Andy Frankham-Allen's Blog: The Welsh-Londoner, page 14

Writers' Wednesday #3: Coming Out Special

National Coming Out Day. You know, I hadn't even heard of such a thing until my guest blogger, author Bryl R Tyne, told me what he'd like to talk about. In the US National Coming Out Day was Monday (Oct 11th), and in the UK it was yesterday (Oct 12th), so it seems apt that this week I have a gay author talking about writing gay books in a world where being gay really is becoming less and less an issue…

 

On Writing Queer by Bryl R. Tyne

Am I coming out? Not hardly. I pried open my closet door in 1996, tippy-toed out and back in over the years, and finally, loud and proud in 2008, I came charging out Katy-bar-the-door style with the byline 'An Author Defying Description'. I'm proudly using that same byline today.

Why so vague, you might ask.

Not to assume ambiguity, I assure you, but more to prove a number of points. The most relevant, my distaste for labels. Labels are the beginnings of many negativisms: stereotyping, bigotry, to name a couple, and take it from me, self-hatred. When there is no one word to describe you, no matter which label is chosen it never quite seems to fit. Suffice to say, I have been labeled by society, and at worst, labeled by those who claimed to love me.

But hey. There've been times when even I have labeled myself.

There will always be different aspects of me, or my life, that fit into someone's neat and tidy boxes. If that makes you feel better, safer, less intimidated or more in control, so be it. I'm me; and I will not apologize for who I am nor try ever again to change into someone I am not. If you need boxes to help you make sense of your pithy-minded lives, that's really no reflection on me now, is it?

What's sad is the toll this kind of posturing takes on the individual, though. For those who don't know me, I'll tell you up front. I'm a tough one. I've lived through abuse, physical, mental, psychological, and sexual, and survived countless beatings, some to the point of unconsciousness. I may appear to be one of the seemingly few, but there are many others out there just like me. For that which we lack in strength, we compensate for in sheer stubborn will. Yet even the most determined of us are riddled with weaknesses.

I know I am, and my usual act of self-punishment is overindulgence. Sounds like nothing, but when the indulgence can take any form or vice, it can be rather scary, at times. Still, others feel they have no out, no release… no other choice but to give up. We've seen the increase in reports of teen suicides and the reported bullying that led to most of these recent incidents. Yet, I wonder how many more go under the radar or are simply near misses. It's an atrocity some cannot accept others for their differences. Diversity really is a beautiful thing once you embrace it.

That leads to my reason for writing characters encompassing the Queer spectrum and penning them as the heroes and the heroines, winners and leaders, protagonists without apology or shame. I've always had an affinity for the downtrodden, the outcast, the ones who, no matter how ready or fit, never quite seem to 'fit in'.

When I began writing again after a 28-year dry spell that is where my muse led me — to write stories about those people near and dear to me… and about myself. Now, don't get me wrong, just because I champion underdogs does in no way insinuate that my winning characters are unbelievable. They are in fact extremely flawed. In the course of writing anything from literary fantasy fiction to erotic action/adventure romance, I've only touched on the gamut of characters I could write. I've written wholesome one-man Joes, and slutty Betties who'd drop to their knees at the first sign of temptation. I've even written about an angst-ridden teen on the ledge of the roof of a nineteen-story building.

Unlike the news stories though, in my fictional realms my characters, no matter how beaten down, are resilient. My characters don't give in, up, or out — not entirely. They never die, pointlessly. No. In the end, my characters win.

Isn't that the role of fiction, though? To help us escape into worlds where the norm is never really the norm? To allow us an occasional glimpse of an ideal world? In my mind, I'd like to believe that. Though most of my stories feature gritty, true-to-life scenarios, one cannot help but note that all of my stories share one common theme: HOPE.

With society on the crux of many changes and youth caught between those changes and the plethora of personal changes and issues each endures as he or she grows, I believe that hope is an important message to share with readers of LGBTQI fiction today.

I've been there, done that, and surprisingly, I survived. That is why this Queer writes Queer.

Bryl R. Tyne is a wrangler by nature and a writer by choice, published with Noble Romance Publishing, Ravenous Romance, Dreamspinner Press, STARbooks Press, Untreed Reads Publishing, Changeling Press, and coming Oct. 31st to Amber Allure with TOUGH GUY. You can find out more about Bryl at: bryltyne.com

Text © 2010 Bryl R. Tyne
All Covers are © their respective publishers, All Rights Reserved

 

Awakening the Critic

Paris Immortal: Awakenings by S. Roit; a review.

This is the second in a series, but for a little bit of context let me refer you to my short review for the first book, which I read around April this year.

"Recommended to me by my niece, knowing full well I'd love it. She was right. At first the prose style took a bit of getting used to, as well as the rather random-at-times scene breaks, but once beyond that… A lovely and sensual story of love, and vampires. There's much going on in this book that is not immediately obvious, loads of undercurrents which become more and more clear as the book nears its end. The leads are all incredibly well written; sensual and sexual without being in your face. Michel and Gabriel's relationship is always fascinating, as we are shown a piece at a time the complexity of their relationship. PK is almost as much of a mystery by story's end as she is right at the start. And Geoff. Bless him, he has got to be simply the cutest character I've read about in a long long time. Roit does such a wonderful job with her choice descriptions that you honestly feel as if you're watching everything along with Trey, the narrator. Curiously, I found Trey the least interesting of the leads, although along the way there are plenty of moments where you're left tantalised by his past. There is still plenty more to uncover in these new tales of vampires, and I for one can't wait to get my hands on the second book."

So enamoured by the first book was I, and having become cyber-buddies with the author since reading that first book, I not only bought the second but also the third. It took me a little longer to read Awakenings than I would have liked, mostly because there is much in this book that frustrates me. But first, let me set the good stuff on the table.

The book starts off well, straight into the hornet's nest with Michel confronting Vicont – he who sent the vampires after Trey in the first book. There's a nice bit of tension, and we are flung straight into Michel's complex point of view, and thrown plenty of hints of the deeper mystery surrounding his relationship to Vicont. From there we return to Trey, and are soon into tiresome territory – but more on that shortly. The story surrounding Vicont is a very interesting one, and well layered throughout the book. It nicely plays into the other main plot thread, that of Trey's uncovering of his past, a past that is intricately linked with that of Gabriel. Both have fantastic resolutions, and although the truth behind Vicont was not unexpected at all, Gabriel's solution to his interest in Trey and Michel was such a clever thing that I honestly did not see it coming. Wonderfully twisted, and it will no doubt have some serious ramifications in next few books. Alas, I also saw Gabriel's connection to Trey's past a mile off, too, but still it's a good a one and will definitely add further depth to the already deeply layered characters.

It's a curious thing, but the greatest strengths of this book are also its biggest weaknesses. And that's the characters. They are, as I've already said, deeply layered and always interesting. Each follow their own logic, and have their own motivations for what they do. But the downside is they're all so in love with each other, always understanding of the next person's foibles, and constantly forgiving. As a reader it becomes extremely cloying to read after about fifty pages. The result? A very slow read indeed. How can you develop real conflict among your core characters if they're constantly expressing their love and forgiveness? Even when Trey, who's possibly the most emotional and weakest characters I've ever encountered, finally gets a back bone and strikes out on his own, the consequences carry so little weight both on the emotional and physical level. The former doesn't really matter since we all know he's going to be full of self recriminations, and will be forgiven everything anyway. No conflict there. In the latter case, it doesn't matter the physical danger he puts himself in because Gabriel and Michel have been set up as such powerful vampires that we know without doubt that Vicont and his rabble have no chance at all. It's very hard to get involved in this kind of 'drama'; even the 'how' becomes a watered down experience as a result. While on the subject of the characters, I've noticed two things; one, Geoff, who I loved in the first book, has become the most ineffectual character of the entire ensemble. He does nothing useful at all, merely trails around like some weak puppy (I'm secretly hoping he'll be the first real casualty – god knows we need one soon – because that will at least cause some tangible emotional fallout for Trey that I, as a reader, can relate to properly); two, it's very clear that a woman is writing this book since the male characters are far too sensitive to each other, and way too emotional, to be truly believable. Not to say such men do not exist in the world, but the majority of men are not so… well, girly.

