is the reason she risks all and remains a spy in the heart of the renegade fortress.

Alone in the wilderness, they need all their skills and technique to survive against Apaches, murderers and a reinstated army of rebel forces.

Cover painting/illustration by Tony Masero.His website is at http://www.artnillustration.com/tonymasero-weste.html

A Day in the Life...

2011-02-03T11:21:00.000-08:00

Banco Sabadell produces a quarterly magazine, Prestige. The latest issue, #46 Winter features A Day in the Life of... me, talking about my fondness for Spain and my short story collection Spanish Eye - tales from Leon Cazador, PI.

The magazine is around for about three months and is sent to the international clients of the bank group and can be found in all their banks - so that may be thousands. Doesn't mean they'll all want to get a copy of Spanish Eye, though.

Coincidentally, as well as mentioning those 21 tales about Leon Cazador, the magazine runs a feature about Leon, the medieval and photogenic Spanish city.

New job - Chief Ed

2011-02-01T08:36:00.000-08:00

Today is quite exciting for me, as I start work as the Editor in Chief of Solstice Publishing. Where before I was responsible for submissions to the new western imprint, now I’ve been hired to deal with all submissions. Fortunately, I have an excellent and keen team of editors.

Since first taking up an editing pen in the 1970s, I’ve always found it exciting to open a new submission, hoping to discover new voices and great stories. I hope to find a good number of really good stories within all genres published by Solstice.

Naturally and inevitably, there will be a goodly portion of material that ‘still needs work’. And that’s the point: anyone beginning in this writing business must keep writing regardless of rejection, striving to learn from other writers. They must persevere. A thick skin, inordinate patience and a good dollop of self-belief will help, too. Maybe a sense of humour helps too. A rejection isn’t personal, it’s subjective, merely an opinion. True, that opinion may be based on years of experience and knowledge of the market, but it’s still subjective. Many a household name author was rejected a lot of times. That’s not the point. A rejection should ask you at least to take a step back from that work and be self-critical: after time and further reflection, is it good enough or could it be improved?

A third Solstice Western – The Riflemen by Tony Masero – is being prepared, and he's just completed the cover, which is excellent. A couple more western novels are in the pipeline.

Submissions details.
Electronic only
American English spelling
Double quotes for speech
Indent paragraphs
No line spaces between paragraphs
Maximum 100,000 words
See website: http://www.solsticepublishing.com/pages/Submission-Guidelines.html
Manuscript with synopsis should be sent to:
Westerns – westernsubmissions.solstice@live.com
Everything else (see website for genres) – submissions.solstice@hotmail.com

The House Always Wins

2011-01-31T04:18:00.000-08:00

My short story, ‘The House Always Wins’ was the genesis of my second Black Horse Western, Last Chance Saloon. It can be found on p16 of the magazine New Coastal Press, which can be found at:

http://www.newcoastalpress.com/PDF/Coastal%20Press%20JANUARY%202011%20web.pdf

The magazine can be downloaded as a pdf and read at leisure; it will be replaced by the February edition in a couple of weeks or so.

Solstice Westerns - launch-02

2011-01-30T08:10:00.000-08:00

The second book from Solstice Westerns is Mead’s Quest, which is set in the early days of last century. The blurb tells of a poignant story that just also happens to be a western novel.

Idaho, 1906. Seventeen-year-old Jacob Mead was glad to see his pa buried. He wanted to be free of him and the ranch – but it wasn’t that simple. His past, painful though it was, held an astonishing surprise: an inheritance beyond his wildest dreams. It had something to do with a small leather ledger, the railroad and a family he’d never known. Leaving the ranch might help him locate his roots.

The clues were scant, the trail was cold, but the result of Jacob’s quest would be stunning.

Unfortunately, his sudden wealth attracted Neil Browning and his cousin, Randy, who had plans on relieving Jacob Mead of his money and his life. There will be bloodshed and tears before long.

Jacob’s story weaves movingly through the lives of an intriguing assortment of people, plunging him into danger, terrible anguish and heart-stopping delight as he tracks down members of his family during the awakening of the Twentieth Century.

Jacob’s heart is big and forgiving, it seems, which is just as well. His life wasn’t particularly easy or good, yet he transcends the pain and anguish to become a decent man; though he recognizes that he needs to better himself, get educated, and find his roots. His quest is long and full of surprises for the reader and him. It’s something he needs to do to find closure, something that many in his position were never able to accomplish.

“America's orphan trains delivered more than 150,000 children across the land to whomever would take them. Jacob Mead was one, taken in by an abusive man and his almost equally abusive wife. His struggle to survive, to become a responsible man, and to find his missing siblings forms the core of Mead's Quest. A startling tale of life and death as the West stumbled into the 20th century.” – Chuck Tyrell, international prize-winning author of Vulture Gold, Hell Fire in Paradise, and The Snake Den.

Mead’s Quest would make great historical reading for high school and middle school students. It presents history in a wonderfully entertaining format. Thanks for the enjoyable hours. — T. Michael, Lane Community College

A touching, sensitive, suspenseful story, I was moved to tears. — W. Jenkins

The plot is solid and fascinating. It is a story based on fact and it carries with it a strong feeling of reality. — D. Hays, Statesman Journal literary editor.

I must say that Mead’s Quest was one of the best books I’ve ever read. The characters had believable emotions, Neil Browning was the perfect bad guy, the setting, the time period, everything was just wonderful. I can’t wait for the next book to come out. — R Cox

While these books are only available in electronic format at present, there’ll be print versions published in about ten months.

Solstice Westerns - launch-01

2011-01-30T07:42:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, I was appointed as Chief Editor of the Solstice Western imprint of the US publisher Solstice Publishing. The first two e-books are now available from online bookstores, with more on the way. Each cover image maintains the feel of the imprint while also promoting the strong storylines. You can order either or both at the links on the left.

These tales are not your typical westerns with men in white and black hats shooting it out. There are many facets to both. Take the blurb for The Snake Den, for example.

Arizona, 1882. Falsely accused of theft, 14-year-old Shawn Brodie is sent to serve three years in the Hellhole called Yuma Territorial Prison. Lamb to the slaughter, maybe?

The Mexican Zapata wants to stick him with a knife, the warden wants him to mend his thieving ways, and the sergeant of the guard wants to get into Shawn’s pants. If he won’t do what Sergeant Tarkington wants, he’ll end up in the Snake Den, a cube of iron straps hung from the ceiling of a dark cave. If he doesn’t do what Zapata says, he’ll end up with a nail sticking out of his eye. If he can’t convince the warden that he’s not a thief, he’ll spend his days tromping Colorado River mud to make adobe bricks.

Is his young life going to be made up of beatings, rape, and incarceration in the deadly Snake Den? The odds seem stacked against young Shawn ever getting out of Yuma Prison alive.

The Mexicans hate the whites, the Chinamen and blacks stay out of the way, and the whites fight among themselves. Somehow, Shawn must learn how to defend himself, and chance throws him in with Shoo Lee, a cellmate, an Oriental proficient in the barehanded fighting technique Kara Ti. Perhaps if he becomes Shoo Lee’s disciple he can endure...

Advance review copies have picked up good comments, too.
“Remarkable. A page turning thriller set in a frontier prison where a boy convict learns about the tough world of survival as he grows into a man. Told with gritty courage and honesty – a surprising blend of East and West, it’s a coming-of-age story like none you’ve ever read.” – Corinne Joy Brown, author of McGregor’s Lantern, Sanctuary Ranch, and Come and Get it!

“Chuck Tyrell has brought authenticity and poignancy to a western with a difference...”
– Jack Martin, author of The Ballad of Delta Rose.

I’ll feature the second book in a separate post. While these books are only available in electronic format at present, there’ll be print versions published in about ten months.

Absence

2011-01-30T07:39:00.000-08:00

Sorry I haven't updated this blog for several weeks. While the festive season might have been an excuse, it was only part of the story. Both my wife and I succumbed to a popular bug - we wre not alone! - and were laid low for two or three weeks. Jen is only now recovering her voice - a bind, since she loves to sing... Then we were host to our old friends from UK for two weeks...

Anyway, excuses over.

Maybe posts will appear more regularly from now on.

Nik

A Christmas Story

2010-12-24T11:19:00.000-08:00

OUTCAST

She came out of the godforsaken planet's seasonal mists, struggling under her immense weight. She wasn't welcome. Abraham Hertzog didn't like company. That's why he had settled in this inhospitable place, a last fuelling stop at the rim of the galaxy: a bleak station, where sand and dust vied with alien plants, neither succeeding for long to cling onto the barren rocky landscape. Planetary storms were too frequent. Which reminded him: he was due to telecast Headquarters. It was a full 3 months since he last ordered victuals.

His metal shack abutted onto the side of a towering ultramarine cliff. The rock was heavily pitted, from recent meteor showers and severe gales: he used the nearest caves for storage. But now stocks were running low.

He squinted out the porthole, past the thousand-meter landing pad, the fuelling depot and its attendant robot-mechanics.

As the green six-legged creature stumbled onto the tarmac, a robot wheeled toward her and solicitously helped her to large ungainly feet. Even from this distance, Abraham could detect the gratefulness in her protruding eyes. They were so damned trusting!

Perhaps that was why he didn't want to see her?

Guilt?

Not a thousand kilometres to the west there had been a luxuriant mauve forest, sprouting from purple springy grass. Now there were just a few tree-stumps; the rest was overbuilt by settlers. When mankind seeded the stars, he also brought diseases, pollution, greed, prejudices and weapons... The aliens were decimated, the survivors now outcasts on their own planet.

The robot helped the creature to the door, which chimed.

‘Just a minute,’ Abraham called, ‘Oy veh!’

The airlock whispered and he stepped out of the air-conditioned atmosphere onto the metal veranda. The air was thick with dust, the ozone crackling. ‘What is it?’

But he needn't ask. The pregnant creature was exhausted, and near term.

Against his better judgement, he directed the robot to bring her round the back and made room in the half-empty storage cave.

‘Stay here with her,’ he instructed the robot, ‘while I get some halvah.’

Later, as he dialled Headquarters about those victuals, he looked out the rear port.

The creature had managed a guttural approximation of English: her name was Yram; she had voraciously devoured his offered confection and now lay contented, watched by a number of mechanic and haulage robots. His attention was suddenly drawn to the green bundle of limbs swathed in sacking as the telecast speaker announced: ‘Merry Christmas, Abe!’

And he looked up at a star, twinkling overhead, brighter than any he'd seen on his journeys through the Milky Way.

‘Yes, of course. It would be, wouldn't it?’ he mused and realised that perhaps this planet wasn't God-forsaken after all.

Happy Christmas to all readers of this blog.
Nik

2010-12-21T03:27:00.000-08:00

Beating the snow and ice, my gratis 3 copies of the Linford Large Print book The $300 Man arrived today. I like the cover - it features a train, which is significant since the book begins with a train robbery. And the standing gunman could conceivably have a hook on his left hand, since it's hidden!

Interesting to see how Linford have managed to shorten the blurb; a good abridgement. The book, of course, is complete and unabridged.

The hardcover blurb:
What’s a life worth? $300, maybe. Half-Mexican Corbin Molina lost a hand during the Civil War but he has adapted. Now he’s on a mission to Walkerville. On the way, he prevents a train robbery and finds an old friend. Corbin always carries $300, which is significant, since that’s what he was a paid as substitute soldier for the Union.

When Corbin starts asking questions about Walkerville’s law and administration, he discovers that the Walker family, who seem to have bought and paid for loyalty and position, dominates the townspeople. Inevitably, Corbin’s questions attract plenty of trouble. And his past emerges to confront him during a tense showdown that threatens not only him but also his newfound love.

The Linford blurb:
What’s a life worth? $300, maybe. Corbin Molina lost a hand during the Civil War and always carries $300 – his pay as substitute Union soldier. He’s on a mission to Walkerville. When he arrives Corbin investigates their law and administration and finds that the Walker family dominates the townspeople and his questions bring trouble. His past emerges to confront him during a tense showdown that threatens not only him but also his newfound love.

Pleased to see that The $300 Man is 4th in the book depository Black Horse Western bestseller table, for December:
http://tainted-archive.blogspot.com/2010/12/western-bestsellers-at-book-depository.html

Editor’s pet peeves-01: what’s empty?

2010-12-19T08:25:00.000-08:00

From time to time, I’ll offer a few (possibly pedantic) comments on what tends to grate slightly when reading novels or works in progress.

‘Rossiter and Jacaud sat at a table… a bottle of cognac between them. Otherwise the place was empty, except for Mercier, who stood behind the bar counter polishing glasses.’ – A fine night for dying, Jack Higgins (1969).

Otherwise the place was empty, except for… Why not simply write: the only other person was Mercier…?

I’ve seen this example time and again, ‘empty, except for…’ The place wasn’t empty, since there were at least two other people in there. What constitutes full? When is it half-empty? This phrasing is often used by new writers who haven’t mastered critical self-edit yet.

I just happened to read this book yesterday so there’s no intention of slighting fellow Geordie-born Jack Higgins – a writer who has published over 60 novels and sold 250 million books and doubtless given pleasure to even more. Some years ago, a Sunday supplement journalist castigated him for unoriginality and regurgitating much of his material – whether gun lore, dialogue, events or even characters. Probably written by a disgruntled author who hadn’t achieved Higgins’s success. When you’ve written so many books, it’s quite possible some repetition creeps in. For example, Tarzan kept tripping over lost cities and civilizations in Africa, so that it seemed that the continent was overpopulated with them, but that didn’t detract from reader enjoyment.

It’s a strange coincidence but in the above book, Higgins writes: ‘Rossiter’s… hand dipped into his pocket and emerged clutching the Madonna. There was a sharp click and the blade jumped into view.’ And in Bad Company(2003), which is advertised at the rear of this book, there’s the passage: ‘(Marco) keeps an ivory Madonna in his pocket. When you press the button, the blade jumps out and shears right up under the chin.’ But, so what?

The majority of his early books are competent thrillers, though these days it’s unlikely they’d get published. And maybe that’s a fault of the present system; Higgins wrote 35 books before his breakthrough The Eagle Has Landed. Few, if any, publishers would now consider nurturing talent for that period of time. Yet he tells good fast-paced stories, is prolific – and popular. Go figure.

Go Green!

2010-12-18T07:10:00.000-08:00

November 5, 1959. I was eleven and my mother said I could have some money to spend on fireworks for Bonfire Night. Mr Andrews, the newsagent, sold fireworks as well as periodicals, stationery and books. I gave it some thought and convinced her the money allocated would be better spent on a handful of comics. ‘All right, make your selection,’ she told me, and stipulated the amount I could spend.

I was spoilt for choice from the rack. I’d never read or bought any of the super-hero comics available, though I’d seen them in the rack. I’d encountered black and white reprints of Pecos Bill – one episode gave me nightmares, apparently; the monochrome Roy Rogers comic was a regular too, but hitherto I bought and read British comics – Eagle, Express, Lion, Hotspur, Tarzan adventures, Comet and so on. Full colour on every page was a new experience.

My handful consisted of Strange Adventures, Mystery in Space, My Greatest Adventure, World’s Finest, Brave and the Bold, Showcase and Our Army At War.

And that night I got to see rockets blazing in the sky from other people’s back gardens, too. Win-win.

So began a long – and doubtless costly – fascination with American comics. I had a number of favourites, inevitably. One of these was Green Lantern. The covers by Gil Kane were great. I was introduced to the silver age version, (not appreciating there’d been a golden age GL!), this one created by John Broome, in Showcase 22 – ‘Menace of the Runaway Missile’, Sep/Oct 1959. GL’s Showcase outing was obviously popular, because he subsequently featured in his own bi-monthly title. Odd, that #1 didn't have No.1 on the cover, though...

Over the years, I avidly collected as many titles from the DC universe as I could afford – and find. GL#5 proved elusive: I found one copy, but couldn’t buy it at the time as I needed that money for a Scouting event. Many years later, I read a reprint version.

In the 1970s, I sold quite a number of comics from my collection, including GL#1 for the sum of 8GBP, which was quite a lot then, since it cost me that to purchase a replacement car tyre after a puncture on the same day!

Now, at long last, the Emerald Gladiator is going to feature in a movie. The teasing trailer for next summer’s release suggests they might even do him justice.

Countdown to Centenary-01: Noble Savage

2010-12-16T11:32:00.000-08:00

To see him today, it is difficult to credit that John Clayton was born in 1872. His entire life, from its bizarre beginning until this present time, has been filled with mystery, adventure, wonder and remarkable coincidence. His father was John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, who had recently married the Honourable Alice Rutherford. It was a brilliant match. In 1872 Clayton took his wife with him on a secret investigation of conditions in a British west coast African territory. They took passage in the barkentine Fuwalda and were never seen again.

The facts came out many years later. The crew of the Fuwalda mutinied and set ashore on a sandy African beach both John Clayton and his young pregnant wife. They were left with two crates of belongings, a rifle and some ammunition. Bravely facing up to the terrors of a strange primitive land, Clayton built a small hut among the trees and there they retired to relative safety, frightened by the jungle noises. Nearby, huge apes congregated, issuing terrible grunts and growls: these creatures had their own language and called themselves mangani; they were more hominid than gorilla, it seemed. Clayton wrote in his diary all his feelings, his fears and hopes. Alice gave birth to a boy, John.

It was shortly after John’s birth that a gorilla, Kerchak, attacked the couple and they barely escaped with their lives. However, a blow to the head permanently affected Alice’s view of her world: while she cared for her baby, she did not step outside the hut again, thinking herself in London. Some time later, she died while the infant slept. At about this time a female gorilla, Kala, had lost her own infant, falling to its death from the emerald canopy of the rainforest. Hearing the wailing sound of John Clayton mourning the death of his wife, the gorillas approached the hut. Kerchak barged in and killed the English Lord. But in that same instant Kala snatched up the baby from its makeshift crib, dropped her dead infant in John’s place, and rushed out with the infant John clutched to her breast.

Acting as baby John’s mother, Kala was very protective of him. The baby was called Whiteskin, Tarzan in the mangani language.

Little Tarzan survived by chance rather than his prowess, though his young mind quickly outstripped the mental capacity of his fellow apes. Being isolated from humankind, he was fortunate not to suffer any diseases. The Gabonese do not consider a man sick unless he has at least four diseases at once: malaria, filaria, intestinal worms and tuberculosis.

The next nineteen years of Tarzan’s life were to be spent largely in the interior of the closed-canopy rainforest. In his formative years he found the hut built by his father and puzzled over the children’s alphabet books, the mirrors and combs, the shoes. On seeing the depictions of men and women in the picture-books, he yearned to see others like him, for he knew that he did not resemble the rest of his tribe of apes. Eventually, he had his wish when Kulonga, a native, set out to hunt and slew Kala with an arrow. Tarzan learned all about grief then and later took the life of Kulonga with his father’s knife he borrowed from the hut: he learned about revenge, also. From that time on, he haunted Kulonga’s village, sometimes watching the tribesmen getting drunk, or fighting with other tribes, or maltreating their women or prisoners.

A child of nature, Tarzan discovered the world was not an Eden. It was harsh, filled with threat and danger from many sources. He quite understood the natural predators’ urge to seek food, but he could not fathom the sense of inflicting pain on an enemy simply because he was your enemy.

In 1891 a scientific expedition landed near to the Clayton hut. It comprised Professor Porter and his daughter Jane, her fiance William Clayton and a Frenchman, D’Arnot. Tarzan by now wore a breech-cloth to more resemble a MAN seen in his books. He rescued Jane from a gorilla and later saved D’Arnot from a savage tribe.

Having taught himself to write after a fashion in English, Tarzan learned to speak in French with D’Arnot’s aid. The party returned to America, with Tarzan. Here, D’Arnot sought help to identify Tarzan’s background and origins. When the news finally arrived that Tarzan was the inheritor of Greystoke, Tarzan kept the truth secret because he did not want to deprive Jane, William Clayton’s intended, of such wealth. His self-sacrifice for love of Jane meant he’d return to his beloved jungle.

Once back in the jungle, Tarzan became the chief of the warrior tribe of Waziri. With the Waziri he discovered the fabled lost city of Opar, whose vaults were filled with gold and jewels. In the meantime, Jane Porter’s fiancé William died before they could be married and she was reunited with Tarzan. They were married. Tarzan finally came into his true inheritance as Lord Greystoke.

