G.R. Yeates's Blog, page 11

Book Review: The Becoming by Jessica Meigs

The Becoming is Jessica Meigs' first novel. It opens with an apocalypse of the zombie kind. A virus is on the loose and the world is going to hell. This may sound familiar but whilst there are known elements here, there are nuances too that let you know you're in for a different kind of ride.

There are zombie authors a-plenty out there at the moment but what makes Jessica Meigs' novel stand out from amongst the crowd is her understanding of story; how to structure a narrative. The pacing of The Becoming is pitch-perfect. It almost has a beat, you'd swear you can feel the bass-line in your gut as relentless and frenetic action sequences are expertly interspersed with scenes where we get to know and understand the characters and the virus-ravaged world around them. The author knows exactly when to slow the beat, let us breathe, look around and take in what's there before cranking the AC up once again and letting the infected run amok and tear everything down.

Chief amongst the characters of The Becoming is Cade who, for a fair amount of the narrative, is the only female protagonist but rather than making her seem token, this actually draws our focus to her and this is because The Becoming is undoubtedly her novel. It is as much about her growth as individual in trying circumstances as it is about brain-munchin' fun. We are with her as the relationship with her closest friend, Ethan, is changed, even eroded, by the pressures of living in one decimated hovel after another following the viral outbreak. We are witness to the connection that gradually grows between her and Brandt, an ex-marine, in a way that is neither sentimental nor romantic enough to upset the strong narrative tone already established. As with pacing of story, the author knows about pacing of character development – showing us enough to intrigue and make us care rather than drowning us in melodramatic displays of emotion.

Mention also deserves to go to the author's handling of the infected. There are shades here of 28 Days Later rabidity, there are echoes of Romero's more traditional slothful creations and, crucially for a work of prose, there seems to me to be more than a hint of Matheson in here too. There's something going on with these z-heads, there's a reason why this is called The Becoming that makes me eager to read the next book in the series and see what the author makes of that which is only suggested here.

The Becoming is a work of deft, cinematic horror. It is deserving of the attention of readers outside the sub-genre that spawned it and I am sure that the author is going to go on to do great things. Recommended.

The Becoming is available NOW!

Amazon US – Kindle

Amazon US – Paperback

Amazon US – Audio

Amazon UK – Kindle

Amazon UK – Paperback

BARNES & NOBLE

Jessica's Website

Permuted Press

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Hollow – A Story for Halloween

For some years, I lived with my wife and my frail son and we were happy. We were comfortable, neither wealthy, nor poor, with full access to the necessities of life, and yet there were moments, there were times during those years when I felt myself to be strangely regarded by my wife and my frail son. There were occasions when I would enter the living room, sometimes my son's bedroom, and the atmosphere I encountered, only briefly, momentarily, no more than that, would become uncomfortable.

A curious sensation of accrued ambivalence would wash over me as I crossed the threshold into a space that, for some preceding time, had only been occupied by my wife and my frail son. And then, I would observe how they were looking, not at me but at one another and, in that look, there was an attitude they adopted that left my mouth dry and my eyes moist.

On each occasion, I was taken back to the colder moments in my childhood when I entered a room and the present adults had been deep in passionate discussion, which then came to a furious halt upon my presence being noticed. Yes, it was that sense of being privy to conversation, concepts and ideas that were far outside my lonesome sphere and the preserve alone of those others in the room that was recreated for me whenever I made these accidental interruptions.

But, as I say, the sensation was a brief and fleeting thing often followed by kisses on the cheek by my wife as I affectionately stroked the sweat-plastered hair of my frail son. Nonetheless, whilst it was fleeting, this sensation, it happened enough times for me to remember it clearly, to feel it as an element of the relationship established over the years with my wife and my frail son, a significant element that was cold, hard and which rang hollow, a small wound if you like. No marriage is perfect, we were happy, things were good enough, I thought as little about it as I could.

However, after they died in the car crash, there was a change in how things were with me in the house, our home. The rooms they once occupied, where these secret discussions were conducted, seemed to adopt that same attitude which left my mouth dry and my eyes moist, creating a weighty and constant atmosphere that seemed to obscenely colour my life as a whole.

I remember standing at their open coffins, looking down at their cold faces and thinking how alike they were in death as in life. How a lifeless body was little different to one that breathed, ate, drank and went about the place. Though there was a sense of loss, don't mistake me, it was not spiritual, nor particularly emotional. Standing by those soon-to-rot boxes, I felt they had lost density somehow and, most distinctly, that whatever had been at the root of their secret discussions that always stopped whenever I interrupted and then led to that look cast between them, that vaguely bitter aura of reproach, that slighting malignity, was now absent from their bodies.

