Tuesday, October 7, 2014
The best email. In the world. Ever.
I'd like to thank you, once again, for taking the time to submit your story, BLACK EYED BOY, to Crooked Cat. I found your full submission to be enjoyable, obviously of a very high standard and unique and, to that end, would be delighted to work with you to publish it through the Crooked Cat imprint. With this in mind, I have pleasure in offering you a contract for publication.
So, what does this mean? Absolutely everything.
I started writing my own stories and poems at a very young age, both at home, for my own amusement, and at school. I would be frequently reprimanded for the state of my handwriting, though it was only so scruffy because I would write three or four times more than my classmates. I had too many ideas and I rushed to get all of the information from my head on to the paper, in the allotted time. I knew, from the age of 9, that I wanted to be an author, and I was fortunate enough to have an incredibly supportive teacher. Should you ever read this, Mrs Calvert of Greenhill Primary School, I thank you. Thank you for displaying my poems up on the wall, and for all of those most coveted gold and silver stars.
I was also a voracious reader, which always intensified during the six weeks of the summer holidays. Every week, I would wander up to the library and borrow as many books as I was allowed. I would read them all to return and replace them with another round. I just loved books, generally, and would read anything and everything. I was much the same at secondary school, I even looked forward to doing my English homework, especially if it was creative writing. I think it is time for another teacher mention, Mrs North of Meadowhead School; thank you for always pushing me further and, also, for predicting, in my record of achievement, that I would be published one day.
Adolescence and the following years were intensely difficult times for me, for too many reasons, and some too private to go into here. Too many years were consumed by grief, heartbreak and distress. Sometimes, despite being happier and considerably more settled now, the pain infiltrates my writing, it finds a way to manifest itself, wrapping around my words and my written work often feels darker for it. Handy for horror, perhaps, not so fabulous when you’re trying to write a cheerful love story. But that’s just the way it is.
After turning 30, I worried that I had let too many things slide by, and that I had been drifting, quite aimlessly, for a long time. I embarked upon a short Open University course, Start Writing Fiction, and I have never looked back. I can highly recommend this course to anyone at all interested in writing fiction, it was fun, interesting and, most importantly, gave me some confidence that I had been sorely lacking. I was motivated, I was ready, it was time to write and send my words out there.
The very first story I submitted was short-listed in a competition and I couldn’t believe it. There was no stopping me then, I sent off bits of flash fiction, short stories, poetry, and I was lucky enough to start having some successes, winning a total of four writing competitions and my work began to be published in books. BOOKS. ACTUAL REAL BOOKS, on Amazon and everything. Each time this happened, it felt incredible, but I still had an itch to scratch. I wanted a book with just one name on the front: mine.
I stopped submitting short works and I thought about all the books I had enjoyed reading over the years, what did I want to write about? An idea struck me as I was washing the pots (which is almost always the case, curiously). It quickly became a scribbled list of chapters as I invented the characters. Or did they invent themselves? They became so real, dictating how the story would go. After months of forcing myself to sit at that laptop and type, of constant thinking and analysing, and quite writing my heart out, I, finally, had what I had always wanted, a completed novel.
A novel I felt brave enough to submit to publisher, Crooked Cat, in April of this year. And, a dream came true, they liked it. I signed the contract at the end of September, and my first novel, Black Eyed Boy, is due to be released early to mid-2015. I worry that I will wake up soon, I fluctuate between shock and intense giddiness most of the time.
Life has been upside down and bloody hard sometimes, which perhaps makes this experience all the richer. A wish I had, as a little girl, is happening before my very eyes, and it means the whole wide world.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Martha.
She sits, in the darkness, haunting the corner of the room where the shadows dance. The fire flickers and illuminates her pale face. She is beautiful, as ever; timeless, forever young, but her large dark eyes appear increasingly fuller of a silent sorrow, which she carries around upon her strained shoulders.
‘Martha.’
I call her name, but my love does not reply, or indeed acknowledge that she heard me, perhaps she didn’t, as her eyes gaze forward, in another intense daydream.
‘Martha.’
I call again, but I am interrupted by the domineering chimes of the grandfather clock. It breaks the spell; Martha has returned to the room and her sweet face turns to face me.
‘It is time, my love,’ I tell her gently.
She nods, her eyes are now void of emotion and it is difficult to tell what she is thinking. I don’t understand her disinterest, my body yearns for the blood of another. The tips of my sharp fangs can almost taste the scarlet nectar, I crave the metallic red, the pierced skin of a slender human neck. But, not her. It’s as though she is giving up, surrendering and collecting dust. It seems as though she doesn’t enjoy it any longer. I hope this isn’t true.
