G.R. Yeates's Blog, page 10

Sample Sunday: The Church in the Trees

The way to the church was fog-ridden and overgrown, the cemetery surrounding it having been left to neglect as the years passed by and younger, fresher burying grounds were found and used by the living to dispose of the dead. There was not a new stone to be seen throughout the thirty acres; all were old, cracked, decrepit and steadily growing mottled skins of mould and moss. The pathways between the subsiding gravestones were hemmed in by bitter tangles of nettle and raw root whilst the grass had become abundant to a degree that its lushness had passed over into a ripeness exuding a powerful, cloying atmosphere of chlorophyll tinged with an incipient rot.

The way to the church was fraught as you can see but it was of no hindrance to me for I was dreaming. Dreaming and drifting through those charnel alleys, following a route that was both circuitous and beatific, taking in the morbid fragrances as I went. A guide had come to take me by the hand and though I could neither see, nor even feel, their presence I knew my guide to be there leading me on.

The way to the church opened before me and it stood in ruin though still taller and more proud than the tallest and the proudest of the centuried trees hereabouts. Evening light was shining through from an exposed patch of sky turning the church to jagged silhouette; her spires seeming to claw at the heavens as the shadows shifted and gathered around me. My dreaming self drifted closer and I took in the glassless state of the great round windows set high up in the grey walls where signs of decay and stains of mildewed water were multifarious. The ruin was coming to the point of being beyond repair and I felt a twinging amongst my heart strings as I realised.

There was no further time to ruminate upon the fate of the church though as it was then that the clergyman made his presence known to me – his hair and flesh were as white as snow and his expression was so very solemn as it hung, gibbous and lantern-like, above the shoulders of his midnight black habit. This singular shapeless garment reached all the way to the ground so that I never saw his feet and never was able to conclude whether, indeed, he had feet at all. Wordless and silent, this spectral man beckoned me through the barely-open door and into an interior that was alive with movement though it was not, as it turned out, the movement of men or familiar animals.

The pews were crowded to bursting by a congregation that made many curious sounds such as that of heavy, wet cloths being dragged back and forth over numerous small stones, a constant rustling that seemed evidently plastic but was not and a series of calls, coughs and thin, frayed wheezing. There was not a man amongst them as I have said but neither was there a face. Every visage I beheld as it turned to stare at me was without eyes, mouth, nostrils or even the slightest of lines. All were as smooth and as snow-white as the solemn clergyman's face. As I was dreaming I did not start or run away, I continued to drift, to follow the hollow ringing footsteps of the old man and all the while I searched for a space in the pews that might be my own but there was none.

There was none but the one that was reserved for me and the clergyman indicated it with a slow, sedentary thrusting of his forefinger – the pulpit. I was to speak, to preach the good word to the gathered masses. Amen.

Thoughtlessly, I told him that I had no idea what the word was and even less of its meaning. Surely a man such as himself was better appointed to perform this duty than an unbeliever such as I. His lips crooked into an expression that would bring shudders were it to be called a smile and he thrust out that self-same forefinger at that self-same pulpit and I knew I must ascend and make do with my appointed task. It was only a dream after all and dreams, why, they mean us no harm, none at all.

So I climbed the little ladder, brushed clean the lectern and set about searching for the book from which I was to read. As the clergyman had neglected to give it to me I felt sure that it must be here, awaiting my attention.

It was not.

I looked askance to the clergyman below me and upon his face he still wore that crude attempt at a smile, oh, it was such a bland, hateful twisting of the lips, that expression. I felt the unaccountable urge to batter him with my fists until he bled freely – I had been deceived by this creature and the congregation were growing restless as they waited. But I found that I could not descend for moving to the ladder brought about a vile vertigo that made me lurch desperately back into the steady security of the pulpit until my heart slowed and my stomach was still. I was no longer able to drift in this dream, I had been bound as surely as a dog onto its leash.

Licking my dried lips, I knew that I must speak for the sounds coming from the congregation were frightful though nowhere near as frightful as the seated creatures were to look upon. What place on earth, what weird womb, could have given birth to such pale, under-formed monstrosities as did wriggle and writhe before me here in this dead and blighted place?

I opened my mouth, in fear of my life, made to speak and I was wracked by the most excruciating sensation I had ever experienced. It was as if I had been pierced by a long, hard thorn and that this had been driven specifically through my larynx for I could not form words, no clear sentences, no recognisable speech at all. The pain was unspeakable and the sound I did make was a torture to the ears – it was a screeing, strangled and high, almost avian, and it was coming from the thorn-hole in my throat that I could not locate with my prying fingers. I closed my mouth momentarily and again tried to speak with no success – that horrendous scree tearing once more out from my lips. Through tears, I looked to the still-smiling clergyman and I saw the answer and truth in his eyes.

"As was my fate so now is yours. You must speak the word to them without ceasing, otherwise they shall tear you to pieces. Fare well, young dreamer."

And with those words, the old man faded away. His spirit, bound here so long, finally able to find its place and rest whereas I linger on, my mouth ever-open, ever-speaking the word, before that gathering of twisting foetal things, hoping that my true voice will be heard somewhere in a dream or nightmare and that another sad, lonely soul, like myself, might come here, drifting and unaware, to be so deceived and so bitterly bound.

I can but hope, I can but dream.

END

Copyright © G.R. Yeates 2012

Tweet

Follow Friday: Interview with Shea MacLeod

On this Follow Friday, I am pleased to welcome Shea MacLeod, the Dragon Queen, to my website to talk Sunwalkers and Dragon Warriors with a few 'Oprah Winfrey' questions to round things off.

So, to start with, how much of you would you say there is in Morgan Bailey? And what would you say makes your particular slayer unique in the dark fantasy genre?

There is frighteningly a lot.  Certainly in the way she thinks, the way she views the world.  She's kicks a lot more ass than I do, though. Lol  But she's very cathartic for me.  She's a way for me to express sides of my personality that aren't exactly acceptable in polite company. As for what makes her unique … I think it's her "voice."  Sure, there are plenty of snarky hunter types out there, but there's no one with quite the same 'tude as Morgan.  And then there's the whole "Atlantean Princess" thing.

 

What writers have given you particular inspiration over the years?

Hands down, Agatha Christie.  I love her style, her stories, her characters.  I aspire to be half as great as she was, and is. There are others who inspire me in different ways, but she's the queen, as far as I'm concerned.

 

In your books there is an whole other-verse of mythical creatures drawn from world mythology – what for you is the chief attraction of this kind of intricate world-building?

It's just pure, unadulterated fun!  I use historical mythology as a springboard, but then I like to give it my own little twist.  I find that my imagination works best when it has a framework to guide it.  Then I can let my inner child run completely wild and unfettered.