Gone, escaped, evaporated, however you wish to think of it.

Myself, I wish not to think of it but it is now beyond my powers to do so and, I think, beyond the powers of any other man to assist me in doing so. That density, that reproach, that malign ambivalence that hurt me so, it is here, it is with me in the house. Whenever I leave a room and whenever I enter a room, it occupies the space vacated, makes of it a wound, small, so very cold, and, whatever sound I may then make, it rings out hollow.

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

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The Thing Behind the Door: A poem for Poe

This is a short poem I penned some years ago inspired by Poe. I thought it appropriate to post an updated version on today, the 162nd anniversary of his death. It also serves as a taster of sorts for my novel to come out next year of the same title, The Thing Behind the Door. I hope you enjoy it.

And I wandered through,

And I wandered on,

With naught for comfort,

Not a soul, nor a song.

Until I heard a sound,

A sound I'd oft heard before,

A-raking, a-scraping, upon my bedroom door,

A-raking, a-scraping, a darkened claw.

And I looked behind,

As I have oft looked before,

And, once again, this thing I saw,

Standing there, its wan skin a-crawl,

Wearing the dead leaves of autumn's fall.

No, nothing was there,

no, nothing at all,

But shadows a-gathering,

And autumn's fall.

No, nothing was there,

no, nothing at all,

Except, silence with voices,

And the thing from behind the door.

© G.R. Yeates 2011

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Sample Sunday: Extract from Hell's Teeth

Hell's Teeth will be the third novel in the Vetala Cycle and close the opening trilogy set during the First World War. Today's sample is a poem that will come to have greater significance as the Vetala Cycle continues.

Before All began, there was the Darkness,

It had no Beginning and it had no End,

It was All and All was One.

There was no Space in which to Be,

There was no Time in which to Do,

There was no love, no hate, no fear, no pleasure,

The Cycle was not yet begun,

The Haunted Hand was still,

The Web of Life, unwoven,

The many threads of Fate were waiting, unspun.

The Darkness was Alone but it was not empty,

All waited.

Was, Is and Shall Be were unconscious,

In Abeyance.

None should seek this time out,

Where there was no Time,

Where there was no Space,

For what was there is not to be Seen,

What was there should not again Be,

Until the Cycle is done,

And the threads of Fate are once again unspun.

There was not Silence then, nor was there Sound,

There was no Sense, no Knowing,

Something was Nothing,

And Nothing was Something.

All waited.

Then, It happened,

The Moment came,

The Push and Pull of Birth and Being,

The Shaping from the Mist.

There was Light, Sound and Sights to See,

But that which must be Hidden remained so,

The Grey and the Gravelands, they sank far below,

Until the Cycle is done,

And the threads of Fate are once again unspun.

The Tale is not yet over but it was as soon as it had begun,

Until then, the Web of the universe is All and All is One,

And All will still be as One when I am dead and you are gone,

All will Change and Flow, ceasing, unceasing, and so on,

The Darkness will Abide,

What lies below will mutter and hiss,

Many will never come to care,

Some will seek out its secrets,

Fewer still will come to Know,

And the Cosmos will go on,

Until the Cycle is done,

And the threads of Fate are once again unspun.

© G.R. Yeates 2011

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We be the Echo

Why write about Jack the Ripper?

He's been done so many times over now that, surely, there is nothing more to be gained from this myth?

And his myth is the reason why I decided Jack the Ripper would be the avatar of my second novel.

What I mean to say is that Jack the Ripper is a myth and a monster yet he was also a man, a human being, like us. This is something that is not true of the vampire, the werewolf, Frankenstein's monster, the zombie or the mummy. These creatures have their roots in myth and legend whereas Jack the Ripper has become the stuff of myth and legend. His roots are in reality. The murders he is credited with, unlike Dracula, actually took place. This is what I wanted to explore in Shapes in the Mist; how a man such as this becomes a monster and crosses over from our world to that of our nightmares?

He was never caught so, faceless and furtive, he has drawn generations of Ripperologists to pursue him up and down the blind alleys of history. This undoubtedly forms part of our fascination with him as, without a face, he has become almost an archetype of the serial killer.

This does then beg the question why would we want to have this mythical serial killer. Why do we fashion these bogeymen as easily as a child makes shadow puppets dance on its bedroom wall?