Nonetheless, all that said, I did mostly enjoy the book. The final two chapters did boar me, though, with their focus on more of Trey's self recriminations (like we haven't had enough of that), and more expressions of love. And the epilogue… Sorry, as much as I've come to respect Sherry as a person, I completely hated the coincidental nature of the epilogue. It was just one too many. You can surround it in as much talk of destiny as you like, but the fact that a certain character just so happened to turn up in Paris at exactly the time Trey finally decided to look for them smacked of lazy writing. It would have been a bigger strength had we followed Trey's search in more detail in the next book.

So, I shall get to book three in the Paris Immortal series soon, but I'm not rushing to it just yet. In terms of story, when it became the focus of the book, it's an improvement on book one, but in terms of character… although still very interesting, there's only so much love and understanding a drama can take before it suffers.

Text © 2010 Andy Frankham-Allen,
Cover © 2008 Snow Books, All Rights Reserved

The Legacy #3: In the Blood

Previously on The Legacy;  Urban Decay

'Brad?'

Brad rubbed his head and opened his eyes.  Looking down at him was the strange man with the beard.  The Doctor? Yeah, that was his name.  But what kind of name was that?

Brad sat up and looked around.  He was sitting on a bed in a large white room.  The chairs and tables seemed to be made of some type of mouldable plastic – it reminded him of those '50s B-movies, the type that looked towards the future.  Oh yes, very 21st Century – not!

'Do you know Blackjack?'

Brad looked back at the Doctor.  'Huh?' It was the best he could manage.  The Doctor's face crumpled into disappointment, so Brad tried a little bit better.  'Black who?'

'Blackjack.'

'No,' Brad said slowly, thinking it was probably best to humour the large man, 'don't think so. Friend of Black Beard?'

The Doctor waved a set of playing cards in front of Brad's face.  Brad just shook his head, causing his nuclear red bangs to fall down in front of his eyes. 'Oh,' the Doctor mumbled.  He looked around the room, then back at Brad, smiling.  'Poker?' Again Brad shook his head.  'Oh,' the Doctor reiterated.  'Oh. Well, not to worry.' He stood up and walked to the door at the far end of the room.  He looked back. 'There is a bathroom through there.' He pointed at an alcove in the corner of the room.  'Once you have freshened up come and meet me in the console room. I have something to show you.' With a final smile, he left the room.

Brad sat there for a few moments.

Had he really fainted? How uncool was that?

Deciding to ignore the sadness of such a reaction, Brad got off the bed and walked over to his big black bag.  He had noticed it next to the table before.  Nice of the Doctor to bring it in with him.

He opened the bag and took a look in there.  Nothing had been taken as far as he could see.  His synthesiser was still there, complete with electrical cables.  He glanced around the room, but could see no sign of a plug socket.

Shit, he thought, let's hope there is enough power still in the batteries.

He returned to the bag.  The suit he had worn at the funeral was still in there, although it did not seem likely that he would be changing into that.  Not that it was a major deal, of course, all he had to do was freshen himself up and then head back home.

Home? Just thinking about that sent his mind reeling.  Images of Big Pink tilted at an improbable angle, the ripple surging through the grounds west of Willamette River…  He shook his head.  Had he been on some whacked out trip or had it been real? Well, the Doc was obviously real, but it was feasible that he remembered the Doc from a calm moment in-between trips.  Of course, the only dumb thing about that reasoning was that Brad knew he had not taken any drugs for a few days.

He walked through the alcove and found himself in the bathroom.  Well, that is what the Doc called it.  There was a basin that was obviously the toilet, and there was some kind of cubicle.  He opened the cubicle.  Apart from a switch the cubicle was empty.  He flicked the switch, and immediately jumped back, his arm and the front of his sweater all wet.  He glanced at the cubicle with a grin.  Okay, so that was the shower.

He closed the door, and figured it best to ignore the fact that there was nowhere that the water could have come from.

Brad looked around the bathroom as he began to get undressed.  There was bunch of clothes piled in the corner, including what appeared to be a skirt.  The Doc had put him in some chick's room? Great, thanks for that.

Only there was something familiar about it; the pattern.  It reminded him of a trip he'd taken to Scotland with Jacen some time ago.  It was a kilt, not a skirt.

Brad grinned, and wondered if he should wash it.  There was something sexy about a man in a kilt, and he'd always wanted one himself.  Continuing to remove his clothes Brad decided that he'd ask the Doc about a washer later.

*

The Doctor sat on the floor of the console room, playing cards laid out before him.  It was a simple game, but one that helped him to focus.  A technique he had been taught during his recent trip to Gregoramani at the turn of the First Quarter.  Not that it was working too well at the moment.

He glanced up from the cards as the inner door opened.  Framed in the doorway was Brad.  Still dressed in his jeans and trainers, but now with a black leather jacket worn loosely over a white t-shirt.  His black hair was still a little wet, but it was brushed back, making the red tips merge with the black of his crown.

'Hello,' the Doctor said cheerfully, and got to his feet, feeling a lot more nimble now.  His run around the Portland construct had done wonders for settling his body.  He felt ten times fitter than he when he'd arrived in that construct. 'Feeling better?'

Brad walked into the room.  'Yeah, kind of, thanks.'

'Good.' The Doctor nodded and went over to the console.  'Good. Kind of is actually excellent considering your survival rate.' He hit a button on the console and turned back to Brad.  'Wouldn't you say?'

Brad thought back to the car crash.  'Yeah, if you say so, Doc.'

'I would indeed.' The Doctor bellowed out a laugh.  'Indeed I would.' His laugh stopped abruptly, and with a meaty finger he pointed behind Brad.  'What do you make of that?'

Brad turned.  There was something a little like a television set up in the top corner of the wall.  On it was the strangest thing Brad had seen.  Well, not strictly true.  Portland being turned into some kind of cyber-induced landscape rated as the strangest, but this was a close second.  Some kind of dark tunnel made of red triangles.  No, not red.  The colours were changing.  Reds, blues, greens… And it was no longer triangles.  Shapes of all kinds.  Brad stepped back, dizzy all of a sudden.

'Sorry,' the Doctor said behind him.  'Some of those shapes aren't made for human perception.  What do you make of them?'

'What, apart from a great cause of epilepsy, you mean?' The Doctor nodded, seemingly oblivious to Brad's sarcasm.  'Nothing.  Just shapes in a tunnel.'

The Doctor's face fell.  'Oh.'  He smiled.  'Oh.  Well the human mind will catch up one day.  It is, in point of fact, the causal nexus of the universal quantum reality.  And it is greatly in flux.'

'And that is bad?'

'Very.'

'The temporal and spatial nexus?' Brad asked, remembering something the Doctor had mentioned before he had drifted off.  The Doctor nodded, quite pleased.  'And it is breaking up?' Again the Doctor nodded.  Brad thought some more, but he had no idea where he was going with this conversation.  So he gave up.  'Means nothing to me, Doc.  Sorry.'

'Not to worry.' The Doctor pressed a button and the screen went off.  'I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of it one day.'

'We?'

'Yes, we.' The Doctor placed an arm around Brad's shoulders.  'You do realise that you should never have existed in that echo of Portland? It was not mere chance that allowed you to exist, you know.  And neither was it mere chance that allowed you to meet me.  We are destined for great things.  Great things.'

For a moment Brad almost believed him.  Almost.  Hell, it was a nice thing to believe.  After the disasters of late it would be nice to have some kind of hope.  But Brad was not much of an optimist these days.  'Okay. So what do we do now?'

The Doctor laughed.  'We explore, Bradley.'

Brad chose to ignore the Doctor's use of his full name; normally only his father used it, but somehow it sounded right coming from the Doctor's mouth.  'Explore? Explore what?'

The Doctor walked past the console and pointed at the central column.  'When the TARDIS is in flight – for want of a better word – the time rotor there oscillates.  As you can see, it is quite still now.  It means we have arrived somewhere.' He climbed into his big brown coat.

A load of questions entered Brad's mind, but he never got the chance to ask them.  Before he could even open his mouth the Doctor was walking through a pair of double doors.

'Hey, wait up, Doc,' Brad called and followed.  What else could he do?

*

Yet again Brad shook his head, clearing the wet bangs from his eyes. Wet? Ha! Soaked more like.

'Nice spot, Doc. Couldn't you have found somewhere a little warmer?' The Doctor seemed to ignore Brad, being quite content to just continue with reading the stained newspaper he had found on the deserted road.  Again, Brad shook his head.  'You know, allowing me back into the TARDIS would have been nice. I mean, it's all right for you.  You have that bear of a coat keeping you dry.  And what do I have? A jacket, not exactly rain wear.' Brad growled at the Doctor's back, and took a step forward.