 

Like Morgan, you have travelled over from Portland to London – do you feel this transition has influenced you as a writer and shaped your work in any way? I'm speaking as someone who spent time living in another country, China, away from the familiar things I grew up with so I'm curious as to whether this has had an impact on you artistically.

Oh, I'd say so, yes.  I feel that living abroad opens your mind to so many different perspectives.  It changes you, broadens your world view.  And with that change can come some really wonderful ideas.  Not to mention that the actually physical locations of your new country can really ramp up the inspiration.  Much of Kissed by Fire was inspired by a trip to Hadrian's Wall with my parents.  We were standing on top the wall looking out over the countryside when my dad said, "What if the dragons had a conclave at midnight on the Wall?"

The rest, as they say, is history.

 

Having read Indie Chicks, I know that writing for you has been as much about catharsis and finding a way through life's darkness as it has been pure escapism and entertainment – do you think the best fiction and, dare I say the L-word, literature integrates catharsis and escapism into itself?

I think so.  I mean the whole point of fiction is to take people out of their lives and into the realm of entertainment.  However, the very best fiction allows the person reading to relate to the characters and the story, to care about them. Life really sucks sometimes, so I think we all like to read about characters whose lives have also sucked.  We just don't necessarily want to wallow in it.  We want to know it gets better.  Or, if it doesn't, at least we can go chop some demon's head off.

 

So far you have specialised in writing series over standalone – do you have any ideas for one-off books and could you see yourself writing one in the future? What to you are the drawbacks and benefits of either?

I much prefer to read series to stand-alones, so I guess that's why I naturally migrate that way in my writing.  However, I do have an idea for a stand-alone or two which I'll get to one of these days.

I guess the drawback to a stand-alone is that it's only one book.  And you've got to explore that whole world in just one book.  There's no chance of more.  I hate that as both a reader and a writer.  If someone has created this amazing world, I want to play in it for awhile.  I want to spend more time hanging out with the characters I've gotten to know and love.  One book just isn't enough.  That, of course, is the upside of a series.

But the plus side of a stand-alone is that sometimes the story that needs telling requires just one book.  No more.  That's the story and that's it.  A really good example of that is Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist.  It's a parable and the parable was revealed within one short novel.  It doesn't need a sequel.  In fact, a sequel would detract, I think, from what the author was trying to say.  Which is the downside, of course, of a series.  If it's taken past its expiration date, a series can become formulaic and stale.

 

Are there other genres you are interested in breaking into for the future? What's your opinion on writers jumping genres?

I think jumping genres is natural.  We are not one-dimensional.  We are multi-faceted.  That is what makes human beings so interesting.

It used to be that people thought that Writer X only wrote in one particular genre.  This was because in the traditional publishing world it was believed that if a writer switched from fantasy to mystery, the mysteries wouldn't sell and that might compromise their fantasy sales.  So they put the writer in the Writer Protection Program and let them write mysteries under another name.   Now we know that a lot of writers wrote multiple genres the entire time, just under different pen names.

Now I think it's more obvious.  People either don't bother with pen names at all, or they make it clear they're the same person.  Trying to market under multiple pen names is a nightmare, so why do it?  Readers are savvy folks and they know that if a writer does both sci-fi and horror, there's a good chance that they, the reader, will like both.  Or if not, they just stick with the genre they prefer.

As for me, I do have a historical novel planned (based on a true life story), and a sort of rom/com chick-lit (also based on a true story).  But my heart belongs to urban fantasy/paranormal/sci-fi romance with a twist of steampunk.

 

Sunwalker versus Dragon Warrior – who should I place my bet on in that showdown? Or would it be a draw?

Hoo-boy!  That is a tough one.

Jackson Keel is an immortal Sunwalker who is stronger and faster than any ordinary human.

Micah Caine is genetically enhanced and used to fighting dragons in hand to hand (hand to claw?) combat.  He also keeps getting resurrected, thanks to the psychotic Dr. Barnes.

They're both smart.  They're both tough.  And they've both lived longer than they should.

I think this one is too close to call …

 

What's an average day in the life of Sh é a MacLeod right now?

I'd like to say it's all exotic and glamorous, but unfortunately it's more about spending the day in front of the computer banging away at the next novel.  Usually in my pajamas.

 

Boots, socks or barefoot for dossing around the house?

Oh, I am a total barefoot kinda girl.  Unfortunately, I can't really do barefoot all the time.  So, in summer it's bare feet inside and flip flops or gladiator sandals outside.  In winter it's socks inside (my house is freezing) and boots or Chucks outside.

 

So, what does 2012 hold for Sh éa MacLeod? Any last words?

2012 is going to be a busy year for me.  I'm getting ready to move back to the States at the end of May while working on the next book in the Dragon Wars series, Dragon Lord (due out in March, the gods willing and the sky doesn't cave in).  More apocalyptic fun with Marines, dragons, and the Resistance.

There are some interesting things planned for the Sunwalker Saga, as well, but I'm going to keep you all in suspense for now because I'm evil that way. And, I've got a brand new sci-fi series coming out later this year.  Can I get a SQUEE?

In the meantime, The Eclective has a new anthology out later this month.  It's our ode to St. Paddy's Day and Morgan is going to make an appearance.

2011 was an exciting year, but I've a feeling 2012 is going to knock its socks off!

 

Dragon Warrior
Dragon Wars Book One
A man without a past.

A woman without a future.

A world destroyed by monsters.

All that's left is hope.
In Rain Mauri's post-apocalyptic world there are no shades of gray to survival. Until she meets a Dragon Warrior and discovers nothing is as simple as it seems.

Together, Rain and the Dragon Warrior must uncover the truth behind the nightmare their world has become. Their quest will put them in the crosshairs of a ruthless enemy, but with her determination and his skill, they might just save their race from destruction. If they can save each other first.
45k words or about 180 paperback pages.
Also contains a sample chapter of Jack Wallen's I Zombie I.
Available on:
Amazon, Amazon UK, Amazon DE, and Amazon FR

KOBO
Apple
Barnes & Noble
Sony

SMASHWORDS

Want to find out more about Shea? Go to the links below:


Blog
FB
Twitter
G+



Tweet

Writer Wednesday: Interview with Jack Wallen

Today I would like to welcome Jack Wallen, the Zombie King, to my website. This interview is the first in a series I will be hosting with writers who delve into realms of the dark, the horrific and the paranormal.

1. Jack, Before you started writing, your primary creative outlet was acting – I'm interested to know what made you decide to exchange one for the other and also what skills you feel have crossed over and been a benefit to you as a writer?

I was a stage actor for twenty years. Near the end of that career I started seeing the writing on the wall – that the economy was about to bring the arts down around the country. So I decided to retire while I felt I was still on top. When I made this decision I knew I was going to have to have an artistic outlet – else I wind up in straitjacket fashion. I had already written a few stage plays and realized I had a knack for dialogue and character. So the transition was pretty  natural.

