ELLERY QUEEN MYSTERY MAGAZINE – REVIEW – AUGUST 2009

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

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

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.

Western book review - The Tarnished Star

THE TARNISHED STAR by Jack Martin has become quite a phenomenon, even before it was published. Pre-sales thanks to astute exposure on the Internet have meant it has gone into reprint before its publication date of June 30. That’s a lot to live up to. Fortunately, the omens are good. It’s a traditional moral tale of the Old West and it begins with a bang.


Sheriff Cole Masters is enjoying a smoke of his pipe – it may be his last. I liked that – the threat in the first paragraph hooks the reader. Cole has jailed young Sam Bowden for the murder of a prostitute. Up till now, Bowden’s been bailed out by his father, Clem, who all but owns the town. But murder is different. Cole is waiting for the judge to arrive in a few days’ time. He’s also waiting for Clem Bowden to confront him and break out his son. And besides Em, an old timer, and his schoolteacher fiancé Jessie, Cole has nobody to stand with him. Outnumbered and concerned for Jessie’s safety, Cole lets Sam go and takes a beating and loses his badge. Humiliated, he crawls away to lick his wounds.

But Cole believes in the law – not a rich rancher’s version of it, either. Cole will be back.

The spoilt brat (thirty-years’ old!) Sam is well drawn and totally unlikeable, even by his men and father. But blood’s thicker than common sense in the Bowden scheme of things, so Sam must be saved from himself. To do this, Clem hires two gunslingers, Quill and Boyd, to track down Cole.

Jessie is a strong self-willed character too, especially when she stands up to old man Bowden. There are a number of dramatic scenes where the characters leap off the page, demanding sympathy and understanding. Plenty of action, a fast pace and a hero in the mould of James Stewart. All in all, this is a good debut novel and worthy of inclusion in the BHW stable.

The Tehran Transmission: Chilling coincidence or what?

On Wednesday, June 17 I received from my publisher a pdf of the cover of The Tehran Transmission. I was pleased with it. It's the hand that's relevant for this post.

A couple of hours later, I went out to buy a Daily Mail and was surprised to note an article on Iran’s restrictions on foreign media – with a photograph of a bloody hand that seemed to echo the book’s cover.

As my book is about the events leading up to the Islamic Revolution, there’s a certain amount of irony involved here, since the current Iranian government is using both the verbal excuses and tactics employed by the Shah the present regime ousted in 1978!

Now if only Libros would get the book off the printer, perhaps some publicity could be engendered… I live in hope.

Book of the film: Hondo

‘A man ought to do what he thinks is best.’ – Hondo Lane.

‘Hondo Lane was a big man… with the lean hard-boned face of the desert rider… His toughness was ingrained and deep, without cruelty, yet quick, hard and dangerous. Whatever wells of gentleness might lie within him were guarded and deep.’

Hondo and his trusty dog Sam are being stalked by two Apache warriors. He chooses the time and place for the showdown. This action-filled beginning is dropped from the film. Shortly afterwards, deprived of his horse, he wanders into a deep fertile basin and a lonely small ranch. This is where the film opens – and it works. Hondo meets up with Mrs Angie Lowe and her young son Johnny, both struggling to keep the ranch going in the absence of any man. Hondo befriends them and helps out. He warns them that Vittoro is on the warpath but Angie says they’ll be fine, they got along with the Apache. Hondo was half-Apache so understood; he borrowed one of Angie’s horses and left for the fort with despatches. It was a sad leavetaking because there was strong affection between them.

There is the complication of Angie’s husband and in the film this sticks closely to the book. L’Amour also wrote several pages about the Cavalry Company C, the lead up to their massacre; this was neatly discarded in the film script, Hondo simply pulling from his saddlebags the Company’s flag which he took off the Indian braves he killed (before the film began!)

