Nerine Dorman's Blog, page 106
August 21, 2011
Review: Uneasy Tales
What a lovely collection of short stories to land on my desk. Or maybe "lovely" is the wrong word. Creepy, yes. Discomforting, definitely. Simon Kurt Unsworth delivers a tight collection of macabre tales. There isn't always rhyme or reason why events unfold as they do, but what is certain is that each tale leaves you feeling scratchy behind the eyes.
In Button, Bruno catches a button that adheres to his left hand, with unfortunate consequences. This story still leaves me feeling phantom pains on my palm.
Dog was perhaps the only story that didn't resonate with me. Slightly reminiscent of the Cube films, it left me uneasy for reasons I won't go in that will spoil the tale. It's suitably horrible, even if one never discovers the raison d'etre for the viewpoint character's predicament.
My phobia for hospitals, needles and scalpels were next on the list when I read Excision. What I liked the most about this one was that the horror is implied and the truth ambiguous. Thank goodness for general anaesthetic, is all I can say.
The grim vision of a sterile future for planet earth is explored in Plastic. Once again, Unsworth plays with medical themes gone wrong in this broody and rather tense story.
Overall, Unsworth is a master of mood and suspense. The true horror lies not in the end result but the growing sense of inevitability so often lacking in horror fiction nowadays. Well done with this anthology, sir. You've definitely succeeded in giving me my sick thrills for a gloomy Sunday afternoon.
Buy Uneasy Tales here.
August 16, 2011
Short fiction: On An Empty Shore VI
It's Eat or be Eaten
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
I saw my first lion two years after the zombiepocalypse. Doesn't matter that technically I was already dead, I still just about wet myself. Whether the lions escaped from that fancy lion park near Paarl or if they got out of one of the wildlife reserves I don't know. I expect they were pretty quick to multiply and stake out territories because not long after that I did encounter a female with four cubs.
By then there were people farming close to the city, so the cows, pigs and sheep were easy pickings and I shouldn't have been too surprised the night I came face to face with one. The southeaster was blowing like mad, and I was upwind from the beast. Guess it couldn't smell me―not that vampires smell much like anything except dust―so both of us were totally clueless up until the last moment.
Our chance meeting happened not far from Lion's Head, actually. Though I wasn't laughing at the time. There was a quarry near there and I think the animal had gone there to drink. It was already quite dark and, on top of it, it was new moon.
Sure, I saw pretty good at night but I was preoccupied. Estelle's girlfriend, Betty, had gotten sick and I was supposed to see if I could get antibiotics from the hospital, but the place was already picked clean. Not nice going back empty-handed.
I'd also seen the remains of a fresh zombie kill. It had been a young woman because I saw most of her face had been untouched, her expression one of horror. Her bones had been scattered and very well chewed. It grossed me out big time so ja, for once I didn't look where I was going and I almost stomped on the big cat's tail.
Fuck me, the lion moved fast. Almost as fast as I could run. Its claws whispered right past my back. It's like I could feel them almost in my spine. I screamed like a little girl and fucking ran. I didn't stop until I was almost at Estelle's shelter.
At first they laughed at how freaked out I was but then it must have sunk in. Lions in the city centre meant they had more to worry about than zombies. By then Estelle and Betty had more people to living with them. Three small kids, and no one knew what had happened to their parents, so the ladies took them in. What if the lions got the kids? They were easy targets.
With every month that passed the city got more dangerous. Simply being able to run faster wasn't always all that helpful. After a few more close shaves with local wildlife I took to carrying a weapon. I found an old samurai sword in one of the houses up in Camps Bay. Smart-looking thing with a carved ivory handle. Of course I was no swordsman but it would but it still made a bit of a difference. Now the skinny vampire had a steel claw.
But it wasn't just the lions, and later bears or tigers. Yes. And wolves. It was also small stuff that could kill, and there wasn't a doctor a phone call away who'd be able to help.
Snakes came down into the city: puff adders, Cape cobras. There were scorpions too. One of the kids got stung and almost died. I got bit once or twice but the poison only gave me a headache. It was the warmbloods who were really in trouble here.
People forgot that Africa used to be a very wild place. Estelle asked me to go to the library to get books for the kids and during the day I'd listen to her teach them about history and stuff. I never had teachers when I still went to school who told me stories with so much love.
I learnt stuff about South Africa, about its past. I sometimes wondered if the zombies hadn't done us all a big favour in a way. If it wasn't the one group who stirred kak it was the other. People did some pretty horrid things to each other. What makes one man better than another? Coloured, black or white, they all bled the same. They tasted the same too. No diffs.
Sometimes I sat and wondered whether the zombiepocalypse wasn't the earth's way of wiping most of the warmbloods off the face of the planet. My uncle used to keep pigeons. He had hundreds of them, these big white fantail pigeons that used to preen and strut all over the roof of the house. And when they flew, their wings made a wonderful whirring sound.
My auntie always used to complain that he had too many pigeons and although they were white and quite pretty, they used to fight, the males, I think. One day the birds started dying. My uncle tried everything but he found out it was some sort of bugs that were attacking the birds. The vet told him it was because he had too many of them in the Wendy house out back.
Nearly all the pigeons died, almost to the last one. The ones that survived were clever enough to go live in the neighbour's roof. They never came back though my uncle put out food for them.
Maybe the zombies were meant for the warmbloods. Maybe the vampires weren't doing a good enough job keeping them in check so the zombies came to do the job properly.
But what do I know? I just gotta try figure the stuff out after the fact. Nothing out there would want to eat me, that much was for sure, but I still had to watch my back. Survival of the fittest, Estelle often said. I don't think I was ever fit, but I kept correcting her and telling her it was survival of the fastest. She'd laugh at me and just shake her head. Guess it's good to see the humour in these things.
* * * *
Liked this? Then go be my friend on Goodreads and see the other stuff I've written and edited. Or like my Facebook author page.
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
I saw my first lion two years after the zombiepocalypse. Doesn't matter that technically I was already dead, I still just about wet myself. Whether the lions escaped from that fancy lion park near Paarl or if they got out of one of the wildlife reserves I don't know. I expect they were pretty quick to multiply and stake out territories because not long after that I did encounter a female with four cubs.