I race out into the liberating, cold night, the chill of the wind is exhilarating as it runs through my hair. I tightly clasp hold of Martha’s hand, taking her with me, showing her that this is us, what we do, and what we love. She seems to remember, at least for a short while, as her eyes twinkle with that irresistible glimpse of danger and thirst, and her fangs are visible underneath that luscious, soft top lip of hers.
A pretty maiden takes a wrong turn, though the right one for me as I grab her and take away her being. I hadn’t fed for a few days, and I was ravenous, I quite drained the young lady, finally satisfying my appetite.
‘Your turn, my love,’ I say.
I hold her hand again and we head, quietly and furtively, towards the town, full of sleeping residents and the odd intoxicated reveller, clumsily snaking their way back home, smelling of beer, which infiltrates our sensitive nostrils.
Martha peers into the windows of the tiny slum houses, she counts the people, so crowded into the small, oppressive rooms. Then, she stops, suddenly, and I don’t recognise her facial expression.
‘What is it, my dear?’ I ask, rushing to her side at once.
She points to a child; a little girl, she is fast asleep, her hair is a mass of ginger ringlets, spread out, over the pillow which rests her head.
‘I want her,’ cries Martha, in a whisper containing so much longing and pain that I am speechless to her request.
‘A child, I yearn for a child, Alistair. Please?’
She begs me as blood-red tears soak her perfect face.
‘Martha, no, not a child, you cannot think to change a child, this would be no life for her.’
I attempt to pull Martha away from the window, but I see that she is bewitched by the sleeping infant; her rosebud mouth twitches slightly as she dreams and Martha cannot take her eyes off her.
‘I could be her mother,’ Martha pleads.
‘No, my love, no.’
But Martha doesn’t hear my words, she opens the window and she begins to step inside.
‘Martha, don’t,’ I say, to her back.
She turns around, one last time, and looks right into my eyes.
‘Forgive me,’ she asks, and then she is gone.
She sits, in the darkness, haunting the corner of the room where the shadows dance. The fire flickers and illuminates her pale face. She is beautiful, as ever; timeless, forever young, but her large dark eyes appear increasingly fuller of a silent sorrow, which she carries around upon her strained shoulders.
‘Martha.’
I call her name, but my love does not reply, or indeed acknowledge that she heard me, perhaps she didn’t, as her eyes gaze forward, in another intense daydream.
‘Martha.’
I call again, but I am interrupted by the domineering chimes of the grandfather clock. It breaks the spell; Martha has returned to the room and her sweet face turns to face me.
‘It is time, my love,’ I tell her gently.
She nods, her eyes are now void of emotion and it is difficult to tell what she is thinking. I don’t understand her disinterest, my body yearns for the blood of another. The tips of my sharp fangs can almost taste the scarlet nectar, I crave the metallic red, the pierced skin of a slender human neck. But, not her. It’s as though she is giving up, surrendering and collecting dust. It seems as though she doesn’t enjoy it any longer. I hope this isn’t true.
I race out into the liberating, cold night, the chill of the wind is exhilarating as it runs through my hair. I tightly clasp hold of Martha’s hand, taking her with me, showing her that this is us, what we do, and what we love. She seems to remember, at least for a short while, as her eyes twinkle with that irresistible glimpse of danger and thirst, and her fangs are visible underneath that luscious, soft top lip of hers.
A pretty maiden takes a wrong turn, though the right one for me as I grab her and take away her being. I hadn’t fed for a few days, and I was ravenous, I quite drained the young lady, finally satisfying my appetite.
‘Your turn, my love,’ I say.
I hold her hand again and we head, quietly and furtively, towards the town, full of sleeping residents and the odd intoxicated reveller, clumsily snaking their way back home, smelling of beer, which infiltrates our sensitive nostrils.
Martha peers into the windows of the tiny slum houses, she counts the people, so crowded into the small, oppressive rooms. Then, she stops, suddenly, and I don’t recognise her facial expression.
‘What is it, my dear?’ I ask, rushing to her side at once.
She points to a child; a little girl, she is fast asleep, her hair is a mass of ginger ringlets, spread out, over the pillow which rests her head.
‘I want her,’ cries Martha, in a whisper containing so much longing and pain that I am speechless to her request.
‘A child, I yearn for a child, Alistair. Please?’