Many adventures befell the couple. They had a boy, Jack, who adopted the name Korak – mangani for ‘killer’ – when he took to the jungle. The Waziri lands became a protected reservation. Tarzan befriended a young lion, Jad-bal-ja, who became a staunch ally. And Tarzan adopted Nkima, a mischievous monkey.

During the Second World War Lord Greystoke enlisted in the RAF and was a successful pilot. He also served in Asia. On their travels, Tarzan and Jane discovered a supply of immortality pills, and this goes some way to explain why John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, Tarzan of the Apes, together with his wife and family, is still alive today, some 138 years after his birth.

It was decided by Lord Greystoke that if he was to preserve privacy for himself and his people – the Waziri, his family and the animals of his reservation – then he must cultivate a fictional persona. Also, he had no wish to be hounded for the secrets of immortality, or indeed the vast riches of Opar. To this end, he obtained the services of an impecunious writer, Edgar Rice Burroughs, who fictionalised certain sections of the Tarzan epic and juggled the chronology of events to cause confusion. The hollywoodization of the tale moved the true events even further from reality.

The above is a ‘brief biography’ of an icon. It’s based on the first two books, Tarzan of the Apes (1912) and The Return of Tarzan (1913) by Edgar Rice Burroughs, plus Tarzan Alive by Philip Jose Farmer (1972). Recommended reading.

2012 is the centenary of the publication of Tarzan of the Apes. It’s about time this great character was restored to his former glory, not as an adventurer in children’s fiction but as an exciting pulse-pounding adult hero.

Tarzan is the Trademark of Edgar Rice Burroughs Inc.

BLIND JUSTICE AT WEDLOCK

2010-12-14T10:25:00.000-08:00

Latest Black Horse Western available on 30 May 2011. Can be ordered now! Even if Amazon has my penname reversed as Morton Ross...

The blurb goes something like this:

Clint Brennan interrupts two men kidnapping his wife Belle and he’s shot and left for dead. When he recovers his senses, his wife has gone and he discovers he is blind. Most men would give up there and then, but not Clint. Astride his donkey, he sets out with his faithful dog Mutt on the trail of his wife’s abductors.

Belle believes her husband is dead. She’s rescued, but not by Clint. Her saviour is protective and takes her to his grand home in Wedlock where she meets the charming housekeeper, Mrs Kilbride. Maybe here, they say, she can forget her husband and start a new life…

On the trail, Clint is waylaid by robbers but soon learns to combat enemies at night, when darkness is his ally. Distracted and delayed, he’s still determined to locate his missing wife.

A tale of betrayal and lies, it will all end at Wedlock, amidst flames and bullets.

Friday’s Forgotten Book: The Phoenix Tree by Jon Cleary

2010-12-09T11:07:00.000-08:00

This was published in 1984. Cleary was a successful Australian author, his most famous book being The Sundowners, which is excellent. According to the blurb, seven of his books have been filmed, no mean achievement. And his Peter’s Pence was awarded the Edgar Allen Poe prize for the best crime novel of 1974. Despite the crime novel award, he wasn’t pigeonholed as a genre writer: he was a novelist and could write about anything. Not so easy, these days – publishers look for ‘brands’…

In the closing days of the Second World War, two friends, Kenji Minato and Tom Okada – the blurb mistakenly calls him Akada! – are working for the US Navy and become undercover agents in Japan, intent on identifying the members of the secret Peace Faction. Tom’s contact is Natasha Cairns, the widow of an English agent and radio-operator. They fall in love, but are constantly at risk from exposure, the Allied bombing raids and the kampei, the Japanese military police. An added complication is the unexpected appearance of Natasha’s concubine mother, a marvelous creation.

The Phoenix Tree is mainly written in the omniscient POV, and suffers from that by frequently jumping from one character’s thoughts to another’s in the same scene. It’s doubtful if the novel would find a publisher these days, judging by the masses of advice out there concerning POV etc. Yet the scope of the novel demands this approach, because Cleary is not only writing about individuals, he’s conveying the massive and horrendous cataclysm of the two A-bombs, which, naturally, could not be related from a single character’s viewpoint.

Cleary depicts the subtleties of Japanese customs and sense of honor and has a good novelist’s turn of phrase: ‘The trees and shrubs were loaded with the slow green bullets of spring; but there was still the dead perfume of ash in the air.’ There’s also humor: ‘She was an ideal wife for a general; she would have driven a pacifist off to war.’

A love story and a page-turning novel about spies and the dying days of an empire.

The story of a story

2010-12-08T10:55:00.000-08:00

Stories don’t occur in a vacuum. They may begin with an idea, then some gestation is often necessary for the back-brain to formulate a storyline and create suitable characters. I’m always telling new writers never to throw away work, it can always be rejuvenated; the idea may be sound, but maybe the execution or timing are wrong. My story published in BTAP, ‘Don’t Drink and Drive’ is a case in point.

Intent on extrapolating the drink driving laws of the time, I wrote the first draft in 1972, one of several science fiction stories I put into a collection that failed to find a publisher. Undaunted, I sent it out as an individual tale, and, due to its content, targeted Penthouse and Mayfair. It was rejected, the comments from Mayfair on January 22, 1973 stating, ‘I regret that it is not for me because it pretty nearly covers all the sub-conscious male fears there are.’ I was quite pleased with that, even if it was a rejection! I’d evoked a response from a reader…

I guess life got in the way, because the next target magazine was not approached until 1976. This went to Men Only and was accepted by letter of commission dated October 26, 1976 for the sum of 90GBP, which was a quite a bit of money in those days: ‘We do have a lot of fiction in stock at the moment, so I cannot give you any idea when the story will appear.’ By 1980 it still hadn’t appeared, along with another Men Only acceptance entitled ‘Legacy’, so they both ended up in some kind of limbo and never emerged and naturally I never got paid.

Inevitably, since that time, things have moved on. Originally, the radio announcement was about the ‘latest Concord disaster’ and the reigning monarch was Charles. Maybe I was a little impatient after four years of waiting: in 1980 I was aware of impending changes to the breathalyzer tests and pointed this out to Men Only’s editor, suggesting revisions before publication, but didn’t get a reply.

Considerable gestation time ensued for this story; that is, it gathered dust in a drawer: it wasn’t even on a computer disc, it was that old!

Finally, in 2008, at last having successfully had three novels published, I started putting together a collection of sci-fi/horror/ghost tales – many of them published – and revisited ‘Don’t Drink and Drive’. And the truth is that in UK it’s presently 80 milligrams of alcohol per 100 milliliters of blood; for a dystopian future, I guess it should be even lower than I suggest, maybe even 20mg – if allowed at all! I imagine zero tolerance isn’t too far off, in fact.

That’s roughly 30 years of gestation time. So I’m very pleased that David Cranmer liked it enough for his webzine. It was always a favorite of mine and now, after so long, it has found a readership.

So: never throw that story away. Never give up. And check your facts. Oh, and don’t drink and drive…

Beat to a Pulp - Don't Drink and Drive

2010-11-29T02:39:00.000-08:00

This week’s Beat to a Pulp webzine features my story, ‘Don’t Drink and Drive’.

Excerpt
His car's all-seeing eye on the roof spotted them: only a speck on his view-screen. Its shadow spitting blackly across the dull straight road, the motorway patrol helicopter encroached.

He'd heard of the searching equipment they employed to deter drunken drivers. A kind of sniffer capable of detecting alcohol on a person's breath at five hundred meters in ideal conditions.

Sweating, Padraig unwrapped a stick of chewing gum purportedly able to dispel forty percent alcohol from the bloodstream in five minutes.

He slowed. Maybe they're only patrolling? Act normally, stick to the 110 kph limit.

The bulbous glass egg swerved, angled down, rotors chomping air, its haunting blue-flashing siren peeling across the empty night. The alco-probe had scented him! Four minutes to go before the gum would work—he hoped. He depressed the acceleration button, veered into the fast lane, but neglected to look behind.

Find it at http://www.beattoapulp.com/pulp.htm.

And while you’re there, please check out the archive stories. You’ll find a broad collection of good stories – science fiction, horror, crime noir, western, many with twists in their tails.

Also, the editors of Beat to a Pulp webzine have published a print anthology, appropriately titled Beat to a Pulp Round One, featuring 27 gripping quality tales in 380 pages. You can buy it by clicking on the link on the left, or from Amazon and elsewhere.

Noir review - The Kill-Off

2010-11-17T10:01:00.000-08:00

THE KILL-OFF
Jim Thompson (1957)

Ironic that not one of Thompson’s 29 novels was in print in his country (USA) when he died in 1977, at the age of 71. His reputation has since been restored, following on from several of his books being filmed, notably The Getaway and The Killer Inside Me.

Over the years, Luana Devore has used her acid tongue to spread gossip, innuendo and falsehoods about many individuals. She’s living on borrowed time – but who will commit the act and rid the world of the vile woman? The voices are individual and power the story forward to its stark conclusion.

This book is a bravura effort: twelve chapters, each in the first person by a different character from a backwater New England town, Manduwoc. There’s Kossmeyer, the lawyer; Ralph Devore, downtrodden husband of Luana, seeks solace with Danny Lee, the singer; Rags McGuire, the washed up jazz musician employing Danny; Bobbie, wayward son of Doc James Ashton; Hattie, the Negro maid and lover of the doctor and mother of Bobbie; Goofy Gannder, the drunk and incompetent; Henry Clay Williams, county attorney up for re-election; Myra Pavlov, inadequate lover of Bobbie; Pete Pavlov, builder and father of Myra and duped out of thousands by the Devores.

This Corgi paperback(1988) cover accurately depicts the singer Danny Lee, Ralph Devore and Rags McGuire.

BEAT TO A PULP - Round One

2010-11-11T11:36:00.000-08:00

Just received my copy of Beat to a Pulp - Round 1 anthology and it's a handsome beast, weighing in at 380 pages with an intimidating cover. Editors David Cranmer and Elaine Ash have assembled a scintillating selection of writers, among them Charles Ardai (founder of Hard Case Crime), award-winners Hilary Davidson, Sophie Litlefield and the mysterious Anonymous-9, Ed Gorman,mutliple western authors Chap O'Keefe and Ian Parnham, and the legendary Robert J Randisi and James Reasoner. Novelist, prolific auhtor and blogger and columnist for Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Bill Crider supplies a foreword and comments: '...Nik Morton's "Spend It Now, Pay Later", a chilling near-future tale that makes the "arm and a leg" intrest rate all too real.'

Order this through Amazon or other online bookstores or from your friendly bookshop. 27 tales about drifters, killers, cutlass-swinging pirates, slaughterous simians - pulp fiction with punch.

A Fistful of Legends - Swedish review

2010-10-07T10:31:00.000-07:00

Swedish magazine Swingbed:
http://hangmattan.site90.net/tidningen/hangmattan131.pdf
page 5:

A FISTFUL OF LEGENDS
Edited by Nik Morton
Express Westerns 2009
Soft cover

Länge trodde jag att den gamla ”hederliga” wild weststoryn
var död och begraven för många år sedan. Det var under min
ungdomstid på 50- talet som man fortfarande gav ut wild west romaner,
ja ända in i 70-talet rentav. De kom ut på Wennerbergs förlag och själv
samlade jag på den i mitt tycke baste av dem alla – Max Brand eller som hans riktiga namn var Fredrick Faust. En av världens mest produktiva författare med
böcker i praktiskt taget alla genrer. Han var krigsreporter och
blev skjuten under andra världskriget. Hans Stora hjälte hette
Jim Silver.

Här har engelsmannen Nik Morton sammanställt 21 nya wild west stories,
med varierande innehåll. Här finns faktiskt alla varianter på en bra western
och för alla älskare av den idag nästan utdöda genren är den här boken ett
absolut måste. Själv har Nik bidragit med en novell under namnet Ross Morton.
Varför inte göra ett besök på några av websidorna Nik tipsar om:
www.halebooks.com www.blackhorsewesterns.org
www.blackhorsewesterns.com
Iwan

Rough translation:
For a long time I thought that the old "Honest" wild west story was dead and buried for
many years ago. It was during my youth of the 50s that the Wild West novels were published, even
well into the 70s. They came out on Wenner's publishing company imprint and I collected them.
In my opinion, the best of them all was Max Brand (real name Fredrick Faust). One of the world's
most prolific writer with books in virtually every genre. He was a war reporter and
was killed during WWII. His great hero was Jim Silver.

Here the Englishman Nik Morton has compiled 21 new wild West stories, with varying content.
They are actually all variants of a good western, and for all lovers of today’s almost extinct genre,
this book is an absolute must. Nik has contributed a short story under the name Ross Morton.
Why not visit some of the websites where Nik is spreading the word: www.halebooks.com, www.blackhorsewesterns.org, www.blackhorsewesterns.co

Spanish Eye - a review

2010-09-05T13:18:00.000-07:00

Reviews are generally thin on the ground. Even moreso for e-books, or so it seems. So I was pleased to find one on the Solstice website regarding Spanish Eye. From Charles Whipple, no less:

Nik Morton has used his storytelling skills to ultimate effect. Leon Cazador offers not only the experience of righting wrongs and helping the society become a safer place, he also spends time ruminating about the whys and wherefores of societal maladies. The book is a good read, for the entertainment, of course, and for the social commentary as well. Highly recommended.

Much appreciated, Charlie.

Boom in e-books – my way forward

2010-08-28T12:00:00.001-07:00

Reported in City & Finance, Daily Mail, August 27: The CEO of Bloomsbury, Nigel Newton is looking forward to tapping into the boom in digital books. ‘Newton believes Britain is “one year behind America”, where e-book sales trebled in the first six months of 2010 to £120m. The report ends, ‘With a £33m warchest, Newton is looking for further acquisitions after beefing up its non-fiction wing following a spate of recent takeovers.’ So small-to-medium publishers had better watch out. I’d like to think his acquisitions would be new authors rather than other publishers, but maybe I’m being a bit naive there.

Anyway, I’m embracing the e-book. I’ll still buy and treasure printed books and wherever possible I’d like to see and hold my books in print, but e-books have their advantages too.

In light of the above, I’ve accepted the job offer of editor made by Gary Dobbs, the chief western editor for Solstice Publishing (pictured right in pensive mode).

Gary achieved the impossible by getting his Black Horse Western Tarnished Star to outsell any other Hale westerns and in record time. His Tainted Archive blog is worth visiting regularly too. He has constantly banged the drum for a western revival in books. And he is the driving force in getting the Edge gritty western series by George G Gilman into e-book format (published by Solstice). This western line for Solstice is shaping up into an exciting project and I’m honoured and pleased to be a part of it.

Spanish Eye - front cover story

2010-08-26T08:23:00.001-07:00

Pleased to see that The New Coastal Press monthly magazine is featuring one of the 21 stories in Spanish Eye - a shorter version - plus plugging the book. The nice thing about it is that the magazine's cover illustration is for the story, 'Adopted Country'.

For a couple of weeks, you can access the magazine at the link shown below. If you want to read it at leisure, then I'd advise you download it. The story is on p16.

http://www.newcoastalpress.com/PDF/New%20Coastal%20Press%20Agosto%202010_web.pdf

Spanish Eye Talks Radio

2010-08-21T05:46:00.000-07:00

On Thursday afternoon, I had a telephone interview to talk about Spanish Eye and the character Leon Cazador. It was on The Hannah Murray Show, Talkradioeurope.

Extract of Talkradioeurope listing:
19 August
2:20 - Nik Morton - Author of 'Spanish Eye' - Private Investigator Leon Cazador is half-English, half-Spanish and wholly against the ungodly. He is indeed a man driven to hunt down felons of all kinds, to redress the balance of good against evil. Sometimes, Cazador operates in disguise under several aliases. In his adventurous life, he's witnessed many travesties of justice, so as a private investigator, he will use his skills.

http://www.talkradioeurope.com/

There's a 'listen again' button on the website but it may be a while till the August interviews are loaded. It was an interesting experience. A TV interview is scheduled for early September.

Spanish Eye published!

2010-07-08T08:18:00.000-07:00

My collection of crime short stories, Spanish Eye, was published as an e-book on 29 June by Solstice Publishing.

Its first review can be found on amazon.com: ‘First, I have to confess, I am totally biased. I had the opportunity to work with Nik Morton in an editorial capacity on this collection of private eye stories. The manuscript was a pleasure to read. His voice is so unique, and his stories are as thought provoking as they are entertaining. There are beautiful moments in the prose that never get purple or fluffy. He masters the art of taking an adventure and condensing it into short shots.

’If you enjoy short stories, you'll love this collection featuring the same character and exotic settings. I am a total Morton fan now and waiting anxiously for his next release!’ – D Thorne.

Thanks, Danielle. You might like to check out her website too:
http://daniellethorne.jimdo.com/

Spanish Eye is available on Kindle for $6.89 at:
http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-ebook/dp/B003UNKYW8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=A317O7WZ1CN6AQ&s=books&qid=1278601323&sr=1-1

And available as a pdf file for €2.96/$3.99/£2.01 to read on your computer at:
http://solsticepublishing.com/spanish-eye-p-111.html

Blurb:

Leon Cazador holds back the encroaching night of unreason

Private Investigator Leon Cazador is half-English, half-Spanish and wholly against the ungodly. His connections run wide and deep, which is to be expected of a man who served in the Spanish Foreign Legion, liaised with Japanese police, and was a spy. Dive into his fascinating stories, based on real events. Glean insight into his past and the people with whom he rubbed shoulders. Cazador translated into English means hunter. He is indeed a man driven to hunt down felons of all kinds, to redress the balance of good against evil.

Sometimes, Cazador operates in disguise under several aliases, among them Carlos Ortiz Santos, a modern day Simon Templar. Join him as he combats drug-traffickers, grave robbers, al-Qaeda infiltrators and conmen. Be witness to the dodgy Spanish developers and shady expat Englishmen who face his wrath. Traders in human beings, stolen vehicles and endangered species meet their match. Kidnappers, crooked mayors and conniving Lotharios will come within his orbit of ire. Even the vengeful Chinese and indebted Japanese are his friends—and enemies.

In his adventurous life, he's witnessed many travesties of justice, so as a private investigator, he will use his considerable skills to right wrongs in the most clever and unexpected of ways. Leon Cazador fights injustice in all its forms and often metes out his own rough justice. It’s what he does.

Missives to Mina - homage story

2010-06-21T08:49:00.001-07:00

Here is a homage to a particular writer who was influential in creating a sub-genre of horror. It urges readers of the story to go find the book.

Also there's a plug for A Fistful of Legends. Sadly, the editor of the magazine - Costa TV Times - is moving on, so I'll have to wait and see what the new editor likes...

Review of A Fistful of Legends

2010-06-21T08:45:00.000-07:00

The weekly English newspaper here on the Costas runs a book review. This time around it's the turn of A Fistful of Legends. Verdict: the review liked the stories and reckons they'd appeal to a wider audience than just fans of the western. I reckon that many Black Horse Western books would do the same too, if only people would cast aside their reluctance to pick up a 'western'.

Short story appraisal - 02

2010-06-03T13:00:00.000-07:00

The first tale in Modern Short Stories is by Jack Schaefer: ‘Jeremy Rodock’, which is taken from the collection The Big Range. The story's narrator isn’t named. He’s looking back at the time of which he writes, when he was ‘young then with a stretch in my legs, about topping twenty, and Jeremy Rodock was already an old man.’ Whenever Rodock talks to the narrator, he calls him ‘son’. This is a good ploy by the writer: being unnamed, the narrator almost becomes invisible, because what he reveals is not about him but his subject, Rodock.

The narrator works for Rodock, who supplies quality horses to stage lines. When about forty mares and their foals go missing, Rodock and the narrator set out to find them. During their tracking, horse know-how is neatly divulged until finally they come upon the herd. Their discovery is two-edged, however. The rustlers played a mean and cruel trick that meant Rodock couldn’t herd the animals back to the ranch. It then became a battle of wits between him and the rustlers. An eventual showdown was inevitable, but that too didn’t quite boil down to a shootout. The nature of Rodock the man meant that the battle of wills continued with the rustlers. It would be churlish to divulge more, save that in his own words Schaefer strives to ‘depict the raw material of human individuality through action and plot’. He viewed the Old West as a place ‘in which energies and capabilities of men and women, for good or for evil, were unleashed on an individual basis as they had rarely been before or elsewhere in human history’. He tended to pit a strongly individualised character ‘against a specific human problem and show how he rose to meet it’. Schaefer’s stories are about individuals – an overused word above – but valid nevertheless.