What really has helped me the most, from my acting career was all the improvisation studies I had. Improv really has helped me take control of dialogue in my books. That and the character study classes helped me to really be able to get to the core of character emotion, motivation, and need.

 

2. What writers do you feel were particular inspirations and helped to shape your individual voice?

Clive Barker is my idol. Without a doubt there has not been a writer to influence me more. His grace and elegance with horror really shaped my voice early on. I can only hope to one day be compared to the man who was called "The Future of Horror" by Stephen King.

 

3. Zombies are one of the big trends in horror at the moment – what was it that drew you to this sub-genre and made you decide to do your own take on the deadheads?

I've been a fan of horror since I was a child. My original goal was to write gothic horror and vampiric horror. But Twilight kind of ruined that for me for the moment. One day I was trying to figure out where I wanted to go in my writing career and a question popped into my head. That question was "What would it be like to become a zombie?" I wanted to answer that question – what it would feel, sound, smell, and taste like to become one of the undead. That is where I Zombie I came from. In the middle of writing that book I realized it had to be a trilogy. Upon completing the trilogy I realized I had a lot of story left to tell and made the official announcement that I Zombie was now a series. I am currently working on the four installment, Lie Zombie Lie.

 

4. I noticed in your I Zombie trilogy that you have different types of zombie as a result of the initial disaster – what was the thinking behind having these different 'breeds'? For example, the moaners seemed to me to embody the mindless 'mob' or 'herd'  mentality whilst you have the screamers representing full-blown id-like rage.

I love the original imagining of the zombie. But I needed something to instill more terror as well as show an evolution of the original beast. I wound up with three different iterations of the zombie: The Moaner, the Screamer, and the Berzerker. I'm not finished with that evolution either.

One of my goals is to always keep the readers quessing – what has happened and what is going to happen next. For me, allowing a reader of horror to get comfortable is askin to literary suicide. Having more than one type of zombie helped me keep the reader from getting too comfortable. Besides, who says zombies wouldn't have a food chain within their own ranks?

 

5. What is it you think so appeals to readers about the zombie out of all the classic monsters in recent years?  It's almost ten years since Brian Keene's The Rising came out and the 'appetite' for them seems yet to be satiated.

Here's the thing – no one has yet to "Twilight" the zombie. They are not sexy, they are not something we crave and want to ravish us. Zombies are a part of the horror genre that allows entropy to take hold and really drag us under. It allows us to live out many a perversion – while still staying sane. We don't WANT to be zombies, but we want to know what it's like to eat someone alive. There's a catharsis there that few other beasts give us. Besides – the zombie also represents the thing we hate about our own lives – the day in and day out grind of life.

 

6. Following on from the previous question, are there other monsters in the bestiary that you would like to put your own mark on such as the vampire, werewolves, the mummy or even Frankenstein's Monster?

I have a vampire in the works. He's a total bad ass and will bring a bit of pride back to vampire kind. His name is Vlad Kurvail and he will rip you to shreds and not sparkle in the slightest.

I also have in the works a horror novel that deals with Heaven and Hell. My plan for that is to twist those myths up on their heads and make everyone wonder what the truth is. There will be plenty of monsters there.

I do try to leave a bit of a dark mark on everything I write. Even the next Shero contains zombies. Go figure.

 

7. Leaving horror behind for now, in your Fringe Killer and Shero books you address the prejudices that the LGBT community have to deal with by using what could be called the conventional genres of the thriller and the superhero tale. Do you think this is a strength of genre fiction – that it has these enduring narrative structures that we can then adapt for voicing our own interests and concerns?

I think this is a strength of the indie author. Without traditional publishers tying us down we are free to mix up our genres and add layers upon stories we wouldn't be able to add otherwise. Both my Fringe Killer series and the Shero series would never have been bought by traditional publishers based on the strange mixing of genres. Traditionally LGBT fiction tended to lean toward the erotica – so putting that round hole into that square peg was something I felt needed to be done. Besides, the LGBT community needs as many heroes as they can get. Why not a transgender superhero? And why not an hero detective who happens to be gay.

 

8. I'm also interested as to whether the Fringe Killer and Shero books were conceived to be so contrasting in that whilst they deal with related areas such as the politics of perception, taboo and social mores, one series is like the dark twin to the other's light? Or did they just come out like that?

My intention was to show both sides of the coin. I knew the Fringe Killer series was going to always have to deal with homophobia and gender-specific hatred with a dark edge. But that series also had other fish to fry along with homophobia.

Shero was envisioned to handle some of the same issues, but do so with humor. Although the Fringe Killer series uses humor (thanks to Skip Abrahms), it's nothing near the level of tongue in cheek we get with Shero. And with Shero, the majority of the humor comes from the saucy nature of the narrator. That was a technique that evolved on its own and I finally gave in, knowing I would never win that battle.

 

9. So, what has Jack Wallen got on the cards for the future? Any zombie-pocalyptic plans for 2012?

My plans are simple: Take over the world as the Zombie King. I will do this even if I have bite every single reader myself. Plus I have the following books planned for release:

Endgame: The next book in the Fringe Killer series – should be out near the end of February.

Shero II: Zombie A GoGo: The second book in the Shero series – should be out near the end of March.)

Lie Zombie Lie: The fourth book in the I Zombie series. Should be out late summer or early fall.

The Nails of Calvary: The first in a yet-to-be named trilogy — Should be out by the end of the year.

 

10. Any last words before the zombies eat your brains?

Horror is one of the most amazing genres with the best fanbase. I can't thank my readers and fans enough for giving my worlds a go. You're comments, love, respect, and appreciation mean more to me than you know. And I hope my words have helped to prepare you for the apocalypse we all know is imminent. If the zombies do wind up making a brain smoothie of me before I complete the I Zombie series, know this – If you ever meet Bethany Nitshimi, make damn sure you befriend her as she may be your only chance for survival!

Thank you, Jack. It's been a pleasure, zombie slurpies and all!

Jack Wallen has a goal — to become the Zombie King. He won't do that by dining on the brains of helpless victims. Instead he will write and write until his fingers and mind are nothing but meat for the beasts. During that time Jack will produce works of zombie fiction that are both enjoyable and cringe-worthy.

Of course, being of the insane writer clan, Jack isn't just happy with the penning of zombie fiction. Oh no, the nightmare does not end there. Like the late, great Freddy Mercury, Jack wants it all — so, he will continue writing his Fringe Killer series as well as his joyous celebration of all things diverse — Shero.

For his inspiration to begin reading and writing, Jack thanks the ever-incredible Clive Barker for penning in a genre with words of grace and horror.