Additional complications arise when Vittoro turns up wanting to adopt young Johnny as his son. He also declares that Angie must take a wife – an Apache brave. She has till the planting rains come to decide which warrior she would accept…

How the drama is played out between the pioneer woman, the gunman and the Apache warrior makes for tense reading. This is such a good yarn that it’s quite humbling to note that it was L’Amour’s first novel, published in 1953. He went on to produce over 120 books with sales in the 300 million range. The film, starring John Wayne and Geraldine Page (making her film debut), was made in the same year. Other actors included Wayne’s pal, Ward Bond and pre-Gunsmoke James Arness. Hondo’s dog Sam was played by Lassie!

Hondo has great characterisation, powerful visuals of the stark Arizona land and moments of understated tenderness. The book could have been written for Wayne as Hondo exemplified the star’s values – honesty, loyalty, bravery, self-reliance and independence. As the Duke’s son Michael said, ‘What you see on the screen is what John Wayne was off the screen. It is how he lived his life.’

L’Amour honed his craft by writing many short stories before embarking on a novel-length tale. Sadly, there is no longer such a good market of pulp magazines for new writers to supply, where they can develop and improve their writing.

On a few occasions, L’Amour jumps character point of view between Hondo and Angie, Hondo and Ed Lowe etc in the same scene, but it’s forgivable because the characters and story smoothly move you on. Even if the viewpoint is omniscient, I found those particular jumps jarred a little. I also felt that the fast-paced ending seems a little rushed but it’s satisfying nevertheless. It was interesting to see that the film’s final confrontation between the Apache and the settlers and cavalry was lengthier than in the reading; much of the violence wasn’t actually shown in any graphic detail, which probably had something to do with the film code of the time.

It’s quite understandable why this book marked the beginning of L’Amour’s successful career as a novelist. You know and feel that L’Amour, like his character Hondo, has integrity and honour and it shines through. As Angie’s thoughts emphasise: ‘… this also her father had given her: reserve of judgment, and to judge no man or woman by a grouping, but each on his own character, his own ground.’

Wayne was already a big box office star. This film did his career no harm at all and the Hondo Lane character can rightly join the Ringo Kid, Ethan Edwards and Rooster Cogburn in the Wayne hall of fame. Bearing in mind this film was released in 1953, its treatment of the Apache was honest and sympathetic – as was L’Amour’s.

L’Amour states in the Foreword: ‘I do not need to go to Thermopylae or the Plains of Marathon for heroism. I find it here on the frontier.’ As do we, his readers.

Countdown-03 FINALLY

The publication of The $300 Man happened! And on the day of publication (29 May) the book received a generous review from

http://westernfictionreview.blogspot.com/2009/05/300-man.html

Please mosey on over... among the comments, there's this: 'Ross Morton (real name Nik Morton) presents the reader with a fascinating character in Corbin Molina...'

The $300 Man

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 paid as a 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, dominate 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.

Book of the film: To Kill a Mockingbird

It has taken me a long time to get round to reading this book, first published in 1960. Maybe I was daunted by the fact it was a Pulitzer Prize winner and had sold in excess of 30 million copies. I’m glad I waited since I suspect I gleaned more from this as a mature reader than as an adolescent, though I could be wrong there as its appeal is very wide indeed.

Set in the 1930s Deep South, it deals with truth, the lot of Negroes, a small town’s prejudice and hypocrisy, and the bravery of an individual with principles – ‘The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.’ – Atticus Finch.

Its author, Harper Lee, was 34 when she wrote this, her only book. Its huge success – the film of the book being released in 1962 – must have had some effect on the racial Civil Rights politics at the time. From 1865 to 1877 strides were made toward equal rights for African-Americans; Southern black men began to vote and were elected to the United States Congress and to local offices such as sheriff. Yet it was not until 1965 that an Act was passed to outlaw discriminatory voting practices that had been responsible for the widespread disenfranchisement of African Americans in the United States. Maybe Harper Lee’s popular book helped in some small way.