This isn’t the only eponymous story Schaefer has written. Not surprising, really, since Schaefer was profoundly interested in characters and how they fit into the world.

The next tale is ‘To build a fire’ by Jack London and he also uses an unnamed character, though this story is written in the third person. 'The man' is stranded alone in the Yukon, with only a half-wild dog with no name for company. And the sun wasn’t due to fill the sky for many days yet; instead, there was ‘an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark…’ We don’t know why the man was here, though he was intent on meeting up with ‘the boys’ in camp before long. Unfortunately, he underestimated the intensity of the cold. The dog probably only stayed with him because he had matches and lit fires to create warmth. But there are only so many matches in a box. And the numbness that swamps the body’s extremities cannot be imagined until it happens: it is devastating. Throughout this tale, London gives us insights into the land and the climate and the basic lore of survival, based on his own experience.

London’s story is a fitting companion piece for Schaefer’s. Both take place in primitive wild and lonely lands. Man is surrounded by nature that is beautiful and threatening. Schaefer relates about the struggle between men of strong will, while London’s tale is about man’s conflict with awesome nature. London employs many good phrases, notably, ‘The cold of space smote the unprotected tip of the planet, and he, being on that unprotected tip, received the full force of the blow. The blood of his body recoiled before it.’ Great stuff and memorable.

It's about victims, not statistics

2010-06-03T12:45:00.000-07:00

I'm pleased to reveal that my modern vigilante novel, A Sudden Vengeance Waits, set in the fictitious town of Alverbank on the south coast of Hampshire has been accepted by Solstice Publishing. The title comes from a poem by Alexander Pope.

The blurb may be something like this: What conditions create a vigilante? Is it a personal tragedy, the loss of a loved one, or the frustration over the inadequacies of current law enforcement? In the broken Britain of today, the Knight family attends the funeral of Gran, killed by a burglar. But the Knights aren’t the only victims of unpunished criminals. There are plenty of others hurt and grieving in the south coast town of Alverbank. It’s about victims, not statistics. The vigilante breaks bones and cracks heads of those guilty individuals who cause pain without remorse.Who is the vigilante? He – or she – is called the Black Knight. Will the Black Knight eventually cross the line and kill? Somehow, the Knight family seems involved and is going to suffer.

The excellent atmospheric cover shown here was produced by Solstice in a matter of two days. The editing and publication process will however take a little longer...!

Short story appraisal - 01

2010-05-31T08:04:00.000-07:00

I have a rather large home library of unread books. They’re unread because I tend to keep buying new books before I’ve read the earlier purchases. My excuse is that books have a short shelf life in bookstores…

My curse is that I’m interested in many subjects so I collect non-fiction and fiction books within a great variety of disciplines and genres. From time to time, I’ll pull off my shelves a book or two I haven’t got round to reading; many of these are short story anthologies. As a writer of short stories, I like to immerse myself in this particular art-form, in an attempt at avoiding any staleness of approach in my own writing. As they say, writers should read.

A long time ago, in the early 1970s, I picked up a paperback entitled Modern Short Stories (1965), primarily because it contained ‘The Secret Life of Walter Mitty’ by James Thurber and stories by Ray Bradbury, Jack London and Jack Schaefer. It’s designed as an educational tome with an interesting Introduction and Notes at the end. The editor is S H Burton, MA. If you write short stories, then it stands to reason that you should read them.

Encapsulated, the introduction explains what a short story should contain. When the story ends, something that matters has happened; there has been movement. Plot in the story imposes a pattern. In addition, the writer is concerned with his characters and with his setting. And, finally and most significantly, ‘the short story involves values of one kind or another’.

Burton sums up very well, that ‘values embodied in the story will usually be expressed through the plot, the characters, the setting – and by the way in which the story is written.’ The style will be the guide as to the writer’s sincerity. ‘The best writers try to work unobtrusively, presenting their view of life through characters involved…’ It’s interesting that the editor labels the first two tales in this collection, ‘Jeremy Rodock’ by Jack Schaefer and ‘To Build a Fire by Jack London’ as ‘adventure stories’, not westerns.

In conclusion, Burton spells out what should be obvious to the writer. Short stories are of limited length, originally aimed at periodicals that have only so much space on offer. This imposed economy of words means that words must not be wasted. Every word must count in creating the world of the characters involved. Each word must ‘purposefully contribute to the overall effect’. A novelist can apply equal weight to plot, character and setting; a short story writer doesn’t have that luxury so must choose which to lay emphasis upon, the other two simply supplying just enough to maintain the illusion of reality. So a short story can be about character, or plot or the setting itself; yet in the final analysis it should illuminate an aspect of the human condition. That aim requires craftsmanship and dedication.

Next post, I’ll take a look at the first two stories in this book.

Book Award surprise

2010-05-19T08:40:00.001-07:00

I was surprised and pleased to win the April bookaward for my thriller The Prague Manuscript. See: http://www.thebookawards.com/News.html

It seems I'm in good (though much richer) company with The Time Traveler's Wife winning in March. The nominations (which stand for the May voting are many, but among them) are: The Lovely Bones (reading this at present, remarkable first novel), Eclipse, The House at Riverton (no relation), The Vampire Diaries, Atonement, The Shipping News, The Lost Symbol, 44 Scotland Street and The Tarnished Star.

Pop along and vote, if you see one of your favourites nominated - or nominate your own favourite.

TRIPWIRE by Brian Garfield

2010-05-10T05:04:00.000-07:00

I was loaned this book by my Swedish friend Iwan. It’s one of his favorite books. This edition is a US hardback, 2nd printing in 1973 and signed with a personal note from the author dated 1975. The cover picture is poor and though relevant the title isn’t particularly good, either; yes, much later, Lee Child used it too. The cover calls it a novel, yet it is a western; maybe this is because Garfield has a very good track record with best-selling books in a variety of genres and the publishers feel the book transcends the genre. These are minor quibbles, however.

This is a great story, tightly written in 185 pages.

Buffalo soldier Boag helps out with a gold heist only to be double-crossed, thrown overboard from a steamship and shot. Doggedly, he tracks the men who robbed and hurt him. Boag is a believable character and we take the hard long journey with him. There are setbacks. He meets a variety of individuals, helps some and others help him. He’s a likeable man, but you don’t want to cross him.

The denouement is riveting and exciting. Highly recommended.

SPANISH EYE

2010-05-08T09:39:00.000-07:00

Tales from Leon Cazador, Private Investigator

I’ve just signed a contract with Solstice Publishing, USA for this book of 21 short stories featuring Leon Cazador. The stories were published between 2005-2009 but I have rewritten them for this collection.

The Solstice cover was designed within a day or so and I reckon it’s very eye-catching.

The book still has to go through the Solstice edit process so I don’t know yet when it will be available as an e-book and a print book. Watch this space.

Blurb:

Private Investigator Leon Cazador is half-English, half-Spanish and wholly against the ungodly. Sometimes he adopts an alias, Carlos Santos: he is a modern day Simon Templar, willing to hold back the encroaching night of unreason and help the gullible and downtrodden. He combats drug-traffickers, grave robbers, al-Qaeda infiltrators, misguided terrorists and conmen. Dodgy Spanish developers and shady expat English face his wrath. Traders in human beings, stolen vehicles and endangered species meet their match. Kidnappers, crooked mayors and conniving Lotharios come within his orbit of ire. Vengeful Chinese and indebted Japanese are his friends – and his enemies. Leon Cazador fights injustice in all its forms. It’s what he does.

100th Published Short Story

2010-04-30T06:59:00.000-07:00

The COSTA TV TIMES weekly magazine out here in Spain has published my hundredth short story. Entitled ‘The Museum of Iniquity’, it’s a fun murder mystery, which also happens to use 36 titles from the plays, short stories and books of Jeffery Archer!

There’s also a plug for the anthology A Fistful of Legends.

Welsh Cowboys and Outlaws

2010-04-11T07:58:00.000-07:00

We all know it's a small world, and getting smaller with the aid of the Internet. Not so long ago, I was browsing in a shop here in Spain when I picked up and bought one of those UK nostalgia books packed with old photographs: Monkseaton and Hillheads (Whitley Bay). Inside was a photo of the house where I lived for most of my first seventeen years of life!

Another shop nearby stocked a couple of It’s Wales books, short 92-pagers, and I was drawn to this one – Welsh Cowboys and Outlaws by Dafydd Meirion (2003).

While the prose is slightly repetitive – ‘decided’ and ‘many’ are two overused words – the information, gleaned from a number of intriguing references, is interesting and possibly a good source for a plot or two of a western or historical saga of the Old West.

Meirion tells us that perhaps 250,000 Welsh left Wales for America – compared to 4.5 million from Ireland. The largest proportion originally settled in Pennsylvania (17%), while the rest wended their way west as the expansion gained pace. Of the 10,000 whites who died during the treks westwards, apparently only 362 were killed by Indians. Most succumbed to disease or the weather or renegade whites and Mexicans.

He also points out that Hollywood rarely depicts the ethnic split of cowboys, for example: only 63% were white; 25% were black; 12% Mexican.

He touches briefly on a wide range of Welsh characters. Isaac Davis, the Mormon renegade who raided settlements; the James brothers, whose great-grandfather was a Baptist minister from Pembrokeshire and emigrated to Pennsylvania; Sheriff John T Morris, who gunned down Belle Starr’s husband; Frank Jones and John Reynolds Hughes of the Texas Rangers.

Edward Davies from Llanrwst entertained in saloons; as did John G Jones from Bethesda, north Wales. Morris Price left Powys and travelled to Illinois where he started a small ranch which grew into one of the biggest. John Rowlands who was raised in a workhouse in St Asaph near Denbigh emigrated to America and changed his name to Henry Morton Stanley and became a famous journalist and of course tracked down Dr Livingstone in darkest Africa. Then there’s Robert Owen Pugh of Dolgellau who married the granddaughter of Chief Blue Horse of the Oglala Sioux; quite a character, Pugh, and a staunch friend of the Indians in their hours of need. And there are plenty more in these few pages. Also mentioned briefly is Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show visit to Cardiff; the locals didn’t take kindly to local lasses walking arm in arm with Indians!

On the trail of 'last chance' Morton

2010-04-02T10:26:00.000-07:00

This week’s Costa Blanca News has run a full-page article about my western writing.

Here is the page (Expertly joined by my old pal Neil from two scans ).

Inevitably, a few things got lost or altered in translation from interview to page. Needless to say, I don’t write ‘how is y’all’ dialogue, contrary to what is suggested… The article states that I have ten westerns under my belt, when in fact I’ve only got four – though my latest sale is my tenth book printed/accepted. (I’ll just have to get busy and write those other six pronto!) Also, when I studied ten BHWs and analysed them, I thought that I could write one too – I didn’t think I could ‘do better’. Such quirks make for a better article, I guess!

The Costa Blanca News is sold north and south along the Spanish costas. As to whether it will galvanise any readers into buying Black Horse Westerns, well that's another question without an answer...

VALLEY THIEVES by Max Brand - review

2010-03-29T04:01:00.000-07:00

I’ve got two editions of this book – recent gifts from Swedish friend Iwan. An American edition, 1933 plus the first UK edition, 1949, and the dust jacket is from the latter. While I’ve read a number of Max Brand books, I haven’t read any of his Silvertip stories, so this is a first for me.

Narrated in the first person by Bill Avon, it relates Jim Silver’s continuing battle of wills and wits with his arch-enemy Barry Christian, in the process of which Silver’s wolf Frosty and his powerful horse Parade are abducted. We also meet the enigmatic Harry Clonmel, another bigger-than-life character.

There’s no indication when the story takes place, though a few references may suggest the mid-1890s. Silvertip’s pal Taxi seems to have a penchant for modern inventions; he owns an automatic pistol (1893) and carries an electric pocket torch (the first 2-candlepower lantern, weighing in at 2lb would make his pocket very heavy; invented 1892; the tubular torch, 1898). The evil Barry Christian has a concealed derringer up his sleeve, operated by elastic; elastic braid or knicker elastic came out about 1887 while elastic bands were around post-1845.

The writing style isn’t particularly great, but Brand delivers on storytelling. Here, he writes about a West where there are good men and true, where even villains seem to possess some humanity. Old Man Cary is the patriarch of a family of bad blood; he’s well drawn and multi-faceted: he reeks evil yet has a sneaking regard for Silvertip.

Silvertip – so called because of the ‘tufts of grey hair over his temples, like the beginning of little horns’ – is not an anti-hero but a mythopoeic hero. As Avon says, ‘… a hero is a property of every ordinary man and because of such men as Jim Silver the rest of us stand straighter. He was a man who had never been found in a cruel, mean, or cowardly action.’ These heroes are necessary, even in this day and age. Too often, so-called heroes espoused by the media have feet of clay. Perhaps there’s a need for more honest and true sportsmen, movie stars and politicians around to set examples to the young. Maybe loss of faith has something to do with it, now our world is overwhelmingly secular and acquisitive. Bill Avon said of Silvertip, ‘His faith in me made me strong. Another man’s faith always multiplies one’s own, I think.’ Self-belief and self-worth grow from the influences of others.

I came away from a relatively simple western tale with these thoughts, which surprised me a little. Brand doesn’t openly preach, but his tales clearly have a moral tone, which may appear quaint these days, and yet perhaps many of his readers dearly wish to go back to those simpler times.

A SMALL STEP… SO FAR

2010-03-26T07:53:00.000-07:00

Today, I got a pleasant surprise when I learned that my story ‘A Gigantic Leap’ featured in Midnight Street #13 (Editor: Trevor Denyer)is on the rather long long list of short stories nominated for the 2010 British Fantasy Society’s awards. Those listed are all nominations from BFS members.

Review from Gareth d Jones, sfcrowsnest.com
"Nik Morton takes us on 'A Gigantic Leap' as he re-imagines a piece of Soviet history and wonders what might happen if the American paranoia about space-born germs had been justified. It's a gently told story, narrated by an old man who has seen too much in his hard life. Then in the last few paragraphs, the stress and alarm build up nicely. All of the international panic and national security issues occur in the background, though, so as not to spoil the calm flow of the story. It's nicely done."

This tale is a particular favourite of mine, so fingers crossed, though it’s up against very stiff competition and several big names. Still, nice to be included.

Pictured is the first page of the story from the magazine, with an excellent relevant illustration from Surabhi Wade.

In alphabetical order, here is the short story long list
(from http://www.britishfantasysociety.org/):

A GIGANTIC LEAP, Nik Morton, Midnight Street #13
ANOTHER END OF THE EMPIRE, Tim Pratt, in Strange Horizons, June 22
AT FIRST SIGHT, John Llewellyn Probert, in The Catacombs of Fear (Gray Friar)
BRYSON FEEDS FAMILIES, T.F. Davenport, Black Static #12
CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR, Justin Carroll, in Dragontales: Short Stories of Flame, Tooth and Scale, ed. Holly Stacey (Wyvern)
CAT AND MOUSE, Marie O’Regan, in NVF #4 and Deadly Dolls (NVF)
CERTAIN DEATH FOR A KNOWN PERSON, Steve Duffy, in Apparitions, ed. Michael Kelly (Undertow)
CHARMS, Shweta Narayan, Strange Horizons, August 24
CLOCKATRICE, Tanith Lee, Fantasy Magazine, October 5 post
DEADHOUSE STEPS, Mark Chadbourn, in The BFS Yearbook 2009, ed. Guy Adams (BFS)
EDISON’S FRANKENSTEIN, Chris Roberson, in Edison’s Frankenstein (Postscripts #20/21), ed. Peter Crowther and Nick Gevers (PS)
FINISTERRE, Maria Deira, Strange Horizons, August 10th
FISHERMEN, Al Robertson, Interzone #221 (TTA)
FUTURE CITIES, Allen Ashley, from Once And Future Cities (Eibonvale)
GEORGE CLOONEY’S MOUSTACHE, Rob Shearman, in The BFS Yearbook 2009, ed. Guy Adams (BFS)
GOLDEN LILIES, Aliette de Bodard, Fantasy Magazine, August 10 post
GRANNY’S GRINNING, Robert Shearman, in The Dead That Walk, ed. Stephen Jones (Ulysses)
GROWING PAINS, Ian Whates, Hub #101
HERE WE ARE FALLING THROUGH SHADOWS, Jason Sanford, Interzone #225
IF WISHES WERE HORSES, Tiffani Angus-Bodie, Strange Horizons, May 25
IMAGES OF ANNA, Nancy Kress, Fantasy Magazine, September 14 post
IN THE GARDEN, Rosalie Parker, in The Fifth Black Book of Horror, ed. Charles Black (Mortbury)
IN THE PORCHES OF MY EARS, Norman Prentiss, from This Is the Summer of Love (Postscripts #18), ed, Peter Crowther and Nick Gevers (PS)
JOLLY ROGER, Robert Shearman, from Love Songs for the Shy and Cynical (Big Finish)
LIFE AFTER DEATH, Mark Butler, New Horizons #4 (BFS)
LIFE-O-MATIC, Paul Kane, Estronomicon, May 2009 (Screaming Dreams)
LILY GLASS, Veronica Schanoes, Strange Horizons, April 27
LOVE AMONG THE LOBELIAS, Robert Shearman, from Love Songs for the Shy and Cynical (Big Finish)
MARLEY’S HAUNTING, Simon Kurt Unsworth (Ghostwriter)
MASQUES, Paul Kane, in Return of the Raven, ed. Maria Grazia Cavicchioli (HorrorBound)
MICROCOSMOS, Nina Allan, Interzone #222
MOTHER SPONGE, Mur Lafferty, Hub #83
MY BROTHER’S KEEPER, Nina Allan, Black Static #12
MY SECRET CHILDREN, James Cooper, Black Static #13
NINJA RATS ON HARLEYS, Elizabeth A. Vaughan, in Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies, ed. Martin H. Greenberg and Kerrie Hughes (DAW)
NON-ZERO PROBABILITIES, N.K. Jemisin, Clarkesworld #36
NOTES TOWARD A COMPARATIVE MYTHOLOGY, Nicole Kornher-Stace, Fantasy Magazine, August 5th post
OF MELEI, OF ULTHAR, Gord Sellar, Clarkesworld #37
OFFERINGS, Stephanie Burgis, Fantasy Magazine, August 24 post
ON CONSIDERATION OF THE MUSES, Eric Stener Carlson, in Cinnabar’s Gnosis, ed. Dan Ghetu (Ex Occidente)
ONE LAST LOVE SONG, Rob Shearman, from Love Songs for the Shy and Cynical (Big Finish)
PELICAN BAR, Karen Joy Fowler, Eclipse Three, ed. Jonathan Strahan (Night Shade)
PLAYING WITH SPADES, Mari Ness, Fantasy Magazine, August 3 post
PROOF, Gary McMahon, in Apparitions, ed. Michael Kelly (Undertow)
RED CHRISTMAS, Jim Steel, Supernatural Tales #16
SALT’S FATHER, Eric Gregory, Strange Horizons, August 3
SANCTUARY RUN, Daniel Mills, in Strange Tales III, ed. Rosalie Parker (Tartarus)
SERVITOR, Paul Kane, DeathRay #21 (Blackfish)
SHUCKED, Adrian Joyce, Interzone #225
SILENCE AND ROSES, Suzanne Palmer, Interzone #223
SURVIVOR’S GUILT, Rosanne Rabinowitz, Black Static #14
THE BELOVED TIME OF THEIR LIVES, Ian Watson & Roberto Quaglia, from The Beloved of My Beloved (NewCon)
THE BLACK FLOWERS OF SEVAN, James Lecky, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly #1
THE CHYMICAL WEDDING OF DES ESSEINTES, Brendan Connell, from Cinnabar’s Gnosis ed. Dan Ghetu (Ex Occidente)
THE CONFESSOR’S TALE, Sarah Pinborough, in Hellbound Hearts, ed. Marie O’Regan and Paul Kane (Pocket)
THE CONVENT AT BAZZANO, Allyson Bird, in The BFS Yearbook 2009, ed. Guy Adams (BFS)
THE DEVONSHIRE ARMS, Alex Dally MacFarlane, Clarkesworld #32
THE ELEVENTH DAY, Christopher Fowler, Black Static #14
THE GHOST OF ONIONS, Marcie Lynn Tentchoff, Strange Horizons, July 20
THE KILLING STREETS, Colin Harvey, Interzone #226
THE LAST GALLERY, Joel Lane, Midnight Street #12
THE MYSTERY, Peter Atkins, in Spook City (PS)
THE PICTURE, Rosalie Parker, Supernatural Tales #15
THE RULEBOOK, Christopher Fowler, in The Dead That Walk (Ulysses)
THE STRETCH, Christopher Fowler, in The BFS Yearbook 2009, ed. Guy Adams (BFS)
THE TRUE VINTAGE OF ERZINE THALE, Robert Silverberg, from Songs of the Dying Earth: Stories in Honour of Jack Vance, ed. George R.R. Martin and Gardner Dozois (HarperVoyager)
THE WAGER, Daniel McGachey, in They That Dwell in Dark Places (Dark Regions)
THE WHITE BULL OF TARA, Fiona Patton, in Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies, ed. Martin H. Greenberg and Kerrie Hughes (DAW)
THE WORLD ENTIRE, Ron Weighell, in Cinnabar’s Gnosis, ed. Dan Ghetu (Ex Occidente)
TWAIN, James Barclay, in The BFS Yearbook 2009, ed. Guy Adams (BFS)
VENETIAN PAPERWEIGHT, from Mostly Monochrome, John Travis (Exaggerated)
VIC, Maura McHugh, Black Static #10
WALKING WITH A GHOST, Nick Mamatas, Clarkesworld #33
WELCOME TO THE HOTEL MARIANAS, Mike Chinn, from The Bitter End: Tales of Nautical Terror, ed. Jessy Marie Roberts (Pill Hill)
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU WAKE UP IN THE NIGHT, Michael Marshall Smith (Nightjar)
WHITE CHARLES, Sarah Monette, Clarkesworld #36
WORLD WITHOUT END, Marie O’Regan, The Thinking Man’s Crumpet #2

Mention by the Western Writers of America

2010-03-23T04:50:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Matthew P Mayo for getting his short story 'Half a Pig' (from A Fistful of Legends - Express Westerns) mentioned as a finalist in this year's prestigious Spur Awards. Well done, Matt!