Want to know more about Jack? Then go to the following links:

Blog: http://www.monkeypantz.net

Zombie Radio: http://www.zombieradio.org

Adorkable Designs: http://www.adorakabledesigns.net

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jlwallen

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/jlwallen

 

Titles currently available:

I Zombie I

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Smashwords

Paperback

 

My Zombie My

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Smashwords

 

A Blade Away

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Smashwords

Paperback

 

Gothica

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Smashwords

Paperback

 

Shero

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Smashwords

Paperback

Tweet

Interview with Dave Cleinman

Today I am pleased to welcome Dave Cleinman to my website; a gentleman who has been kind enough to interview me about The Eyes of the Dead and Shapes in the Mist – it was about time I returned the favour.

[image error]

1. What is your earliest memory of writing?

I was writing in first grade, just as soon as I learned to read. Unlike a lot of schooling nowadays, writing and reading were fully integrated. As we learned to read, we learned to write. I loved to read, and I enjoyed writing just as much. At thirteen, when I read the Lord Of The Rings, I began a full novel series, with two languages developed mostly from the romance languages, with some German thrown in as a family tribute.

2. Which writers have inspired and influenced you?

Tolkien still ranks number one. His skill with language made his novels artistically beautiful, true literary fiction that sings with beauty. Michener and his epic stories are inspiring. King's tongue-in-Cheek fiction, as well as true horror stories (The Shining is my favorite) gave me insights into how to rip characters apart mercilessly, and then fix things again, sometimes. The classics, Steinbeck, Dickens, Dante, Shakespeare, Plato…all of them influenced my ability to craft words. And, as an exercise in playful indulgence, Piers Anthony and his Xanth series, and at a higher level, his Incarnations of Immortality series sparked my imagination. There are many more, but this is a good start, I think!

[image error]

3. Your novel Toys in the Attic deals with the subject of familial abuse and an act of incest that leads to teenage pregnancy – could you tell me more about what made you decide to deal with such a sensitive and, some might say, controversial subject and what thoughts and feelings drove such narrative decisions as Sara keeping her father's baby? 

The novel was inspired by the fact that I have personally known young girls who suffered this very situation, and I needed to share it. I don't consider it controversial, simply because reality has a place in quality fiction. Sara keeps her baby because she feels it's wrong to punish it by aborting it. It is her personal choice that makes life difficult for her in the beginning. As she matures, however, and recovers, she realizes it is the best decision she could have possibly made. I made very few narrative decisions, really, I just told a story that has been experienced by real women in real situations. The story is one of survival, and triumph. To get to the brightest, sometimes we need to face the dark head on.

Toys In The Attic is available here:

amazon.com  |  amazon.co.uk  |  Smashwords   |  B&N

[image error]

4. Your novel Principle Destiny features a literal race between a princess and a prince with a kingdom as the prize – using this device, what did you hope to portray about a woman's position in an archaic patriarchal society? And did you intend there to be parallels with the ongoing battles for equal rights in the modern world?

Interestingly, I thought nothing about equal rights, at all, even though the novel definitely supports the concept. This story is about  a woman's strength and courage and her relentless determination. I fully expect readers, especially women, to be inspired by Princess Alyssa, but it is historical in nature, and not allegorical. The patriarchal society is simply a hand-me down situation. Alyssa's father, King Jessett, is more tyrant than patriarch, and Alyssa's singular goal is to return freedom and peace to her kingdom, and to the surrounding kingdoms as well.

In their society as a whole, women are integral and equal: community leaders, mothers, business builders. Only in King Jessett's eyes are they not worthy of ruling his kingdom. In some ways his sexist views are diametrically in opposition to those of his own citizens.

This novel combines a nasty family feud with a covert attempt at a political coup that puts the Princess in endless danger. She know this, yet she chooses to accept the challenge. For most of the novel she struggles to cross nearly a thousand miles of terrain to win this race, reclaim her position as first born heir, and take the Kingship. It is filled with suspense and action, driven by one woman's pure strength of heart and will.

Principle Destiny is available at:

amazon.com  |  amazon.co.uk  |  Smashwords   |  B&N

5. How would you describe your literary voice and what do you think makes it unique?

I just try to write gripping stories with strong characters based on real people. I consider myself a bit unique, and suppose since I just try to be me, and no one else, my voice is probably unique in the same way. To be honest, I don't give it much thought. I just work hard to write good stories and engage my readers.

6. Would you say that you feel empathy and identify with all of the characters that you create?

Main characters, always. All characters, no. What I will say is all of my characters, major or lesser, are all based on actual people. As such they have depth and are recognizable. When a character steps up into a major role, or starts out in one, I always use myself as a sounding board… what would I do? How would I react? What would I want? And then I expand that idea to other individuals I have known or observed in similar situations. The blend is generally a strong character that comes alive and feels real.

7. What benefits do you think realistic and fantastic fiction have for the writer respectively?

I think realistic fiction engages a wider audience, and fantasy appeals to a smaller niche, but the best stories I have ever read successfully combine elements of both. Even if a story is realistic, such as a Michener or Clancy novel, it keeps us engaged through a perpetual series of what ifs and thens. Realistic fiction, such as Toys In The Attic combines some fantasy-like dreams, with a hard-hitting reality. Principle Destiny, which is mostly modern fantasy, combines real people and real emotions with a unique situation (a thousand mile endurance race).

8. Do You find writing to be cathartic, just an escapist experience, or can it be a fusion of both?

My writing is cathartic at times, as with Toys In The Attic where I needed to get the ideas off my chest and out into the open. I don't think of it as escapist, just because I engage the world around me to make my writing realistic and appealing to my readers.

Generally, I just write. Characters do a pretty good job of steering me in the right direction, and I just go with it.

9. Are there other genres of fiction that you would like to explore in the future?

I am moving into thrillers. It seems all my writing has elements of thriller, just because that's the way I think, but future works will likely be much more focused on that niche. I am also working on the horror genre, teaching myself how to really be impactful and scary without being trite or overtly repulsive.

10. What new projects are you currently working on?

I have completed part two of my MindEater series and will do a final edit within the next week. The first segment is a stand alone short story free on Smashwords.

I am very close to finishing book one of my YA novel. I'm not yet ready to share details, but the rough draft will be done within a week.

11.  Any last words for the readers?

I am giving  away free coupons for either of my books to any of your readers who will like my FB author page, and leave a hello, or leave a comment on my blog referencing this post. Just let me know which book you'd like to read!

Thank you, Dave! All the best for the future!

Tweet

Sample Sunday: Tangerine Dream

Author's note: This story is based upon a lucid dream I had in 2011 where I met Nagai Kafu – a Japanese writer who is somewhat obscure in the West. You can read more about the man and his work here.