By then there were people farming close to the city, so the cows, pigs and sheep were easy pickings and I shouldn't have been too surprised the night I came face to face with one. The southeaster was blowing like mad, and I was upwind from the beast. Guess it couldn't smell me―not that vampires smell much like anything except dust―so both of us were totally clueless up until the last moment.
Our chance meeting happened not far from Lion's Head, actually. Though I wasn't laughing at the time. There was a quarry near there and I think the animal had gone there to drink. It was already quite dark and, on top of it, it was new moon.
Sure, I saw pretty good at night but I was preoccupied. Estelle's girlfriend, Betty, had gotten sick and I was supposed to see if I could get antibiotics from the hospital, but the place was already picked clean. Not nice going back empty-handed.
I'd also seen the remains of a fresh zombie kill. It had been a young woman because I saw most of her face had been untouched, her expression one of horror. Her bones had been scattered and very well chewed. It grossed me out big time so ja, for once I didn't look where I was going and I almost stomped on the big cat's tail.
Fuck me, the lion moved fast. Almost as fast as I could run. Its claws whispered right past my back. It's like I could feel them almost in my spine. I screamed like a little girl and fucking ran. I didn't stop until I was almost at Estelle's shelter.
At first they laughed at how freaked out I was but then it must have sunk in. Lions in the city centre meant they had more to worry about than zombies. By then Estelle and Betty had more people to living with them. Three small kids, and no one knew what had happened to their parents, so the ladies took them in. What if the lions got the kids? They were easy targets.
With every month that passed the city got more dangerous. Simply being able to run faster wasn't always all that helpful. After a few more close shaves with local wildlife I took to carrying a weapon. I found an old samurai sword in one of the houses up in Camps Bay. Smart-looking thing with a carved ivory handle. Of course I was no swordsman but it would but it still made a bit of a difference. Now the skinny vampire had a steel claw.
But it wasn't just the lions, and later bears or tigers. Yes. And wolves. It was also small stuff that could kill, and there wasn't a doctor a phone call away who'd be able to help.
Snakes came down into the city: puff adders, Cape cobras. There were scorpions too. One of the kids got stung and almost died. I got bit once or twice but the poison only gave me a headache. It was the warmbloods who were really in trouble here.
People forgot that Africa used to be a very wild place. Estelle asked me to go to the library to get books for the kids and during the day I'd listen to her teach them about history and stuff. I never had teachers when I still went to school who told me stories with so much love.
I learnt stuff about South Africa, about its past. I sometimes wondered if the zombies hadn't done us all a big favour in a way. If it wasn't the one group who stirred kak it was the other. People did some pretty horrid things to each other. What makes one man better than another? Coloured, black or white, they all bled the same. They tasted the same too. No diffs.
Sometimes I sat and wondered whether the zombiepocalypse wasn't the earth's way of wiping most of the warmbloods off the face of the planet. My uncle used to keep pigeons. He had hundreds of them, these big white fantail pigeons that used to preen and strut all over the roof of the house. And when they flew, their wings made a wonderful whirring sound.
My auntie always used to complain that he had too many pigeons and although they were white and quite pretty, they used to fight, the males, I think. One day the birds started dying. My uncle tried everything but he found out it was some sort of bugs that were attacking the birds. The vet told him it was because he had too many of them in the Wendy house out back.
Nearly all the pigeons died, almost to the last one. The ones that survived were clever enough to go live in the neighbour's roof. They never came back though my uncle put out food for them.
Maybe the zombies were meant for the warmbloods. Maybe the vampires weren't doing a good enough job keeping them in check so the zombies came to do the job properly.
But what do I know? I just gotta try figure the stuff out after the fact. Nothing out there would want to eat me, that much was for sure, but I still had to watch my back. Survival of the fittest, Estelle often said. I don't think I was ever fit, but I kept correcting her and telling her it was survival of the fastest. She'd laugh at me and just shake her head. Guess it's good to see the humour in these things.
* * * *
Liked this? Then go be my friend on Goodreads and see the other stuff I've written and edited. Or like my Facebook author page.
August 15, 2011
Guest blog: David Youngquist
Today I'm pleased as punch to offer the limelight to David Youngquist, one of the masterminds behind Dark Continents Publishing, who will be nurturing my next "heart" novel, Inkarna (you may have heard me muttering about the novel a few times on assorted social media). I'm very excited to be on board as I believe that Dark Continents is bringing the art back into horror and dark fantasy, with gritty often unrelenting offerings of fiction guaranteed to leave you thinking about what you've read for months, if not years after.
So, without further ado, I hand the mic to Mr. Youngquist...
I got around a lot as a kid. I crawled through the African bush with Peter Hathaway Capstick. On my hands and knees, I swatted away tsetse flies and waited for a wounded leopard to charge. After Peter and I had finished the job, I went on a trip to the future with Piers Anthony and a naked serf named Stiles and a magical, shape shifting unicorn mare named Neysa. I lay on the cold cobbled floor of a rundown barn in the Yorkshire Dales and helped James Herriot pull a calf on a cold winter night with snow sizzling on our backs. I even took a trip across the mores with Holmes and Watson as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sent them in pursuit of The Hound of the Baskervilles.
They were amazing trips. Told through the voices, minds and eyes of people who lived in far away countries. I loved going on these trips through my reading. I've got a few books in my collection of each of these authors, and on occasion, I'll dig them out and reread them. I love the flavor these writers bring to my world.
I'm sorry. I should introduce myself. I'm David Youngquist. Publisher/President and one of the founding members of Dark Continents Publishing. Nerine asked me to do a guest blog for her, and I'm happy to oblige. I cut my teeth writing an opinions column for my college newspaper, so I've had a little practice at this.
Dark Continents is a new publisher on the scene. We did our official company launch this past may at the World Horror Convention in Austin, Texas. We launched with 13 books from the authors in our company at that time. By Christmas of this year, we'll launch another eight books. Not bad for a company who just has their one year anniversary a few days ago.