Write and write some more

2010-03-08T10:52:00.000-08:00

Interesting agent’s blog. http://www.thecroceagency.com/
which is currently featuring an excellent short interview of Ray Bradbury about his writing schedule. He is an inspiration to all writers - if they half a wit to notice.

Write, write and write some more is the way to go. I should know, I've been doing that for 40 years or more!

His books are on my shelf and I can still remember so many of his tales, which is he measure of the man and the writer.

As Stephen Vincent Benet said, 'A short story is something that can be read in an hour and remembered for a lifetime.' That's Ray Bradbury.

Book of the film: Vertigo

2010-02-28T07:31:00.000-08:00

The book Vertigo was originally written by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac in French, D’Entre Les Mortes (1954) and translated by Geoffrey Sainsbury as The Living and the Dead in 1956. I don’t believe the book’s beginning would attract a publisher nowadays; as it contains far too much exposition via lengthy dialogue. Still, the story itself is intriguing – hence the adaptation for Hitchcock’s 1958 film. Perhaps not surprisingly, the film diverges considerably from the book, save for the crucial deception.

The book's protagonist Flavières left the police due to his inability to cope with vertigo (or possibly acrophobia), and seemed at a loose end so he was grateful when his old friend Paul Gévigne asked for his help. However, Flavières wasn’t too happy when he found out he was hired to follow Paul’s wife, Madeleine. She was a mystery, it seemed. She had altered psychologically since they married and was obsessed with her strange past. Worse, Flavières found himself being obsessed by the beautiful Madeleine.

Unlike Kim Novak’s curvy blonde character of the movie, the book’s Madeleine was dark and slim. Of course we know that Hitchcock seemed to have his own obsession with blonde actresses. Madeleine wore a grey suit – as did Novak. And only her name was retained for the film; Flavières became Scotty Ferguson (James Stewart) and Paul became Gavin Elster.

The story begins during the phoney war, before the Germans had invaded France. As it was written some nine years after the war, there’s no obvious reason why it wasn’t set in the 1950s, save that perhaps there’s a parallel between the fall from grace of Flavières and the collapse of his country. It’s obviously a French story, as Flavières ponders about Paul’s concern for his wife: after all, Madeleine ‘had every right to have a lover if she wanted to.’ Yes, typically French, that. Though even at this early stage (p22), Flavières found that he hoped she didn’t have a lover, as he felt he’d suffer acutely at the knowledge.

I don’t believe the film realistically showed the growing obsession James Stewart had for Kim Novak. The book conveys this gradually, subtly: ‘… he was mortified by the joy he felt at the prospect’ of following Madeleine. By p32 ‘he had only to think of her to lose his sense of proportion.’

Following the tragic events of Madeleine’s suicide, the German offensive of France began in earnest. Flavières went to pieces and ‘made little distinction now between the national disaster and his own. France was Madeleine lying crushed and bleeding at the foot of a church tower.’

At the beginning of Part Two, Flavières returns to post-war Paris, and his past seems to haunt him still. The similarities between the book and the film are there, though the Paul character died during the war. It would be unfair to detail much else, save to observe that since this is a French novel, it most definitely has noir undertones with an unhappy ending, in effect to gratify Flavières’ ‘taste for melancholy, solitude, and impotence.’

Two books sold in two months

2010-02-24T07:42:00.000-08:00

I don’t think I can maintain this pace, but it’s a great feeling.

In January, I sold my 9th book, the erotic novel Assignment Kilimanjaro, to Xcite Books and it’s already available as an e-book on their website and on iTunes. If you’re offended by graphic sex, don’t go there.

In February, I’ve just sold my fourth western Blind Justice at Wedlock to Robert Hale.

I’ve got a couple of manuscripts out with publishers, but don’t hold out much hope of getting a hat trick in March…!

Still awaiting the publication of the fantasy quest novel Wings of the Overlord, sometime soon from Libros, I hope...

Remorseless Time

2010-01-18T03:26:00.000-08:00

My 91st short story just published!

Today I received a cheque and complimentary copy of Telling Tales #4 – Winter 2009 – for my science fiction story ‘Remorseless Time’, which is featured and begins:

‘Why do you go back?’ the very thin and pallid temporal engineer asked, the last in a long litany of familiar questions. One of these days, he might get a different answer from me. But not this time.

‘I want to suffer contrition,’ I said, as usual, ‘but can’t.’

Sitting opposite, the NB judge leaned back and sighed. ‘You can’t change the past, Mr Thurston.’ The judiciary’d dispensed with wigs fifty years ago. He looked like a kindly uncle rather than a hanging judge. Not that they hung anybody in New Britain. In a way, indoctrination was much worse. Death was final. Indoctrination seemed like a living death to free spirits like Donna, Tim and me…

Telling Tales is a well-produced, attractive A5 magazine, and the editor pays, which is laudable. Whether you’re a reader or a writer, why not try out a subscription? Check it out at www.meadowpublications.co.uk or contact the editor, Andrew at andy.jackson@talktalk.net.

Hammer and Honey

2010-01-15T09:13:00.000-08:00

For many years I’ve wanted to write a WWII Resistance thriller. It seems that I’m gradually working up to it. The recent short story win with ‘Codename Gaby’ is my second story of that period of heroism and betrayal. My first was published in the Coastal Press in 2007 and was inspired by the fact that in France old soldiers are afforded respect and gratitude by the populace.

HAMMER AND HONEY

Smart and imposing in their blue uniforms, two traffic policemen stood on the small concrete island in the centre of the congested Paris crossroads. Suddenly, the elderly gendarme saluted an old man who shambled past on the western boulevard’s pavement. The old man didn’t acknowledge the mark of respect. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed.

‘Emile,’ the younger gendarme asked, ‘why did you salute that old guy? Was he an ex-Commissioner of Police?’

‘No he wasn’t, Henri. But he deserves my respect, nevertheless. In fact, all Paris should salute Monsieur Meline. In France, we honour our old war heroes while across La Manche their government and youth mug them...’

This was Emile Girard’s last day of duty and young Henri was his replacement. Emile was due to attend his retirement party later that evening at Le Chat restaurant. ‘I don’t ask it lightly, Henri, but make sure you salute whenever you see Monsieur Meline.’

Puzzled, Henri removed his kepi and scratched his head. ‘Naturally. I only wish you wouldn’t be so mysterious.’

Pursing his thick lips, Emile blew his whistle at a frantically gesticulating Citroen driver and peremptorily stopped the traffic, oblivious of the accompanying screech of brakes and inevitable chorus of honking horns. He signed for a bent grey-haired little old lady to cross the street and while she did so he said over his shoulder, ‘Tonight, Henri, at my party, I’ll tell you all about the old man.’
***
Shoulders stooped with the weight of years and memories, Pierre Meline stopped at the wrought-iron gate entrance to the small park and glanced briefly at the noisy traffic and the aged gendarme blowing his whistle. Good old Emile, he thought, I’m going to miss him.

Slowly, his aching bones obviously causing him much discomfort, Pierre walked through the gate, the new flowers affirming rebirth in the bright and shimmering sunshine.

Ah, Paris in Spring! His spirits soared, if only briefly.

Lowering himself onto an empty wooden bench, Pierre pulled out an orange from the pocket of his careworn jacket and expertly opened a penknife and expertly peeled the fruit.

Memories peeled back, too, of a time when he had been a strong young man...
***
‘This is Miel,’ said the underground network’s leader.

Miel was her code-name, the only name they would ever know her by, which had been bestowed upon her by some wag in Baker Street in recognition of her fluent and honeyed rendering of the French language.

Pierre Meline just stared.

Apparently, she was half-French and half-English and, apart from the fact that she had been landed by Lysander earlier this evening, that was all they knew about her.

He thought that her diluted French blood still showed in her deportment and those high aristocratic cheekbones. Her ancestors obviously fled the guillotine by crossing La Manche and settling there in England. But he could forgive her even that historic betrayal as long as he could gaze on her short curling auburn hair and intelligent glinting hazel eyes that didn’t seem to miss much.

Introductions consisted of code-names only. Pierre was Marteau.
***
Lucy Hardy’s eyes met Marteau’s and her legs suddenly went very weak. He was as short as her yet carried himself so well he appeared taller. Cheeks and chin were covered in what appeared to be perpetual stubble which gave him a down-cast appearance, which would doubtless help him to melt into any crowd, which was all to the good, considering Le Marteau – the hammer – was the French Resistance’s most deadly assassin. He was very proficient, ensuring that his victims all appeared to die in accidents, thus avoiding recriminations against the local populace. Yet his dark brown eyes were gentle, belying his deadly calling. She saw pain and compassion there and her heart fluttered. She had never before experienced such a strong and instant attraction to a man.

Mentally shaking herself, Lucy stepped forward and shook hands with Marteau and the four other men.

As a member of the Special Operations Executive, she’d been sent to form two elite explosives teams to destroy railway bridges and transport in preparation for the invasion, though Colonel Buckmaster obviously wasn’t saying when the Allied invasion would happen. It might be this April, 1943 or much later. Probably much later, she thought. But the sabotage teams needed to be trained and in place and ready to go whenever they were called upon. That was her job.

Lucy had no illusions about her chances of survival. Several other women – usually wireless operators – hadn’t returned to Baker Street. But she was undeterred and more determined than ever to ‘do her bit’ against the evil menace that threatened to thrust Europe back into the Dark Ages when fear alone ruled.

Over the next few months Lucy trained two teams of men in the art of blowing up things. She had learned her skills well in the highlands of Scotland a mere eleven months earlier. Then, it had seemed unreal. Now, she was in earnest. Lives were at stake. Every day she had to be vigilant. There were passwords to be used and lookouts to be posted and contacts to be trusted.

Betrayal was their biggest fear and cost lives. Brave people of so many underground networks had been informed on; then the Gestapo had dragged them away to Avenue Foch or some other dark basement where they suffered for their country, their ideals and their friends. Baker Street experts told every agent not to talk for at least forty-eight hours, as this would give the rest of the network time to get away. Fine, in theory... Betrayal was inevitable under those dark, lonely and sinister circumstances. After all, those who resisted were not super-human – just flesh and blood.

Time and again Lucy found herself being drawn to Marteau in their clandestine meetings in barns and under bridges. She felt sure that he was attracted to her too. But there was a war to fight and this was no time to go falling in love. She had a job to do.

These sensible arguments ran through her head each night that she lay restive in bed after she had returned from a meeting with Marteau. She knew that personal involvement could seriously affect the stability of their network. She must act responsibly. Certain emotions had to be held in check. She almost weakened during one unguarded moment as Marteau had whispered, ‘When this is all over, cheri, I would like to take you to my apartment – the view is magnificent.’

‘I would like that too,’ she had replied levelly though she felt her heart hammering.

‘You honour all my countrymen by fighting with us,’ he had said, kissing the back of her hand. Then he had slid away into the enveloping darkness.

Clearly, he would not take advantage of her. He respected her too much. In fact, Lucy had earned the respect of all of the Frenchmen she trained. On two terrible nights she had been out on raids and risked her life to bring back injured men – well, boys, really. Neither was more than nineteen, she knew. But that was not unusual. Even schoolchildren helped the Resistance. And everyone feared the reprisals. It was no wonder that there was treachery from time to time.
***
The woman was returning from a secret rendezvous, a parcel of fresh meat under her arm, when Lucy stepped out from concealment, the leaves of the bush rustling. ‘Have you been somewhere interesting, Adele?’ Lucy asked.

‘I might have,’ snapped Adele, gazing haughtily down her nose. ‘What is it to you, courtisane?’

Adele wasn’t the only woman in the area who believed that Lucy slept with all the men she trained and fought alongside. Lucy bit her lip, ignoring the insult, and stepped forward. Her mouth was dry. She didn’t like doing what she must do, but she had suspected Adele for weeks now. The presence of the black-market meat clinched it. The best trade for food was either money or information – and Adele didn’t have any money – and sex was rarely a good bartering tool. There could be no doubt, anyway, as she had seen Adele meeting with the SS officer.

When she had finished, Lucy wasn’t proud of herself. But it was necessary to silence the woman in order to safeguard the others. She didn’t linger, either, because she knew that Marteau was meeting the leader of another network and they were scheduled to move out five British airmen tonight. And Adele had known that too...

Her heart lurching with fear all the way, Lucy hurriedly pedalled to the secret cache behind the abandoned house. Here, she unearthed a bren-gun and shoved the weapon into the wicker basket on the front of her bicycle and covered it with a towel.

Praying she would be in time, she cycled towards the meeting-place.

Through the dark night Lucy pedalled across two fields and even carried the bicycle as she had to wade over a babbling brook.

Then, as clouds scudded away to reveal the full moon eerily lighting the treetops of the nearby forest, she wept with relief when she realised that she was almost there and she was going to be in time.

At that moment, motoring up the road a few yards below her was a convoy of two Wehrmacht personnel carriers and a staff car with Gestapo, army and SS officers.

Breathless now, her hands clammy with fear, Lucy grabbed the weapon and shoved her bike behind a bush. Hurriedly treading over dead branches and leaves, she moved forward and leaned against the trunk of a tree that overlooked the bend in the road. She was short of breath and her heart pounded against her ribcage. She braced herself.

Weapon safety off. Now all she had to do was pull the trigger. Simple, really. This was the first time that she had fired on real people. Do it! She told herself. For the others!

The bren’s stock kicked against her and the first fusillade went wild, smashing into trees to the left of the convoy, but she held steady and lowered her aim, peppering the wind-screens of the now swerving vehicles. The two personnel carriers crashed into roadside trees and the staff car slewed to the right and was abruptly upturned in a ditch.

As the troops jumped down from the rear of the personnel carriers and the officers hid behind their car, Lucy melted into the forest. She was quite satisfied. The gunshots would have been heard by Marteau and the others at their meeting-place. Now they would get away and be safe to fight the enemy another day.

The intensive search lasted all night.

Lucy was captured at dawn.
***
‘I don’t want to remember that time, Pierre,’ Lucy now said, sitting beside him in the park.

‘No, cheri, I can understand that.’ He glanced sideways at the bent grey-haired little old lady and handed her a segment of orange. She took it without comment. ‘I survived. That is what matters.’

She popped the segment into her mouth and smiled. ‘You know, it was years before I took for granted the wonderful taste of fresh fruit.’

‘Yes, me too.’ He nodded. ‘I heard about you. Even Ravensbruck could not quench your spirit.’

She had actually escaped from a bombed transport train en route to Ravensbruck and managed to find her way back to Britain. His underground cell was finally overrun but he got away to Spain. After the war she took a while to recover and by then the world had moved on. Indeed, they believed that the other was dead. Neither knew their real name so there was no possibility of organising any kind of trace; besides, there was still much secrecy after the war. She fell in love and married, but sadly their union was never blessed with children. Her dear husband had died five years past. She had nobody else. Then by chance a few weeks ago she had read about Pierre – her Marteau – being awarded yet another medal by his grateful country. Only then did she know that he too had survived.

‘We are old now, Pierre. We only have our memories – and our aching bones!’

‘No, cheri, we have something much greater. We have French blood in our veins.’ He looked askance at her and hunched his Gallic shoulders. ‘Well, half in your case, but it is dominant, no? And we have the honour to have fought in the French Underground Resistance.’

She smiled fleetingly and gazed into eyes that were now a lighter brown yet they still made her legs feel weak. ‘Honour, Pierre, in this day and age?’

He stood up a little unsteadily and bowed towards her, offering his hand. ‘But of course, Miel. May I have the honour of escorting you to my apartment? The view is still magnificent.’

She took his hand and got to her feet. ‘I had thought that you would never ask, Marteau.’

Arm in arm, they walked out of the park.
***
Emile the gendarme finally handed over to his replacement. As he reached the pavement he abruptly stopped and stared at the old man and woman who were leaving the park, strolling arm in arm. Paris, he thought, you still weave your magic, non?

END

If magazine length had allowed, I'd probably have used less exposition and addressed the point of view towards the end, but essentially this tale has to be omniscient POV to work. N

Codename Gaby

2010-01-02T10:28:00.000-08:00

My World War II French Resistance story 'Codename Gaby' has just won the bookawards short story competition 2010. It can be read as a pdf document via
http://thebookawards.com/

Christmas Short Story – Inn Time

2009-12-19T08:26:00.000-08:00

This story is printed in the bumper Christmas issue of the Costa TV Times, together with a plug for my psychic spy thriller The Tehran Transmission. The story features Leon Cazador, who is a private investigator. ‘My allegiance is split because I’m half-English and half-Spanish,’ he says. ‘Mother had a whirlwind romance with a Spanish waiter but, happily, it didn’t end when the holiday was over. The waiter pursued her to England and they were married.’ A somewhat longer version has been prepared for the Leon Cazador collection, tentatively titled Spanish Eye.

#

Just my luck, snow had started to fall the day before I left and, by the time I drove my Seat into the mountains, it was lying thick. Not the most auspicious start to the Christmas holidays, I thought, as the windscreen wipers beat a monotonous rhythm.

The road climbed and twisted. Oncoming traffic lights glared, blinding. My heart lurched. I instinctively touched the brake. If I’d been driving a little faster in these conditions, I’d have hit the rear end of the parked car.

I let the engine idle. I was late and the weather was hell. Drive round and move on. I fished in the glove compartment for a torch, switched off the engine, switched on the hazard lights, shoved the shift into gear and ratcheted the handbrake another notch. I opened the door and stepped out.

The snow stopped.

The interior light was on and the windows were steamed up. Not the best place for courting couples. The electric window lowered and a young man peered out. ‘Thank God, you stopped,’ he said. ‘The car won’t go and my wife’s pregnant. We were going to the hospital!’

I shone the torch inside. She was half-lying, half-sitting on the rear seat. One hand rested on her bump, the other gripped the headrest post. She blinked and glanced away. ‘Sorry.’ I lowered the torch.

‘We need to push your car off the road or it’s going to cause an accident,’ I told him. ‘Then we’ll see about getting your wife to the hospital.’

‘Yes, of course.’

I walked to the back of the car. I pocketed the torch and braced myself, ready to push. The road surface was firm enough to give me purchase. ‘Handbrake off!’ I called.

After a few seconds of intense effort, the car started to move forward and gradually it turned off the road.

At that moment, a lorry bore down on my Seat, horn blaring, brakes squealing. The crunch was deafening, my car jammed under its front bumper. Sparks flew as the heavy vehicle dragged mine and slewed across the road. It demolished the crash barrier. Both vehicles tumbled over the edge, leaving only a flurry of snow in their wake.