This is why I quote a more recent Ripper in Shapes in the Mist.

Peter Sutcliffe claimed to have heard the words 'We be the echo' and understood this to be the voice of God directing him to become a murderer.

Sutcliffe was indeed an echo thanks to the mainstream media bestowing the nom de plume, the Yorkshire Ripper, on him. This then went further when the Wearside Jack tapes imitating the hoax letters of 1888 were received by the police – why did someone feel the need to do this on both occasions?

These parallels between both Ripper cases pose the question; why do we feel the need to resurrect these ghosts? To make these sick and disturbed men into monsters to frighten subsequent generations with? Why do we take the serial killer and place him alongside supernatural peers when he is something infinitely more sad and pathetic than the creations grown from our imaginations? What can we learn from someone so broken, unless we are seeing something of ourselves in them?

We be the echo.

Does this refer to Jack, to Sutcliffe, or to us?

Who is the echo of whom and who is playing God, the Creator, here?

I offer no answers, I only ask these questions, pose them to the audience. It's part of my job as a horror writer. Maybe, one day, we will know.

Shapes in the Mist is available now:

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Amazon Germany

Smashwords

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Guest Blog by Sarah Woodbury: Making History Better

I love history and reading about history, but real history often ends badly for the heroes.  Consequently, when the main character dies an unpleasant and premature death in the end, it can be difficult to craft a story that is an enjoyable read.  This is particularly true of books set in medieval Wales.

My novel of King Arthur, Cold My Heart, begins with a vision of Arthur's death at the hands of Modred and asks—what if?   What if King Arthur survived to rule and pass his kingdom onto a worthy successor?  That sounds like a more fun story to me than the typical French version where everyone dies in the end.  It also is more in keeping with the genuinely Welsh tales in which Arthur survives Camlann.  And who should know that better than the Welsh?

Like the death of Arthur, few endings have had a greater impact on the progress—or lack thereof— of a country than the death in 1282 of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the last Prince of Wales.

With his death, Edward I of England set about eliminating Welsh language, culture, and history to the best of his ability, even to the point of expunging any mention of the Welsh royal court from public documents.  Edward then turned his attention to Scotland (though he ultimately died before he was able to conquer it—the English concluded his agenda with the highland clearances in the 18th century).

My After Cilmeri series takes the ambush and murder of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, throws in some time travel, and also asks what if?  What if he survived?  And what might happen to the two teenagers who save him?

Orson Welles once said, "If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story."

My problem is that I don't want the story to stop where it does—with the death of the hero.  The history and death of these great Welsh heroes are tales that desperately needed someone to rewrite them.  Or at least I thought so.

And so I did.

 

For more information on Sarah Woodbury:

http://www.sarahwoodbury.com

http://twitter.com/#!/SarahWoodbury

http://www.facebook.com/sarahwoodburybooks

 

Sarah's books

Amazon:  http://tinyurl.com/673orpe

Smashwords:  http://tinyurl.com/3lrw8jv

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Guest Blog by Mike Cooley: Facets of Character

The inspiration behind the protagonist, Larissya, in The Crystal Warrior, is a multi-faceted thing. I suppose the primary reason I write strong female characters–besides the fact that I worship girls–is that I really, really hate reading about stereotypical weak, clumsy, insecure girls in books. It literally makes me angry. I was raised on a diet of great writers. And many of them are women. My favorite female author is James Tiptree Jr. She wrote under a man's name for years because science fiction was a boy's club. There are many others, such as Ursula Le Guin and Octavia Butler.

Larissya is a teenager when the story starts. I wanted to create a character that would have to struggle and use magic she didn't understand. Magic with harmful and dangerous side-effects. It was important to me that the lead character in the book be female, and stronger than she believed herself to be. She's no damsel in distress once she starts commanding the crystals. She's fun to write about.

The reason I think a female character works better as the lead in my novel than a male is because I wanted someone in that role that Talos–the Onan swordsman–would look up to in awe, despite his strength. She has power he will never control. And yet when she uses her powers it often leaves her vulnerable. They need each other. It's a great dynamic.

The Crystal Warrior

http://www.mikecooleyfiction.com

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Sample Sunday: Preview of Shapes in the Mist

Anti-aircraft fire tore through the air. Jerry wig-wagged the wings of his ageing Nieuport, twisting her this way and that, weaving through the steel hail scouring the air.

He had to get out of here.