When we founded DCP, there were six of us from around the world who came together to take better control of our careers. We saw where the publishing industry was floundering, and where we could fix it. We also have a green mindset, corporately. We take only electronic submissions. No slush pile of manuscripts to recycle. Our books are Print on Demand. Therefore no books that didn't sell that have to be recycled. We used corn plastic pens that are biodegradable as giveaways at conventions and signings.
A big thing that we do differently than other publishing companies is this: We welcome unique voices from around the world to be part of our publishing family. The internet has allowed for amazing things. Our original six founding members are from the US, Australia and England. Hence, our name. We have since added writers from New Zealand, Australia and South Africa. One thing I wanted to do, when I started putting this together, was to bring some of the flavor back to people's reading menu.
If you walk into an American bookstore, and start thumbing through titles, one thing you'll notice is a severe lack of variety in the writers offered. Oh, you'll get a few Brits here and there, but they've been homogenized by American editors to sound like the rest of us, so the flavor is pretty much gone.
But I like the differences we all bring to the table. A lot of publishers here in the US are afraid that Americans won't be able to relate to a British author or an Australian author and vice versa, I'm sure. I give the reading public more credit than that, however, and have seen that with the rise of the internet, people can read authors, bloggers, reviews, and just about anyone else from around the world. Old style, traditional presses have yet to figure this out. They don't believe that someone in Kansas would want to read a novel written by someone on Birmingham, England.
But isn't that what reading is all about? Going to places you might never get to visit otherwise? Capstick has retired and is out of the African bush. James Herriot passed away a few years ago, and no longer walks his beloved Dales. I think I'll dig some of those old books soon, and take the trips again.
See Dark Continents Publishing's website here... Or like the Facebook page.
August 14, 2011
What Sweet Music They Make uncovered.
It's always lovely when I can uncover a project that's been sitting backstage for a while. It's reached the stage of "Oh my, yes, I rather did write this one, didn't I?"
Granted, we still have to do the content editing etc, but it's with great pleasure that I'm revealing the cover for What Sweet Music They Make, an urban fantasy novella releasing early 2012 through Lyrical Press.
It's set in Cape Town, South Africa, and features two of my favourite subjects: music and vampires. Oh, yes, and a dash of wangst.
I'd like to thank some special people who helped with the artwork. First off, my publisher, Renee Rocco, who's the mastermind behind Lyrical Press. She puts up with me when I wear both my author and editor hats. Seriously, she gave me my toehold in the publishing industry and after three years I'm still hanging with the Lyrical crowd.
Next, I'd like to thank Leon Visser, who's a fucking amazing photographer, cinematographer and editor. He's part of BlackMilk Productions, and indie film-making initiative here in Cape Town, South Africa. But do go check out his blog while you're at it.
Lastly I'd like to thank my two models. While Anika doesn't have her Facebook profile up anymore, do go check out Lohan. He's a shit-hot photographer and I reckon the lad's going to to from strength to strength.
So, a big thank you to everyone involved in helping me put together the cover art for What Sweet Music They Make. There's still a lot that needs to happen behind the scenes before we can say "it is done" but ja... this is the kind of stuff that makes me realise a project is becoming real.
If you're on Facebook and want to keep up to speed with my doings there, do like my author page. Or share the love if you already do so that I may gather more minions. Muhahahahaha!
August 9, 2011
Short fiction: On An Empty Shore V
Under the Radar
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
I mentioned there were the warmbloods who had guns, right? They were the ones who'd always been a bit twitchy even before the zombies arrived. Some were your average Afrikaners who'd always kept a stockpile of weapons despite the change in gun laws. A few others were the opportunists who grabbed what guns they could when the shit went down.
I didn't like guns. I knew a bullet to the brain would kill me just like the next person―or a zombie, for that matter. A shot gun made a very big mess. While I didn't need antibiotics or bandages, and my body healed pretty good once I'd had a dose of blood to speed up things, it still hurt like shit.
Also, if I was down and trying to heal up, it also meant that some lucky bastard could get closer to deliver that killing blow. I didn't want to take that chance, so I generally stayed the hell away from warmbloods who pointed guns at me. I may not be alive in the true sense of the word, but I wasn't stupid.
A gun often meant the difference between life and death after the zombies came. Once ammo ran out, it definitely levelled the playing field, if you catch my drift. And ammo wasn't always easy to come by, since those who had sources protected them fiercely. After all, it wasn't like there were factories producing the stuff anymore.
But ja, there was still more than enough live ammo in circulation to keep guns in action for years to come and I wasn't about to take my chances. One man armed with a rifle could take pot shots and thin out a mob of zombies without breaking a sweat. Or flatten a lone vampire.
So I was always a bit more careful to go into territories where known gunmen lived. It was almost like the Wild West, Clint Eastwood and all. Unarmed vampires like me had to be careful.
I considered finding me a gun but I never did learn to shoot one. Something about handling a lump of metal that looked dangerous made me uneasy. Guns just scared me.
The gun people were total nutters. There's this crazy dude who'd taken over the Castle of Good Hope. He kept himself a harem of wives and some animals in the place. Gates were locked almost the whole time. It took me three attempts to convince him that I was there to trade and bring news.
Gerrit Smuts almost squeezed in a head shot that first time. Bullet grazed my cheekbone and clipped my ear. Like getting burned. The next time he got me in the chest. Smack! Punched me right over and I lay there for about five minutes trying to figure out how to make my body work again.
Can you imagine his amazement when I got up again? But I had a letter from a woman who lived in Sea Point. She'd spoken to someone who'd heard they'd seen her sister near the Castle and she wanted to tell her she was still alive.
And it was worth the effort for me to be in as many good books as possible. Supply and demand, and all that. It's not like I had any competition for my services, and payment in blood was a necessary evil, as far as the warmbloods were concerned.
There were also gangs. Fucking tsotsis who went about taking what they wanted from other people who couldn't defend themselves. Fucking rapists made me angry enough to go after them.
People can point fingers at me and say I'm a monster, but I wasn't like these beasts who hurt others just because it made them hard. Waving a gun around in the air didn't make you a man.
These assholes thought that just because they had guns they were safe. But a gun didn't help against a death that could move silently and see better than you in the dark.