The book begins in classic mode, reflecting on events that are actually revealed at the end of the narrative. Eight-year-old Scout (Jean Louise) and her thirteen-year-old brother Jem (Jeremy) are the children of widower Atticus Finch, a lawyer of the town of Maycomb, Alabama. The narrator is Scout who is reminiscing about her childhood past, hence the adult language used in her descriptions. It’s never explained why she is nicknamed ‘Scout’. Anyway, she immediately endears herself to you with her self-deprecating good humour and generally amusing observations: ‘With a click of her tongue she thrust out her bridgework, a gesture of cordiality that cemented our friendship.’

The siblings refer to their father by his first name, much to the consternation of their disapproving and distant relatives; it makes for easier reading, anyway.

The household helper and cook is Calpurnia, a Negro with infinite patience and a heart of gold, more a member of the family than hired help. She, along with so many characters in the town, is drawn with sure strokes so we get to know them, which is the true measure of a good author.

Most towns probably have a house that invokes gossip and tall tales about things going bump in the night. Maycomb is no different. The Radleys’ place is where, at risk of some unspeakable death, children dare to sneak into the yard and touch the walls. Boo Radley hasn’t been seen in years and this causes more stories. Gregory Peck, who starred as Atticus and won an Oscar for the part, said: ‘The characters of the novel are like people I knew as a boy. I think perhaps the great appeal of the novel is that it reminds readers everywhere of a person or a town they have known. It is to me a universal story – moving, passionate and told with great humor and tenderness.’

When Tom, a Negro, is accused of raping a white woman, Atticus is selected as his defence lawyer. It’s obvious that Tom is innocent, but prejudice runs deep, it seems. During the court case, Atticus makes a moving strong plea about all men being equal, not in accomplishment or talent, which is nonsense, but in the eyes of the law – a laudable ideal that, even today, is tarnished by those with money.

Lee never completed another book and shunned interviews. Several sources state that her book was in large doses autobiographical; whether it is or not, the characters shine through as real people, a great accomplishment.

My copy was a reprint dated 1997; and it had been reprinted no less than 42 times in this paperback imprint. That annoys me just a little: there are easily thirty typing errors in the text – even one on the first page – yet no publisher considered correcting them in all those years. A shameful way to treat a classic.

From an editorial perspective, I found the first person narrative spot on. One very minor quibble which her editor Tay Hohoff seems to have missed: ‘One day… we did not see Atticus standing on the sidewalk looking at us, slapping a rolled magazine against his knee.’ (p44) If he wasn’t seen, he couldn’t be written about. Still, the image is a striking one and maybe that’s why it was left in.

From the outset, this was going to be a difficult novel to film. Inevitably, voice-over was employed (by Kim Stanley), ostensibly the mature voice of Scout. Horton Foote won an Oscar for his Adapted Screenplay, deservingly so, considering the difficulties of transferring Scout’s memories to a visual medium. It’s an accomplished piece of work, judicially leaving out certain scenes, events and characters from the novel while combining the odd character here and there, all the time preserving the truth and integrity of the original.

Any re-reading of the novel will mean that the mind’s eye sees Gregory Peck as Atticus, the part he was born to play.

Beat to a Pulp - Spend it now, pay later

I'm pleased to mention that the popular short story online magazine BEAT TO A PULP is featuring one of my short stories this week - Spend it now, pay later.

You can read it at http://www.beattoapulp.com/pulp.htm.

I'd also recommend reading the archive stories. You can also leave comments on each tale, which is great for the authors; authors love feedback (mostly, anyway). Many thanks to David and Eileen for producing an always interesting and innovative outlet.

Book of the film: Psycho

Thanks to the Alfred Hitchcock film, the character Norman Bates has entered that dubious pantheon of modern myth. Of course reading this book after being aware of the movie destroys some of Robert Bloch’s well-constructed suspense. Even so, it is still an intriguing and page-turning crime noir study of reader misdirection and dark psychology. And it’s also possible to appreciate the cunning structure of the novel and the subtle hints beneath the veneer presented by Bates.