He had been taking down Drachen all afternoon. Drachen were colossal observation balloons used by the Boche, usually positioned a few miles behind the lines at about two thousand feet, tethered to trucks. The observer in a Drachen could scan a ten-mile radius of land on a clear day. The more of these things they shot down, the easier life would be for the soldiers on the ground.

Also, Drachen were clumsy things, difficult to manoeuvre and unarmed. This made them prime targets for the fighter-pilots of the Entente.

Attacking them in the evening was the best time. The observers in the balloon were less likely to spot you coming in, especially if you stayed low, hiding in the camouflage of twilight. If they did spot you, there wasn't much they could do, unless they had been assigned a gun battery. The gun batteries were armed with 'flaming onions', explosive flares that fired in bursts of five. If just one of the things hit you then you were cooked, falling to earth, roasted alive, your plane becoming a burning coffin.

Not a nice way to go.

Jerry took down his first two Drachen with relative ease.  He came in on them low and quiet, engine off, flattening his plane into a glide, minimising movement so that the tell-tale singing of the wires strung between the top and bottom wings would not betray him. The Drachen observers and ground crews were preparing to finish up for the day. Conscientious workers, they were absorbed in their tasks, not noticing the humming shadow rising out of the valley.

Jerry was sure he heard cries of surprise each time as he swept up in a gentle glide, firing the Nieuport's engine into life. He would bank and then turn in for the kill, sighting his machine guns into the heart of the Maltese Cross painted onto the side of each Drachen.

Up from the ground, the flaming onions flashed, bursting around him, none of them hitting him. They were panicking, firing blind, their aim completely wild. Jerry squeezed his triggers tight.

Streams of white heat erupted across the centre of each black cross. Flowers of fire blossoming from the burning metal seeds he planted. The observers jumped from their baskets, trailing white umbilical cords of parachute. They snapped them open. Catching the hot wind billowing out from the crumpling balloon. Jerry circled away victorious, dodging crazy volleys of flaming onions. Twice that evening, his luck and judgement held.

The third Drachen was his undoing.

His Nieuport was low on sauce. He was getting tired but he could not admit it. He wanted one more before heading home, three in a row, that would look great on the scoreboard.

One step closer to being an Ace.

Night was hurrying over the land. The sky was streaked with pink, orange and turquoise. Visibility for the observers was down to nothing and there was no gun battery that he could see. Easy pickings, Jerry thought, with a predatory smile on his face. He headed for his target, not bothering to stay low. The Nieuport's engine was muttering to itself, the wires of its wings sang a forlorn ghostly song.

The tranquillity was shattered by the sudden roar of engines that were not his own. Four Fokker planes appeared from the shadows below, peppering the air with bullets. How long had they been back there?

Biding their time, waiting to take him down. He had not noticed them, had no suspicions. Had he really let his guard down that much? Become so careless, so unaware of his surroundings?

He was caught in their sights. There was nowhere to run to. The Fokkers rose above him. His only choice was to go lower, down into the shadows they came from. He could fly under them, go deeper into their territory, far over the lines, see if he could shake them off. His Nieuport coughed drily and jumped under him.

Jerry ignored it.

The air ripped open on every side, howling with the whine of stressed machinery. The Fokkers swept down past him, they came back up, buzzing close to him, too close.

"Trying to run me into the ground, are you?"

Jerry held the Nieuport steady, skipping her over ruined cottages and blasted copses. His nerves shaking with each queasy lurch made. He could feel gravity drawing him down, each time he came a little closer to earth. He almost ducked as one of the Fokkers came so close he could make out the details of its fuselage.

Then one of them was behind him, then two. All four were on his tail, he imagined them lining up on the back of his head with their gun sights. Would they kill him? Would they continue with the sport of the chase?

He could not afford to wait and see. He had to climb. A Nieuport did not have the same stamina for climbing as a Fokker. He would have to push her, old and battered as she was, he would have to push her to her limits, or he would die right here.

A scream leaping from his throat, Jerry sent the Nieuport into a steep zoom, barrelling her up into the air. The plane screamed with him, protesting at the agony he was putting her through. He could feel his upper arms aching. It felt like there was no flesh or muscle on his hands. He could feel the bones of his fingers grating on the joystick through his leather gloves. Gravity snatched at him, shaking the plane violently.

This was the ceiling, he had hit it. This was as high as he could take her. Pitching the Nieuport over, out of the zoom, he stalled the engine.

"This isn't going well."