They raided a bit too close to home one night. Two of Estelle's friends were raped, the one beaten so badly she died the next morning. I was near enough to hear the screams when it happened. Five guys were too many for me to take on but I followed them.
They made so much noise it was impossible to miss them. Their kicked litter and joked and laughed all the way back to where they stayed. What zombies they saw they shot. Overconfident stinking bastards. I got the first one when he went off by himself to take a slash. His buddies made the mistake of splitting into pairs to track me down.
Thing is, those guns did no good once I got close enough to rip out their throats. I didn't feel bad about taking my fill of their blood. Scum didn't deserve to breathe.
I'm no fucking Lone Ranger, but for once in my existence I'd got something to be proud of. It's just a run-down city but it's mine. No one told me what to do and the same went for the warmbloods under my care.
Granted, the day Estelle and her neighbour, a grumpy old sod who kept chickens, almost came to blows, I did tell them to cool it. For fuck's sake, it's chickens, damn it. There were worse things to fight about than worry about the price of eggs.
The zombies, man. They don't just go away. It's like that whole suspended animation vibe. If they didn't have fresh meat they sort of went to sleep, lay there pretending to be a piece of furniture. I expected they could last almost forever like that.
I'd seen it with my own eyes and the damn things could move so quickly when the promise of fresh meat was near. One minute the dude just walked then next long rotted arms reached out from under a car to grab his ankles. Next he was dragged under and you didn't want to think about what it sounded like. The crunching carried on long after he'd stopped screaming.
I hated hearing about new horror stories. Just like we South Africans used to complain about the crime in the old days, now it was zombie stories. The problem was there weren't enough new warmbloods being born. Or they got sick and died because doctors were hard to come by or too expensive. It's sad, man, and it broke my fucking heart because they're so fragile.
I gotta look after them. Who else was gonna look out for them? My life depended on their survival.
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
I mentioned there were the warmbloods who had guns, right? They were the ones who'd always been a bit twitchy even before the zombies arrived. Some were your average Afrikaners who'd always kept a stockpile of weapons despite the change in gun laws. A few others were the opportunists who grabbed what guns they could when the shit went down.
I didn't like guns. I knew a bullet to the brain would kill me just like the next person―or a zombie, for that matter. A shot gun made a very big mess. While I didn't need antibiotics or bandages, and my body healed pretty good once I'd had a dose of blood to speed up things, it still hurt like shit.
Also, if I was down and trying to heal up, it also meant that some lucky bastard could get closer to deliver that killing blow. I didn't want to take that chance, so I generally stayed the hell away from warmbloods who pointed guns at me. I may not be alive in the true sense of the word, but I wasn't stupid.
A gun often meant the difference between life and death after the zombies came. Once ammo ran out, it definitely levelled the playing field, if you catch my drift. And ammo wasn't always easy to come by, since those who had sources protected them fiercely. After all, it wasn't like there were factories producing the stuff anymore.
But ja, there was still more than enough live ammo in circulation to keep guns in action for years to come and I wasn't about to take my chances. One man armed with a rifle could take pot shots and thin out a mob of zombies without breaking a sweat. Or flatten a lone vampire.
So I was always a bit more careful to go into territories where known gunmen lived. It was almost like the Wild West, Clint Eastwood and all. Unarmed vampires like me had to be careful.
I considered finding me a gun but I never did learn to shoot one. Something about handling a lump of metal that looked dangerous made me uneasy. Guns just scared me.
The gun people were total nutters. There's this crazy dude who'd taken over the Castle of Good Hope. He kept himself a harem of wives and some animals in the place. Gates were locked almost the whole time. It took me three attempts to convince him that I was there to trade and bring news.
Gerrit Smuts almost squeezed in a head shot that first time. Bullet grazed my cheekbone and clipped my ear. Like getting burned. The next time he got me in the chest. Smack! Punched me right over and I lay there for about five minutes trying to figure out how to make my body work again.
Can you imagine his amazement when I got up again? But I had a letter from a woman who lived in Sea Point. She'd spoken to someone who'd heard they'd seen her sister near the Castle and she wanted to tell her she was still alive.
And it was worth the effort for me to be in as many good books as possible. Supply and demand, and all that. It's not like I had any competition for my services, and payment in blood was a necessary evil, as far as the warmbloods were concerned.
There were also gangs. Fucking tsotsis who went about taking what they wanted from other people who couldn't defend themselves. Fucking rapists made me angry enough to go after them.
People can point fingers at me and say I'm a monster, but I wasn't like these beasts who hurt others just because it made them hard. Waving a gun around in the air didn't make you a man.
These assholes thought that just because they had guns they were safe. But a gun didn't help against a death that could move silently and see better than you in the dark.
They raided a bit too close to home one night. Two of Estelle's friends were raped, the one beaten so badly she died the next morning. I was near enough to hear the screams when it happened. Five guys were too many for me to take on but I followed them.
They made so much noise it was impossible to miss them. Their kicked litter and joked and laughed all the way back to where they stayed. What zombies they saw they shot. Overconfident stinking bastards. I got the first one when he went off by himself to take a slash. His buddies made the mistake of splitting into pairs to track me down.
Thing is, those guns did no good once I got close enough to rip out their throats. I didn't feel bad about taking my fill of their blood. Scum didn't deserve to breathe.
I'm no fucking Lone Ranger, but for once in my existence I'd got something to be proud of. It's just a run-down city but it's mine. No one told me what to do and the same went for the warmbloods under my care.
Granted, the day Estelle and her neighbour, a grumpy old sod who kept chickens, almost came to blows, I did tell them to cool it. For fuck's sake, it's chickens, damn it. There were worse things to fight about than worry about the price of eggs.
The zombies, man. They don't just go away. It's like that whole suspended animation vibe. If they didn't have fresh meat they sort of went to sleep, lay there pretending to be a piece of furniture. I expected they could last almost forever like that.
I'd seen it with my own eyes and the damn things could move so quickly when the promise of fresh meat was near. One minute the dude just walked then next long rotted arms reached out from under a car to grab his ankles. Next he was dragged under and you didn't want to think about what it sounded like. The crunching carried on long after he'd stopped screaming.
