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Showing posts with label blood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blood. Show all posts

Friday, 3 April 2015

FFB - Young Blood

Not another vampire book! may well be the first reaction to this novel. But you’d be wrong.  To be expected from such an accomplished fabulist, Brian Stableford, Young Blood (1992) is quite unlike any other vampire novel up to this date of publication.

 
It concerns Anne Claret, a thin almost-anorexic philosophy student who craves change and sexual fulfilment; so she summons Maldureve the vampire from the shadowy borderlands; and because of her summoning, this night-creature is given substance. Maldureve is able to feed from Anne and in turn she must satisfy her hunger.

Anne’s American boyfriend Gil is the ideal choice, but things go wrong when the effects of Anne’s feeding from his blood are misconstrued by Gil…

The narrative is gripping, and believable, and Stableford manages to blend in psychology, philosophy, DNA theories, horror and madness. Throughout there is a potent symbolism, of light and dark, with intrusions of grey, everything is not quite what it seems. The strange mix of sci-fi and horror works well: Anne’s final realisation after a king of rite of passage is the stuff of nightmares.

***

Stableford has published over seventy novels. He is fondly remembered by sci-fi fans for his Hooded Swan series (1972-1978); besides this, he has written ten more different series, one being the David Lydyard trilogy about werewolves (1990-1994). Another vampire opus of his I’ve enjoyed is Empire of Fear (1988).


Saturday, 9 November 2013

We shall not sleep - remembrance

During the First World War the battlegrounds were fought over so many times that in the end not a tree, not a hedge and not a house was left standing. In winter the land became a sea of mud and in summer a plain of colourless baked earth poisoned by chemicals and cordite, where hardly anything grew – except for the poppy.

This delicate and cheery flower provided the only colour in this blasted landscape and became a symbol for the soldiers.

Poppies have been used as a symbol of sleep and death since Ancient Greek times when the flowers were used as offerings to the dead. Also, the bright scarlet colour signified the promise of resurrection after death as well as the colour of blood. Sleep and eternal sleep are linked by the opiate qualities of certain poppies.

Many soldiers in the trenches wrote poems about the poppy, including Captain John McCrae, a Professor of Medicine in Montreal and medical officer with the First Canadian Army contingent in France in 1915.

At the second battle of Ypres in 1915, after witnessing the death of a friend, McCrae wrote in pencil on a page torn from his despatch book the following verses:

In Flanders’ fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders’ fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold up high
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders’ fields.

The poem was published in a December 1915 ‘Punch’. In January 1918 and now a colonel, McCrae was brought as a stretcher case to one of the big hospitals on the French coast. On his third evening there he was wheeled to the balcony of his room to look over the sea towards the cliffs of Dover.
 
His own verses were obviously on his mind for he turned to his doctor and said, ‘Tell them this, if ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep.’ John McCrae died that night. He was buried in a cemetery on rising ground above Wimereux, from where the cliffs of Dover are clearly visible on sunny days.


An American, Moina Michael, was moved by McCrae’s poem and wrote several verses in reply, ending with:

And now the torch and Poppy red
Wear in honour of the dead
Fear not that ye have died for naught
We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught
In Flanders’ fields.

Sadly, the lessons of war still have not been learned. Yet, despite the many lands torn apart by war since the end of World War II, there has not been another global conflict. 
 
In November 1918 Miss Michael was presented with a small gift of money by some of the overseas war secretaries of the YMCA for whom she worked. She announced she was going to buy twenty-five red poppies with the money. She wore one herself and each secretary then bought one from her. This was probably the first ever group of people to sell poppies as a symbol of remembrance.

The French YMCA war secretary Madame Guerin, a milliner by trade, suggested that artificial poppies be made and sold to help ex-Servicemen and their dependants in need.

As a result, the first Poppy Day was held in UK on 11 November 1921. The poppies were obtained from a French organisation that used its profits to help children in war-devastated areas.

In 1922 Earl Haig set up the Legion Poppy Factory to give work to disabled ex-Service men. This built on an idea of Major George Howson who had formed The Disabled Society. He had been deeply moved by the plight of many of the disabled and therefore unemployable ex-Service men and thought that the production of artificial poppies would be something the disabled could undertake. Over eighty years later, the Legion’s Appeal raises about £18million every year.

Should you wear your poppy this year, you will be not only remembering but also helping improve people’s lives. In contributing to the Poppy Appeal, you are saying your own thanks to those who paid for our peace and freedom with their lives. The money from the appeal is used by the Legion to look after and provide for ex-Service men, women and their families in need. They adapted the famous phrase ‘For your tomorrow, we gave our today’ and say, ‘For their tomorrow, give on Poppy Day.’

The UK’s Remembrance Day also occurs in Australia and Canada, while in the US it’s called Veterans’ Day; it’s Armistice Day in France and Commonwealth countries, and Poppy Day in Malta and South Africa.