I awoke in a Japanese house with the cream fusama rippling slightly from a scented breeze and I did not know how I came to be there. Getting to my feet, I examined myself for signs of violence or kidnap, I found none. I was dressed in a plain kimono that reached down past my knees and a pair of slippers, soft and silk-lined, were waiting for me by the partition door. I slipped them on and rested my hands on the wooden frame, feeling it tremble from whatever weather was disturbing the structure of the house. I stood there for an inestimable time with my eyes closed, just listening, just feeling, for the quiet was near-absolute. The lowing of the wind outside reached my ears, nothing else did, seemingly I was alone in this strange house. I should have been scared but I was not. It was strangely comforting to be alone in a place that I did not know, to be out of my old life, the one that had wound tight about me like the ageing skin of a snake. Could the unconscious, worn to the quick by routine, desperate for difference, for change, for otherness, act upon the person and transport them elsewhere? The possibility intrigued me and it had been a long time since I last experienced possibility as a part of my life.

I opened the sh?ji and stepped through into the r?ka. It was lit by small kerosene lamps that were set along the floor at intervals of five feet or so. The glow cast by the lamps was umbrous and autumnal, soothing to my senses, making me walk slowly, a somnambulant abroad. The shadow I saw on the wall was one of the lamps, that was my first thought on it, but then I examined it more closely and realised the design of the lamps was hunched and squat whereas the silhouette cast was slender in shape. I knew it to be a man and that man to be my host. I was ambivalent about meeting him.

Why?

Because he must have brought me here and no-one who brings one to a place without their consent can be less than good, not that 'good' is much of a concept, really. Perhaps I should say that such a person usually desires to disrupt one's schedule, mess with routine, break the simple securities of the plain, ordered world down. No, I was sure that I did not want to meet such a person. That all being said, and thought about, my sense of objection was rendered moot as he opened the sh?ji whilst I dithered about caught up in my usual web of worried reflection and ambiguous, uneasy, over-pause.

I did and did not recognise him for I had not known him in life but his face was familiar to me in this under-lit limbo. A long, louche face with large ears and a locrian mouth, down-turned. The eyes staring out at me nested behind circular black-rimmed glasses. He was not dressed as I was for he wore a grey suit like so many I had seen worn by tired businessmen rocking half-asleep on trains and buses over the years.

"Who are you?" I asked, already knowing.

"Nagai Kafu, and you are late, the world is ending without you."

We sat opposite one another, waiting for the green tea to steep. His eyes were intent on the pot, not on me. I was wondering what was going on, I had questions for him, none I dared ask because I was sitting here with a man dead, gone fifty years ago and he was just brewing tea of all things. How could this be? Surely, the dead rise to perform more pressing matters than brewing tea.

"The tea is ready."

We sat and drank and we talked and, at some point, I clumsily burned my hand on the teapot. There was much to talk to about with the world at its end. Words, thoughts, feelings, sight, smell – all of these things were soon to cease, come to an end, just like that. What then of them, what did they mean, really. What was the purpose of people wailing, screaming and praying to gods and killing their fellows on the say-so of said deities when the world was coming down around them. We spoke not only of spiritual deities but also of the other religions; civil rights, individual rights, patriotism, the worship of the commercial, the love of disco lighting over the amber twilight, wabi-sabi dwelling in the shadows of concrete and the natural whispers of yuugen from the numerous tears of the weeping willow tree, its limpid leaves swimming in the night. Oh, so much we talked about that was little, large and nothing at all. The little things in life were to be no better or worse off than the supposedly greater. The big picture was nothing without its evaporating minutiae and, for some reason, this all made me smile. It was a smile best suited for the funeral of a bitter foe though said foe would have to have been a much-loved part of one's life to begin with before the egregious sense of having been wronged set in. Yes, there was a melancholy to my expression, a pulling of muscles that did not want to be pulled, a tightness that comes when old wounds are scratched at it, made to give up their blackly-seeded bile. That all said, the sweetness of release too, of a thorn taken out and cast far away. All of this made up my smile.

"Would you like to see it?" asked Kafu.

I nodded my gracious thanks and he leaned to his feet with a cry and a crackle of old bones. Shuffling on his bare feet, he went to the outer wall and slid open an outer sh?ji, just a little.

"It is all coming apart you see," he said, "Like a bunjinga, is it not? Painted by hands inspired by another place, another time. Maybe, there is some namban in it too, eh? Who would think that, when it all came to an end, we would see the world as a thing so foreign and poisonous and exotic?"

Looking out through the small opening, I could see world and it was weeping like the willow tree; oils, watercolours, inks and enamel, all running into one another then trailing off into nothingness. Faces, futures, lives and loves forming a disintegrating waterfall, all of it flowing down without making a sound. Blues, yellows, amethysts, old man red, cherry and apricot shapes dissolving into space and coming in, through that space, from in-between, was that scented breeze tasting of tangerines, threaded with a finely-wrought and opaque smoke, which made sighs that were like those of a man who stood at the bottom step of the gallows.

"What is that?" I asked Kafu.

"It is the sound of what is under the world, I think. What the tired and world-weary leave behind. Such people, their spirits sink below and become as this. Who better to wipe the canvas of existence clean than those who were pilloried and harried for their desire to not draw blood, to not believe and to not love as the masses are wont to do? Such sweet dissipation, my dream is here. Your dream too, I think."

"But this is not a dream. Dreams are not places of pain."

I showed him my finger, the bubble of the blister there left by the hot teapot.

"So you feel pain? So what? So what if you are as dead as I am? You would still dream. Shakespeare lied when he said there is undiscovered country ahead, there is no such thing. We die , we lie down, we rot and we dream, even when the maggots have snacked on the last of our brains, we carry on dreaming. I have been dreaming for fifty years and I want to make an end of it, what better end could there be than this?"

"But how can the world be dying, just like that?"

"Who knows? Perhaps it is its hundredth birthday? Maybe it is a tsukumogami and this is how it changes into being alive? Funny to think there were all those people spending their time raging about life and its beauty yet they were really living in a world doing no more than waiting to die but, ah, here they are, at last. My beauties."

Hovering before us, there was a geisha, careworn, hair showing grey, suckling on a last tooth made brown by decay. Her eyes were bright marbles reflecting the chiaroscuro of the dying world's waterfall, she held a withered hand out to me. On either side of her stood a Japanese school girl, no angels were these, their hair shone greasily, thoroughly unwashed, and their cheeks were marked by dirt and catfight-scratches. Their eyes were bilious balls and their skin a preserved amber. They were wicked dolls without shoes on their stockinged feet, each holding out a grubby hand.

"Ah, my old ghosts!" Kafu smiled, showing where he had lost teeth, he clapped his hands together, rapt, "How good of you to come for us!"

He took the hand of one school girl and then the other and saw I was too tentative to take the hand of the Geisha.