I hated hearing about new horror stories. Just like we South Africans used to complain about the crime in the old days, now it was zombie stories. The problem was there weren't enough new warmbloods being born. Or they got sick and died because doctors were hard to come by or too expensive. It's sad, man, and it broke my fucking heart because they're so fragile.
I gotta look after them. Who else was gonna look out for them? My life depended on their survival.
August 4, 2011
Indulge in a Dark Kiss with Liz Strange
Liz Strange and I have walked a long road with her Dark Kiss trilogy and she was one of the first authors I took on when I started editing for Lyrical Press. Her Rachel and Giovanni are memorable and I've gotten to know them quite well over the course of three novels. This week Liz celebrates the release of the third in the series, Born of Blood and Retribution , which should give vampire fans a roller coaster ride.
When asked about some of her favourites in contemporary media, Liz says, "I love Jean-Claude in Laurell K Hamilton's books and Henry Fitzroy in Tanya Huff's series. They are both sexy and strong, but have an edge. They have embraced their monstrous existence."
It's fascinating watching how characters grow, and I had to ask Liz about Rachel and Giovanni. To this she adds, "Well Rachel has grown from a confused, somewhat insecure young woman to a powerful, well-connected immortal. She's faced the grimmest of circumstances and come back the better for it. I wouldn't underestimate what she could be capable of.
"Oh, Giovanni. He did get a bum deal, but what an amazing story! By book three he is mostly recovered from his ordeal, and firmly back in the relationship he was destined for. He will, however, have some lasting effects from what happened to him, essentially the same Giovanni, but perhaps a bit more guarded and appreciative of what he has and who he is."
Themes of abusive relationships and revenge are prevalent in book three. This results in some potentially tricky situations with readers. I was curious as to how Liz brought readers back from the brink of despair.
Liz says, "I like to give the readers a sense of closure, and some sort of 'happily ever after' after the intense and often violent situations the characters find themselves in. As much as my characters ever get anyway. I think I've given them characters to fall in love with and root for, and that makes the adversity they face and overcome that much sweeter." Of course all authors have their favourite scenes in a novel, and Liz is quite happy to share hers, as well as a bit of background that went into its creation.
She concludes, "I love the scene where Harshika takes Rachel back to ancient Egypt and lets her experience the time period for herself. I got to live vicariously through Rachel with this. It was so much fun doing the research for the scene, and letting my imagination fill in the blanks. This story really allowed me to bring my love of history, mythology and vampires together in a very satisfying way. I am a huge history nerd, and would jump at the chance to see what Rachel did."
Thank you for stopping by, Liz. And I wish you all the best of luck for the Dark Kiss trilogy and your future endeavours.
Read more about Liz's books here.
* * * *
In case you're wondering, I'm actively looking for submissions in the dark fantasy genre. And I love vampires. If you reckon you've got something I may be interested in, go read the Lyrical Press submission guidelines here, then pop me a query at nerine (at) lyricalpress.com
August 3, 2011
DAMIAN: Traditional Vampire with a touch of the Contemporary One
Once again, I welcome Tony-Paul de Vissage to my world, to share a little about another release, with extra bite. Always glad to have you round, Tony-Paul! The floor is yours.
Limousin, France, 1249… The Black Death rages and Faith is abandoned in the search to survive.
In one night, Damian La Croix loses his life and his soul as he willingly choses Undeath rather than perish of the Plague. His payment for immortality: the lives of everyone on his father's estate—including his parents—paid to LeMaitre, the vampire he comes upon in a charnel pit. That act sets Damian on his journey. Through Mankind's long centuries, many women cross his path, respond to his enticements, and are forced to make a choice…for when the Night Man Cometh, Death is never far behind.
They say the "traditional" vampire is making a comeback. No longer the anguished seeker of acceptance, of finding love and nothing more; no sparkly, benign, adolescent-appearing male wavering between turning the girl he's attracted to or giving in to his bestial nature, not waging war with werewolves or others of his own kind; no pair of Undead sibling rivals who've loved the same woman in the past and now are committing the same mistake in the present… This Undead gentleman is sometimes no gentleman. He can be cruel and seductive by turns, blood-lusting or just plain lusting...a ravaging beast or a ravenous lover. If he can't get what he wants one way, he'll get it another…no holds barred…
With that in mind, I decided to write a traditional vampire tale, with a protagonist who was more Prince Drakula than Stefan Salvatore or Edward Cullen, but I still wanted him to be likable in spite of his obvious negative character traits. So…how to do it…?
First off, I had to pick my era…the Thirteenth Century sounded good…times of the Renaissance…those great tunics…swords…men with long flowing hair, Women with even longer hair and those fantastic high-waisted dresses pushing bosoms even higher. Sounded good. Damian la Croix, son of the Marquis la Croix of Limousin, France, is a child of his time…spoiled, pampered as only a noble heir can be…a threat to anything wearing a dress, while falling madly in love with the woman he's been betrothed to…and then, his life is interrupted. The Black Death strikes and Damian doesn't want to die. He wants to live, to marry Antoinette, to love her, and when he chances upon a vampire struggling to find a victim in the dying village, he sees a way to escape the Plague and have his Antoinette, too. Without blinking an eye, Damian bargains the lives of everyone on his father's estate for his own immortality. That alone places him outside the pale of the present type of literary vampire because no matter what comes later, Damian never repents or regrets his choice, and as we all know, one of the characteristics of the current paranormal lover is that he generally descries some of the things he's done in his immortal past. But Damian…? He has no hesitation in destroying his beloved Antoinette when she turns against him, and he may mourn the others he loves and loses, but never once does he say those words: "I wish I hadn't made this choice…"
It would've been easy to make Damian a complete villain, so the reader would applaud when he gets his comeuppance in the form of the downward-stab of a stake, but I didn't want that. In the Grand Scheme of Things, Damian isn't even better or worse than his Undead peers. He has friends among the Undead, men he shares adventures with, but he also has acquaintances among the Living, some of whom he's quite willing to fight for. He has one rule he lives by in his journey through the centuries: Damian never forces anyone to become a vampire; he gives every woman he loves the right to make her own choice. As a result, though many profess undying love for him, when the moment comes, all invariably choose mortality rather than succumb, and Damian, though it leaves him once more alone, lets them go. He chooses to walk the corridors of Time alone rather than have a companion who has no wish to be as he himself is, and yet… There's still a bit of human optimism left in Damian, and enough humanity for him to keep believing that somewhere…somehow… there exists someone for him, that somewhere a woman waits who'll accept him for who he is…in spite of what he is…
…and when Damian does find that elusive someone—three thousand years in the future—he discovers her to be not what he expected at all…
It's a bit of a different story, but one I think both horror fans and paranormal romance readers will enjoy, for its perspective of the vampire as both potential villain and hero.