My mouth was dry. I glanced at the expectant father. He stared in shock at the gap in the road barrier. I took out my mobile, but there was no signal. I enquired but the husband’s phone was inoperative as well, so we couldn’t alert the emergency services.
Suddenly, there was an enormous explosion and flames briefly spouted up from the fallen vehicles. In the fleeting flash of light, I thought I saw something that gave me hope.

Now, the snow started up again, but this time it hit us horizontally, driven by the cierzo, the cold dry wind from the northwest. I moved round and opened the door, slumped into the passenger seat. I explained that we could sit in the car and slowly freeze to death, or try to get to some shelter. ‘Not the greatest options,’ I said, ‘especially in your condition, Señora…’

‘Maria Delacruz,’ she said. ‘My husband, he is Jacinto.’

I nodded. ‘Leon Cazador.’

‘But we don’t know of any shelter,’ said Jacinto. ‘I don’t recall passing any building.’

‘When the truck blew up, the flames highlighted a rooftop over there.’ I pointed down a rough track. ‘Maybe somebody lives there.’

‘They might have a phone!’ Maria said.

‘Very well, we’ll risk it,’ Jacinto said.
#
The sloping track led to a double gate with a chain and padlock, which opened to useful skills I learned some years ago. Jacinto whispered, ‘How’d you…?’

‘Don’t ask,’ I said.

For a further ten metres the track curved towards a two storey building, its roof covered in snow. The door sign read: Posado del Belén. Inviting enough. I rang the doorbell. The trees were snow-laden, the gardens virgin white. I hoped there wasn’t a frustrated writer acting as a caretaker with a penchant for axing doors. I was relieved there was no answer. I paced to a bay window; it revealed a lounge, an empty hearth. A window on the right showed a bar area, dance floor, stacked tables and chairs. ‘Closed for the season,’ I said.

‘What do we do now?’ Jacinto wailed, stamping his feet, an arm round Maria.

I picked the lock. ‘This way.’ I shut the door behind us and shepherded them into the lounge on the left. Logs were piled to one side. ‘Let’s get a fire going.’

It didn’t take long to warm the place. Maria removed her coat and lay on the leather sofa in front of the roaring fire. Jacinto and I raided the kitchens and found in-date lamb in the fridge and made sandwiches. While Jacinto heated some vegetable soup, I checked out the rest of the building, in search of towels and blankets for Maria.

The reception desk phone didn’t work. I pored over the guest book. The last visitors left two months ago. The inn didn’t have a musty smell and seemed to serve as a hotel, with eight double rooms, the furniture in all of them draped by dustsheets.

In one wardrobe I found a cache of weapons and explosives, but I decided to keep the discovery to myself.

‘The baby,’ shouted Jacinto, ‘it’s coming!’

I raced downstairs and asked Maria about her contractions.

She nodded and wheezed, taking great breaths.

‘There’s still time to eat,’ I told Jacinto. ‘But you must abstain, Maria.’

A couple of hours later, I said, ‘Jacinto, now it’s time. Hot water. Towels.’ He got up and hurried towards the kitchens. It was a few years since I’d delivered a baby, but I told myself it was like riding a bike. As long as no wheels came off, I thought.
#
Maria gave birth to a lovely boy, without any complications. I’d left Jacinto with his wife and newborn while I cleaned up and took the towels and cloths to the kitchen.

I was on my way back to the lounge when the front door was opened with a key. Most civilised, I thought. Two men and a woman stood in the doorway. I was surprised to see anybody; their expressions reflected more shock than surprise.

They exchanged glances with each other then the woman demanded, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Her voice echoed in the lobby.

‘Hola,’ I said. ‘We took shelter from the storm.’ I gestured at the half-open lounge door that emitted a warm glow. ‘It was an emergency.’

‘Emergency?’ she said.

‘We’ve just delivered a baby – come and see.’

With some reluctance, the three of them followed me inside.

‘We’ve got visitors,’ I said.

Jacinto stood up and Maria hugged her son to her.

I eyed the woman. ‘Are you the owners?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m Melita Reyes and this is my husband, Beltran and my brother-in-law Casimiro.’ She looked at the empty plates.

‘We’ll pay for what we’ve used,’ said Jacinto.

Melita smiled. ‘No need – it can be our gift.’

Her husband tugged at her sleeve and gruffly whispered something. She shook her head. ‘You go with Casi,’ she said, dismissing him.

The two Reyes brothers turned and left the lounge.

‘I’m just going to the kitchen,’ I told Melita. ‘Do you want a drink?’

She sat on the edge of a seat and studied the mother and child. ‘No, thank you,’ she said without looking up.

I eased the door back and was in time to observe the brothers climb the stairs. I sighed, because I knew where they were headed.

There was an alcove under the stairs. I pulled out from my ankle holster the lightweight Colt Officer’s ACP LW automatic. The Astra A-100 automatic was amidst the burnt-out wreckage of my Seat. I had an uninterrupted view of the door to the lounge and the foot of the staircase. I waited.

Ten minutes later, Casi and Beltran descended the stairs, their hands full. I stepped out, my gun levelled on their chests. ‘Is this the new version, eh? Instead of frankincense, myrrh and gold, you bring the babe explosives, detonators and bullets…’

‘What are you talking about?’ Beltran snapped.

Melita emerged through the doorway. As she noticed my weapon, she reached inside her parka.

‘Don’t,’ I warned. ‘I’m a good shot.’

‘You cannot shoot all three of us.’

‘I don’t want to shoot any of you, but I can’t let you leave here, either.’

‘This is our property, Señor. You have no right to…’

‘You’ve no right to blow people up, either.’

‘It is what we believe in,’ said Beltran gruffly.

‘Then it’s about time you got a new belief system.’

‘We want self-determination and territoriality,’ said Casi. ‘This is how we will get it.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ I said.

‘We fight injustice and tyranny,’ said Beltran.

‘Franco’s been dead over thirty years. Open your eyes to the world. If you and Melita ever decided to have children, no dictator is telling you to restrict yourselves to one child. You’re free to follow any religion or none, without persecution. If you’re law-abiding, you need not fear the knock on the door at three in the morning. You have drinking water on tap, and shops filled with food and clothing. You can read any material you wish without censorship. Need I go on?’

‘The government tramples on our aspirations!’ snapped Casi.

‘Your bombs kill innocent people,’ I said.

‘They’re not innocent. They work for the government!’

‘Those Guardia Civil men and women were fathers and mothers, sons and daughters. They were not government tyrants.’ I gestured at the lounge doorway. ‘Inside there is a mother and baby. Innocents.’

‘What would you have us do?’ Melita said, her tone sombre.

‘Give yourselves up. Renounce violence. If your aims are just and legitimate, fight for them by peaceful means. Don’t create orphans and widows.’

Beltran laughed. ‘You’d have us surrender, for the sake of that one baby in there?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and why not?’

‘It’s absurd!’ said Casi.

‘Is it? Just over two thousand years ago, another baby boy came into the world to spread the word. Peace to mankind. His word’s been diluted over the centuries, maybe, but it still holds true today, tonight. This is Christmas Day, after all.’

‘It’s just a baby,’ said Casi.

Beltran pursed his lips and looked at his wife. Her eyes were moist and she nodded briefly. Then he lowered the weapons and bags to the floor.

‘Your weapon, please.’ I held out my hand to Melita.

Carefully, she took out the revolver, gave it to me and I shoved it in my pocket.

Casimiro swore. ‘This is stupid! We’ve sworn to fight together till…’

‘Until one or more of you are dead?’ I said and shook my head. ‘Your so-called cause has gained you nothing but it has killed over eight hundred people, including women and children, and maimed hundreds more, ruining so many lives. Lives that are for living…’ I could easily have been talking to godless killers, but I’d seen the look in Melita’s eyes when she sat with the mother and child, and I believed her maternal instinct had been deeply stirred.

Melita glanced at the lounge doorway again then moved over to her brother-in-law. ‘Bury the hate and love life,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a good belief system, I think.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Please, Casi.’

Casimiro glared at me then flung his bundle to the floor. I flinched as the bag made a noise but nothing exploded. Melita hugged him then went back to her husband.

‘What will you do with us now?’ she asked.

‘Give yourselves up when the snow stops.’

‘Very well.’

At that moment, Jacinto stepped out of the lounge. He trembled as he stared at the discarded weapons and explosives. ‘Madre de Dios!’

I nodded. ‘Maybe this time there won’t be any death of the innocents. Let’s go in and look at the Christmas child.’

#

Spanish translation note: posado= inn; Belén = Bethlehem; rey = king; reyes = kings; Madre de Dios = Mother of God.

A Fistful of Legends - progress report-04

2009-12-12T10:21:00.000-08:00

Although the book A Fistful of Legends is now 'published', due to the vagaries of online setup etc, you can't order this until 31 January 2010. Its ISBN is 978-0-557-19954-9. But it's worth the wait and starts the new year and new decade with several bangs! Here are the front and back covers.

The introduction is by James Reasoner. He has written over 200 novels, including ten books in the Civil War Battle series; he's renowned for the mystery Texas Wind and his latest two books are Death Head Crossing and Gabriel Hunt at the Well of Eternity. Visit him at his blog http://jamesreasoner.blogspot.com and also at www.jamesreasoner.net.

As was proven in the previous anthology, Where Legends Ride, and reiterated by James Reasoner in this book’s Introduction, the western can cover all manner of storylines relevant to today’s readership. And this collection endorses that belief in spades.

The line-up and page-numbers...
DEAD MAN TALKING Derek Rutherford 7
BILLY Lance Howard 20
LONIGAN MUST DIE! Ben Bridges 29
THE MAN WHO SHOT GARFIELD DELANY I J Parnham 44
HALF A PIG Matthew P Mayo 51
BLOODHOUND Courtney Joyner 56
MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE Gillian F Taylor 66
BIG ENOUGH Chuck Tyrell 78
ONE DAY IN LIBERTY Jack Giles 91
SHADOWS ON THE HORIZON Bobby Nash 104
ON THE RUN Alfred Wallon 117
THE GIMP Jack Martin 125
VISITORS Ross Morton 134
THE NIGHTHAWK Michael D George 147
THE PRIDE OF THE CROCKETTS Evan Lewis 153
DARKE JUSTICE Peter Avarillo 165
ANGELO AND THE STRONGBOX Cody Wells 176
CRIB GIRLS Kit Churchill 193
MAN OF IRON Chuck Tyrell 206
CASH LARAMIE AND THE MASKED DEVIL Edward A Grainger 215
DEAD MAN WALKING Lee Walker 227

Legends ride again.

Midnight Street

2009-12-03T09:39:00.000-08:00

A new story of mine - 'A Gigantic Leap' is featured in Midnight Street magazine #13. It can be obtained at:
http://www.midnightstreet.co.uk/

The story begins:

I remember the date well - June 30, 1971 – as that was when my world changed forever.

A little less than a month earlier, I, Kolya Volkov, had been one of the proudest children in the Soviet Union. Anxious but proud. My father, Vladislav Volkov, was a cosmonaut. Now, it is hard to comprehend the primitive nature of our nation’s space-craft in those days. As my father joked once over dinner, ‘we went into space by the seat of our pants!’ He was a charming handsome man with gentle features, small eyes and dark hair.

An indescribable mixture of emotions ran through me when my mother and I learned that the designated crew for Soyuz 11 had to step down as one of them had suspected tuberculosis. My father, with Georgi Dobrovolski and Viktor Patsayev, were the stand-by crew. Four days before the launch, they took over the mission.
He was confident and never doubted his ability as the flight engineer. After all, this wasn’t his first journey into space as he’d been there before in Soyuz 7.

The preceding mission, in Soyuz 10, had been a failure as they had been unable to dock with Salyut 1, the world’s first space station. Now that honour rested with Soyuz 11 and my father.

My mother and I were transfixed as we watched from the secure buildings of Baikonur Cosmodrome. She nervously twisted her lace-bordered cotton handkerchief with one hand, a habit I had observed more than once. She had a box of these handkerchiefs and I recalled her saying in exasperation, ‘My grandmother gave them to me. She laughed at what she called our silly village superstitions. Remember, Kolya, you never give handkerchiefs or knifes as a gift.’

There were other odd things she inculcated into me, such as never celebrating a birthday early – as if you would; and never show your newborn baby to a stranger until it’s forty days old. (I abided by that with my little baby Nessa, foolish man that I am.)

My mother gripped my arm tightly with her free hand as the blast off turned our vision red and yellow. I felt my insides surging with joy and immense pride as the spectacular flame rose into the sky on that day on June 6. D-Day, they call it in the West. Was that for ‘Doom’, ‘Destiny’ or something else? I’m sure I knew but now I forget.

The day following the launch, Soyuz 11 successfully docked with Salyut 1. How the cheers exploded around the mission planning centre. I know now that you must grasp those moments of body-thrumming pleasure because they are rare. The effusive joy was short-lived as bad news came into the centre and within seconds everyone’s face looked downcast.
...

Nik

A Fistful of Legends - progress report-03

2009-12-01T02:28:00.001-08:00

I'm pleased to announce that this anthology's publication date is 12 December 2009.

Due to the setup requirements for online retailers etc, it won't be available to the general public till 31 January 2010.

All contributors can obtain copies any time after 12 December by contacting the publisher, Ian Parnham.

The full cover, ISBN number and price details will be released on 12 December also.

Nik Morton (Editor)

Writing the Breakout Novel - Review

2009-11-19T07:50:00.000-08:00

WRITING THE BREAKOUT NOVEL
Donald Maass, Writer’s Digest Books

Donald Maass, the author, founded his literary agency in 1980 and since then he has represented hundreds of fiction writers. He also sold fourteen novels. So he knows what he’s talking about.

A breakout novel is that rarity that goes beyond a writer’s normal output to scale the heady heights of bestsellerdom. The hard part about writing a novel is not simply getting published, it’s staying published. Many published authors are being dropped simply because their name doesn’t move enough units (books) off the shelves. One way to avoid this is to write a breakout. First novelists can write a breakout too – it breaks away from the pack, in effect, so much of what Maass advocates also applies to first time novelists.

Bigger, better, deeper could be the mantra for the breakout novelist. A useful start: Devise a plausible premise, with inherent conflict within the fictional world you’re creating. Strive for originality – hard, of course, but this can be done by switching gender from the norm, turning to an unexpected slant on a standard theme. The premise and story has to have gut emotional appeal. That’s the depth of characterisation, so the reader feels she is living with the main protagonist and is concerned for the outcome.

Brainstorming has its uses at the beginning, to validate the premise. Will it stand up? Has it got the legs for a full-length book? Jettison the obvious as you examine the ‘what ifs’.

A breakout novel has high personal stakes. These are relevant to the main character; so the writer has to build high human worth, as Maass terms it: the characters espouse such qualities as honesty, integrity, loyalty, kindness, bravery, respect, trust, for example. If any of these ideals are threatened, then there’s conflict. As well as making the stakes personal, try to make them public, so that failure will affect not only the main protagonist but also other worthy and innocent individuals

Remember, he says, that ‘trials and tests are the stuff of character building, of conflict.’ In effect, keep the danger immediate and make the characters suffer.

Place and scene are important too, and often neglected as mere backdrop by new authors. The place where the characters interact may have an effect on them and it can certainly evoke mood and atmosphere. Convey a sense of the time as well as the place. Don’t neglect the details; these add verisimilitude.

Breakout characters are larger-than-life, inevitably, but they shouldn’t be caricatures. Self-belief, strength of purpose, fortitude, going against the flow – these traits signify a larger-than-life character. Deepen the character with inner conflict or a troubled or hidden past. But never ignore humour and wit, either, though it’s probably advisable to ditch the puns! Maass suggests there are two character qualities that leave a deeper, more lasting and powerful impression of a character than any other, and I tend to agree. You’ll have to read the book to find out what they are, though. Villains are characters, too, and should be given due attention to make them rounded, with some redemptive trait.

Plot is not neglected, of course, and he advocates that sequential plotting is not always the best approach; again, I agree: my novel Pain Wears No Mask gained more depth by avoiding a chronological sequential plot. This way, certain past events can be concealed until they have a powerful resonance.

Every book hammers at the fact that the essence of story is conflict. There are different degrees of conflict, but it should be there – even if below the surface. Tension on every page keeps the pages turning. Maas outlines the five basic plot elements. Effective breakout conflict has to be deep, credible, complex and universal enough to be recognised by many readers. Any book is improved if it possesses layers of understanding and meaning. Breakout novels have to possess layered plots.

Viewpoint choice and consistency, forward-moving subplots, narrative pace, voice and endings are all examined and play their crucial part in any book but are essential for a breakout novel.

Whether the story is a novel or a short piece, it will have a theme; even if the writer hasn’t consciously decided upon one! Novels are moral entities, reflecting the morality of the age they’re written in or they’re written about. Theme invariably engages the emotional side and can be strengthened by circumspect use of symbols and a character’s passion. Don’t spell out the theme, however, let it emerge from the story and the characters.

That, briefly, is an overview of a guidebook any serious writer will find of interest. At the end of each chapter is a Breakout checklist and it might pay off to copy down those salient points and refer to them during the development and writing of your novel. They’re guidelines. The story still has to evolve from you over the weeks, months and possibly years. But by following these guidelines, your novel is liable to be a richer, more satisfying and more attractive book for any prospective publisher.

It’s clear that Donald Maass lives and breathes his work, as can be gleaned from two interviews on the web in 2007. You can access them here:

http://writerunboxed.com/2007/11/30/interview-donald-maass-part-1/

http://writerunboxed.com/2007/12/07/interview-donald-maass-part-2/

Nik Morton

A Fistful of Legends - progress report-02

2009-11-17T02:21:00.001-08:00

The book complete with cover is with the printer. A proof copy will be sent to me in the next week and after checking for any errors, it will be all systems go and a publication date will be set.

Watch this space...

Writing Guide-02 - Beginnings revisited

2009-11-13T06:03:00.000-08:00

Last time, I covered beginnings for short stories. They are crucial, because every word has to count in a short story. With a novel, while there's more scope with more words, those first few paragraphs or pages still have to pull the reader in. The methods are no different to those suggested for a short story - create a mystery the reader wants to solve, pose a question that needs answering, immerse the reader in the narrator's or main character's world and mind...

Here are samples from my novels.

BEGINNINGS – PUBLISHED NOVELS

THE $300 MAN
‘$300 – that’ll do nicely!’ said Bert Granger as he finished thumbing through the billfold Corbin Molina had been encouraged to hand over. As added persuasion, Bert held a revolver in his other hand.

Here, I'm having fun with the modern phrasing of advertisers and shopkeepers. But there's an immediate threat posed to the main character.

DEATH AT BETHESDA FALLS
James Thorp eased his sorrel horse to a halt on the outskirts of the small town of Bethesda Falls, which nestled at the base of the mountain’s foothills. He was dressed entirely in black. Black because he was in mourning. Mourning the men he had killed.

I'm not merely describing what Thorp wears, I'm saying that he doesn't relish killing. I'm also providing an image of him on the outskirts of the town where most of the action will take place, setting the scene.

LAST CHANCE SALOON
When the stagecoach eased over the brow of the hard-packed road that ran between two massive boulders, the driver Alfred Boddam grinned. Mid-morning and, by God, they were almost two hours early. He gentled the four horses to a stop and applied the brake. One of the passengers enquired gruffly, ‘Driver, why have we stopped?’ But he paid him no mind. From the box he sat looking down over the wide lush valley, a hard callused hand rubbing his chin’s bristles as he admired the view. Nestling on the east of Clearwater Creek was his destination, the town of Bethesda Falls. He chewed his lip, recalling his last visit. Miss Kitty Riley had taken a shine to him with her winsome smile and this time around he fancied pursuing that fine shapely figure of womanhood.

Rather a long intro, but very visual. Alfred is a minor character who bookends the novel. It offers amorous hope for Alfred, so the reader might be wondering if he will get his girl. (The stage holdup happens very soon after this intro, by the way...)

THE PRAGUE MANUSCRIPT
Foreword
The agent who called himself Mr. Swann entered the Queen’s Hotel bar at 2PM, just as he had promised. In my business I’d met a few spies and all of them were nondescript. After all, to be a good spy, you need to blend in, be unmemorable. Swann just didn’t fit that category, so I wondered if I was wasting my time on this mysterious appointment…

Chapter 1: August, 1968
Six Soviet officers stood on the balcony overlooking St. Wenceslas Square and the definition through the sniper-scope was so good that Tana Standish could detect the black-heads round their noses and the blood-shot eyes that testified to late-night celebrating with alcohol. She had ten 7.5mm rounds, more than enough to kill all of them.