"Look here, gaijin, you should take her hand because otherwise you will wake up, go back to where you were, what you were doing. Here, you can take the hand of these unwashed delights and be led into whatever awaits, see what must not be seen, feel what must not be felt," he winked lasciviously at me as he said this.

Kafu then gestured at the nearly-gone world, it was fast becoming a deluge of excretal smears and the scent of tangerines was so strong, so ripe that it was becoming bitter, verging on rotten-brown suggestions of complete decay; soporific softness, lingering liquescent touches, heavily stained with satisfying, sour juices and their aftertaste.

"Take a bite, gaijin. What have you got to lose?"

The geisha snatched at me, trying to grasp me. I felt her touch on my skin, damp and dingily sweaty. I could smell wet refuse from alleyways and soiled linen. I thought of home, my bed, my house, my job, the mundane things we hold so dear. There was a tear in her eye and a small brown bruise on her cheek decorated by a growing web of split capillaries. I took her dirty, desperate hand and she, still sucking rhythmically on her dead tooth, led the way, leading us away.

"Out we go!" cried Kafu, a schoolgirl on each side of him.

Breathing in rich, rancid air, we flew, passing through a thinning veil of yellow rain that was pouring into soundless void below and, as we came to the other side, to what Kafu always dreamed of seeing, the very last sound I heard was his cackling, the laughter of a man satisfied.

I do not know if I was.

"…I want dissipation, to destroy myself in dissipation…"

Nagai Kafu

Tweet

Sample Sunday: A Soul who Wrote by Strange Starlight

The tower was a thing of echoes, a lonesome hooning sounding from it throughout the wee small hours of each and every morning, keeping dreams at bay from the minds of those who heard it instead inviting nightmares in. Sarah had been listening to the sonorous songs of the tower for all of her life. Every night, she would lie awake when she should have slept, her ears tuning into the emptiness which had settled and found its voice in that crumbling hollow horn of stone. There were no houses near to the tower, it was a thing alone, a beacon of solitude, hemmed in by a wasteland of shattered rock and excavated mud. From her window, Sarah could see it and, when the house was quiet, and she was alone, she looked out upon the tower, wishing it would sing to her but it never did, not in the daylight.

Sevengraves was a queer town on the coast of England in the south-eastern county of Felfolk. It was not quite there, time ran slow around its borders and mermaids were said to safely frolic in its waters without fear of capture or torture by lascivious men. The manners and mode of dress there were considered to be quaint by outsiders who strayed along its ornate streets and cobbled roads. Few of them stayed though because the tower, when it sang in the night, sent those not of the town into spasms of fear and desperate self-loathing. They often fled on foot, crying out to all they passed that demons were after them, bulbous creatures with porcine features and long black knives for fingernails. No such demons were seen and the townsfolk let the outsiders go on their way.

Sarah was the daughter of a merchant. A heavy-hearted man who had lost his wife to the wasting sickness which often plagued Sevengraves during the winter season. For this reason, Christmastide was a sombre affair in their household, being a festival spent reflectively in memoriam. Though Sarah found it hard-going, year after year, because she had never known her mother. It was difficult to annually mourn someone who was not even a pleasant remembrance from childhood afternoons. Sarah understood her father, that he meant well, but she also knew that he was keeping her. She had not been schooled and had no profession she could call her own. In her father's eyes, she was meant to forever sit upstairs in her room, a hermetically-sealed miniature of her mother, to be fed and tended to but never to be allowed out into the world. She knew that was the thought that her father could not bear, of harm coming to her, in any form. It was in his eyes when they were together at breakfast, lunch and dinner. His eyelashes would shimmer with the expectorant that comes before true tears. A tremble would pass through him, from top to toe and then he would suddenly be sober again and the sudden tightness in her chest would come undone.

Thus trapped and restricted in her life and movements, Sarah turned inward, fashioning her own world, using the books from her dead mother's modest library for inspiration. She read of the Greeks, the Romans, the Norse and the Celts. Her dreams would be peopled with the gods and goddesses of yesteryear. The gay abandon of barefoot dances at midnight in woodland faerie rings, grand high adventures in forgotten cities, exploring the burial grounds of black-hearted dragons, these were her fantasies. For a time, in this way, she was content.

But as she grew and blossomed, she came to know that fantasy was not enough alone.

"Something must be done," she said to no-one, one day, for she had no friends, apart from her black cat, Entwhistle, who she sometimes liked to pretend was her Familiar.

Sarah sat down and began to write. Not at the usual times, for her father was a worrisome man and might be suspicious if he saw her scribbling away in the daylight hours. Writing was a long-recorded symptom of discontent and he would deduce that meant she was moving away from him, if not in body, in thought and spirit. So, Sarah wrote at night, by starlight, keeping a lone candle burning low as she scratched her words down onto paper. She listened always to the sound of her father's snoring, stopping her work and snuffing the candle if she heard him become disturbed in his sleep. This was not a frequent occurrence though as the man was a heavy sleeper, a fact for which she gave thanks to the gods.

As she wrote and her portfolio of poems, tales and vignettes proliferated, she noticed odd words appearing, curious phrases that she could not remember putting down. Writing at night, she often found herself dozing, leaning over into the inviting abyss of sleep. Most times, she rallied herself but sometimes she did not. She became certain that it was on these latter occasions that she wrote the strangest of her stories, her fingers guided by some Other's subtle hand, unseen. These stories were not of the Greeks, the Romans, the Norse or even the Celts but drawn from some other sphere of influence, some darker doctrine she could not recall having read at all. I have puzzled long over these passages she left behind, they read not as narrative but almost as incantations, prayers invoking unpronounceable names, histories of planets where the cities are fashioned glass, people are wreaths of smoke, and flowing through it all there is a music, an ancient sonorous song conveyed not by mere words but by some arcane syllabic construction of sound that it is beyond my mortal abilities to decipher.

Now, I am not going to tell you that she was somehow able to free herself of her father's suffocating influence and then elope with a fair young man for that is the stuff of saccharine romances and not the truth I wish to impart here.

Her father did die and so, left alone, one might expect Sarah to have left the merchant's ageing hovel for the wider world but she did not. However, from reading her work since, I now know that an escape was always uppermost in her mind though none of us guessed back then what manner of escape this would be.

Sarah's fantastic dreams had given her a sensitivity, a yearning that might be best described as the most exquisite form of sehnsucht possible, as a magician is able to divine places both blessed and cursed by the working of their spells, Sarah was able to divine her path out of this world and into one more in keeping with her desires by the exercise of this finely-wrought emotive acumen and the tower, her lonesome companion down through the years, which sang to her when she was writing out her sweetest and darkest of dreams, was to be the key to her escape.