The Doctor spun around, nearly knocking Brad over.  He shoved the paper at Brad.

'What do you think of that?'

Why was it always questions with the Doc? Brad took the soggy paper and began to peruse the front page. 'Not a lot.  Nothing familiar.' He glanced at the date, but the digits made no sense to him.  'Where are we, Doc?'

'Don't know.  Can't say I have been here before.'

'Great,' Brad muttered.  'Just goddamned great.' He sighed and threw the paper onto the sodden grass by the side of the road.  'Are we in England? Looks dirty enough to be England.  And wet enough.  Went to the UK not so long ago, and it rained a lot.'

The Doctor jumped into the air.  For his bulk it was quite a big jump.  'Nope.  Not England.  In fact, Bradley, not even Earth.'

'Excuse me? What do you mean, "not even Earth"?'

'The gravity is all wrong for Earth.' The Doctor jumped into the air once more and smiled.  'Besides, there is much more to the universe than that one small planet.  So much more to see.' He put his arm around Brad's shoulder.  Brad squirmed.  As if he was not wet enough.  'Do you know how much I have been to Earth, Bradley?' the Doctor asked in a whisper. All Brad could do was offer him a blank look in response.  'Hmm. Nor me.  But I do know I have been to Earth more times than any other one planet.  I think it is time the Earth looked after itself for a change, don't you?' The Doctor winked, and removed his arm.

Brad was stumped.  He watched the Doctor for a while, allowing the big man to walk away from him.  'Now wait a minute there, Doc.' Brad ran up to the Doctor.  'What do you mean "not even Earth"? I'll admit, your TARDIS is pretty cool, and yes, even that Portland went all trippy.  But are you trying to tell me we are on another planet?'

'That is exactly what I am saying.  Yes, I know it is quite a concept, but your human mind will soon get used to it.' The Doctor noticed the offended look on Brad's face.  'Don't be hurt. In my time I have had many companions, and most of them have been humans.  And each of them was a little shocked about being on planets other than Earth.  But they adapted well, as I am sure you will.'

Brad swallowed.  Well, he had to admit this got him away from all the crap that had been going on in his life recently.  'You know, Doc, I wonder if I am still on a trip, or if this is some dream.'

'Oh no, no dream, Bradley.'

'No? It was a nice hope.' Brad smiled, despite the cold.  'But, hey, I will get used to it.  I'm nothing if not adapt –'

A screeching interrupted Brad's eulogy.  The Doctor looked down at Brad and smiled.  'Aha. Sounds promising.  Come on.'

Brad blinked and the Doctor was away.  Brad ran behind, and called out.  'Promising? What?'

The Doctor looked back, but did not stop running.  'That sound means someone is in danger.  Which means I can help.'

Brad was not so sure. That screech was not the sound of someone, more the sound of something. Something pretty crazed, and… inhuman.  The Doctor's voice drifted back.

'Come on; adventure, excitement.  It's waiting around the corner!'

*

Once they had turned the corner they came to a stop.  Before them was a woman holding her arm, screeching in pain.  Brad could not say he blamed her, after all the fire raging around her arm must have killed. There were four other people behind the woman, protecting a dog from the madman with the flaming torch.

How the wood managed to stay alight in this weather was beyond Brad, but it was so.  The man holding the torch out looked quite mad.  Wide eyed, looking as if he had had no sleep in decades.  A patchy beard, evidently not big on the shaving, either.  A sword lay abandoned on the ground beside him.  The man took another swipe with the torch, and the flame spread from the woman's arm to the rest of her body.

Brad blinked, shocked at the Doctor's speed.  Within moments the Doctor had intercepted the crazed man, taken the torch off him, and pushed the man onto his back.

'Wow,' was all Brad could manage.

The Doctor turned to Brad. 'Quick! We must get some water!'

Brad shook his wet bangs. 'Are you shitting me, Doc?' He waved his arms around.  'Don't you think we have enough water here all ready?'

The woman screamed and dropped to the ground.  The flames died abruptly.  All that remained was a burnt out carcass.  Her fellows looked at each other, and Brad felt a sting of sympathy for them.  Losing someone was not an easy thing.  Seeing the burnt corpse reminded him of Jacen lying in his coffin.  Brad took a step forward.

'Hey, it will all be…' His voice tailed off.

The four people snarled and looked at Brad.  He gulped.  They were not people.  They were vampires.  The teeth and the yellow eyes were a dead giveaway.  Ragged vampires, perhaps, but vampires nonetheless.  As one they advanced on Brad.  He tried to move but could not.  All he could do was look at the eyes of the tallest man.

'Erm, Doc!' he yelled.

Two of the vampires looked away from Brad to where the Doctor was standing.  Brad forced himself to look.  It killed his neck, but he could just make out the Doctor from the corner of his eye.  The Doctor stood there, arms behind his back, face set in a sad frown.  The two vampires advanced on the Doctor.

He shook his head and stepped forward to meet them, revealing the sword in his hand.  The vampires did not get a chance to react.  The Doctor moved swiftly and finally.  Within seconds the first vampire was dust.

'Go Doc!' Brad heard himself saying, but soon shut up when the Doctor threw an angry look at him.

The second vampire growled, but the Doctor showed not one iota of fear.  The vampire launched itself at the Doctor, and soon that vampire was a pile of dust, too.  The Doctor coughed and brushed the dust off him.  He looked at the two remaining vampires, and so did Brad.  They looked pissed.

'Um, Doc…' Brad began.

'Don't worry, Bradley.' The Doctor walked through the dust piles towards the two vampires, and glanced down at the remains, a look of distaste on his face. 'Are you going to leave us, or do I have to dispatch you as well?'

The two vampires looked at each other, then the tall one stepped up to the Doctor.  'How dare you interfere? You will be like us.' He grabbed the Doctor by the throat, causing the sword to fall to the ground, and pulled the Time Lord closer to him.  'Or die.'

The Doctor laughed in his face.

The head vampire snarled at the Doctor.  'It is not wise to laugh at me, mortal. I am Lord Cheng, and I am not to be trifled with.'

'You know, I have other enemies who like to say such nonsense to me.  And they are so much nastier than you.' The Doctor grabbed the vampire's wrist and twisted.  Cheng released the Doctor's throat and fell back.

Brad blinked the rain out of his eyes and saw the vampire holding his broken wrist aloft.  Brad laughed.  'Way to go, Doctor,' he whispered, not wishing to receive another of the Doctor's glares.

The Doctor continued looking at the remaining vampires and bellowed: 'Now go!'

They went.  But not before Lord Cheng said; 'There will be a reckoning with you! I promise it.'

Once they were out of sight Brad stepped up to the Doctor and patted the large man on the back.  'Wow, Doc, I'm very impressed.  You could teach Van Hel–'

The Doctor turned on Brad and said through gritted teeth; 'It is no laughing matter, Bradley, taking a life never is.'

Brad laughed, nervously.  'Yeah, but they were vampires, right? Demons and all that.  Evil.'

'Life is life.  Sometimes I have to fight evil with evil, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.' The Doctor took a deep breath, sighed, and looked at Brad.  He placed a large hand on the young man's shoulder.  'Don't worry about it, Bradley, you'll get it one day.  Now then,' he added, and looked down at the man they had saved.  'What say we get this fellow indoors, eh?'

*

The sun was shining and they stood outside the TARDIS.  The man, Ori'en, did not look so crazed now.  In fact he looked quite relaxed.  He had explained to the Doctor and Brad that he had not slept in weeks, not since he had realised that he was the last person alive on this planet.  It seemed that the whole planet had been infested with some kind of vampire virus, and Ori'en was the only one not to have turned.  Yet.  He expected it would happen soon, but in the meantime he intended to see if he could find a cure.  The Doctor offered to help.

'Thank you, Doctor.  But this is my problem.  The longer you and Brad stay the more likely you are to become infected.'

This suited Brad fine.  Staying on a vampire-infested planet was not his idea of fun.  So now they were at the TARDIS saying goodbye.

'Well, best of luck, Ori'en.  I daresay the vampires will give you a little breathing space.  At least until they realise that I have gone.'

Ori'en smiled.  'Let's hope that it is enough time, Doctor.  And thank you, again.  I needed a good rest.'

The Doctor just laughed and opened the door of the TARDIS.  He ushered Brad inside, then looked back at Ori'en.  'Take care of yourself.' The two men shook hands and the Doctor entered the TARDIS.