The books in the Tana Standish series always begin with me receiving the latest secret manuscript from an agent. A bit flippant beginning, but also posing a question about the mysterious Mr Swann.

So, chapter one of each of the three Tana Standish novels features Tana or someone else viewing a target through a sniper's scope (see below). But each poses different questions.

THE TEHRAN TRANSMISSION
Foreword
We were in our usual booth, where we couldn’t be overheard. ‘We can’t keep on meeting like this,’ I said.

Chapter 1: Friday, September 8
Iran
Dressed in his sinister black SAVAK uniform, Captain Hassan Mokhtarian looked every inch the evil man he was. A man who deserved to die. Tana Standish could see him quite clearly through the telescopic sight, even making allowances for the poor light as dusk descended over Tehran and the city’s surrounding mountains, turning the overshadowing snow-capped cone of Mount Damavand a delicate shade of mauve. At least today the city smog didn’t obscure the peak of the volcano which still belched out sulphurous fumes from time to time and killed the odd stray sheep.

PAIN WEARS NO MASK
Another hosepipe ban loomed. Still, I was glad to be back in stifling grime- and crime-ridden London, even if sweat pooled in the small of my back. Sweat that caused my scars – and there were plenty – to itch.

We know from the blurb that the narrator is a nun who used to be a cop. We're left wondering after this brief intro - why does she have 'plenty' of scars? We know it's London, too.

So, try to create an intriguing or interesting beginning, it just might pull your reader and publisher into your story.

Remembrance Day short story

2009-11-11T05:37:00.000-08:00

Born of Joy

‘Sorrow is born of excessive joy’ – Chinese proverb

Quite a few years ago our vicar wrote down on slips of paper the many names of the war dead listed on the memorial plaque in the church. During that Remembrance Sunday service he handed out these slips to the congregation and asked that each recipient remember the named person in their prayers.

Although the paper is hiding somewhere, I have never forgotten the man’s name – Edwin Hamilton.

This very short story is dedicated to him – and to thousands like him.
*
Lydia Ballard was one hundred-and-six years old but didn’t look a day over seventy-five. Why this should be, she had no idea. She had no Wildean painting in the attic and used to smoke until her fifties – when she saw the sense of stopping. And she still enjoyed a tipple or two.

The residential home’s coach trip through the hedgerow lined lanes of Hampshire finished here in Southsea. The council had done the town proud, she thought, the flowers were gorgeous – yellows and reds and bright mauves. Though she felt they had gone mad with the plethora of road-signs.

While the hotels and boarding houses were no longer so imposing or well-cared for, they brought back memories of long ago, when many of these residences had belonged to the rich and powerful, when she had lived here.

Maureen, one of the carers, wasn’t looking, so Lydia slipped behind their group and hid in a shop entrance. An impulse, but she felt drawn. She stood still for a moment to get her breath.

After all these years, she found that the place was garish now. Shops with appalling colour schemes and lacking in the art of window-dressing, which she had excelled in during the 1950s. Her nose twitched – the smells were familiar, of candyfloss and seaweed, of chips and vinegar.

Nostalgia beckoned and she slowly followed some day-trippers along the boardwalk on to the pier. Her dainty feet trod carefully over the timeworn wooden boards.

Two boys were attaching bait to the hooks on their fishing lines. Over to her right was Madam Crystal’s gaudy tent. Lydia smiled, remembering her own visit as an impressionable sixteen-year-old. Then it had been Madame Zara, Palmist Extrordinaire! She had promised Lydia a full happy life with the man she loved.

With a liver-spotted hand she brushed tears from her cheeks, making quite a mess of her thick layer of Max Factor powder.

Out of nowhere an unseasonal fog enveloped the pier. It was eerie and she faintly heard several shrieks and the pounding of retreating feet.

But Lydia was past being afraid. She let go of the handrail and as the damp mist cleared from her eyes and the pier, she recognised him standing there, looking at her. Edwin Hamilton. Still dressed in his smart 1917 Khaki uniform, looking really fetching, bright blue eyes glinting. She had worn her best frock for their last day together.

Of course he had never returned – until now.

Book Review: DO THE BIRDS STILL SING IN HELL?

2009-11-09T09:15:00.000-08:00

DO THE BIRDS STILL SING IN HELL? by Horace ‘Jim’ Greasley

Appropriately, I finished reading this book on Remembrance Sunday. Long after I closed it, I’d remember Horace Greasley – and this story is a testament to his mates, those who survived with him but especially the many who succumbed to Nazi and German brutality.

I grew up with the plethora of war books in the 1950s, all of them memorable – Boldness Be My Friend (Richard Pape), The Wooden Horse (Eric Williams), The Great Escape and Escape or Die (Paul Brickhill), The Colditz Story (Pat Reid) and The Naked Island (Russell Braddon) to name a few. This book, a late contender, ranks up there with those classics. A number of those books were written in a novelistic style, but their stories were still true. Ghostwriter Ken Scott has chosen to follow that style of narrative here and it works splendidly with a well-structured and riveting story, penned from the lips of Horace whose arthritic fingers are not capable of writing or typing.

At the outbreak of war, gentlemen’s barber Horace Greasley joined the 2nd/5th Battalion Leicesters and in 1940 he was shipped to France. His combat days were deadly and dangerous but few as they were captured when their sergeant major surrendered rather than fight his way to freedom.

Horace was to spend the rest of the war as a prisoner. Nothing particularly different about that; this kind of story has been related often. But Horace is quite a character, it seems, and he has a mind of his own, and it’s his obstinate stubborn brave approach to his captors that enthrals the reader. Horace doesn’t like bullies and stands up to them – and often he gets a good beating for his trouble.

He suffered a terrible death march, where his comrades fell by the wayside and were despatched with Teutonic efficiency. He made friends with a few good strong men who saved his life more than once, but he’d repay them tenfold as their captivity stretched over the years. Because Horace was a staunch friend.

The privations of prisoner of war camps have been told before, but they need telling again. Each new generation should understand what war means. The inhumanity of warfare is troubling. After the concentration camps of the holocaust were discovered, the cries went up that this must never happen again. Sadly, it has, several times in our living memory.

At his first POW camp, Horace meets Rosa, an attractive Silesian girl acting as interpreter. Before long, the pair enjoy sex, snatching their moments of bliss virtually under the noses of the German guards. Then Horace and his comrades are moved to another camp. Yet Rosa follows and Horace effectively escapes at night, time and again, to prolong their liaison that develops from carnal passion to powerful love. Rosa risks all to help her Englishman and in turn Horace repeatedly puts his life in jeopardy to bring sustenance and even radio parts to his fellow prisoners. Both are made of the stuff of heroes. These are not superficial heroes of entertainment or sport. A hero is someone who knows he or she might die but willingly risks life and limb to help others in the name of love or humanity. The world needs more Horaces and Rosas.

When the classic war stories were published, public sensitivity was different to that of today. Now, Horace’s story contains graphic language, violence and sex, but it comes across as very real. Movingly real. By opening his heart and memory, Horace has found, in modern parlance, a form of closure. But he has done something else, too. He has ensured that his fallen comrades live on.

A Fistful of Legends - progress report-01

2009-10-09T10:24:00.000-07:00

The followup anthology to Where Legends Ride officially has a title: A FISTFUL OF LEGENDS.

James Reasoner has done everyone proud with an excellent Introduction to the 21 new tales of the Old West.

The editing, page-setup and proof-reading is all completed. So the book moves on to the next stages of the process.

Still some way to go before a cover and publicity will be available.

Watch this space.

Nik (Editor)

The book of the film: Angels and Demons

2009-10-03T05:17:00.000-07:00

Though this was written before the million-bestseller The Da Vinci Code, and features the same hero, Robert Langdon, it was filmed after Da Vinci. Naturally, since Da Vinci was Dan Brown’s breakout novel. I’ve come to Angels and Demons after reading Da Vinci, so my observations are affected by that.

Angels and Demons is a better book, and more original in concept. In essence, Da Vinci seems to be utilising the same template of Angels. A bizarre death complete with arcane symbols requires the presence of Langdon. There are seemingly endless expositions on various aspects of the symbols and the history pertaining to them. Langdon teams up with a young woman who is ‘related’ to the deceased. The person who calls in Langdon becomes a strong suspect. A final twist reveals a seemingly ‘good’ individual to be the actual perpetrator behind the scheme and the deaths.

Most books – and films – tend to rely on setting one deadline for the protagonists to beat. Brown isn’t content with one deadline – he has six. Cleverly orchestrated, they get the reader turning the pages.

Langdon is called in when it’s discovered that physicist Leonardo Vetra has been murdered, the sign of the Illuminati burned into his chest. The Illuminati organisation was presumed extinct some 400 years ago. The murder takes place in CERN, of all places. The DG, Maximilian Kohler wants Langdon to get to the bottom of the mystery and hasn’t called in the police yet, as he’s worried about the bad publicity. Vetra’s adopted daughter Vittoria has worked on antimatter with the physicist and they now discover that a considerable quantity of that devastating material has been stolen. As she is the only person who can make the material safe, Vittoria teams up with Langdon as their trail takes them to Rome – where else?

The Vatican is beginning the process of electing a new pontiff. Meanwhile, to mind the shop, Carlo Ventresca, the late pope’s camerlengo runs the show. Soon, they learn that four cardinals, the favourites for selection, have been kidnapped and will be killed at hourly intervals at specific but unnamed spots in Rome. It’s up to Langdon and Vittoria to find the cardinals as the deadlines count down…

The tension rarely lets up – despite the dense paragraphs of exposition. Yes, the whole thing is contrived, but it works. And the film is better in many respects, eschewing some of the more fanciful escapades of Langdon, while amalgamating characters and dropping some characters’ involvement with red herrings.

Considering Brown has taught creative writing, his prose sometimes lapses. When Langdon is shown to a private jet, he is ‘motioned up the gangplank’ – shiver my timbers, perhaps steps or gangway, but not gangplank!

I lost count of the times Langdon’s eyes performed surreal acts; here are two examples: ‘Langdon let his eyes climb.’ And, ‘Langdon’s eyes crossed the courtyard…’ And his characters don’t look up, they look ‘skyward.’

He has the annoying knack of author intrusion – way beyond the information dumping. ‘He never suspected that later that night, in a country hundreds of miles away, the information would save his life.’ As we’re reading this chapter from his point of view, he can’t know he never suspects…! And, ‘The horrifying answer was only a moment away.’ These insertions are not foreshadowing but blatant attempts to provide cliff-hanging ends of chapters.

Written in 2000, Brown might have been prescient. He mentions Woodrow Wilson’s warning in 1921 of a ‘growing Illuminati control over the US banking system. Beside the fact that 1921 isn’t 400 years ago, it begs the question, were the Illuminati involved in the sub-prime collapse of 2008? He also had praise for the BBC, where ‘every story they ran was carefully researched and confirmed.’ Despite a certain bias, of course…

These are mere quibbles. If you haven’t read Angels, give it a try. It’s fast-paced, intriguing and never lets up. Great entertainment with dashes of eloquence and poignancy.

Writing Guide-02 - Beginnings

2009-10-01T04:50:00.000-07:00

Whether a short story or a novel, the beginning is very important. It's probably the most edited and changed aspect of any written work. It has to do several things at once: pull the reader in, create character or atmosphere or scene, or ask a question...

Both beginners and readers often ask ‘How do you start?’ How isn’t so important as just sitting there and doing it; as they say, apply bum to seat and write. Anthony Burgess said: ‘I start at the beginning, go on to the end, then stop.’ While Mickey Spillane commented: ‘I write the ending first. Nobody reads a book to get to the middle.’

A writer has to read to understand story structure – whether in a novel or a short story. Many stories begin half-way through then you get the beginning as a flashback or through memories or character disclosure. Ideally, you should start at a dramatic high-point, though not the most dramatic high-point – you leave that for the end. The most important thing is to pull the reader into your story – because if you don’t, then you’re likely to lose the reader. The reader only has to close the book, after all. There are plenty of books out there, all vying for readers. The writer has to grab the reader so that once involved in the book’s world and characters, the reader won’t let go until the end.

There are countless stories and articles in magazines seeking the reader’s attention. People only have a limited time to devote to reading. They will cherry-pick what interests them. The same goes for books in shops. A browser will look at the cover, perhaps the blurb on the back and maybe the first page. If that first page doesn’t grab the browser’s interest, the book is replaced on the shelf. The words you’ve sweated over for days or weeks or even years, even if they get published, may only merit an initial sixty seconds of consideration from a book-buyer. Make those first words count, make them say, ‘You’re going to enjoy this book and love the characters and marvel at the plot.’ Easier said than done, true.

What kind of hook can you employ? That depends on your story. The story’s theme, place and characters can all pull the reader in. Raise a question in the reader’s mind – a question that demands an answer, which means having to read on to find out. That question can be literal, from the mouth of a character, or hinted at by the narrative, suggesting that everything is not what it seems.

Starting a story with characters speaking is a good idea, as the reader gains a great deal through speech – the character reveals himself by the way he talks, there’s interaction between people, and there’s even a hint of eavesdropping in the character’s world.

Two classic beginnings spring to mind, one from a novel, the other from a short story.

‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.’ – Nineteen Eighty-four, George Orwell.

To begin with it seems as though we’re getting a boring weather report then we’re brought up short by the significance of the clocks striking not twelve, but thirteen. What on earth is going on? we ask and read on to find out more.

‘As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.’ – The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka.

Clearly, it must be a fantasy, but it demands the reader’s attention as we learn about Gregor’s nightmarish feelings of isolation and sacrifice.

Not surprisingly, both authors have contributed words to the English language: Orwellian, Big Brother, Kafkaesque, for example.

Of course you’re not always going to manage to seduce the reader in the first sentence. But you should be trying to use every one of those early words and paragraphs to intrigue the reader, to pique her interest.

Yes, you’re bound to find published examples where the beginnings are bland or even quite ordinary. Usually, these are written by established writers who can indulge themselves because they have a ready readership. Dickens began A Tale of Two Cities with a philosophical viewpoint about the times of the French Revolution and started Bleak House with an atmospheric description of fog. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking that because a famous author does things his way, you can emulate him. You’re fresh, new and unpublished – and need every trick in the book to get noticed. That means writing a good beginning that quickly hooks the reader.

Don’t sit in front of a blank sheet of paper, though, just because you can’t think of a good beginning. Get the story – or first chapter – written. The beginning can always be changed and improved afterwards.

The following beginnings come from a selection of my published short stories.

BEGINNINGS – PUBLISHED SHORT STORIES

I CELEBRATE MYSELF
The stench was overwhelming, a mixture of mildewed fast-food, feces, rotten fruit, used sanitary towels, crumpled tabloid sheets of the New York Daily News and God knows what. I gagged and fought back the bile that threatened to lead a revolt of my stomach as I crawled over trash in the shadows. If my husband could see me now, he’d have a fit.

(Published in Beat to a Pulp ezine. This tells you the narrator is a female, probably in New York, and she's married. It also assaults the senses)

NOT TO COUNT THE COST
Up to that time I thought we could cope with anything. Until the snow struck. It wasn't the predicted heavy snowfall but a freak intense blizzard: ice spicules pummelled the canvas-covered trucks, sent up a deafening rataplan from the vehicle bonnets; the temperature plummeted to minus ten degrees. I used my black habit's voluminous sleeve to wipe a circle of visibility in the misted glass and peered out the lead truck's windscreen. Seconds ago there had been a road up ahead, with the prospect of another two hours' drive in these hostile Bosnian Mountains to the Mirvic Orphanage. Now there was just a white wall.

(Prize winning story published in Rom-Aid News and subsequently in Costa TV Times. We experience the threat of intense cold and it's a nun narrating. We know it's Bosnia and she's on a mission of mercy.)

THE END IS NIGH
All the churches in the world were full. And the synagogues. And the mosques. As an atheist I wasn’t surprised that all this prayer wasn’t working. Unfortunately, nothing else was, either. Science had no explanation. For five years now there hadn’t been a single baby born. Not one. Plants and flowers no longer bloomed. They didn’t die, they just never blossomed into flower, their leaves a dull grey.

(Published in the December issue of the Coastal Press. It's the future and disaster has struck our planet. A question is posed, and hopefully the reader will stick around to find out if there's an answer...)

NOURISH A BLIND LIFE
Not long now. My tenacious hold on this mortal coil is weakening but I have no regrets as I look down and for the first time in sixty years see myself, lying there, still trapped within that faithful, old husk. There is no bitterness in me; the poor body served me well enough, impaired as it is: it kept me going until I met her and fifteen years beyond.

(A prize winning short story based on a real life, attempting to step into another person's shoes. Published in a number of places, including this blog. Again, it poses questions and the reader should be wondering what happened to make the narrator so sanguine about his plight...)

OUTCAST
She came out of the godforsaken planet's seasonal mists, struggling under her immense weight. She wasn't welcome.

(A Christmas story commissioned for the Gatehouse Magazine. Transposing Christmas Eve to an inhospitable planet. Why wasn't she welcome?)

THE HOUSE OF AUNTY BERENICE
Purple was etched beneath her wide eyes. The slightly built girl in the shadowy doorway wore an eggshell-blue dress and apparently nothing else. Some people answer and look as if they're truly at home, in body and spirit; somehow, she didn't seem to belong, not here in this dilapidated house, not in shadow.

(Published in Dark Horizons. A character who begs to be understood. Why is she there? Questions that require answers.)

DUTY BOUND
A mountainous landscape populated by dragons strode out of the swathes of sauna steam and approached me. Hiroki Kuroda was tattooed over his entire torso and down to his wrists and calves; at a glance he gave the impression that he was wearing long johns, instead of which he was a walking exhibition of yakuza body art. As a member of the yakuza, a Japanese criminal organization similar to the Mafia, he endured hundreds of hours of pain simply to show that he could. Hiroki waved with his left hand; the little finger was missing at the first knuckle.

(A Leon Cazador story, published in the Coastal Press. Surreal image that creates a mysterious character and potential threat.)

ENDANGERED SPECIES
He had large eyes, big ears and, surprisingly, his middle finger was very long on each hand. ‘He looks cute,’ I said, lowering the photograph of the little aye-aye. His hair was black and he had a long bushy tail. His eyes seemed to be expressing surprise at finding himself in a cage rather than the diminishing rain forests of Madagascar. Perhaps the daylight conditions affected him too, which wasn’t strange really, as his kind is nocturnal. ‘But,’ I added, shaking my head in mock-concern, ‘my fiancée wants something a bit more exotic. Know what I mean?’

(A Leon Cazador story published in the Coastal Press. Again, slightly surreal till the reader realizes the description is not a man. Starts to ask questions - why the mock concern? What's going on here? Read on, I hope it says...)

Next time, I'll look at some novel beginnings.

Leon Cazador, private investigator in Spain

2009-09-30T11:20:00.000-07:00

I've just completed my 21st short story featuring this guy; it's a story I've been wanting to write for a couple of years but didn't have an angle on... The previous Leon Cazador story was written about 18 months ago and it was great to get reacquainted.

Nineteen of his stories have been published commercially and a couple earned prizes in competitions. At present I'm going through the collection and beefing up the stories for a collection; most commercial word counts don't allow for much in the way of atmosphere, character description and detail that provides additional realism; I'm hoping that my editing can enhance the existing stories. The collection is tentatively called Spanish Eye. I expect I'll be writing another four or five stories to get to an appropriate wordcount. Here's the Introduction to the Collection:

INTRODUCTION

In the middle of 2005, I received a telephone call from a Spanish private investigator, Leon Cazador. He’d heard of my efforts with a novel, Pain Wears No Mask, and wanted me to write about some of his cases in a similar vein – first person narrative. I’ve lost count of the number of approaches I’ve had from people wanting me to ghost write their autobiographies; it’s gratifying but any such venture entails many months of intense work and distracts me from other planned projects. I was inclined to turn down Señor Cazador, until he said, ‘I thought you captured the voice of Sister Rose perfectly. I feel you could do it for me, too.’ Suitably flattered, I arranged a meeting. I found that he was a fascinating raconteur and, more importantly, he had a good story to tell. As a result, I began writing Leon Cazador short stories, all of which seem to have been well received.