She had once gone wandering to it as a small child, her heart possessing her in her sleep. Her frantic father found her there, stumbling, chafing her knees as she tried to ascend the broken steps leading to the tower's apex. He brought her home and spent whole nights awake watching over her, this was before the time her writing began, but she never repeated the expedition and he believed the fixation was a thing of the past. Dull naivety on his part, this assumption, for a careful soul can keep deep and profound love a secret, if it so wishes, and so Sarah did for many, many years.

The night of her second expedition to the tower is the tale I now have to tell. It was late on a Christmas Eve, when the town was drowning in the sound of boisterous revels, that she set out, crossing the coarse wastes surrounding the tower's base, she felt a gust of fetid wind tugging at her clothes, whispering to her in warning astral tones but she was not so easily deterred.

Coming to the tower she found that, whilst there was no doorway, decay had left certain openings. Being petite, she was able to squirm her way through, revelling briefly in the dirt and roughness that her sheltered home-life had denied her. Then, she was through and inside, climbing the spiral staircase which wound around the tower's interior. She came across a number of curious eldritch signs carved into the bare stone, their curvatures made her think of Medusa, the serpents in her hair. Running her fingertips over these queer depressions made her start, wet electric shocks passing through her, coursing down to her toes, as words of diseased gold and enseamed silver took shape behind her eyes. These words she would need to know when she came to the top of the tower for they were a prayer to the thing she sought to bring forth from Outside.

There was a nocturnal rustling, followed by a weird whooping call, and then a fluttering as of colossal moth wings. Sarah stepped away as the air whistled, parting violently, and it came soaring up, out of the black space below. Thin and faceless, its skin was the colour and texture of spilt ink, its pterodactyl wings were beating it into sure flight with long-nailed hands thrust out and the scorpion barb of its segmented tail trailing, swaying, passing close to her, the hook of it glistening with a noxious bead of benighted venom. Then, it was gone, leaving a scented violet mist trailing in its wake. It was a demon from her dreams, one of the Night-Gaunts, they who carry their victims away to abysmal mountain lairs, using wicked fingernails and tail-barbs to tickle such unfortunates into insensibility. Fortunately for her, this one appeared to have another purpose tonight than seeking out prey for such games. When the tower was once more quiet and the air settled, still, she continued her ascent.

Atop the tower, Sarah stood, looking out over the festive vista of the town and its harbour. Men and women were dancing in the streets, shouting and yelling their joy, their greetings. Children were all abed, stockings hanging, eagerly tacked open. Parents, in the dark, sneaking parcels into these cotton sheaths, leaving kisses on their little ones' brows. This was what she was leaving behind and she felt a twinge in her heart but no more than that.

The words of the prayer were acrid on her tongue, bitter from being kept there, unspoken. Sarah slipped out of her shoes, letting her bare soles earth her to the tower, drawing upon its forlorn depths of bound and fettered power. Closing her eyes, she spoke, feeling storm-winds lashing about her as she did, hearing the Night-Gaunts, their charnel fingers and tail-tips clicking, swirling down out of the sky and then circling her, in orbit around the tower.

This is what she cried out from on high that weird, wonderful night, "Ia! Ia! Shub-Niggurath! Ygnaiih! Ygnaiih! I call upon you, the Black Goat, she who bore the Thousand Young. Hear me and heed my words for they are true and of my heart."

So called upon, Shub-Niggurath came, out of the night, at one with the storm, a boiling black froth of protean cloud, edged with sickly silver traces, depths streaking and screaming with a thousand lost faces, maybe more, all of them singing the same desolate, wordless song as the tower. Sarah found that she was singing too though she was cold and the wind of the storm cut her to the bone. The soles of her bare feet were tickling with nacreous lines of electricity as her heart began throbbing in time with the febrile humming of the tower's tortured matter. She called out to the spreading storm above, which now hung so low overhead, waiting, eager, fierce and intent on her, its diminutive summoner.

"Darkest Mother of All, take me with you on this night, I would see what thou seest and then feel what thou feelest also. I would know Yaddith and the Ghooric Zone, I would see the Gardens of Yin and the ancient things that dwell therein."

As the last words were spoken, as was promised, as she had long hoped and dreamed, Sarah was taken up, disappearing completely into the churning black belly of the storm-bred colossus. She cried out, not entirely in pain, as she was absorbed into the other-matter of the Great Old One's amorphous being and she saw what the Darkest Mother and her Thousand Young saw and felt as they felt. It was the purest ecstasy. To forever be one with those others who dreamed the worlds into being. Now, she too could see the shores of other realms and esoteric modes of existence; the emerald cities of Shaggai and its chittering insect shamen, the fungoid crustaceans that people the plains of far-off starless Yuggoth, the undimensioned spaces between realities where, kept shapeless, the Great Old Ones wait until the stars are right so they can Be and Become, once more.

With them, she would fly, shriek, laugh and cry through Yog-Sothoth, the Animate Gate, to behold places, experiences and sensations never meant for those of us who shuffle on down to this mortal coil's dismal and depressing end. We never saw her again after that night, when that sudden storm brought us the most beautiful snow ever seen in Sevengraves' august history, it shone of all colours and hues, some even that we did not know, it came down sparkling from the quieting skies, casting a haze of ethereal rainbows over the mournful face of the moon.

And, sometimes, in the years that have come after, when the night air is keen and ragged clouds run over my windowpane like spilt ink, I think I hear her, our Sarah, out there, her laughter frolicking on the sea breeze, lost in some fine nightmare of paradise, and I smile for I know that she is content.

END

This Sunday, I would also like to give a shout-out to the Booze & Books Facebook group who have chosen Shapes in the Mist as one of their books of the month alongside Greg Sisco's Thicker Than Water. Thank you for the support and mine's a double whiskey on the rocks!

Tweet

Congratulations to my Christmas Blog Hop WINNERS!

So, it's Boxing Day and I am briefly logging on to announce the winners of my Christmas Blog Hop competition.

The correct answer to the Blog Hop question was Hindu mythology.

The winners are:

Teressa Oliver

Ashley Breen

Carli Spurr

Congratulations to the winners who will be entered into the grand prize draw for a Kindle Fire.

Thank you also to everyone who took part and I hope you'll continue to follow my blog in 2012.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to one and all!

Tweet

Christmas Blog Hop (15th – 25th December 2011)

What is a Blog Hop?

A Blog Hop is a way for readers to discover over sixty authors who write across a slew of genres. Every author is running a contest on their blog/website that you can enter with a variety of prizes and there is also a grand prize up for grabs; the Kindle Fire, at the Christmas Blog Hop hub.

How long do I have to enter?

You have from 15th to 25th December to enter any or all of the contests.

What's the contest on the G.R. Yeates Website?

I have published two titles so far (The Eyes of the Dead & Shapes in the Mist) in a series called The Vetala Cycle, so I want you to answer the following question:

Name the mythology that the Vetala originally come from?