The Night Man Cometh is available from Class Act Books, in ebook and print versions. Buy it here .
August 2, 2011
Short fiction: On An Empty Shore IV
The Essence of Survival
Part I Part II Part III
When I discovered the zombies didn't pay vampires any special mind, I was pretty blown away. There I'd been slinking around all the time when I didn't have to. It was a big relief. It's funny that now I was a lot safer than I'd ever been before. I would have laughed about it but there wasn't anyone there to share the joke.
Even a vampire can only go so long before talking to himself stops being fun. I remembered that movie with that Gollum thing that made noises at the back of his throat as he was looking for his Precious. It was a bit too close to the bone.
Since I couldn't find any vampires, I decided to try talking to the people, because they were about, just hiding like mad, especially at night. After a year or two, walking dead weren't the only things they had to worry about.
The dogs that survived ran in packs and were lank dangerous. Animals that had been in zoos roamed about. Lions, tigers. Hell, bears even. With all the livestock running around there was plenty of food for them.
It's enough to say things weren't safe for warmbloods and it was pretty obvious that if I planned to eat in the future, it would be a good idea for me to look after them.
Talking to my food was better than talking to myself, in any case.
The first human I made friends with was this dyke and her girlfriend who were hiding in what used to be De Waterkant. They'd holed up in the cellar of an old house. I met Estelle when she was headed back from a scavenge mission. She was carrying lots of stuff she'd found in some of the shops that was still good to eat. Problem was the zombies were moaning on her tail.
I'd been following her too but when I saw her stop, as if she couldn't figure out if she wanted to dump her shit and run, or try to get the stuff home, something in me snapped. Hell, I hadn't spoken to someone in more than a year.
"You need help?" I called to her. My voice sounded very strange. Like it belonged to someone else.
She gave a small shriek and looked like she was going to drop dead from fright. When she saw me―and really, I'm not much to look at, I look like a girl with my long hair―she chilled out right then. I told her to head back to her place. I knew where she stayed. I knew where all the warmbloods stayed. To prove my point I took her bags and told her to run.
"But they gonna eat you! They gonna eat you!" Estelle cried.
I laughed. "No man, it's cool. They won't eat me. You'll see."
She looked at me like I was on drugs or something but when the zombies rounded the corner, she ran. I waited for the zombies to pass. Not pretty. They shambled past me and I stood still, closed my eyes. No sudden movements. Didn't want to look at them either.
You should have seen her face when I brought her things to her. Like total amazement.
Warmbloods were faster than zombies but there were more zombies than warmbloods. Zombies could lie still for weeks and months without moving but the minute they smelled a warmblood they would follow. Going underground or finding higher ground helped, usually. But it also paid putting as much distance between yourself and the zombies. I think the reason why they didn't sense me was because I didn't give off heat.
I decided to be upfront with the warmbloods. After all, if they could believe in zombies, they could believe in vampires. When they understood I didn't mean to kill them, that I only wanted a little blood in exchange for running errands or carrying messages, we quickly worked out a deal that was cool for all of us.
It wasn't so bad. It gave me something to do and I was in good company. They didn't look at me like I was worse than a piece of dog shit they just found under their shoes. Not like before when I was still doing brown. Back then they'd look at the track marks in my arms and they'd un-see me. I'd simply cease to exist for them.
Not every surviving warmblood liked me, though. There were groups of people with guns, who also knew about vampires, that would shoot me on sight. I generally stayed away from them. But it was the other people I helped. I got them to connect with each other. That's how they started the first proper little villages. Almost like the gated security villages in the old days.
You know what? I still get warm and fuzzy when I think about that. I may be a small dude, but I can run fast. I can slip by unnoticed. I'd like to think that I've been selfless and good but I'll be honest. It's also about making sure that I keep up a supply. It's almost like being a farmer―who talks to his sheep and his cows.
Would I ever turn another warmblood into a vampire? I didn't know so much. It would mean I'd have more competition. I tried not to get too close, even if I couldn't help but liking some of them. Estelle was like an auntie to me. I loved the way she smelled, because she made soap that had me think of the veld. It was nice when she hugged me. She was warm and when she laughed, her skin crinkled at the corners of her eyes.
When I looked in a mirror at Estelle's home I saw a very pale, dead face. I tried to smile but it looked like I showed my teeth, like one of those feral dogs. If I made another vampire, I'd just make something like me that may end up hurting these warmbloods who were now my friends.
* * * *
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Part I Part II Part III
When I discovered the zombies didn't pay vampires any special mind, I was pretty blown away. There I'd been slinking around all the time when I didn't have to. It was a big relief. It's funny that now I was a lot safer than I'd ever been before. I would have laughed about it but there wasn't anyone there to share the joke.
Even a vampire can only go so long before talking to himself stops being fun. I remembered that movie with that Gollum thing that made noises at the back of his throat as he was looking for his Precious. It was a bit too close to the bone.
Since I couldn't find any vampires, I decided to try talking to the people, because they were about, just hiding like mad, especially at night. After a year or two, walking dead weren't the only things they had to worry about.
The dogs that survived ran in packs and were lank dangerous. Animals that had been in zoos roamed about. Lions, tigers. Hell, bears even. With all the livestock running around there was plenty of food for them.
It's enough to say things weren't safe for warmbloods and it was pretty obvious that if I planned to eat in the future, it would be a good idea for me to look after them.
Talking to my food was better than talking to myself, in any case.