*

Ori'en stood there and watched the TARDIS fade from sight.  He looked down at his torn hand, at the infected blood.  His eyes glowed with a yellow hue.  'I will take care, Doctor.  I hope you do, too.' As he walked away he could feel his infected blood mingling with that of the Doctor.

*

Brad glanced back at the closed doors.  'That was really weird, Doc,' he said, removing his wet jacket from his sodden shirt. He glanced down at his jeans, now darker than usual and clinging uncomfortably to his skin.  'You got a washer?'

The Doctor wiped the blood off his hand, and noticed the slight cut.  'Oh dear… I wonder how that happened? Must have been the sword.  Oh well, it'll heal.' He glanced up at Brad.  'A washer, did you say?' The Doctors reached into his pockets and pulled out all kinds of metal bits.  'Washers, nuts, screws, bolts, nails; I have them all.  A handyman's dream!'

Brad shook his head, smiling out of the corner of his mouth.  'Yeah, that's really neat, Doc, but I was thinking of washing my clothes, not attaching moving parts to them.'

'Oh! A washing machine? I think we need to find you some new clothes.'

'Well, I saw this kilt earlier; I could maybe try that on?'

The Doctor's brow furrowed.  'No, fresh and new is the way to go.  Believe me, Bradley, I speak from experience.'

The Doctor led Brad through the inner door. 'Is this what you do, then, Doc? Whiz in and out of peoples' lives with barely a hey and bye?'

The Doctor gave this some consideration. 'No, I usually tend to get a little more involved, but since my regeneration… I don't know. I feel this need to move on, as if I'm looking for something.' He shook away these obviously disturbing thoughts. 'Enough of this, let's see if we can find you a washer,' the Doctor said with a beaming smile. Brad couldn't help but return the smile. Somehow being stuck with the Doctor didn't seem such a bad thing after all. It sure beat being stuck in Portland…

Next time…

Outside the window, an invisible paste white figure floated impossibly thousands of feet above the ground.  It held twin balloons.  One said 'Cause', the other 'Effect'.  The balloons burst soundlessly.

*

The Doctor was excitedly pacing the office.  He had already done three circuits of the table.  'So what you're saying is it's a matter of narrowing the field of suspects.' He paused.  'Still leaves a pretty vast field.' He patted his ample stomach.  'All this application has given me an appetite.  Sixela?' He looked expectantly at the professor.

'I don't think she's listening,' said Brad.

The Doctor stared.  Professor Sixela Capricornn was clearly speaking but no sound was emerging.  She also appeared to be fading away before their eyes.

'Oh good grief!' The Doctor looked anguished.  He found he could pass a hand clean through the professor.  'Reality bomb.  It must have been primed and waiting for the trigger… Some form of nexus point.'

To Be Continued… Saturday 16th October

Edited by Andy Frankham-Allen, Greg Miller & Elizabeth Medeiros.
Cover © 2010 by Ewen Campion-Clarke.
In the Blood (previously released as 'So Long Legend') © 2001, 2010 by Andy Frankham-Allen,
The Legacy © & ™ 2001, 2010 by Andy Frankham-Allen. 
Doctor Who © & ™ 1963, 2010 by BBC Worldwide. All Rights Reserved.

 

The Legacy Season One

Due to the positive response for the first two stories, I have decided to run the rest of The Legacy's first season at one story every Saturday for the next thirteen weeks. A break will then follow before season two picks up the story…

So, drop by tomorrow for story #3…

Writers' Wednesday #2: How Did That Happen?

Welcome to this week's Writers' Wednesday. I'd like to welcome Sharon Bidwell to my blog; she's a relatively new friend, one of many author friends I've met via networking on Facebook, a quirky, funny woman who has a thing for grouting. She'll say she doesn't, but don't believe her. It's her first love. Her second love is writing, and she's here to tell us just how she got into writing, and why…

How Did That Happen?

(Or: How I Came to Write All Sorts of Things, Including Gay Romance.)

Sharon Maria Bidwell

I always say I write as I read, meaning anything and everything. From the first time I picked up a book, I wanted to experience as many adventures as possible.To paraphrase a quote I once read (but alas, cannot remember to whom I should attribute it), "Why live one life when you can live thousands?" It amazes me to hear some people have read none of the classics. Oliver Twist, Treasure Island, Gulliver's Travels, Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn were my first 'adventures' at an age when I also read authors such as Enid Blyton and Roald Dahl.

I started writing when I was sixteen, but never seriously. Some part of me wanted to, but if I ever made applicable 'noises', too many people sneered. I can't say I actually listened to their scorn, but I was too busy with other things in my life and set it aside as many people do, as a dream to be realised one day or to prove unattainable. I continued to write, but years passed before I allowed others to read my work, and I have to admit the stories I showed them weren't very good, even though those readers responded with sounds of encouragement. I have wondered whether they were biased and being kind, but looking back on those initial attempts, no matter how poor the writing, I realised I was still 'storytelling'. The idea of being a storyteller harks back to the times when I was too young to read far more complex novels than would have been possible for my age, so I begged people to tell them to me.

I eventually studied a couple of writing courses, and subsequently began to submit to small press magazines. Many authors have started this way and I always joke that I had fewer rejections than Stephen King before a first acceptance. I'm not counting the dozen or so things I sent out prior to those courses. The internet didn't exist back then; not many people owned computers; I hadn't learned enough to be successful. Even those failures were returned often with positive comments, and any writer will tell you it's unusual to receive a rejection where the editor has taken the time to add a personal note. That's when I stopped sending things out until I had studied this pursuit of writing and found the best and correct way to submit to publishers. Consequently, the first story I sent out was accepted by the second publication I submitted it to. Even the magazine that initially rejected it pointed me to possible markets for its publication, so in a sense the story was an immediate success.

Since then I've had moderate success with short pieces, poems, short stories, and articles, both fact and fiction. The problem I faced was simple. When was I going to produce a longer work? I had projects, but nothing that was ready for publication. One can approach writing in one of two ways, by writing what one likes and trying to find a market for it, or writing with a specific market in mind.

I believe my main problem has always been one of my personal strengths – I write as I read, 'anything and everything'. Much of my work crosses genres and that provides me with a rich world of storytelling, but work difficult to categorise can be difficult to place. There's no point sitting around wishing for good fortune, so I decided if I wanted a longer work published, I was going to have to make it happen.

Now those who have seen my eclectic book collection wouldn't be surprised to spot the occasional romance, but if they'd only read the darker short stories I like to write they might be surprised at where that decision led me. I'd read a couple of books by authors such as Angela Knight. This led me to discover Loose-Id who publishes sexy romances for women – very different romances from the type I had read as a teenager. (Please note: as a teenager I was reading romances as avidly as I was reading Stephen King and James Herbert – I have said my book collection is eclectic, and I'm not exaggerating). I thought, 'I can do this', just prior to mild panic when I accepted I had never written something so explicit. Even so, the motivation remained and I had nothing to lose by trying.

They rejected my first submission. On reflection, two of their reasons I agreed with, one I didn't, still don't, but that's irrelevant. They were right to reject that book at the time. In a strange way, it gave me more confidence to believe what they were saying when I did manage to write a book they wanted to accept.

Squirming under the sting of rejection, I started reading in earnest, trying to study the market. I'd never previously considered writing romance, but I liked the variety of stories available, from vamps, shape-shifters, westerns, and sci-fi: if you could envision it, a book existed in the romance industry.

I grew increasingly frustrated. I wanted to write for Loose-Id, but I needed something special, something different. One of their books featured stories where two men loved one woman and each other, but that still hadn't clicked in my head. Then I noticed that m/m (man on man) books began to appear with increasing frequency. I read one and loved it. It was my first true experience of a gay romance outside of more mainstream books. The love scenes were very much part of the story and just plain fun. The snappy dialogue appealed and would influence the way my characters spoke.

If I were struggling to write an explicit hetero romance, how did I think I was going to write a gay one? It started with a vague idea with no real direction or richness to it. I pictured a man sitting on a bench and a thief creeping up on him. I had no idea as to their identity or sexuality. A few days later I came across the name 'Shavar, meaning Comet' and suddenly I knew who the man was and why he sat there, seeking peace and solitude. I had found the perfect story because it swept me up in it. I wrote the draft in about eight weeks starting in June one year. I had subbed it by the beginning of the following year, received a request for the full manuscript within two days, and had it contracted a month later. The Swithin Chronicles 1: Uly's Comet appeared the following August.