Taking her down, feeling the wind batter at him, he thumbed the triggers of his machine guns. Through slitted eyes, he regarded the German fighters coming at him.

Jerry fired.

He shot two of them down. One went into a spin, its right wing sheared through, crashing into one of its comrades. They went down, bursting into twin balls of streaked oily flame, exploding as they hit the earth. The other two dashed past him, out of sight for the moment. He would worry about them later. Jerry was plunging towards the earth himself. He sparked the engine, it didn't catch, she was too empty.

"I'm going to go into the ground like a fucking dart."

He sparked her again.

"I just took down two of the bad guys. Come on!"

There was no way he was going to be wiped out by his own hand. Another spark. The Nieuport dropped, a stone falling through the air.

Dead weight.

"One more time, baby, come on!"

It caught.

The dehydrated engine came to life.

Yanking the joystick, Jerry steered the Nieuport out of her dive, levelling out, looking from his left over to his right, he sought his remaining two enemies.

The Fokkers were gone.

Jerry's heart slowed. He could see the flames from the downed planes flickering away below, but the other two were gone. The darkening sky was clear, he was safe, he had won, but he was deep inside enemy territory.

A long way from home.

Maybe they would come back to finish him off. He had done well to out-distance four Fokkers and then take out two of them. He was good, a strong pilot, but he knew that he owed fifty-percent of his survival so far to Lady Luck. Low on fuel, flying on fumes, he knew what his options were. Land, surrender and then be captured. Or, attempt to nurse his Nieuport home.

The first option was his best hope, he knew that, but the same pluck that made him go up alone that day resurfaced. There was as much sheer bloody-mindedness as there was courage in his decision to try and get home.

The glare of the evening sun was fading, she was slowly settling into the cradle of the horizon. Night was not far away. He had no time to waste mulling things over. Letting his plane drop, allowing her to coast along, he set off for home. Behind him, a silent predator came on, unseen.

 

The network of sunken lines and churned earth marked the beginning of the Entente's territory. It was still a long way off, by the horizon, he would never get the Nieuport there. She was rattling, rising, sinking, getting ready to die. If he had to ditch in no man's land, he could use the plane as cover, crawl to the lines. Sure, he might still be shot but that was part of war. Better to take a Boche bullet in the lung than ditch behind their lines and spend god-alone knew how long as a prisoner of war. Something in his gut shrank in on itself at the thought of surrender.

No, not from a Reinhart.

Germany might be where his folks were from but Jerry was here fighting for Old Glory. There was no yellow in his country's flag.

"No, sir. There is not."

The hum of another plane disturbed his thoughts, there was no way this was going to be a friendly fighter. Jerry craned his neck, following the sound of the new arrival, looking over his right shoulder, he saw it clear. Scarlet paint shimmered in the fading sunlight, it covered every inch of the tri-plane's bodywork. Maltese crosses were emblazoned on its wings. Here was a man both confident and arrogant, a king riding through his kingdom, not afraid to make a bold target of himself to all comers. A master of the wind.

Richtofen.

Bullets snapped through the air.

He's shooting wide, thought Jerry, trying to get me to ditch on his side of the lines. He looked back over to the horizon, seeing the trench works and the barbed wire that would be sanctuary for him. If he tried, he could out-run the blood-red knight, there would be no sport for his foe in shooting him in the back. Without the promise of a joust, Germany's Ace of Aces would leave him to flee in peace, but it was that word that made Jerry's mind up.

Flee.

He turned the Nieuport to face Richtofen.

The engine choked on the manoeuvre, a mechanical asthmatic fit shook through the craft, making the turn lazy, slow, clumsy. There was nothing left in her, she was running on air and prayer, he would be lucky if she didn't give out here and now.

"I know you don't have long for this, baby, but let's give him hell."

His foe was already climbing, tempting him to rise up and meet him. Jerry urged his flagging steed up, pursuing the German, he readied his guns.

The Red Baron watched him come, patient, watching, waiting.

Then, Richtofen banked, sweeping down towards his prey, a howling angel, falling, as thunder, spitting black lightning from Heaven.

 

Manfred Richtofen watched the rattling wreck of a Nieuport wheeze its way towards him. He admired the American's nerve but the man was a fool, even if he had a good plane, a Spad or a DH2, he would still be done for. He had sacrificed his last drops of fuel to joust, his last chance of getting home.

I gave him that chance, he thought, I shot wide. I warned him that I was here but he did not take heed.