If you think you know the answer then you can e-mail me at: gryeates666@gmail.com

After the contest closes, I will e-mail three winners who will each receive a paperback copy of Phobophobia – a superb anthology of twenty-seven tales of fear edited by Dean M. Drinkel and published by Dark Continents Publishing. These three winners will also be entered into the grand prize draw for the Kindle Fire.

Don't forget to visit the Christmas Blog Hop hub and check out my fellow authors, their contests and prizes.

And remember that Kindle Fire has got to go!

Tweet

Sample Sunday: Waiting

He sits on the front pew, by the far aisle, in a church that lies abandoned on the backstreets that lead away from deserted boulevards and dragon-adorned courtyards. He sits in a crumpled grey suit and washed-out baby-blue shirt. The church is an empty space but for him. The sleeves are too short on his jacket and the trousers are too tight at the knees. You can see the stitching has frayed, becoming somewhat shabby and loose in places. He tugs at the cuffs with delicately manicured fingertips. A breath of exasperation escapes him and he crosses then re-crosses his legs. He is tired of all this waiting. You cannot see his face, not because the church interior is a dim gloaming of sepulchral stone and not because the light filtering through the windows is an obscuring schizophrenia of tainted colours.

The reason you cannot see his face is because he is wearing a mask.

It has two politely curving horns and you can see where the red paint has thinned out over the years, newspaper print showing through here and there. You can also see the smile, the way the papier-mâché lips curve, ever so slightly and ever so politely. He's a gentleman at a soiree, sharing a sly, underhanded joke with you. He sits where he sits, by the aisle, in the pews, not saying a word, simply waiting. The eyes of the face under the mask are old, wise and bright. He checks his watch, a second-hand purchase telling him a time that is not the time. Whoever he is waiting for, this man, they are late, very late. He tugs at his cuffs with those delicately manicured fingertips and a breath of exasperation escapes him once more. The eyes in the mask catch the light of a memorial candle. Those eyes, those old bright eyes.

You had better not keep him waiting long.

END

© G.R. Yeates 2011

The Eyes of the Dead is available now:

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Amazon Germany

Smashwords

Nook

Shapes in the Mist is available now:

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Amazon Germany

Smashwords

Nook

Tweet

Sample Sunday: There was a Hole Here. It's Gone Now

I came to the house each time before as in a dream. These were not dreams of trepidation and nightmare rather the atmosphere was one of a strange serenity – the hills and trees were underlit by the tones of a long-lost twilight and there was no sound as such but an almost audible sense of sighing, of life, time and space coming to rest, finding some peace at last. It was through this scene of umbrous groves buried deep in sepulchral countryside that I came to the house time and again. It stood tall though it was not tall in stature, lengthening shadows lending it grandeur whilst the deepening darkness of approaching night coloured its secluded spaces in austere colours and shades.

Coming to the fringes of the porch's shadow, fluttering as the wings of a black blossom butterfly might, I came to a moment of pause. One that held me still as I took in the high windows of the house, the sloping gables of the roof and disintegrating matter caking the outer walls – was it plaster, mould, loam? Or, some less pleasant possibility that could crumble, flake and discolour so?

I did not know and dare not guess as certain shadows moved in around me, brushing by with whispering lips and briar patch fingertips. The house was now revealed to me as a place of disquiet, seemingly unearthed from its slumber. Yes, as the last light left the world around me, I came to understand this dwelling place was much like a vault or a tomb but made and decorated in manner as to be a habitable home.

What manner of man could conceive of such a thing?

On this thought, the dream would each time end, leaving me standing there, indecisive, upon the threshold of the haunted darkness cast by the house's porch.

 

The time that I truly came to the house was after many years of living and many more of dreaming. Alone, I hiked through the hills of a country I had called home for some years, having grown into a nomad during the latter half of my life. It was a late hour and I knew, in this part of the world, the days and nights behaved strangely. The light was wont to shift and change with mercurial and sudden abandon. In doing so, it made me lose my way and I found myself wandering through groves familiar and yet foreboding, listening, hearing nothing, but slowly realising that I was feeling that all-consuming sigh exuding from all things around me.

Out of the groves I came and there was the house and I will not bore you with the repeated details of my approach to the property. The one and crucial detail that changed this time, that caused me not only to flee the vicinity but also that country I had called home for some years, was this. I crossed into the porch's shadow and went up to the door.

The door was a stout object and not remotely affected by the queer decay tainting the rest of the house's exterior. I meant to go up and rap upon it with the cast-iron knocker set at the same height as my sternum, meaning to speak to the owner whom I was sure had been sending me these dreams over the years. What was his reason? Why this long, drawn-out summoning that had robbed me of so many precious hours sleep due to fear and contemplation?

I never did rap upon that door.

For, as I approached it, hand raised in readiness, it opened before me.

Not much, a mere crack, enough to see in and see no light within. The only illumination was cast by the steadily retreating glow of evening and, in that glow, I saw his face. It was long and drawn and the eyes and mouth and nose were holes. For immeasurable moments, I was held mesmerised by the hopelessly black and gaping orbits in his pale, washed-out face. In that narrow space, with the door and jamb framing it, I noticed the face becoming somehow disturbed, rippling as if touched by a light breeze, the edges of it, they were peeling, coming undone, coming loose.

It was then that he spoke to me and his voice was a terrible thing to hear.

So it was at that moment, with the mask of his ancient skin slithering to earth before my eyes, baring what waited beneath to the light, that I turned away and fled. Away from the house, back through the groves and down to the road. Leaving the hills, the secrets they guarded and the nightmares left unburied there far behind me.

And now, all these years later, I write these words down within my house. A house I have not left in such a very long time. I saw what was beneath the mask of skin that day and it made me see, it made me understand so well the world and time and everything that passes ephemeral into nothingness. Through the dreams and down through the years, he had led me to the threshold of his dwelling, moulding me, shaping the course of my life for the simple matter of our meeting so as to look upon me and know my face. One that would not come loose when touched in the slightest way by the open air and to then pass something onto me, something he no longer could hope to bear.

And so now, I sleep here in my house and I dream and in those dreams I travel as my body once travelled. I barely stir from my bed for months on end, maybe even years have passed, as I wander with ease through the dreams and the nightmares of others. Some see me walking abroad in their most private thoughts, some do not. Others, curious nomads as I once was, they approach me, reaching out, they come forth, braving the whispering shadows closing in on us all. They come to the threshold of my house, hands raised in readiness to rap upon the door and thus awaken me.

One day, I think, I will open the door, and I will speak, and my voice will be a terrible thing to hear.

END

© G.R. Yeates 2011

The Eyes of the Dead is available now:

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Amazon Germany

Smashwords

Nook

Shapes in the Mist is available now:

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Amazon Germany

Smashwords

Nook

Tweet