While the first manuscript was shelved awaiting my personal edit, another idea came to me, this time for a m/m contemporary work. I was able to work on it totally focused with no interruptions, and as it has a largely winter setting, writing it during winter seemed appropriate. I wrote it because, again, I had a story that nagged at me, but in the back of my mind I tried not to hope and told myself Uly's Comet would be rejected. I needed another work lined up to send in when it was. That book became Snow Angel, my most successful work to date. I'd just finished that when Uly's Comet was contracted… and the publisher asked if the 'comet' book were to be a series.

Panic. I had never envisioned it as more than an isolated book. I had never envisioned writing more than one gay romance. Imagine the contrasting and sometimes hilarious reactions when telling your family and friends you have had a book contracted, and then having to explain that not only is it an explicit romance, but a gay explicit romance; not only that – the publisher wants more of the same. I know in a perfect world it shouldn't matter, but I had jumped in the deep end without the ability to swim… or so I thought.

This time I didn't have to search for a story – books two and three came to me. I understood these characters so well, the biggest headache was making sense of the hundreds of notes, some amounting to only a single sentence, scribbled on whatever I had to hand: even on napkins and toilet paper. I can laugh at that and now always carry a notebook with me, but my head was so full of these stories that even snippets of conversation would just pop into my head when least convenient. As for any possible embarrassment, if in doubt, brazen it out. I was proud of my work and willing to say so.

I never set out to write gay romances or to be a spokesperson for equal rights, although I quickly realised I had a perfect opportunity and little option but to stand for my beliefs. I have no agenda, but it's obvious that anyone capable of recognising emotions are universal believes in equality. I was also to discover that the reasons why women write and read gay romances were as varied as the authors and books available, but to cover that topic would take another blog entry.

I envisioned a race that freely took lovers of either sex, in a society where, as long as no one was hurting anyone else, people lived as they pleased. The ultimate Utopia? No, for there are still those who will harm others for political reasons and power.

The trilogy is at heart m/m romance (I should say m/m/m romance) but there are a few m/f scenes that may lead people to believe otherwise. By the end of book three all becomes clear, but book one can be read as a standalone novel. One can also read from book two, but if one reads book two the chances are curiosity will make the reader look at book three. The sex is also more explicit, and there are more intimate scenes in books two and three, and the pace is faster, but book one was needed very much to set the stage and it was my first romance novel. I still love that book, even though one day I will likely subject it to a ruthless edit.

Someone described my Swithin 'comet' books as prince and the pauper crossed with Arabian nights. I hadn't thought of that, but it's a fun comparison. Markis, the Swithin Prince, not only has two men in his life but a princess, and the reason is simple. Markis is a prince and needs to marry. However, there's no need to think of them as a true quartet and my little princess finds her own kind of happiness by the end of book three, I promise. As well as the trilogy, there are to date three Swithin Spins and there may be more in the future. This series is particularly special to me because if it weren't for that first novel my father would never have seen a longer work of mine published before he died, and that is priceless!

Reading influences would be too many to mention, and none are exactly direct. Mostly, they are works that have sat in the back of my mind where small pieces have come together to create something new and whole when I had the right story for it – stories that helped me explore a vivid and contrasting landscape. Team all this with a visit to Italy and I had the scope to create a rich background and setting. The world of the Swithin is a mix of Arabian and Mediterranean influences. Think of crisp white marble, terracotta tiles, fairytale castles, pale desserts, soaring cliffs, and deep valleys filled with rich and abundant foliage (all things you'll find in Italy) and you'll begin to glimpse their world. This is offset by poorer districts with muddy bandit-infested alleys, but this isn't the world of the Swithin, merely parts of a planet on which they live.

Take a race who freely takes lovers of either sex, a prince with a problem, his personal guard who loves him and manipulates him for his 'own good' without apology, a princess who needs rescuing from a backward nation, a war to avoid, and throw a street thief into the mix to steal the prince's heart. There you have Uly's Comet, the first of the Swithin trilogy, and the first of many gay romances I've written. I don't intend to abandon the other genres I love, and those twisted stories many know me for, but I will always follow a story wherever it leads me, even if it does leave some people wondering, "How did that happen?"

For a taste of the Swithin world you're welcome to read a short story on my website: (Please note: the events in this story happen between Chapter 11 and Chapter 12 of the novel, The Swithin Chronicles 1: Uly's Comet); At What Moment.

A whole host of Sharon's work can be purchased at Loose-id.

Text © 2010 Sharon Maria Bidwell
Covers © 2010 Loose-id, All Rights Reserved

Behind the Paint

Huey Dusk by Whit Howland; a review.

'Girl Scouts with guns. Maniacal mimes. Murder. Intrigue. Big floppy shoes. It's all in a day's work for Huey Dusk, clown and private dick. In his latest case, Dusk discovers there are plans afoot to rub him out. Can he locate his would-be killers before he ends up a puddle of greasepaint? Part noir, part humour and more fun than a three-ring circus, Huey Dusk will change how you look at mysteries.'

So says the blurb of this debut novella from newcomer, Whit Howland; but are all these things true? Is it part noir, part comedy, and more fun than a three-ring circus? I'll have to say for the first two, yes! The latter statement will get a no, sorry, but definitely do not agree. I've been to circuses and they are much more fun than the grim scenes featured in this eNovella. And that's okay. Killer clowns are not meant to be fun, but that's not to say that they can't be funny.

By definition, a novella has less time than a novel to pull the reader in, and thusly it is imperative that the reader is captivated within the first half a page. Unfortunately I didn't find Huey Dusk quite achieving that. This was in no small part due to the very choppy nature and static prose of the opening scenes. Nonetheless, there was still something in these scenes that made me want to know more. A clown who's taking drugs just seconds before entertaining the children… Not your normal opening scenes, but certainly the kind that makes the reader want to plough on. I'm glad I did.

Due to the word count there's a little less story in this novella than I would have liked. Indeed I felt it was a story with more promise, so much more I'd not been privy to. The world Whit has created is pretty fantastic, in every sense of that word. A world where clowns are real people, not just guys in make-up doing a job. You cut a clown, he bleeds white. A world where mimes really don't speak. It's all wonderfully macabre, and a lot of the darkness of this tale (with Huey the Clown trying to solve the mystery of his would-be-killer) reminded me greatly of the scenes in Psychoville with Mr Jelly, the one-handed embittered clown on a mission to discredit his nemesis Mr Jolly. This is a very good thing, and almost certainly unintentional since I don't think Whit has seen the BBC comedy in question.

Many people think there is something inherently scary about clowns. I've never understood why, personally, but those people who do will no doubt find this story incredibly creepy. I personally found it rather amusing and interesting in equal measure. The plot wasn't all that, but the characters make the piece for me. There's a very knowing wink throughout most of the work, as if Whit is playing with the readers. And for all I know maybe he is. Certainly the world of Huey Dusk is an odd one, one that recalls much of the flavour of noir films, marrying that with the dark comedy of the best League of Gentlemen episodes. It's a perfect match.

I look forward to reading more about this clown, and seeing how Whit's prose improves with time and experience. A debut story is hardly ever a good indication of what the author is, but it shows the promise of what Whit Howland can become. Come along for the ride, I suspect you won't be disappointed.

Huey Dusk is available directly from Untreed Reads for only $2.99 (and all good eBook retailers). But if you buy within the month of October, you can get 25% off as part of Untreed's month-long Hallowe'en sale.

Text © 2010 Andy Frankham-Allen,
Huey Dusk cover © 2010 Untreed Reads Publishing LLC, All Rights Reserved

Hallowe'en Flavoured Review

A new review for my long-short 'Off Flesh' is now up at Giovanni Gelati's blog; Gelati's Scoop

"Just a disclaimer here before we begin. I really wasn't paying attention to title when I started to read this bad boy. I got to the end of this digital short and I said wow, time out. I probably should have seen it coming, but Off Flesh really packs a twisted punch at the end. This is all done in approximately 5800 words. I read this on my laptop and did it quickly and the ending stuck with me for a while. Shocked yes, I will say it again. Should have seen it coming, probably, but I think that is what makes Andy Frankham- Allen a good writer. He has us very quickly identify with the character on some level; makes us understand his desires and then, bam. Can I say enough about this digital short? Sure, have you found me to be at a loss for words? Hahaha. I just want to respect the author's writing and not spoil the surprise for you. Just know there is one coming at you.