In the past, 11 November was the day of remembrance, but when it fell on a weekday it was felt that this interfered with business, so the actual ceremonies were shifted to the Sunday nearest to that date. However, in recent times many individuals still offer up two minutes of silence for the dead on the day, 11 November. That silence speaks volumes.

In November 2009 I blogged a short story (800 words), which may be of interest at this time - http://nik-writealot.blogspot.com.es/2009/11/remembrance-day-short-story.html

 

Thursday, 31 October 2013

Halloween-3 – become sacred dust

I got fed up waiting for a publisher to grab this book after it was out-of-print, despite the good reviews, so have self-published it as a paperback and e-book under the new title Chill of the Shadow. (amendment: 27/10/2017)

 In this partial chapter excerpt from Death is Another Life, we meet Maria’s antagonist – or will it be fellow protagonist? Unlikely, considering his behaviour. Still, vampires are known to mesmerize those they would seduce…

CHAPTER 2: An urgent hunger

A month ago

Zondadari never ceased to be filled with dread anticipation before the transformation.
            In the privacy of his secluded Maltese villa he stood on the stone balcony, dressed in black leather, his shoulders draped with a cloak of the same colour and material. Very theatrical, but appropriate. As the pains filled his chest and raked across his back, he hunched forward, his fingers grasping the stone hand-rail for support. Mediterranean fir-pine trees cast their deep velvet shadows onto the balcony, concealing most of the pale yellow moon. Shadows were his friend.
            Slowly the organic material of his clothing pressed against him, even into him, taking on the contours of his large muscular body. A straying wild bird flew over and shrilled and then darted away quickly, discouraged by the unholy smell that emanated from him during his change.
            One day, he feared, his heart wouldn’t hold out against the battering it took.
            Coherent thought shimmered. He started seeing double; then multiples of everything. Disoriented, he lowered himself down on one knee. It would be a few minutes more before he would be able to control the numerous images.
            Small gaping flesh-red mouths, with razor-sharp teeth, appeared on the surface of his body. Disproportionately large furry ears flicked out at all angles and black beady eyes glistened all over him, like a constellation of the devil.
            Five minutes of harrowing pain passed and already he was separating, literally coming apart. With an unpleasant sucking sound, dark shapes peeled off from the form that had been a man. But he was a man no longer.
            With a flick of thin yet deceptively strong leathery wings, the freed bats broke away from each other and landed on the balustrade.
            The shape-shifting was complete. His mind was the sum of these forty-six creatures. He could see through the eyes of a single animal or perceive separate images through all of them. They did his bidding – because they were him in every sense. Every sense.
            The hunger was upon him again.
            As one, the bats flew up into the night sky.

* * * *
His body aching in every bone, he straightened in the front pew and rubbed his strained eyes. Recovery from each transformation was the same: excruciating.
            He remembered his pains with a shiver; then gulped the revitalizing warm blood from the church’s golden chalice and licked red dribbles from fleshy lips.
            Ever so slowly, the draught would do its arcane work and heal the agonizing ache and give him new life. Not for the first time, Zondadari cursed Theresa. Still, there were compensations: and blood-lusting Desiree was just one of many.
            He turned in the high-backed wooden seat to eye Father Pont, sprawled lifeless at the base of the choir stalls. The fool’s vacant eyes reflected no beatitude at abruptly and prematurely meeting his Maker and perhaps because of this they stared at him accusingly. And with good reason. The poor man’s heart must have stopped for a fleeting second as he saw a cloud of bats swoop down from the belfry. Father Pont’s eyes were almost extended on stalks as he viewed the creatures in front of him clustering together, as if purposefully forming into a seemingly pain-racked leather-clad man. Suffused with agonizing pain, the man glared and then smiled, grabbing the nearest piece of silver to hand. The priest stayed rooted to the stone flags, an easy target. No wonder his eyes stared accusingly.
            Zondadari shrugged. Even after all these years, he wondered how he could have been taken in by such an empty religion. Of course, in those distant days, superstition reigned supreme.
            He stood and hung the plastic crucifix round his neck.
            In a moment he would drag the dead priest down to the catacombs to join his ancient brethren. With great will-power, Zondadari refrained from draining the blood from the priest; he would return for the rest later, a cool libation, after which the body would moulder and become sacred dust.
            Taking his time – of which he had plenty – he donned the dead priest’s round-brimmed hat. He paused to check his reflection in the shining silver ciborium, its rim smeared with blood and hair where he had clubbed the kappillan.
            He lifted his head, accentuating the line of his aquiline nose. His steely grey eyes shone mischievously. Quite the local vicar, he mused, but he still preferred to see himself in his ancient knight’s helmet.
            Licking the silver clean, he smiled. Today, he would have a little amusement.


HAPPY HALLOWEEN...!
This book is now out of print - until further notice...

NB – Kappillan is Maltese for parish-priest. I can recommend Nicholas Monsarrat’s The Kappillan of Malta.