For thousands of years, evildoers conducted their business during the dark hours. Night offered concealment. The innocent and god-fearing slept in their beds while unsavoury characters went about their nefarious business under the cloak of darkness. But in recent memory all that seems to have changed. Now, muggers are quite blatant, attacking their victims in broad daylight. Burglars boldly break in during the day when the house owners are out at work. The law’s sanctions against criminals no longer appear to be a deterrent.

Darkness not only obliterates light, it permeates the mind and soul too. Is this an enlightened society we’re living in or one that’s about to implode? I don’t know, but I do feel that the silent majority will only stand for so much and when that limit is reached they will turn like the proverbial worm and rebel. Until that time, the world needs brave souls like Leon Cazador who is not afraid to bring the ungodly to justice and so help, in his own words, ‘to hold back the encroaching night of unreason.’

‘My allegiance is split because I’m half-English and half-Spanish,’ he says. ‘Mother had a whirlwind romance with a Spanish waiter but, happily, it didn’t end when the holiday was over. The waiter pursued her to England and they were married.’

Leon was born in Spain and has a married sister, Pilar, and an older brother, Juan, who is an officer in the Guardia Civil. Leon Cazador sometimes operates in disguise under several aliases, among them Carlos Ortiz Santos, his little tribute to the fabled fictional character Simon Templar.

As a consequence of dealing with the authorities and criminals, Leon has observed in his two home countries the gradual deterioration of effective law enforcement and the disintegration of respect.

At our first meeting, he said, ‘When I was growing up in England, I never imagined there would be no-go areas in those great cities, places where the shadow of light falls on streets and minds. Now, at weekends, some sections of many towns seem to be under siege.’

Now that he has returned to live in Spain, he finds that it is not so bad here, though he admits that he has seen many changes over the last thirty years, most of them good, yet some to be deplored. ‘It is heartening to see that family cohesion is still strong in most areas; but even that age-old stability is under threat. Yet some urbanizaciones more resemble towns on the frontier of the Old West, where mayors can be bought, where lawlessness is endemic and civilised behaviour has barely a foothold. Even so, most nights you can walk the streets and feel safe here in Spain.’

Leon has led an interesting life. As Spain’s conscription didn’t cease until 2001, he decided to jump rather than be pushed and joined the Army, graduating as an Artillery Lieutenant. About a year later, he joined the Spanish Foreign Legion’s Special Operations Company (Bandera de operaciones especiales de la legión) and was trained in the United States at Fort Bragg, where he built up his considerable knowledge about clandestine activities and weapons. Some months afterwards, he was recruited into the CESID (Centro Superior de Informacion de la Defensa), which later became the CNI (Centro Nacional de Inteligencia). Unlike most western democracies, Spain runs a single intelligence organization to handle both domestic and foreign risks.

He is one of those fortunate individuals who is capable of learning a foreign language with ease: he grew up bilingual, speaking English and Spanish, and soon learned Portuguese, French, Arabic, Chinese and Japanese. Part of his intelligence gathering entailed his transfer to the Spanish Embassy in Washington, DC. Here, he met several useful contacts in the intelligence community and at the close of the Soviet occupation he embarked on a number of secret missions to Afghanistan with CIA operatives. By the time that the Soviet withdrawal was a reality, Leon was transferred to the Spanish Embassy in Tokyo, where he liaised with both intelligence and police organizations. Secret work followed in China, the Gulf and Yugoslavia.

In 1987, Leon was attached to a secret section of MI6 to assist operatives in Colombia. Although he has been decorated four times in theatres of conflict, reports suggest his bravery justifies at least another four medals.

A year after witnessing the atrocity of the Twin Towers while stationed with the United Nations, he returned to civilian life and set up a private investigation firm. During periods of leave and while stationed in Spain, he had established a network of contacts in law enforcement, notably the Guardia Civil. One of his early cases resulted in him becoming financially set up for life, so that now he conducts his crusade against villains of all shades, and in the process attempts to save the unwary from the clutches of conmen, rogues and crooks.

These then are some of Leon Cazador’s cases, in his own words.

Nik Morton, Alicante, Spain

The beginning of the latest story goes something like this:

PIGEON HEARTED

Fireworks in daytime are not particularly spectacular, but that doesn’t deter my Spanish compatriots from setting them off. The clear blue sky was momentarily sprayed with silver and red stars as the single rocket exploded above the town square. Minutes afterwards, a profusion of colours darted above our heads, but this display wasn’t the transient starburst of another firework. The palette that soared in the sky came from garishly painted pigeons released from patios, balconies, rooftops and gardens. In the next few minutes the number of male birds increased to perhaps seventy.

‘My prize bird has been stolen!’ a man shouted from a balcony on the opposite side of the street. He gestured at us and added, ‘Pilar, tell your brother I need his help!’

Book of the Film: The Shawshank Redemption

2009-09-27T11:14:00.002-07:00

Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption is one of four novellas in the book Different Seasons by Stephen King, published in 1982. The film was released twelve years later. When I was studying scriptwriting, I was bowled over by the sheer perfection of Frank Darabont’s script, from the brilliant opening sequence through to the wonderfully emotional end. Indeed, while the novella is a virtuoso performance, King getting into the skin of the narrator ‘Red’, the movie surpasses the book in its storytelling power and characterisation. That doesn’t take away anything from the original source, however: the book deserves to be read and certain passages will move most readers, even when they know the story behind the Rita Hayworth poster…

I’m not a fan of prison movies and it was quite a while before I got round to watching the film. And I read the novella much later. As a writer myself, I can see that King cleverly has his cake and eats it too. Although the story is told in the first person, we see a lot of events where Red was not a participant or observer, thanks to the canny comment that the prison grapevine provided him with all the salient details.

As with a number of films, several characters are blended together, and successfully so. The fates of Tommy Williams and Brooks Hatlen are different in the book. The book’s ending shows merely the promise of what is actually revealed in the film.

Just in case some readers haven’t seen the film, the story goes something like this: In 1947, Andy Dufresne was charged and sentenced for murdering his wife and her lover. He never contested the prosecution’s facts. Andy became a new inmate in the Shawshank facility and was taken under the wing of Red, the prison fixer who could get almost anything smuggled in – except women, drugs and guns.

The prison regime was brutal and unpleasant, with the warden and his men wangling deals to feather their own pockets at the expense of the cons. As if that wasn’t bad enough, a gang of so-called ‘sisters’ who were brutish rapists targeted Andy, and though he fought back, he suffered many defeats and humiliations. But they never broke his spirit or dented his hope in one day walking out of the prison. Red admired Andy and they became firm friends.

Red the narrator is humorous, worldly wise and very observant, and totally believable in King’s hands. In the book’s Afterword, King states that his prose style is ‘fairly plain, not very literary, and sometimes downright clumsy.’ He considers his work to be the ‘literary equivalent of a Big Mac and a large fries from McDonald’s.’ I’m sure that many of his critics would agree with him. And yet, he taps into the hearts and minds of thousands of readers with that same prose. As he writes at the beginning of the book, ‘It is the tale, not he who tells it.’ And the story is all – comprising vivid characters, a fraught situation, raw emotion and the small guy hoping and working to beat the odds. That comes through in the book.

So, if you’ve seen the film but haven’t read the book, make that journey. You’ll be rewarded by finding a lot of nuggets plucked by Darabont to enliven his masterpiece film, and you’ll come away knowing that the naysaying critics of Stephen King are so wrong.

Book review: Mission by Philip Spires

2009-09-13T10:06:00.000-07:00

MISSION, Philip Spires, Libros International, 428pp

If you enjoyed Paul Scott’s The Raj Quartet, I suspect that you’ll like this book too. The Jewel in the Crown was about a lot of things, but essentially a rape and how that affects a number of interlinked individuals. Mission covers a great deal in 1970s Kenya, but is essentially about a death and how the lives of several people are entwined. The writing style is similar, too. Another author Spires favourably reminds me of is Louis Bromfield, especially his classic The Rains Came.

The man killed is Munyasya, a retired army officer who devoted his life to his colonial masters. The book is divided into five sections, related from the viewpoints of Michael, Mulonzya, Janet, Boniface and Munyasya. Time shifts from the instant of the death to the past and also forward to the present, showing the incident’s repercussions. As Michael says, some thirty years later, ‘Sometimes things happen to you in life which are so momentous, so mind-blowing, that you never forget them. You live with them forever, vivid and clear in your mind. It’s as if you can relive them moment-by-moment.’

We begin with the death. Father Michael, a mission priest, accidentally drives his vehicle over the ageing Munyasa, who is a derelict and a drunk. Yet the old man’s demise galvanizes the local politician James Mulonzya into making political capital from the tragedy. Father Michael’s blooding occurred earlier in Biafra, and his quite shocking memories are powerfully described. Now, officiating in the village of Migwani, he strives to do good and has a dedicated helper, Boniface. Michael finds himself in conflict with many folk who prefer the ‘old ways’ and is openly accused by Mulonzya of politicising school lessons. Michael is a staunch friend of Janet Rowlandson, a volunteer working there for two years.

James Mulonzya is not only at loggerheads with Father Michael. He is against the efforts of John Mwangangi, who has returned from UK to his homeland to improve the lot of Migwani farmers. John has a wife, Lesley, who prefers the city life of Nairobi rather than that of the village. John’s problems are manifold: he becomes distant to his wife, he is too absorbed in the village project, and he cannot easily get on with his old father, Musyoka, with tragic consequences.

We meet Janet thirty years after the death of old Munyasa when she is a headmistress of a girls’ school in London and by chance she encounters someone from her past, a past that is not buried far beneath the surface because of what she witnessed. While in Kenya, she embarked on an affair with John Mwangangi, but it was destined to end when her two years were up… Here, in Janet’s school life we are treated to some wonderful one-liners – ‘… middle class families who could do without patronising advice about their diet from a politician with certainly questionable morals.’ And a truism: ‘… knowing a language was not the same as teaching it…’ The mannered meal with guests and her family is splendidly done, with telling flashbacks and surprises and a marvellous put-down for her husband, David.

Boniface showed much promise as a young man and was destined for the church. Unfortunately, he allowed hubris to dominate him and fell foul of his father who had scrimped and saved to further Boniface’s education. The family rift was merely the beginning, however, as Boniface becomes involved with Josephine. Later, Boniface and Josephine are beholden to Father Michael for giving blood that saved their child’s life. Fate decrees otherwise, however, as the child later becomes ill and Michael makes an abortive mad dash to the hospital.

Munyasya gained his education and experience from the King’s African Rifles. A respected officer in his day, he was ousted when Kenya gained independence. He was seen as a traitor to his people, more interested in adopting a European name and lifestyle. Single and without issue, he descended into a schizophrenic life where his dead stepfather talked to him and he mumbled back incomprehensively. He developed the habit of tying pieces of string to his thumb as reminders of things he’d never remember, then the string seemed to be a part of him, at times sloughed off and renewed like a snake’s skin. ‘It was a fool trying to untie another fool’s knot.’ This phrase is echoed in the title of Spires’s second novel, A Fool’s Knot, which examines in more detail the life and death of John Mwangangi. At this point we discover the real reason why Munyasya died under the wheels of Father Michael’s car.

Despite the events being trodden over by several people, there’s always something fresh to discover, a new insight into a character, a shocking revelation, and even though you think you know everything already, you read on, wanting to understand the individuals and their inner worlds, and still learn more.

The narrative is coloured by the sights and smells of a small town in Africa, the petty tribal disagreements and the long-lasting resentment of past ignominies under colonial rule. It is not a light read, but it is rewarding. It’s obvious that these characters lived with Spires for several years, he knows them so well, and by the end of the book, we do too. A memorable and quite remarkable book.

Book of the film: Zulu

2009-09-09T05:59:00.000-07:00

Well, sort of. The book is ZULU – WITH SOME GUTS BEHIND IT! By Sheldon Hall

The subtitle of this book is ‘The making of the epic movie”, which says what it means. Sheldon Hall has comprehensively accomplished just that, describing in fascinating detail the research for the original article by author John Prebble, the development of the screenplay, the creation of the film’s characters, the casting, finding the locations in South Africa, the actual filming and editing, the music, plus the final release and the reviews and criticism. Released in 1964, the film has remained popular for over forty years and this book goes a long way to explaining why.

The events in the film took place in January 1879 during the Anglo-Zulu War on the day following the British defeat at Isandhlwana, later filmed as Zulu Dawn. The small mission at Rorke’s Drift consisted of six hundred square yards of poorly defensible land and was manned by eight officers and ninety-seven other ranks with thirty-six sick and wounded men in the mission hospital. Moving against Rorke’s Drift was a force of four thousand Zulu warriors. Eleven Victoria Crosses were won in a single day in the battle of Rorke’s Drift. Reprinted for the first time is the entire article, Slaughter in the Sun, written by historical author John Prebble and published in the Lilliput magazine for 1958.

Inevitably, film producers and writers are criticised when they tamper with real-life historical characters. These critics tend to forget that the film isn’t a documentary but a dramatic representation and, in Hall’s words, ‘I believe it is not only defensible but necessary to reinvent real-life figures for their new role in a drama.’ If viewers of these films confuse the drama with actual history, then that’s not the fault of the producers. Several descendants of the soldiers at Rorke’s Drift were upset over the portrayal of their relatives in the film.

Hall quotes at length from contributors to the website http://rorkesdriftvc.com and one in particular (Diana Blackwell) comments, ‘Despite its historical basis, Zulu is a work of art, not a documentary. It takes a few liberties with the facts, but always in the interest of strengthening the story.’ Diana points out that the film has drawn more attention to the battle than all the other sources combined and serious historical studies have resulted directly from the exposure given by the film. Much more is known about that conflict now than at the time when Prebble did his initial research.

Stanley Baker was co-producer and main star of the film. During the filming he and his wife made friends with Prince Buthelezi. Baker was awarded a knighthood in Wilson’s resignation honours and before receiving it from the Queen he contracted pneumonia in Malaga and died, aged forty-eight. His Zulu friend sent a wreath to ‘the finest white man he had ever met.’ Baker kept a secret cheque-book, discovered after his death, from which he gave money to out-of-work actors and broken-down boxers.

The book would have been interesting simply covering the making of the film, but it is immeasurably better because of snippets like the above scattered throughout.

Although Zulu is considered to be Michael Caine’s first film role, it wasn’t. But this was the movie that gave him prominent billing, even if his fee was only a mere £4,000 – a lot to a struggling actor in those days. What is quite striking is the generous encouragement and fostering of Caine – Jack Hawkins said he’s ‘the best thing in this film’ while Baker deprecates, saying the film didn’t make Caine a star, it only helped – Caine ‘made himself into a star.’ James Booth received mixed reviews about his part as the ne’er-do-well Private Hook. He enjoyed it immensely. Ironically, he appeared in the Newcastle upon Tyne Theatre playing Captain Hook in Peter Pan. At least he’d been promoted!

(The drawing is a sketch I made from a photo in 1964, when I was 16 - ye Gods, that's a long time ago...!)

One of the most memorable characters was Colour-Sergeant Bourne played by Nigel Green who was coincidentally born in South Africa. Some actors received mixed notices but Green was praised from every quarter. This part gained him recognition and more film roles. Subsequently, he appeared in two Michael Caine movies, The Ipcress File and Play Dirty. The voice-over narration was done by an old friend of Baker’s, Richard Burton, who refused to take a fee.

The location filming couldn’t take place at the original site of Rorke’s Drift since a modern school and monuments to the battle had been erected over the mission and the battlefield. Besides, from an aesthetic point of view, the scenery wasn’t that great. They eventually settled on Drakensberg mountain range about 160km from Rorke’s Drift.

Many real Zulus were employed as extras and stunt men. Chief (Then Prince) Buthelezi played the Zulu chief King Cetewayo. He went on to become Minister of Home Affairs in the new South Africa and was even appointed Acting President of the Republic by Nelson Mandela, who had previously been his political rival. He is particularly sad that so many people involved in the film ‘are no more.’

The biggest problem for the director was not arranging the fight scenes but actually getting the Zulus out of the shade – they didn’t care much for the sun. The working relationship between the white crew and the Zulus was good and memorable, despite the dark shadow of inhuman apartheid regime. My ship called in at Durban in the late 1960s and we were appalled at the way the blacks were treated. Indeed, Caine vowed never to return to South Africa while apartheid was still in force. Although hundreds of Zulus had worked on the film and appeared in it, because of apartheid they weren’t allowed to see it at all: Stanley Baker kept his promise, however, and arranged a secret special viewing for all those involved in the film.

The haunting film score by John Barry is covered in depth, too: he has written over 120 film scores and believes that music should be doing a very specific thing. He doesn’t want background music, he wants foreground music.

There were many special premieres throughout the country. At Glasgow five Scottish holders of the VC were accompanied by a guard of honour from HMS Zulu, a tribal class frigate due to be commissioned on the Clyde. In April 1967 I joined the ship’s company of HMS Zulu and we eventually sailed to Durban and visited Zululand and attended a tribal dance ceremony as guests of honour. (I left the ship in October 1969).

The film Zulu surpassed the previous highest grossing British release From Russia with Love. However, Bond came back to overtake that record with Goldfinger...

Zulu wasn’t glorying in warfare or jingoism or racism. It was simply a ‘straightforward celebration of valour, tenacity and honour among men’ from both sides. Many self-serving critics have tried to pillory the film-makers for not explaining the historical context or showing more from the Zulu viewpoint. They forget that the film was a drama about eleven men winning the Victoria Cross in one day.

There is a chapter about myths, gaffes and spoofs, even the Beyond Our Ken’s parody. There are appendices on the production schedule, the budget, the complete cast and crew listing, as well as a useful bibliography for further reading on the period and the Anglo-War of 1879 in particular. Some armies actually use the film as part of their training in leadership.

The book’s title is taken from a comment by Colour Sergeant Bourne near the end of the film, explaining their miraculous victory was not only due to the rifle but also the bayonet. ‘With some guts behind it, sir.’

The Zulu warcry is Bayete! - Thy will be done!

KEITH WATERHOUSE, RIP

2009-09-04T11:43:00.000-07:00

Saddened to learn that Keith Waterhouse died today, aged 80. He’d been ‘unwell’ for some time, doubtless emulating his friend Jeffrey Bernard… He was one of my writing idols. Waterhouse came from humble beginnings in Leeds but had the gift of words laced with humour. He was a great advocate for protecting the apostrophe from Philistines, ignoramuses and lazy officialdom, long before Lynne Truss adopted his standard.

Many years ago, I used to buy the Daily Mail and the Daily Mirror. They gave me two politically biased views of the world where news was concerned, so I could more or less work out that reality was perhaps somewhere in between. But I liked the Mirror for two special reasons: it contained the strip cartoon ‘The Perishers’ and at the time a Keith Waterhouse column. Later, Waterhouse moved to the Mail.

He was a consummate puncturer of pomposity. I have many books by him, besides his most famous, Billy Liar (1959); he wrote a sequel, Billy Liar on the Moon (1975). My two favourites are Waterhouse at Large, being samples of his columns from the Mirror, the Times and the Observer, and English, Our English (and how to sing it). Anyone who appreciates the written word will find joy in these books. He was prolific and versatile. I have two of his autobiographies, City Lights and Streets Ahead. He loved playing with words but respected the English language. It doesn’t matter which of his books you pick up – whether on Travel, Lunch or Newspaper Style, you’ll enjoy them at several levels.

In his later years, his facial features seemed to fit what many of his pieces may have been considered to be: curmudgeonly; it's as if the word was invented solely for him... He was inventive, funny and generous of nature. A great wordsmith has gone, but his words linger on.

He was known to drink champagne every day – he didn’t drive at all. So, to toast his memory tonight I shall open a bottle of Cava (heresy of heresies, but it’s cheaper yet as good as many champagnes). Cheers, Keith.