She begs me as blood-red tears soak her perfect face.
‘Martha, no, not a child, you cannot think to change a child, this would be no life for her.’
I attempt to pull Martha away from the window, but I see that she is bewitched by the sleeping infant; her rosebud mouth twitches slightly as she dreams and Martha cannot take her eyes off her.
‘I could be her mother,’ Martha pleads.
‘No, my love, no.’
But Martha doesn’t hear my words, she opens the window and she begins to step inside.
‘Martha, don’t,’ I say, to her back.
She turns around, one last time, and looks right into my eyes.
‘Forgive me,’ she asks, and then she is gone.
Always the bridesmaid.
He didn’t want to go out on such a night but he’d stopped having a choice long ago. Instinctively, he put on his shoes, sitting on the cold doorstep. It was a beast of a night, he threw on his coat, but he was soaked as soon as he’d reached his garden gate. The heavens had opened, the sky leaked the sort of rain that whipped your face with a ferocity. He could see the town up ahead, as that was illuminated by the amber blur of streetlights. Further on, he could see the lighthouses, one for each pier, flashing, reassuring, and guiding the late night boats to safety through the hungry harbour mouth. But he couldn’t see here, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded my rolling hills, long fields, rocky paths and dense woodland. Here, he could scarcely see in front of his own feet.
He slid the torch out of his pocket. He was okay for now, on the level ground, every bump in the road was etched into his memory, but when he needed to ascend the steep, winding stairs, leading up to the cliff-top church, he would need it then.
It was a dangerous route, particularly at this time of night and in this sort of relentless, heavy downfall. Mist began to follow him, to chase him up those rickety stairs. People had died here; walkers, climbers, depressed individuals who had chosen their own sorrowful fate. Every couple of weeks, the bright yellow helicopter growled over the pretty coastal town, bringing the residents down, as they knew nobody ever survived. He had to be careful, he couldn’t risk falling, she needed him.
She was all he ever thought about, night and day he pictured that cherubic face, the large pale blue eyes, the dimpled cheeks, the honey blonde curls and the smile which portrayed equal amounts of innocence and mischief. He hurried now, clinging to the side of the cliff as he made his way up. It would have been a beautiful view in the daylight, as heather became sand and sand became sea. But it was almost midnight now, and all his eyes could make out was the vast, shimmering blackness of the sea, like a billowing, gigantic dark blanket.
Almost there, he switched on the torch and tried to keep a steady pace, despite the biting ache in his calves now as he began the sharp incline. He saw the looming silhouette of the old church and the sprawl of ancient, broken and wonky gravestones which appeared as though they had been randomly dropped from above, scattering and stabbing into the grass.
There. He’d done it. He shoved the torch back into his pocket and strode up the gravel path and around the side of the building to the small door at the back, which was always left open, a tiny crack, but he slipped inside with ease. It was cold and dark, the same as every other night. He lit a few candles and seated himself on the front pew, and waited for her. He counted the seconds in a whisper.
‘One, two …’
There she was, walking down the aisle of the church in her, now dated, bridesmaid dress, posy of flowers in hand. She looked so content, so thrilled and utterly proud of herself. He smiled at her earnest little walk and he wept into his palms. She would have been twenty-eight this year, yet she remains six years old, haunting this place by night, playing out her favourite and most treasured memory, over and over again. He tries to pretend that he can’t see through her, his ghostly daughter, but he can. Until she fades with the morning sun, and he starts the walk back home.
He didn’t want to go out on such a night but he’d stopped having a choice long ago. Instinctively, he put on his shoes, sitting on the cold doorstep. It was a beast of a night, he threw on his coat, but he was soaked as soon as he’d reached his garden gate. The heavens had opened, the sky leaked the sort of rain that whipped your face with a ferocity. He could see the town up ahead, as that was illuminated by the amber blur of streetlights. Further on, he could see the lighthouses, one for each pier, flashing, reassuring, and guiding the late night boats to safety through the hungry harbour mouth. But he couldn’t see here, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded my rolling hills, long fields, rocky paths and dense woodland. Here, he could scarcely see in front of his own feet.
He slid the torch out of his pocket. He was okay for now, on the level ground, every bump in the road was etched into his memory, but when he needed to ascend the steep, winding stairs, leading up to the cliff-top church, he would need it then.