Off Flesh is a good story for this time of year as we get closer to Halloween. My suggestion is to read this in the daylight and try to cushion yourself as you jump out of your seat, but try to have some fun with it. I think the author would like that. Basically I think my wife is going to ask me if she can read this when she gets done fixing all my typos and mistakes and I am going to tell her to pass on this one, otherwise I would probably get a good shot in the arm when she gets done reading it."

————————————————–

And here is something I wrote to go with that review, but never made it (for reasons I do not know – oh well, no point in wasting it).

Why Am I Always the Vampire?

It's October all over again!

I love everything about it. The change in the atmosphere, the longer nights. It's the most reflective time of the year for me, the end of another year of my life, and thus the start of a new chapter. And I simply adore October! Why? Because it means Hallowe'en is on the way…

Hallowe'en; for most it's a time to party, to dress up and delve into the slightly more macabre things in life. In a fun way, of course. I'm not immune to this fun. I'm always being invited to Hallowe'en fancy dress parties, and almost always people say I should go as a vampire. Why me? Okay, yes, sure, everyone who knows me in the real world knows full well of my interest in all things vampiric; books, DVDs, mythology – you name it, I'm almost certainly going to be interested (although I do draw the line at popular vampire fiction, ala Twilight, True Blood, The Vampire Diaries, etc. After all, I do have standards and a reputation to maintain!). I have dressed up as a vampire, of course, but the truth is dressing up a vampire is kind of dull. Especially these days.

The image of the vampire is so sanitised; we've moved a long way from the vampire of ancient mythology, they of the bloated blood-filled bodies, and the hairy feet. Hell, even the suave Lugosi-style vampire is old hat. Now it's all Edward Cullen, Angel, Spike and Bill Compton, and let's be honest here, unless we're looking into the origins of these characters there's not much we can do to dress up. There's nothing distinctive about them. Apart from the paler than usual skin and sometimes fangs, they look much like everyone else. Okay, sure I could bleach my hair, slick it back, and wear a deep red shirt under a long leather coat and say I've come as Spike, but not really much of a 'fancy dress' is it? There's always the more obscure vampires, of course. Lon Chaney's Balfour from London After Midnight, or perhaps Max Schreck's Orlock from Nosferatu? Very distinctive images; although the former would almost certainly be lost on most people at any given party, and the latter would probably be confused with Mr Barlow from the 1970s version of 'salem's Lot. So you see, what can you do? When it comes to vampires and Hallowe'en parties you're stuck with countless (excuse the pun) Lugosi- and Lee-style Draculas. Sure, a classic, but rather obvious and boring, too.

Vampires fascinate me; they always have and always will. For every generation a new kind of vampire is created, to slightly borrow from Buffy, although it's a pity that these new vampires are all much the same. Very little is new (except sparkles! And as crap as that is, at least Stephenie Meyer brought something new to contemporary vampire fiction – okay, granted it's the only new thing she brought, but, hey, let's move on), and all is but a variation on the common image of the vampire seen everywhere for the last sixty-odd years. On the surface it's all fangs and pale skin. Not exactly the most exciting kind of fancy dress. So, maybe, until we get a more interesting kind of visual vampire, it's time to move on at Hallowe'en and come as something a little more interesting?

No, you say? Okay, then, but if you see hundreds of Draculas at the end of the month, you just remember what I said. Three words; variety, life, spice. The same is true for Hallowe'en fancy dress parties.

Text © 2010 Andy Frankham-Allen,
Off Flesh cover © 2010 Untreed Reads Publishing LLC,
All other images © 2000, 2009 Andy Frankham-Allen, All Rights Reserved

The Legacy #2: Urban Decay

Introduction to The Legacy

Some called him the Lonely God, but he was no god. I knew him, travelled with him from the beginning. It was I who called to him, encouraged him to leave his home world. I, myself, had been waiting a long time for a soul like his, a crusader. He was a force of nature waiting to happen. A catalyst for great change.

To some he was simply the bohemian wanderer in the fourth dimension. Some worlds, those that belonged to the monsters, feared him; they knew that if ever he visited their worlds the threat represented by them would be destroyed. Even the Daleks, those most evil of creations, called him the Ka Faraq Gatri, the Bringer of Darkness.

Oh, you have never heard of the Daleks? Of course, I keep forgetting, they never existed in this universe. At least not yet, anyway.

That was his fault. His timeline got altered and reality itself was reshaped, just to fit around him. Entire worlds were destroyed; species once destined for greats things now amounted to nothing. Everything in flux because just one man's future had been altered.

And although the universe was altered to fit him, he found it hard to fit into this new reality. His home was gone, his path unclear, and yet still he went out there, doing what he did. Finding the wrongs and putting them right.

But he is gone now. Some say he is dead, others think he is just lost. Most say his work is done, that the universe no longer needs him. I say they are wrong. He has changed so many, left behind so much.

His legacy lives on in me. I'm here, waiting, for I know he shall return. He always does.

His name is legend.

He is the Doctor.

And this is his story…

————————————————————————————————

Previously; The Catalyst

The Doctor walked at a sedate pace through a tree lined avenue in an unfamiliar city.  Essentially, he'd settled on an arbitrary point in time to land.  Without premeditation, the TARDIS arrived on Earth once again, in the first year of the 21st Century.

Spring was in its budding process and the weather was struggling with itself.  The Doctor was humming a ditty to himself about what he may or may not have seen in the middle of May.  As he strolled through a downtown park block, he was beset successively by chilling wind, the onset of dusk, and hail.

His brow, cheeks, and nose felt quite abraded.  The Doctor turned up the collar of his brown twill coat and grumbled.  Spots of his white linen shirt and polka dot tie were becoming rather damp.

Yellow sodium arc lamps dotted the distance and he continued onwards in his journey towards nowhere in particular.  The gloaming sky, while partially obscured by firs, pines, oaks, and buildings, was turning a bruised shade of gold, russet and purple.  A dozen metres ahead trudged the figure of a man obviously in an advanced state of inebriation.

Belching and stumbling, this man stopped and placed both arms against a nearby wall and expelled the oily contents of his stomach.

Quite put off from the thought of a dinner diversion, the Doctor quickly strode off down Everett Street.  Another spate of hail stones descended.  The Doctor grew decidedly more uncomfortable when he realised he had no idea where he was going… again.

*

Elsewhere in the Rose City of Portland, Brad DeMars was feeling the depths of despondency.  Naturally so, since he'd just attended the funeral of his bass guitar player.

Jacen Lewis had succumbed to a brain tumour after months of intermittent seizures, radiation therapy, and patronising medical practitioners.  Brad was very close to his friend and it did not help that the death of Jacen precipitated the dispersal of the band.  To add injury to insult, 'Philosopher's Stone' had only been gigging for less than a year.

Brad opted to linger behind at Riverview Cemetery and Crematorium for a little while after the service.  He had been hoping to be able to play the last composition of the band at the graveside service.  He was thwarted in this, of course, since he had neglected to bring an amplifier or, indeed, a power source for his synthesiser.  For some reason, the other members did not show up.

Brad DeMars was very angry at them.

Why were things so off-kilter lately?

Progressive alienation and disappointment was wearing away at his hopes to fend off a state of jadedness for another year.

He eventually drove towards his studio apartment long after the rest of the funeral party left him.  Dusk was not dusk any longer.  Night was settling in after the day's struggle with the weather.

Brad cruised in his green Volkswagen Sirocco down Burnside Street.  He was absorbed and feeling harsh.  The blaring of the car stereo assuaged little of what he was feeling.

Understandably, he was quite suddenly alert when his brakes locked up.  The car spun and skidded, finally stopping dead mere centimetres from a fire hydrant.  The twenty-six year old synthesiser player with a black mop of hair tipped in nuclear red, lost consciousness as his forehead struck the steering wheel.

Kinetic force had to go somewhere.

*

'Oh, Doctor, you're bound to get lost if you keep weaving in and out of these blasted side streets!' The Doctor bemoaned his lack of planning again.

It could not have been so late in the evening that every person had gone home, could it? After all, he was still relatively close to the downtown area wasn't he? Thisexcursion was revealing itself as quite dreary indeed, despite the greenery and quaint mix of architectures.

With a sigh, the Doctor settled his girth onto a nearby bench to gather his thoughts.  He withdrew his pocket watch in an attempt to regain his bearings.  Apart from being a compact and sophisticated time piece, it was also a wide range scanner capable of detecting temporal variations and geophysical positions.  To the Doctor's chagrin he saw that the readings were unsteady – indeed they were fluctuating wildly.