The first human I made friends with was this dyke and her girlfriend who were hiding in what used to be De Waterkant. They'd holed up in the cellar of an old house. I met Estelle when she was headed back from a scavenge mission. She was carrying lots of stuff she'd found in some of the shops that was still good to eat. Problem was the zombies were moaning on her tail.
I'd been following her too but when I saw her stop, as if she couldn't figure out if she wanted to dump her shit and run, or try to get the stuff home, something in me snapped. Hell, I hadn't spoken to someone in more than a year.
"You need help?" I called to her. My voice sounded very strange. Like it belonged to someone else.
She gave a small shriek and looked like she was going to drop dead from fright. When she saw me―and really, I'm not much to look at, I look like a girl with my long hair―she chilled out right then. I told her to head back to her place. I knew where she stayed. I knew where all the warmbloods stayed. To prove my point I took her bags and told her to run.
"But they gonna eat you! They gonna eat you!" Estelle cried.
I laughed. "No man, it's cool. They won't eat me. You'll see."
She looked at me like I was on drugs or something but when the zombies rounded the corner, she ran. I waited for the zombies to pass. Not pretty. They shambled past me and I stood still, closed my eyes. No sudden movements. Didn't want to look at them either.
You should have seen her face when I brought her things to her. Like total amazement.
Warmbloods were faster than zombies but there were more zombies than warmbloods. Zombies could lie still for weeks and months without moving but the minute they smelled a warmblood they would follow. Going underground or finding higher ground helped, usually. But it also paid putting as much distance between yourself and the zombies. I think the reason why they didn't sense me was because I didn't give off heat.
I decided to be upfront with the warmbloods. After all, if they could believe in zombies, they could believe in vampires. When they understood I didn't mean to kill them, that I only wanted a little blood in exchange for running errands or carrying messages, we quickly worked out a deal that was cool for all of us.
It wasn't so bad. It gave me something to do and I was in good company. They didn't look at me like I was worse than a piece of dog shit they just found under their shoes. Not like before when I was still doing brown. Back then they'd look at the track marks in my arms and they'd un-see me. I'd simply cease to exist for them.
Not every surviving warmblood liked me, though. There were groups of people with guns, who also knew about vampires, that would shoot me on sight. I generally stayed away from them. But it was the other people I helped. I got them to connect with each other. That's how they started the first proper little villages. Almost like the gated security villages in the old days.
You know what? I still get warm and fuzzy when I think about that. I may be a small dude, but I can run fast. I can slip by unnoticed. I'd like to think that I've been selfless and good but I'll be honest. It's also about making sure that I keep up a supply. It's almost like being a farmer―who talks to his sheep and his cows.
Would I ever turn another warmblood into a vampire? I didn't know so much. It would mean I'd have more competition. I tried not to get too close, even if I couldn't help but liking some of them. Estelle was like an auntie to me. I loved the way she smelled, because she made soap that had me think of the veld. It was nice when she hugged me. She was warm and when she laughed, her skin crinkled at the corners of her eyes.
When I looked in a mirror at Estelle's home I saw a very pale, dead face. I tried to smile but it looked like I showed my teeth, like one of those feral dogs. If I made another vampire, I'd just make something like me that may end up hurting these warmbloods who were now my friends.
* * * *
Liked this story? Interested in my other literary endeavours and media splashes? Then like my Facebook author page and we'll keep in touch.
July 26, 2011
Short fiction: On An Empty Shore III
The Anatomy of a Junkie
Part I Part II
A vampire isn't all that different from a junkie. Kept away from a regular supply of fresh blood we get sick.
In the old days, when I was still scoring brown, there were times when I couldn't get any. Could be that the cops intercepted a big shipment, or there was a delay somewhere along the line. The price would go up and either you made a plan to get money or you got sick; sweating and half shitting yourself to death going cold turkey.
If you were desperate, you scaled paregoric from the pharmacy. That was until the pharmacists cottoned on and started keeping the shit behind the counter. Paregoric is a tincture of opium, and prepping to shoot it was a mission. Even if you got it right, it burned like shit and the taste of camphor lingered in your mouth.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Being a vampire had one advantage. I never needed heroin again. While I got nostalgic-like about some of those old days, I can't say I missed that never-ending worry about where I'd get my next portion.
My unlife revolved around a far more terrifying addiction. It wasn't that I found blood disgusting. Far from it. It's just the idea of hunting people freaked me the fuck out because I never was the sort to go out looking for trouble. To have to approach someone to bite them, although it felt like the right thing to do, still scared the crap outta me.
Most people were bigger and stronger than me. Guns and knives could still hurt me, though I healed a helluva lot faster. Once I got blood. But it was the getting blood that wasn't easy.
Laugh all you want. I don't care. Just be glad you've never fiended bad for the one thing that keeps you from turning into a fucking wild animal, foaming at the mouth like a dog with rabies, and go around biting people.
Biting people isn't cool. Vampires that went around biting people in the old days got put down. They had to be sneaky. The warmbloods must never know. As much as I didn't ask to be turned into a vampire, I was still attached to existing. No one likes the idea of dying. Even if God existed, I wasn't prepared to take the chance that I really was damned.
It took about two nights to come to terms with what I'd become. By then, I was starving. My veins almost clawed their way out of my skin to throttle me but the more water I drank the more I puked. I'd holed up in my digs I shared with a buddy who put up with me because I scored him weed.
Food was the last thing on my mind. I was thirsty, like I could drink out a swimming pool and never kill the need for liquid. I spent those two nights sicker than ever before. During the day I was dead to the world, but at night I shivered and shook. It's only when I looked in the mirror on the second night, and saw what had become of my teeth, that it sort of sunk in. A big WTF moment. I had great big fucking canines. I smelled my buddy, asleep in his bedroom.
I mean he smelled really good, like I could eat him.
I wasn't quite all there. I was tripping off my tits from the thirst and I did what any vampire in my condition would do. I let my thirst ride me.
Maybe I spared Sean a worse death. I wasn't very good at being a vampire and I bit him a few times and it must have really hurt before I got it right and drank him up like he was the best wine ever. But it sure beat what the zombies would have done.
And I think he kinda got into it near the end. That's the thing with vampires. Warmbloods sink into the whole vibe of being sucked on. Maybe it's something in our spit. They go limp the moment the fangs sink into the skin.