It was a dangerous route, particularly at this time of night and in this sort of relentless, heavy downfall. Mist began to follow him, to chase him up those rickety stairs. People had died here; walkers, climbers, depressed individuals who had chosen their own sorrowful fate. Every couple of weeks, the bright yellow helicopter growled over the pretty coastal town, bringing the residents down, as they knew nobody ever survived. He had to be careful, he couldn’t risk falling, she needed him.
She was all he ever thought about, night and day he pictured that cherubic face, the large pale blue eyes, the dimpled cheeks, the honey blonde curls and the smile which portrayed equal amounts of innocence and mischief. He hurried now, clinging to the side of the cliff as he made his way up. It would have been a beautiful view in the daylight, as heather became sand and sand became sea. But it was almost midnight now, and all his eyes could make out was the vast, shimmering blackness of the sea, like a billowing, gigantic dark blanket.
Almost there, he switched on the torch and tried to keep a steady pace, despite the biting ache in his calves now as he began the sharp incline. He saw the looming silhouette of the old church and the sprawl of ancient, broken and wonky gravestones which appeared as though they had been randomly dropped from above, scattering and stabbing into the grass.
There. He’d done it. He shoved the torch back into his pocket and strode up the gravel path and around the side of the building to the small door at the back, which was always left open, a tiny crack, but he slipped inside with ease. It was cold and dark, the same as every other night. He lit a few candles and seated himself on the front pew, and waited for her. He counted the seconds in a whisper.
‘One, two …’
There she was, walking down the aisle of the church in her, now dated, bridesmaid dress, posy of flowers in hand. She looked so content, so thrilled and utterly proud of herself. He smiled at her earnest little walk and he wept into his palms. She would have been twenty-eight this year, yet she remains six years old, haunting this place by night, playing out her favourite and most treasured memory, over and over again. He tries to pretend that he can’t see through her, his ghostly daughter, but he can. Until she fades with the morning sun, and he starts the walk back home.
Just a drop.
At 9.05pm, he tentatively opens the bottle of whisky. It’s fine, he’ll just have a drop or two.
By 11.32pm, the bottle is half empty and he’s started smoking again.
‘Just one more glass before bed,’ he says to himself loudly.
Just gone midnight, he sobs into the cushion on the tattered sofa, missing his dead wife, desperate to have one last embrace.
1.04am, his crystal tumbler is smashed into hundreds of pieces, against the wall. Tears blur his vision. The drink heats his temper. The bottle taunts him, blames him, and chastises him.
1.48am, the whisky has gone, his legs won’t move and he wets his trousers. He stares at the empty bottle, ashamed, but far too drunk to feel it properly. It is the last thing he sees as he drifts into sleep on the living room floor, to dream jumbled dreams of life and death, of wedding days and funerals.
At 9.05pm, he tentatively opens the bottle of whisky. It’s fine, he’ll just have a drop or two.
By 11.32pm, the bottle is half empty and he’s started smoking again.
‘Just one more glass before bed,’ he says to himself loudly.
Just gone midnight, he sobs into the cushion on the tattered sofa, missing his dead wife, desperate to have one last embrace.
1.04am, his crystal tumbler is smashed into hundreds of pieces, against the wall. Tears blur his vision. The drink heats his temper. The bottle taunts him, blames him, and chastises him.
1.48am, the whisky has gone, his legs won’t move and he wets his trousers. He stares at the empty bottle, ashamed, but far too drunk to feel it properly. It is the last thing he sees as he drifts into sleep on the living room floor, to dream jumbled dreams of life and death, of wedding days and funerals.
Twitch.
When he saw his wife running around the farm, chasing the animals, and eating them, the raw meat, as they dropped to the ground, he couldn’t move or speak. It had been a frantic, sickening hour of bleating, squawking; pained animal cries. It had rained feathers and bloody insides. His feet had refused to budge, all he could do was watch, in pure horror, as his normally timid and demure wife had gone completely mad. When she’d turned on the kids, he’d leaped into action then, desperately attempting to shield them and keep her away, as her newfound lust for violence exploded, and their shrill cries echoed around the farmyard, their eyes wide with a cruel mixture of terror and confusion, fear and a rapidly failing sense of maternal love. She’d been too ferocious, even for him. She’d got to them in the end, all four of them. That’s why he was holding the blood-splattered teddy bear; some kind of shitty memento of his dead family.