'Why should this be?' he murmured aloud.

Another piece of evidence revealed that something was not as it should be.  Many certain some things were decidedly amiss.  Ever since the Doctor left UNIT HQ he had periodically been assailed by a sense of disassociation; that a matter of urgent importance was manifestly out of order was clear.

Rubbing his beard momentarily, he replaced his pocket watch to its home.  He brought out of another pocket a deck of playing cards he had found when he commandeered the coat.  He tapped the deck against his forehead and thought.

With eyes closed, he withdrew a card.  Ace of Hearts.

Gloomily wishing for a good game of Blackjack, the Doctor stood.  Perhaps he could find some answers if he returned to the TARDIS.  The watch might simply need recalibration.  Also a good nap in the Zero Room would do worlds of good.  The sense of displacement could possibly be a side effect of his recent regeneration.

Once again steeling his resolve to get to the bottom of matters, the Doctor attempted to retrace his path.

*

Brad awoke with his temples throbbing. 'Oh, ow. What the…'

Not a car or pedestrian was near.  No ambulance, no fire truck and certainly no paramedics had come to investigate.  Where were the sirens of the law?

The synth player gingerly touched his face and fortunately found no blood.  He checked himself out in the rear view mirror.  An angry looking bruise was forming in a line on his forehead.

There should have been plenty of traffic for the time of day. In a quiet and orderly array, an average number of vehicles were parked as usual.  Yet there was no motion signalling the end of day.  It was as if every single person in the city, as far as one's eye could see, had tucked themselves in for the night and turned the lights out.

The yellow nimbus of sodium arc lamps still stood their vigils.  From what Brad could see, the city became cloaked in a brooding and mutely subdued mystery.  He shook the tangles of his black and nuclear red hair out of his field of vision.  Getting out of the dead car, he set out on foot towards home.

*

A humanoid shape like a semi-collapsed marionette lowered itself from a tree.

'Tick tock,' said the plaintive voice of the Dommervoy.

Across the lane, another featureless mannequin lowered itself down to a height matching that of its counterpart.

'Tick tock.' A tittering sound followed, neither here nor there.

*

The stout and bearded Doctor stopped in his tracks, uncharacteristically startled.

He could only just make out the indistinct forms.

He looked closer, and indeed a few blocks away he could see that there were several humanoid shapes milling about like extras in a film.

*

On the West Hills, two kilometres away, the lights of the broadcasting towers flared brightly in a syncopated pulse.  The surrounding hills were intermittently bathed in light crimson ambience.  The surrounding hills were for a while briefly bathed in the glow.  Then they winked out for good.

*

The Doctor stole quietly west on Glisan Street, then bolted down Sixteenth Avenue.  He gasped for breath on the corner of Flanders Street and finally slumped onto a concrete bench before an old blue apartment building with red trim.  Nearby was a sign marked '18th Ave.'.

He really had to remember that his new body was not half as agile as his previous lanky form.

Just as he was preparing to open the fob of the newly constructed homing locator linked to his homely timeship, a small gale blew past.  For this reason, the Doctor looked upwards.

A vast ring of angry black clouds formed an icy nimbus around the moon.  Lambent violet arcs of energy strobed through the adjacent sky.  Then the moon blatantly vanished.

Some type of dimensional 'storm' was wrenching open the vaults of local space/time.  This the Doctor knew intrinsically and viscerally.

Considering his unusually graceless size, he made rather good time south and found himself on a broad road: Burnside Street.  On the intersection was a small green car parked askew to the curb.  Its tapered nose was scant centimetres from a fire hydrant.  The driver's side door was wide open.  Yet the Doctor could clearly see a man walking about a block and a half away, hefting a large something on his shoulder.

*

On a gossamer thread of scintillating colour, dangling ten meters above the street, hung a blank faced caricature of a person wrapped in what looked like black packaging material.  Its black button eyes glared towards the receding figure in a brown wool overcoat.  It tittered and without moving its poorly drawn on line of a mouth, said; 'tock.'

The Dommervoy quivered slightly and jerked upwards, promptly vanishing.

*

Brad DeMars was rightly upset and was experiencing the onset of a cold sweat and a peculiar knotting in the bowels, when he felt the wind and saw the sky swallow itself.  He found himself standing stock still and gawking at the impossible.

Many of the buildings of downtown Portland were usually visible from this stretch of road and for the most part, still were.  They were also somehow… changing.  'Big Pink', the massive banking tower which was done up years ago in Bauhaus style copper collared glass and steel, was wavering and undulating.  Now it appeared that its foundation was set anywhere between thirty five to forty five degrees to the elevation of the surrounding ground.  The process continued to approximately nine storeys below the structure's apex.

It was happening as far as the musician's eyes could scan.  Trembling, he may well have stood there forever until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

'Hello, I'm the Doctor, are you all right there?'

A sturdy looking and burly man he was.  Brad was nearly too shocked to respond but clasped the stranger's proffered hand instinctively.  Dumbly, Brad managed a nod and closed his gaping mouth.

He swallowed and replied.  'This isn't supposed to be happening, is it?'

He found himself regaining control in spite of the reeling and spinning sensation.  Somewhere in his subconscious mind, the idea was gestating.

'I don't know what it is, but I've got to put a stop to it,' said the wide girthed man.

The bearded stranger appeared like some kind of archaic sea captain.  Although he was smiling, this Doctor could not conceal his grave concern.  At any rate, his manner suggested some degree of confidence and weird professionalism.  Brad was vaguely aware of being embarrassed.

'Believe me, young man, you are not going mad.  I'm surprised you're even here at all.  Surely some kind of anomaly within an anomaly has spared you? We're standing in a city's ghost, after all!'

He seemed almost pleased, like a child with a brand new book that came with a funky stain on it.  'Never mind that for now.  If you're willing to trust me, we can find shelter from the quantum storm.'

What a mouthful! Still, he seemed far less crazy than whatever was happening to the city.

*

Gradually, while both of them watched on, the entire vista gained the aspect of becoming somehow digitised.  It was as if the place was an environment created for a first-person perspective computer simulation.  Pixels and stilted looking patterns appeared in formerly natural patterns.  The improbable pair of men ambled off at a pace towards the Holocaust Memorial a short distance away.

'I'm, uh, Brad DeMars.  I was in a car accident.  Um…  My friend died last week.  I'm a musician.  Do you…  How…? What the hell did you say was going on?'

The Doctor's booming laugh was like a war cry against the poisoned architecture.  Even over the keening of the wind and the thrumming of the shifting non-linear planes of reality, he could be heard clearly.

'There'll be time enough for that when we get inside.  Let's go!'

*

Brad and the Doctor made good time in reaching the Memorial grounds which were a mere fifteen blocks from where the two initially met.  The young keyboardist was noting his unusual companion's endurance.  Whoever he was, this man had not even began to sound winded in the slightest.

'There we are!' exclaimed the Doctor.  A meaty finger gestured to an object behind a copse of alders and cedar trees just off the inlet road to the Memorial; an object Brad had never seen before in his north-western American state.  He could just make out the markings on it which read, 'POLICE Public Call BOX'.

'Hey, man, where are we going?' he asked, now totally out of breath.

'Why, right in there, of course! Unless you'd rather stay out here and contend with that!'

'This is too much.  I think I'll bail out towards my place.  Nice meeting you, man.' Brad turned away and tried to trot off, readjusting his gig bag containing his portable synthesiser.  He made it back to the main road and saw… next to nothing.

Brad DeMars spun on his heels and sprinted apace back towards the Doctor's blue Police Box thing and banged on its narrow double door with both fists.

'All right! I believe you! Talk to me, Doctor!'

The right hand door opened silently inwards, an arm clasped Brad's forearm and pulled him inside and shut again.

*

The world turned abjectly grey while a gang of sawdust filled figures converged on the spot where the TARDIS once sat…

*

In a white control room, intensely scanning over a console, the Doctor gravely looked at Brad.

'Well, Brad, I don't have your answers.  What I do know is that the place we have just left was not Portland.  Your survival is a… miracle.  That place was a sort of analogue to your home.  A great force has wrested an entire temporal and spatial nexus out of its proper place.  For what cause or reason, I just don't know.  I don't know.  But I intend to find out.'