EXPRESS WESTERNS 2ND ANTHOLOGY

2009-08-27T04:34:00.000-07:00

Editor: Nik Morton
Co-editor: Charlie Whipple

At long last, here is the lineup for the next Legends anthology. About ninety-eight thousand words. Twenty-one new stories of the Old West. Listed in no particular order:

DEAD MAN TALKING – Derek Rutherford
LONIGAN MUST DIE! – Ben Bridges (David Whitehead)
BILLY – Lance Howard (Howard Hopkins)
THE MAN WHO SHOT GARFIELD DELANY – I P Parnham
HALF A PIG – Matthew P Mayo
BLOODHOUND – Courtney Joyner
MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE – Gillian F Taylor
BIG ENOUGH – Chuck Tyrell (Charles T Whipple)
ONE DAY IN LIBERTY – Jack Giles (Ray Foster)
SHADOWS ON THE HORIZON – Bobby Nash
ON THE RUN – Alfred Wallon
THE GIMP – Jack Martin (Gary Dobbs)
VISITORS – Ross Morton (Nik Morton)
THE NIGHTHAWK – Michael D George
DARKE JUSTICE – Peter Avarillo (Chantel Foster)
ANGELO AND THE STRONGBOX – Cody Wells (Malcolm Davey)
THE PRIDE OF THE CROCKETTS – Evan Lewis (Dave Lewis)
CRIB GIRLS – Kit Churchill (Andrea Hughes)
MAN OF IRON – Chuck Tyrell (Charles T Whipple)
CASH LARAMIE AND THE MASKED DEVIL – Edward A Grainger (David Cranmer)
DEAD MAN WALKING – Ed Ferguson

Congratulations to all. Still to be determined, the cover picture and the title. Watch this space.

(I drew the above picture in the late 1960s; Ursula Andress in Four For Texas.)

LARISSA – A LIFE OF MUSIC

2009-08-20T07:34:00.000-07:00

Some 18 months ago, my wife Jennifer’s choir, Cantabile Singers, was looking for a pianist when into their lives walked Larissa Yvonne Snarli, who was born in Russia but was now a Norwegian citizen living in Spain’s Costa Blanca. In her mid-fifties, Larissa was a diminutive package with a prodigious talent. She wasn’t an accompanist, but a concert pianist. The choir felt blessed indeed.

Last November Larissa was diagnosed with cancer and since then she lived for the music every blessed day, courageously performing on stage and teaching her devoted pupils at the piano. This photo shows her at the end of a fantastic performance this June. Though Larissa seemed to be winning after severe surgery and traumatic treatment, sadly additional cancer cells were detected. Eleven days after her birthday, she succumbed, leaving a bereft husband of twelve years, Roger, and a beautiful daughter, Elena.

Any death is sad. Yet it somehow seems particularly cruel when such formidable talent is swept away. Larissa was a linguist, cultured, humorous and highly intelligent.

When Larissa Yvonne, 56, and Norwegian Roger Snarli, 71, met on the Internet nearly twelve years ago it was love at first sight. Just a few months later, Larissa moved from Siberia to Oslo. Naturally, the life, the people and the culture in Russia were totally different from Norway. “But Larissa’s good command of English counterbalanced a great many cultural differences between us,” said Roger. “She had a great flair for languages and she quickly learned to speak Norwegian. She also started right away teaching new pupils at her private piano school in Oslo.”

“I learned the language from my pupils,” Larissa reminisced, “and by watching TV and reading newspapers.” She had a charming Russian-tinged accent when speaking English.

Larissa, or Lara as the family members called her, grew up with a sister eight years older in a privileged and highly educated family in the town of Tomsk, Siberia. Her father was a physicist and an engineer. Their mother worked as an English teacher, so the girls learned the language at their mother’s knee. They had a piano in the house and both sisters were attending music classes after regular school time. Larissa was only six when she took her first piano lessons and it soon became apparent that she had an exceptional talent. At the age of twelve, she held her first piano concert with the philharmonic orchestra.

Later, she extended her studies at the music college and completed her musical education by graduating from the Novosibirsk Conservatory. At 24, she started working as a leader of the orchestra (concertmaster) at Tomsk music theatre and worked there for seven years.

During this period she also performed a number of recitals, one of them being Beethoven’s piano concerto, with Tomsk symphony orchestra on tours in different parts of Russia. She received many awards and prizes from the city council – the highest acknowledgement available in the Soviet Union. In 1983 she was employed as a piano-teacher and an accompanist/concertmaster at Tomsk music college; she was awarded with the highest distinctions both as a teacher and an accompanist. Later on, she was twice chosen to participate in the international music festival for piano-duets.

Larissa became a Norwegian citizen and received her Norwegian passport. Their dream for warmer climes finally turned into reality when they finally got into the car on the first day of March 2006 and headed south. An enormous feeling of freedom engulfed them.

Even though Spain conquered Larissa’s heart, she maintained her bonds with both Norway and Russia. Larissa’s daughter Elena moved to Norway following her mother and has married and settled there; she is now busy studying Chinese at the University of Oslo. Larissa’s 88-year-old mother still lives in Russia.

Her personal motto was: “I wish to plant a seed of music into my pupil’s soul, and hope that it will bring joy and pleasure to their lives.”

Teaching piano gave Larissa the greatest joy in her life. She loved her pupils and they also showed that they appreciated her. The young musicians were of various nationalities: English, Russian, Chinese, Swedish and Norwegian, among others.

Throughout her medical treatment, Larissa tried to maintain a very positive attitude and believed that music would help her through the pain. For such a small lady, Larissa had a big heart and enormous talent to share with audiences and pupils alike. Now she is gone, but for all those whose lives she touched, her music will live on.

Larissa Yvonne Snarli, Norwegian citizen, born in Seversk, Russia, 8 August 1953, died Orihuela Costa, Spain, 19 August 2009.

Beat to a Pulp - I Celebrate Myself

2009-08-09T07:14:00.000-07:00

Beat to a Pulp is a webzine that features a great variety of stories in a number of genres. You'll find a broad range and a lot of good writing. Each week a new story is featured; earlier tales are still accessible, either on the page or in the Archive. The writers also benefit from feedback from the readers, which is a real bonus.

This week's 'punch' is one of my short stories, 'I Celebrate Myself' - the title is taken from Walt Whitman; his poetry lends itself to story titles, I reckon. Anyone reading The $300 Man will know that he - along with Christina Rossetti - is quoted by the two main characters.

Anyway, 'I Celebrate Myself' is about a NY cop faced with an unusual dilemma and it can be found at

http://www.beattoapulp.com/stor/2009/0809_nm_ICelebrateMyself.cfm

complete with readers' comments; feel free to drop in, read and leave a comment.

Nik

Last Chance Saloon - Large Print edition

2009-08-07T03:57:00.000-07:00

On 1 August, F A Thorpe published my second western under their large print imprint, Linford Western Library. The cover image still doesn’t appear on Amazon or the book depository but is on the Ulverscroft website. Retails at £8.99. Today, I received my free author's copies.

The blurb

The Bethesda Falls stage is robbed and Ruth Monroe, the stage depot owner, is being coerced into selling up by local tycoon, Zachary Smith. Meanwhile, Daniel McAlister returns from gold prospecting to wed Virginia, the saloon’s wheel of fortune operator. Daniel hits a winning streak but is bushwhacked, his winnings stolen.

Virginia sees this romance with Daniel as her last chance of happiness and no matter what, she’s determined to stand by her man, ducking flying bullets if need be. Daniel and Virginia side with Ruth against Smith and his hired gunslingers.

A deadly showdown will end it, one way or another.

Cover art
This cover tends to reflect the story, which is a nice change. Interestingly, the artwork is attributed: Boada. Sebastia Boada has been around for many years and was big in comics; his paintings and sculptures fetch high prices, as do his art prints. He was born in Barcelona in 1935. I'm honoured to have one of his paintings grace my book cover!

Book of the film: Rear Window

2009-08-02T09:17:00.000-07:00

Rather the short story of the film, really, since its length is only about 16,000 words.

Cornell Woolrich was popular and prolific, producing a slew of short stories in the 1930s and 1940s. His influences were F Scott Fitzgerald and James M Cain, among others. His biographer, Francis M Nevins, believes Woolrich’s recurring leitmotif is loss of love. ‘Murder in Wax’ (1935) was his earliest attempt at a first-person narrative from the perspective of a woman. The Black Angel (1943) is about a terrified young wife’s race against time to prove the innocence of her husband convicted of murder, again a first-person female viewpoint. He was introverted and lived with and was dominated by his mother, Claire Attalie. She died in 1957, aged 83. Woolrich died in 1968, aged 65.

Alfred Hitchcock made his film of ‘Rear Window’ in 1954, based on Woolrich’s story ‘It had to be murder’ (1942), starring James Stewart and Grace Kelly. It’s unlikely that anyone reading this hasn’t seen the film, but I’ll still attempt to avoid spoilers. The point of the story is that the hero is confined to his apartment room and idly watches his neighbours – and fears that one of them has murdered his bedridden wife. But how can he prove it?

Many a good film has sprung from a short story, whether by Woolrich, Poe, Kipling, Lawrence, Conrad, James, du Maurier, Philip K Dick or King. The essence, the outline is evident, but there’s scope to add, which screenwriters may find easier than trying to cut out subplots, characters and events from a full-length work when working from a novel.

Woolrich was inventive and wrote with plenty of pace and ‘Rear Window’ is a good example of his shorter work. The first-person narrator is Hal Jeffries and he’s stuck in his apartment for some reason, watching the antics of his neighbours through their back windows. He states ‘… my movements were strictly limited… I could get from the window to the bed, and from the bed to the window, and that was all.’ The humorous ending of the story reveals that Hal was stuck in there with a plaster cast on his leg – which really cheats the reader since if we are to be in the scenes with Hal, we’d see the cast. The film, obviously, begins with a close-up of the cast on the leg of LB ‘Jeff’ Jeffries (James Stewart).

Unlike in the film, the story has no female involvement. Kelly plays a young socialite girlfriend Lisa Fremont. In the film, Stella (Thelma Ritter), a cranky homecare nurse, calls daily; this role in the story belongs to Sam, a black friend/helper who brings in food or papers and is a mite superstitious: ‘My old mammy told it to me… Any time you hear (a cricket), that’s a sign of death – someplace close…’ Another character is Hal’s long suffering pal, Byrne, who worked on Homicide; the film character is Tom Doyle (Wendell Corey). And of course Lars Thorwald, played with such menace by Raymond Burr.

All of the philosophising between Stewart and Kelly was contrived padding and a little foreshadowing for the film – and actually slows the pace and dilutes the suspense which tends to build and build in the story. Indeed, Woolrich was a master at cranking up the suspense, often creating a race against the clock to save his protagonists. He certainly has a way with suspenseful phrasing – ‘I never heard the door open…behind me. A little eddy of air puffed through the dark at me.’

The denouement is slightly contrived in the story, but just believable; the film’s version is almost as bad, though giving Stewart the occupation of photographer makes sense of it.

As with so many works that have been translated into celluloid and reached millions, the action of reading has to attempt suspension of prior knowledge, which is not easy, otherwise the written source material offers few surprises. Even so, this is still worth reading.

ELLERY QUEEN MYSTERY MAGAZINE – REVIEW – AUGUST 2009

2009-07-17T03:54:00.000-07:00

An excellent collection of nine short stories, showcasing a variety of writing styles and talent. ‘Central Islin, USA’ by Lou Manfredo concerns retired cop Gus Oliver and the puzzling murder of a German immigrant in her bakery. There’s a very good reason why the story is set in 1959 – the flavour of that time is neatly captured too. Even though I guessed the culprit 7 pages in, I still enjoyed the story.

Kieran Shea’s dark tale ‘The Lifeguard Method’ is a modern story about a sort of private detective Charlie Byrne. He’s acting for the father of a kidnapped boy – but it isn’t what it seems. All about gratitude and the lack of it, with consequences. Another Shea story can be found in the online storyzine:

http://www.beattoapulp.com/stor/2009/0531_ks_Maintenance.cfm.

Intriguingly, there are a number of period pieces in this issue. Next up is ‘A Cabinet of Curiosities’ by Christine Poulson set in England at the time of the persecution of Roman Catholics. Interestingly, written in the present tense.

‘A Voice from the Past’ by Art Taylor concerns Evan and his connection with a guy from his past. Quite creepy, this, as the old boy from Evan’s school haunts his waking and dreaming moments.

‘The Shanty Drummer’ by Robert Lopresti is a moral tale about corporate business and ambition – or lack of it. The young black drummer of the title seems to be a metaphor for the fate of those who strive without thought of others.

The translated crime tale is ‘Snow on Bloedkoppie’ by Bernhard Jaumann. It’s set in the author’s home of Namibia and seems to possess elements of the supernatural – until the final twist.

‘Death will tie your kangaroo down’ by Elizabeth Zelvin starts out as an amusing encounter with an obnoxious yet perversely likeable (!) Australian drifter. Before the jokes at the expense of the Aussie can become tiresome, the guy is found murdered. The quest to locate the murder seemed a little rushed and lacking in drama but there were plenty of good lines along the way.

I started out thinking I wasn’t going to like ‘Fake Resumé’ by Jon L Breen as it appeared to be a lecture by two cops, Berwanger and Foley during a creative writing class. But the guys grow on you, as does their humour. Unusual.

Lastly, we travel to 1680 in ‘The Pirate’s Debt’ by Toni LP Kelner. It’s an epistolary story, written by a lawyer who has been abducted to plead the case of a murderer on a pirate ship.

A book review and also blog bytes by the busy scribe Bill Cryder complete the contents of these 112 pages. Check out the website too – www.themysteryplace.com.

Short story - Nourish a blind life

2009-07-02T08:50:00.000-07:00

A recent online group discussion on writing about brain damage prompts me to republish this prize-winning short story; the judge’s comments are at the end. It is based on a real life. After the competition, it was published in the small press magazine Scribblers’ News. It's included in my collection of supernatural short stories seeking a publisher and also provides the collection's title.

NOURISH A BLIND LIFE
by Nik Morton

For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain
If, knowing God, they lift not hand of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
- The Passing of Arthur, Tennyson

Not long now. My tenacious hold on this mortal coil is weakening but I have no regrets as I look down and for the first time in sixty years see myself, lying there, still trapped within that faithful, old husk. There is no bitterness in me; the poor body served me well enough, impaired as it is: it kept me going until I met her and fifteen years beyond.

This floating sensation is unique. Perhaps it is euphoria, at being able to see, even if as through gauze; an out-of-body experience, a precursor to the final journey. Now I find myself with an adequate way with words, at long last able to express myself.

These gifts, of sight and using words, are blessings, but compared to her they are meagre.

For too long have my links with the world only been through touch, taste and smell. Before I die I would like to hear music rather than sense the marvellous vibrations.

Born deaf seventy-five years ago, I received little help. They were unenlightened times, at least in my village. People meant well, but shied away when I made strange noises, inept struggles to seek understanding and love.

Now, I realize they probably thought I was mentally retarded. Even if I had been, that was no reason to shun me. But people are like that. At least the ones I saw were - though that was only until a hereditary illness left me blind on my sixteenth birthday. The sudden immersion into perpetual darkness was horrifying, worse because I couldn't talk about it; nobody had bothered to teach me to vocalize.

Until I was 40 I sat at home every day.

I never knew my father: apparently, he deserted us, unable to cope with my presence, as if I was a stain on his manhood.

My mother ministered to my physical needs, but she was unable to provide any abiding sensory stimulus. That day when she did not come to get me up was almost as comparable to my abrupt descend into blindness. She'd died in bed. Trembling, I barged into her bedroom. She was cold, lifeless. I cried: I was intelligent enough to know that my existence was destined to change.

The next couple of days were a waking nightmare; strange, to talk of nightmares, when every waking moment is night.

(In retrospect, I know I should have fought the blindness Fate had thrust upon me, by familiarizing myself with my near surroundings, by going out with a stick. I should have learned to speak or at least voice comprehensible sounds. In mitigation, I can only say that if someone had guided me, if someone had had faith in me, then I would have managed these accomplishments. Instead, during my seeing years I was not even taught the rudiments of reading.)

As the well-meaning representatives of the Local Authority shepherded me from pillar to post, I tended to withdraw into my shell. Any attempts at communication were considered the movements of a severely retarded adult; I had long ago smelled their fear of me; perhaps my frustrations were interpreted as violence. I don't know; I can't remember...

What I can remember, though, is when she visited the home for the blind fifteen years ago; I was sixty.

I remember her first touch, gentle, inquisitive, her curiosity almost palpable in the air: I must have sensed her wish to communicate with me, for with great difficulty I refrained from responding in my usual slightly uncoordinated manner. Instead, I smiled.

Now, blessed with hindsight and visual memories previously unavailable, I can see how inane that smile must have appeared. But it offered her encouragement.

Over the weeks, and I had plenty of time, she gained my trust, and I hers.

She began to write letters on my palm; simple alphabet shapes, then stringing them together to form words, usually of things to feel and identify by shape and smell. 'Spoon' was one of my first words. She persevered, and I never gave up.

Eventually, we formulated gestures for 'Yes' and 'No'. I could almost feel her smile when we established this communication: it will probably be like this when we converse with another species, if we haven't already done so with the sadly persecuted whales...

Yes, with my pre-death blessings has come understanding of the world around me, a world taken so much for granted by the majority.

When she was permitted to wheel me outside into the garden it was a glorious sunny day. I delighted unashamedly in the sun on my face, in the breeze on my cheeks. Oddly, the scent of flowers seemed richer, more powerful in the gardens than in vases.

Months later I learned she had a family; they too had taught themselves some blind and deaf language and imparted it to me.

My joy was difficult to contain; I was being included in a family after so many many years.

I managed to build up a vocabulary of over two hundred nouns and a dozen or so abstract words like 'hot' and 'cold'.

Until my near-death astral revelations, though, I could not comprehend words for 'love', 'sad' and 'happy', so no matter how many times she showed me them and I could write them with letter-shapes, I couldn't understand them. Now I can. And of course I realize that you don't have to understand the words to feel their meanings. To me they are 'feelings-words', and I have experienced those emotions. I was sad on the days she or her family were unable to visit, I was happy when my surrogate family came.

A couple of years later I was taken to a Christening and was even allowed to hold the baby. It was a peculiar sensation, holding a young life in my arms. Infants are so trusting, so gentle and soft. I smiled, suffused with a glow of happiness, to know that this child was entire, not the guest of an imperfect body.

It must have been as a result of the christening that she learned that I had been confirmed shortly before being stricken blind.

A half-century after that fateful time I was offered the wafer and the wine; solemnly, I handed the chalice back, having taken my delicious sip. The glow of being received by her family was equalled by that moment; on my knees, I leaned back and smiled, content: I truly belonged again.

For fifteen years they included me in their family, in their world. They gave light to a blind man, faith to a nonentity, and words to relieve my silence.

They know I am failing fast.

Here she comes.

All those years and I have never seen her face.

It is a gentle, motherly face, with tear-brimmed eyes of hazel, her auburn hair slightly streaked with grey.

I remember how she last saw me, rocking on the chair in their garden, laughing out loud. I don't know why I was laughing, and I'm sure she doesn't either. Perhaps it was a presentiment of my imminent departure.

I so want to wipe her tears.

I can hear music, music of the spheres: all the beautiful music through the centuries flooded into my mind.

I smiled, knowing she would see that smile as I let go.

Judge's comments:
'I read a lot and like to think that I’m fairly hardened to the human experience. Your story, Nourish a blind life, however, moved me enormously. With a powerful understanding you avoided any mawkish melodrama. The ending, although sad, gave satisfaction knowing the narrator was soon to be free! Thank you.' – Eve Blizzard, dramatist and author

Western book review - Long Shadows

2009-06-29T04:23:00.000-07:00

There are not many novels in the Black Horse Western stable that feature a female main character. This is one of them – and, like the Misfti Lil series, it works very well.

LONG SHADOWS
Terry James

Our first introduction to Ros West is memorable as she sells her horse. We want to know more about her and her predicament. But before that, we – and Ros – are drawn into a fight to rescue an apparent stranger, Jake Rudd from a beating. Ros has a strong sense of justice – and a missing memory.

As she teams up with Jake, she learns that they were lovers some time before she mislaid her past. However, as she has no memory of him and doesn’t particularly trust the man, she has no intention of sharing a bed with him again. People have been trying to kill her for a long time, and she doesn’t know why; neither does Rudd, who has the knack of ‘deliberately lighting a fuse under trouble.’

Big honcho Swain wants things his way and hires guns to ensure it happens. He’s not averse to killing, either. As events grow more tense, glimmers of memory return to Ros. ‘Being home was like opening an old wound. … Rudd … was the salt being rubbed into it.’

As well as being feisty, tough and independent, Ros has a sense of humour too. ‘Beats me how I hurt my hand when I stopped the fall with my face.’

Good characterisation, plenty of action and an unfolding mystery – all bound to provide reader enjoyment.