He’d fetched the gun, last used on an unfortunate, deformed new-born calf. He’d shot his wife in the head, he’d had to. After that, the silence suffocated him and he couldn’t stand to view the horrific scene any longer, but his hands trembled too much to drive, and his head couldn’t remember where he’d left the keys for the truck. And, so, he waited, by the roadside, hoping for someone to come along and take him away from the massacre and the madness. He’d brought the gun, the radio had blared alarming words at him as he’d left: infection, brain, epidemic, attacks, shoot them in the head, shoot them in the head, shoot them in the head. The broadcasted words fired out and were loaded with panic. They had quickly turned into screams, and then the muffled, choking sounds of death, and then the frenzied sound of a most disturbing hunger; ripping, chewing and swallowing. Finally, the fuzzy off-air sound reigned as the radio show abruptly ended.
But, here came a truck tearing up the sandy path, a blessed familiar red one, belonging to Hank from the next farm up. He felt intense relief as it screeched to a halt beside him.
‘Thank God,’ he whispered as Hank opened the door.
He was about to get in, but there was a definite look of crazy in Hank’s old eyes, and blood dripped from the corner of his emotionless lips. There was part of someone’s leg on his lap, it still had a shoe on the end of it. Slowly, cautiously, with twitching fingers, he reached for his gun.
When he saw his wife running around the farm, chasing the animals, and eating them, the raw meat, as they dropped to the ground, he couldn’t move or speak. It had been a frantic, sickening hour of bleating, squawking; pained animal cries. It had rained feathers and bloody insides. His feet had refused to budge, all he could do was watch, in pure horror, as his normally timid and demure wife had gone completely mad. When she’d turned on the kids, he’d leaped into action then, desperately attempting to shield them and keep her away, as her newfound lust for violence exploded, and their shrill cries echoed around the farmyard, their eyes wide with a cruel mixture of terror and confusion, fear and a rapidly failing sense of maternal love. She’d been too ferocious, even for him. She’d got to them in the end, all four of them. That’s why he was holding the blood-splattered teddy bear; some kind of shitty memento of his dead family.
He’d fetched the gun, last used on an unfortunate, deformed new-born calf. He’d shot his wife in the head, he’d had to. After that, the silence suffocated him and he couldn’t stand to view the horrific scene any longer, but his hands trembled too much to drive, and his head couldn’t remember where he’d left the keys for the truck. And, so, he waited, by the roadside, hoping for someone to come along and take him away from the massacre and the madness. He’d brought the gun, the radio had blared alarming words at him as he’d left: infection, brain, epidemic, attacks, shoot them in the head, shoot them in the head, shoot them in the head. The broadcasted words fired out and were loaded with panic. They had quickly turned into screams, and then the muffled, choking sounds of death, and then the frenzied sound of a most disturbing hunger; ripping, chewing and swallowing. Finally, the fuzzy off-air sound reigned as the radio show abruptly ended.
But, here came a truck tearing up the sandy path, a blessed familiar red one, belonging to Hank from the next farm up. He felt intense relief as it screeched to a halt beside him.
‘Thank God,’ he whispered as Hank opened the door.
He was about to get in, but there was a definite look of crazy in Hank’s old eyes, and blood dripped from the corner of his emotionless lips. There was part of someone’s leg on his lap, it still had a shoe on the end of it. Slowly, cautiously, with twitching fingers, he reached for his gun.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Windows of the Soul.
He said, 'Hey baby, would you care to dance?
Are you ready for a fine romance?'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, you fancy a drive?
If you kiss real good, I'll make you my wife.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, till death us do part,
I sure do love you, I give you my heart.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, no need to be coy,
now spread those legs and let's make a boy.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
'Hey baby, a princess with curls,
but I want a boy next time, now that's a good girl.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, you gotta quit this hate.
You know I gotta be working late.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, please don't you moan,
it's just a splash of my new cologne.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, I've forgotten your name,
I'm too busy chasing some younger dame.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, you make me what do I do,
it's your fault I beat you black and blue.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, if you didn't whine,
I wouldn't have to hit you all of the time.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, you think I don't dare
to push you down that flight of stairs?'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, you're still my wife,
why don't you go and put down that knife?'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, I know I'm no good,
but baby, baby, look at the blood.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, I know I've told lies,
but please, baby, no, not the eyes.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, I'm screaming with pain,
you know I'll never see again.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, look what you've done.
Congratulations, look, baby you won.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
And now they're mine, in my hand
as I take off my wedding band.
Are you ready for a fine romance?'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, you fancy a drive?
If you kiss real good, I'll make you my wife.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, till death us do part,
I sure do love you, I give you my heart.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, no need to be coy,
now spread those legs and let's make a boy.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
'Hey baby, a princess with curls,
but I want a boy next time, now that's a good girl.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, you gotta quit this hate.