Fields distended and Brad DeMars lost consciousness. For being such a hard bohemian kind of guy (at least in his own estimation), this turn of events was too much.  The consciousness as a whole had to find a way to compensate for the sudden and somewhat violent wrenching of expectations…

To be continued…

Edited by Andy Frankham-Allen, Greg Miller & Elizabeth Medeiros.
Urban Decay © 2001, 2010 by Christoph Lopez,
Introduction © 2010 by Andy Frankham-Allen,
The Legacy © & ™ 2001, 2010 by Andy Frankham-Allen. 
Doctor Who © & ™ 1963, 2010 by BBC Worldwide. All Rights Reserved.

Let The Sale Begin

It's October! Do you even know what that means? It's my month. Yup, it's true. I'm an Autumn baby after all, and to make things even more interesting Hallowe'en is just around the corner. And for a fan or all things supernatural and horror… well, you can guess where I'm going with this, right?

To celebrate the coming of All Hallow's Eve, my ePublisher, Untreed Reads, is having a month-long sale. That's thirty-one days for you wonderful people to browse through their horror and mystery shelves and buy buy buy. Selected titles have 25% off all month long, including my two eBooks. So, do the right thing before the Witching Hour is upon you, and gobble up my tales of the macabre.

Off Flesh & One Mistake

Also, for today only, my print publisher, Hirst Publishing, is having a 10% off sale on all products (except 'Auton', which is doing exceptionally well without the need for a discount). This means you can all pop over and pre-order my forthcoming novel, and claim your 10% off simply by typing the word 'friday' into the coupon box at the Checkout.

Seeker: The Garden Book One of Four

As my Welsh relatives would say, 'you can't fault it', and they're right!

Writers' Wednesday

Welcome to Writers' Wednesday, a new weekly guest spot for my author friends who have been invited to come and talk about anything they fancy. All readers like to see how their favourite authors tick, me included, and so to launch Writers' Wednesday I am very pleased to welcome my favourite author of September, Tricia Heighway. As followers of this blog will know, Tricia wrote the novel Paddytum, released less than two weeks ago, which has quickly become my favourite book this year. She's here to tell us a little about the origins of Paddytum as well as introduce us to something called NaMoWriMo…

δ

How I Wrote (most of) My Novel in a Month

by Tricia Heighway

Have you heard of NaNoWriMo (http://www.nanowrimo.org/ )?  Two years ago I hadn't either.  Well, I won't go into detail, because you can find out all about it by visiting the site, or looking on Wikipedia.

I've completed (or won, as we 'Wrimos' are supposed to say) NaNoWriMo for the past two years.  Without it, I doubt I would have one completed novel, never mind four.

I did NaNo for the first time in 2008, using it to write the Young Adult novel I'd had in my head for a few months. I finished that in sixteen days, and, having told everyone I'd be novel-writing for the whole of November, decided to use the remaining fourteen days to write another one, this time without any preparation.

Last year, I managed fewer words (well, TWO 50,000 word pieces of fiction is pushing it), but my murder mystery story (which I have never even looked at since because I hated the thing) came to nearly 70,000 words.

So, when Paddytum (http://www.hirstpublishing.com/Tricia+Heighway+-+Paddytum/p384445_1157030.aspx)  was accepted for publication by Hirst Publishing in January this year, I knew I had a daunting task ahead: Paddytum, at the time, stood at 11,000 words, and I knew that I had to extend it by at least another 60K to turn it into a decent-length book. But, I had the training and the tools to do that, thanks to NaNoWriMo!

Paddytum started life on a brilliant Canadian-based collaborative fiction site called Protagonize (http://www.protagonize.com).   I wrote the first chapter or two as a bit of fun, and as a collaborative story. The trouble was, nobody wanted to collaborate. People kept coming along and reading it and saying; 'We like this – add some more!' And over the next two years, that's what I did – very, very slowly.  It was only eight chapters long when Hirst agreed to publish it, and I had absolutely no idea where it was going or how it would end.  I did know what the 'big secret' was, however, and I was starting to have an idea or two how I'd develop it.

So, I started planning 'PerPadWriMo' (Personal Paddytum Writing Month).  PerPadWriMo was to take place in March, and I set a target of 62K words, just 2,000 words a day. Easy!  I would use the rest of January and all of February for thinking up a plot, write it in March, and 'rest' the book for two months, coming back to it in June and July to revise, re-write, edit and polish it.

Phase One: Planning and Pre-writing.

I had my beginning. I still needed a middle and an end. I had already decided that my main character was going to be a happier chappie at the end of the story than at the beginning, so I just had to decide how to get him there.  I bought a couple of new notebooks. (I had dozens of notebooks already, but I never need much of an excuse to buy stationery.)  One was A4, for my notes and planning, and a second A5 one, which I called 'The Paddytum Diaries', in which I decided to write every day, for 'thinking aloud' about the plot.  For six weeks, I thought about the story, wrote ideas for scenes and characters, plot twists, either in my head or in one of the notebooks.  In the last week of February, I sat on my bed with a big piece of cardboard and a pad of Post-it notes, and jotted down a scene on each post-it – just a couple of words or a sentence – referring to my notebooks. When I'd run out of scenes, I arranged all the post-its on the cardboard, until I had them in the correct chronological order. When I was happy with the sequence, I wrote the scenes down as a list in my A4 book, so that I could cross them off as I wrote them.  The final stage was to rewrite my existing eight chapters, ready to start the 'new' writing on March 1st. I'd also taken my 'proper' diary, and noted against each date in March a running total of my prospective word-count for each day, so that I could track my progress and see whether I was on target.

Phase Two: Writing it.

I did the majority of the writing in the mornings, starting as soon as my children left for school, and carrying on until around lunchtime, with an option to continue in the afternoon if I hadn't done my word-count for that day.  I began, always, by doing some more 'thinking-aloud' in the Paddytum Diary, not just about the writing itself, but also about my mood, how I was feeling about the whole thing. If something from 'real life' was on my mind, I got that out of my system before I started to write. There are a good few rants in the Paddytum Diary!

One of the most important things I'd learned from NaNoWriMo was 'Don't Look Back'.  Once the writing was done, I forbade myself from looking back at a single word of it, not even to correct a single typo.  This is vital!  Once you start looking back over what you've written, you're on the slippery slope to self-doubt, which leads straight to the lake of 'Why Am I Even Bothering When I'm Such a Crap Writer?'  Don't do it!  You'll just end up with an abandoned novel.  Looking back is the main cause of failure during NaNoWriMo.  Rule One is: 'Don't get it right, get it written.'  There's plenty of time afterwards to get it right, and I'd allowed myself two months to do that.  That's why it was so useful to write in the diary, because it helped me to focus on the process without being tempted to look back at my work.

At the end of each session, I filled in my word-count, in both diaries, and worked out the surplus or the deficit.  I fell behind a bit during the first week; I hadn't got into my stride yet – but from day 10 onwards I was ahead, managing an average of 2,200 words a day.

Sometimes, I found myself deviating from the plot and the scenes listed in my notebook, when the characters took me off in a completely new direction. When that happened, I kept writing, following the lead of my subconscious, but I still carried on as if I hadn't been sidetracked at the next session, writing the scenes in my planning notebook but not getting rid of the deviations, confident (well, sort of) that I could tie everything together during the rewrite.  One of the amazing things about writing is that something that doesn't make sense when you're writing it makes perfect sense when you come back to it.  I knew there'd be plot holes, and I knew there'd be things I'd have to cut and things I'd have to add in order to patch the holes. But during the writing stage is not the time to discriminate.

At the end of March, I had written 68,510 words, exceeding my target by over 6,000. Job done.  Well, not quite.

Phase Three: The Edit

In April and May I did other things, leaving Paddytum well alone.  I spent June editing, concentrating on a different aspect on each 'pass'. The first edit was for typos, the second for grammar and punctuation. I went through it about ten times in all, gradually trimming scenes, cutting, and sometimes adding. The word-count went down, and then up, and then down again.  At the end of June I was told I could launch my book in September if I had it ready by mid-July, and I felt that this was possible, as I was sure I was almost there.  On the next read-through, I decided it didn't have enough conflict, so I added two new characters and a few more scenes.  The finished manuscript was around 87,000 words when I sent it to my publisher, feeling somewhat bereft now that it was out of my hands (and my control).

Now the book is out there, and people are beginning to ask about the next one.  Eek! The logical thing would be to dust off one of my three NaNoWriMo novels, except that I don't much like them.  I think of them as my 'practice' novels. Starting something brand new would be far more exciting.  And this year's NaNoWriMo begins in 33 days time. Bring it on!

Photographs © 2010 Lucy & Tricia Heighway