Bates is fat and bespectacled and quite unprepossessing and dominated by his mother. He resents her but cannot seem to function without her in his life. He hides in his books but to no avail. He evokes some sympathy but is also somewhat unprepossessing. A memorable creation.

Mary Crane absconds from her job with a large sum of cash and heads for the home of her fiancé, Sam, intent on using the stolen money to help him get out of debt. She stops overnight off the beaten track at the Bates’ motel. The shower scene occurs on page 30, so she isn’t in the book much, but her presence is felt throughout as first Sam then her sister Lila start to wonder where she has gone. They are aided by the insurance private detective Arbogast.

Bloch masterfully weaves the individual stories of Bates, his mother, Mary Crane, Sam, Lila and Arbogast. His story is unsettling since it seems that the main protagonists are not destined to survive. Then those who do remain are brought to the creepy storm-laden denouement.

This is a short book, with hardly any words wasted in deceptively simple prose. Usually, Bloch enjoys peppering his stories with wordplay but here the narrative doesn’t seem to need it – though he can’t resist one final foray in the last sentence.

Inevitably, a film script is going to differ from its source: Psycho was in fact a difficult book to film as there was a great deal of internal monologue to create character, move the story forward and to misdirect. Some of this was achieved by voice-over for thoughts. Apparently, as there was a real Mary Crane in Phoenix at the time of the film, it was decided to rename this character Marion (played by Janet Leigh). Her boyfriend Sam and the detective Arbogast kept their names, as did Bates. The Marion character didn’t succumb in the shower scene until the film was 40 minutes into the story, with just over an hour to go. Neither in stature nor appearance did Anthony Perkins resemble the Bates character in the book, but he certainly claimed the role as his own with creepily nuanced under-acting.

If you have only seen the film but not read the book, I’d recommend finding a copy; it’s worthwhile. The entry for the film in Wikipedia is quite comprehensive and fascinating.

Countdown-02

31 days to go for THE $300 MAN.
95 days to go for LAST CHANCE SALOON large print.
Both can be pre-ordered on the book depository site post free anywhere in the world.

Ross Morton is no longer in the top ten of the book depository. Good to see Gillian and Ian up there.

The third Wild West Monday is June 1 so anyone interested, mosey over to The Tainted Archive blog for the full lowdown.

Adventure Stories and Rider Haggard

In March I entered this year’s Rider Haggard Short Story competition run by the Rider Haggard Society. The entry fee was £10 which may have put off many contenders.

There were eight entrants and six were on the short list and received consolation prizes.

As it transpired, I was on the short list but didn’t win first prize.

The winning entry, Look for me in the Mountains, by Maureen Osborne will be published in the quarterly Society Journal. (Of no consequence whatsoever, the title reminded me of another title - Watch for me on the Mountain (1978), a book about Geronimo by Indian born Forrest Carter).

The society’s website is http://www.riderhaggardsociety.org.uk/.

Rider Haggard's first book was published when he was 26 and in the period 1882 to 1890 he published sixteen books, among them five books which became the sensation of his age. These were King Solomon’s Mines, She, Allan Quartermain, Jess and Nada the Lily. Within that same period he also wrote Eric Brighteyes, The World’s Desire and Allan’s Wife. In all, between 1882 and 1924 he had 68 books published (10 of them non-fiction).

To many, Rider Haggard is one of the great fathers of the adventure story, mixing daring, courage, exotic locations, esoteric characters, strong females and supernatural themes.

Now that we’re seeing the emergence of a new adventure hero in Gabriel Hunt (Hard Case Crime publishers), maybe it’s high time that Haggard’s body of work is reappraised.

There are certainly plenty of adventure lovers out there – witness the popularity of Indiana Jones and Tomb Raider. Sadly, the online magazine Blazing Adventures bit the dust, which was a pity. It would be wonderful to think that somebody with financial clout and a love of adventure stories could bring out a magazine featuring just that – imaginative adventure with heroes and heroines doing what they do best, fighting and overcoming evil in all its guises.