You know I gotta be working late.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, please don't you moan,
it's just a splash of my new cologne.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, I've forgotten your name,
I'm too busy chasing some younger dame.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, you make me what do I do,
it's your fault I beat you black and blue.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, if you didn't whine,
I wouldn't have to hit you all of the time.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, you think I don't dare
to push you down that flight of stairs?'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, you're still my wife,
why don't you go and put down that knife?'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, I know I'm no good,
but baby, baby, look at the blood.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, I know I've told lies,
but please, baby, no, not the eyes.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, I'm screaming with pain,
you know I'll never see again.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
He said, 'Hey baby, look what you've done.
Congratulations, look, baby you won.'
Is not quite what his words did say
but his blue eyes sure gave him away.
I darn well know what I did see,
and what those peepers were telling me.
And now they're mine, in my hand
as I take off my wedding band.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Zombie Me
Zombies. I love them. But, I’m only just beginning to ask myself: why? They are, more often than not, portrayed as mindless, lumbering reanimated corpses, desperate cannibals with an overpowering yearning for brains. They’re definitely not pretty or glamorous, witty or particularly interesting. So, why do I love them so much? Why do I seek them out for entertainment in the form of a film or a book? Why do I dream about them at night? Why do I imagine what it would be like to be a zombie, or to be a human attempting to survive in an apocalyptic world? And, why do I like to write about them?
Zombies are so different to the other horror creatures. Even in some of the goriest and harrowing brain-munching movies I’ve seen, I generally retain a sense of pity for them. They are us, you and I, just gone bad with some rarely properly explained infection of some kind. They had lives and relatives and homes and hobbies, and then all they have left is an urge to devour any poor and unfortunate human to cross their path.
The first zombie film I ever watched was George A Romero’s 1978 horror film, ‘Dawn of the Dead’. I was enthralled by the whole concept. It frightened me how quickly disarray and terror took over, but then they went to the mall. I won’t lie, my girly side got excited. Ooooh, if I had control of the mall and could take anything from any shop …. Oooooh the dresses, ooooh the handbags, oooooooooh the shoes! I feel fairly certain that I ever did become a zombie, that I would still find myself distracted by a pair of cute stilettos. The thing that interested me the most was that the zombies came out of habit, that a small memory or tiniest slither of knowledge, had them congregating in drones, flocking to familiar territories. There must be something vaguely human in there, somewhere.
I have watched countless zombie films over the years and I do get excited by a fresh angle. I enjoyed Marc Price’s 2008 English zombie film ‘Colin’, for that very reason. The film is shot entirely from the perspective of Colin, who becomes a zombie at the beginning of the film, and the audience follows him around London. We find out what happened, who he was and what his life was like. There are several poignant moments, none more so than when his sister, Linda, has turned and they are left alone together. Neither of them can remember the other. But, there are scenes and moments where Colin does remember something. And I like that.
Also, in 2008, came the Day of the Dead remake, which saw an altogether different type of zombie, seemingly ones with super powers who could run (and I mean RUN), leap and even crawl across the ceiling. Dance of the Dead was also released, a zany and fun zombie comedy, taking place during a high school prom. If it has zombies in it, I will watch it. If I can laugh, all the better.
I have written three zombie stories now, all of which have done well, none of them a classic tale. My first attempt was for a flash fiction competition. It amuses me now, looking back, that I could have written anything, a touching story of change, loss and horror. But, no, I decided to scribble about a fussy eater, a pompous sister who, after being turned, discovered that she did not care for plain old brains. It won, which amazed me, first place for the rambling words from my odd imagination.
My second story has just been accepted for an eye-opening anthology due to be released in the autumn of 2014, Mitzi Szereto’s erotic collection: Love, Lust and Zombies. Now, THAT will be different ….
Today, the 1st of August, is a very special launch day. The fabulously hilarious book: ‘Strangely Funny’ has just been released by the clever folk over at Mystery and Horror LLC. It is a collection of paranormal comedy short stories, by many different authors. I am most fortunate to have a story included within its fine pages. Guess what I went with? Yep, you guessed it. My story is called ‘Happy Anniversary’ and follows the plight of a married couple on, what should be, their special day. But, seeing as the chef husband comes home rather zombie-like, the night does not go as planned. It is full of silly humour and it was a joy to write. I hope that you all snap up a copy and enjoy all of the amusing gems of stories inside.
Laura Huntley.
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