It's better than sex. It's better than junk.
I got beaten up a few times until I learned to be clever about stalking my prey. I always took out the ones that would have died anyway. At least I keep telling myself that. I didn't always kill, but often then ones I drank from were so weak, I don't think they survived every time.
Some of the other vamps said we were the apex predators. Whatever that meant. Just fancy words. Still didn't change the fact that we killed and that didn't always sit right with me.
Nowadays I don't kill at all. They're so scared, the warmbloods. Their blood is thin and bitter. I look into their eyes and I see fear. Real fear. In the old days they could pretend they were immortal, like us. That illusion's been stripped away. There's no pretend-pretend now.
Maybe if I work hard at it, I can somehow show that I'm better than the mindless flesh junkies roaming the street. I don't want to be like that, just eating and eating and eating. I want to be something better, and I'm not quite sure if I am.
I'll never kick this habit unless I greet the sun. And I'm too chicken shit to do that. Some small part of me wants to make up for what I was when I was still a warmblood. It's all bullshit anyhow. I don't know what I really want anymore. I can't change anything.
* * * *
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Part I Part II
A vampire isn't all that different from a junkie. Kept away from a regular supply of fresh blood we get sick.
In the old days, when I was still scoring brown, there were times when I couldn't get any. Could be that the cops intercepted a big shipment, or there was a delay somewhere along the line. The price would go up and either you made a plan to get money or you got sick; sweating and half shitting yourself to death going cold turkey.
If you were desperate, you scaled paregoric from the pharmacy. That was until the pharmacists cottoned on and started keeping the shit behind the counter. Paregoric is a tincture of opium, and prepping to shoot it was a mission. Even if you got it right, it burned like shit and the taste of camphor lingered in your mouth.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Being a vampire had one advantage. I never needed heroin again. While I got nostalgic-like about some of those old days, I can't say I missed that never-ending worry about where I'd get my next portion.
My unlife revolved around a far more terrifying addiction. It wasn't that I found blood disgusting. Far from it. It's just the idea of hunting people freaked me the fuck out because I never was the sort to go out looking for trouble. To have to approach someone to bite them, although it felt like the right thing to do, still scared the crap outta me.
Most people were bigger and stronger than me. Guns and knives could still hurt me, though I healed a helluva lot faster. Once I got blood. But it was the getting blood that wasn't easy.
Laugh all you want. I don't care. Just be glad you've never fiended bad for the one thing that keeps you from turning into a fucking wild animal, foaming at the mouth like a dog with rabies, and go around biting people.
Biting people isn't cool. Vampires that went around biting people in the old days got put down. They had to be sneaky. The warmbloods must never know. As much as I didn't ask to be turned into a vampire, I was still attached to existing. No one likes the idea of dying. Even if God existed, I wasn't prepared to take the chance that I really was damned.
It took about two nights to come to terms with what I'd become. By then, I was starving. My veins almost clawed their way out of my skin to throttle me but the more water I drank the more I puked. I'd holed up in my digs I shared with a buddy who put up with me because I scored him weed.
Food was the last thing on my mind. I was thirsty, like I could drink out a swimming pool and never kill the need for liquid. I spent those two nights sicker than ever before. During the day I was dead to the world, but at night I shivered and shook. It's only when I looked in the mirror on the second night, and saw what had become of my teeth, that it sort of sunk in. A big WTF moment. I had great big fucking canines. I smelled my buddy, asleep in his bedroom.
I mean he smelled really good, like I could eat him.
I wasn't quite all there. I was tripping off my tits from the thirst and I did what any vampire in my condition would do. I let my thirst ride me.
Maybe I spared Sean a worse death. I wasn't very good at being a vampire and I bit him a few times and it must have really hurt before I got it right and drank him up like he was the best wine ever. But it sure beat what the zombies would have done.
And I think he kinda got into it near the end. That's the thing with vampires. Warmbloods sink into the whole vibe of being sucked on. Maybe it's something in our spit. They go limp the moment the fangs sink into the skin.
It's better than sex. It's better than junk.
I got beaten up a few times until I learned to be clever about stalking my prey. I always took out the ones that would have died anyway. At least I keep telling myself that. I didn't always kill, but often then ones I drank from were so weak, I don't think they survived every time.
Some of the other vamps said we were the apex predators. Whatever that meant. Just fancy words. Still didn't change the fact that we killed and that didn't always sit right with me.
Nowadays I don't kill at all. They're so scared, the warmbloods. Their blood is thin and bitter. I look into their eyes and I see fear. Real fear. In the old days they could pretend they were immortal, like us. That illusion's been stripped away. There's no pretend-pretend now.
Maybe if I work hard at it, I can somehow show that I'm better than the mindless flesh junkies roaming the street. I don't want to be like that, just eating and eating and eating. I want to be something better, and I'm not quite sure if I am.
I'll never kick this habit unless I greet the sun. And I'm too chicken shit to do that. Some small part of me wants to make up for what I was when I was still a warmblood. It's all bullshit anyhow. I don't know what I really want anymore. I can't change anything.
* * * *
Like what you read? Keep up to speed with my writing here, on my Facebook author page. Alternatively, follow me on Twitter.
July 25, 2011
Fang feature: Sweet Sips of Blood
And today I hit pause on my usual round of activities to give my friend and fellow author Tony-Paul de Vissage a little link love.
Some vampires want to have their cake and drink it, too
Sweet Sips of Blood…a collection of vampire tales written with a pen dipped in crimson ink…
After the Apocalypse of 2012, humans and vampires unite to face an assault from a mutual foe…
A famous writer of vampire novels goes too far with her latest literary effort…
A vampire with a toothache seeks out an unusual dentist…
Blood will Freeze…Working-class Vampires…the Best Dentist in Orange County… and seven other short stories, some whimsical, some sad, a couple horrific, but all designed to titillate and chill…
Sometimes the vampire gets his "cake"; in others, he's still outside, staring in through the bakery window. Like the sweet sips of blood sustaining the vampire's existence, these stories are sweet sips of vampires' secret souls…
Buy link: http://www.vamptasypublishing.co.uk/#/new-reads/4549210091