His opponent's flying skills were good but this man was no Hawker, nor a Bolecke. To joust in the air, one needed to become objective, to seal away emotions until the fight was done. Feelings blinkered you, made you lose your temper, they could get you killed.

With his heart racing but his hands steady, Richtofen lined up the sights of his Spandau machine-gun on the wavering shape of the Nieuport. His enemy's fusillade was chattering away into the air, harmless, missing him completely.

The German Ace fired.

 

The Nieuport fell, erupting, trailing swirling streamers of fire.

Jerry clenched his teeth.

He had been an idiot, believing himself to be a daredevil of the skies, equal to Richtofen, thinking that he could take down a pilot with more victories to his name than any man on either side. Baron Richtofen's machine guns stitched neat lines of bullets through his dreams of glory. Jerry did not even get to catch a last look at the crimson hide of the victor before smoke fogged the air around him. The world below was rushing to meet him, an infinite grey wall into which he would crash. Jerry wrestled with the plane's steering.

I can still live through this, he thought, I will survive.

Jerry had looked Death square in the face before.

Stealing coal from the industrial backyards of Columbus, where he grew up. That almost killed him. Jumping onto the trailing tenders of the locomotives to collect the black bounty. One day, he was thrown out onto the tracks. Stunned, he crawled clear. Seconds later, shrieking wheels backed over the space where he had fallen.

Another time he did not look before running out into the street. A horse-drawn car hit him, leaving him with cracked teeth and two shining black-eyes to remember it by. He could have been killed, he wasn't. That was all that was important. That same attitude had gotten him this far. Every time he felt a bullet zing by, dodged Archie fire, or pulled off a stupid and suicidal stunt, he smiled within, knowing he had been safe all along, thinking himself to be an Achilles without a heel. Now, he knew how wrong he had been.

The Nieuport was fighting him as he struggled to right her; it did not want to go on, it had suffered enough, it wanted the torture to end.

But, if I can just get her nose up, he thought, I can coast her over that wood below, that black wood down there.

But the plane's nose refused to lift, there was nothing left of her inner workings. The machinery was a blazing wreck. Burning pieces of her hide tore away, exposing the crumbling charcoal skeleton beneath.

The trees of Black Wood raised their ravaged branches, waiting to embrace the sacrifice from the skies. Jerry felt something clutch at his heart, closing over it with tenebrous fingers, a nauseating touch tugging his insides. The wood spread out below, he could not see beyond its boundaries, there was nothing but jagged cruelty and tortured bracken there. Fire spat in Jerry's face, burning out his eyes, setting his hair on fire. He threw his hands out, the flesh and leather on them igniting. His heart boiled over.

He screamed.

 

The Nieuport crashed into Black Wood. The flaming remains of her wings shearing off. Then, there was silence, no burst of immolation, no flurry of frightened, fleeing birds, only silence.

 

Jerry swam back into the waking world, rising slowly through oblivion's heavy sea. Wicked shadows stood tall and high, he lurched up, sitting forwards.

He was unharmed.

I can't be, he thought, I was burning. Christ, my hair was on fire, I could feel myself melting.

He got to his feet, standing without pain.

Where was the plane, her wreckage?

Jerry scratched his head. He was alive. A weak, worn smile played over his lips. He could see the last of twilight through bark-shorn trees, this wood was near to no man's land, if not in it. He should be able to get back to his side of the lines under the cover of night. Getting to his feet, he began picking his way through the grasping roots of the trees, heading towards the final fading of the day.

He felt shivers crawling up and down his arms.

They came out from amongst the trees, a host of haunted air, flickering, uncertain, pale, gloomy candle flames. Drifting, trailing long dissolute creepers from where hands should be, they were headless, they made no sound, they cast no shadows on the ground. He watched them, praying for this purgatorial procession to depart, leave him to feel a little less insane. How long he stood there, mesmerised, he did not know, until slowly, the figures dissipated, becoming mere outlines in the air, departing clouds of carbon and dust. A wake of emptiness went by, sending a violent trembling through Jerry that he was only just able to quell. Swallowing, he licked his dry lips, he could feel a stirring, a writhing, in his guts that made his mouth tang of blood.

Through a break in the branches, he saw a bright cataract eye, the moon, peering through. It was night and, for a moment, there was a morbid beauty cast upon his charnel house surroundings. The trees were showing their bones, the remaining vestigial flesh of the day sloughing off, revealing buried white horror beneath. A luminous frost passed over the scene, a single ensilvered brushstroke, leaving something there to linger. In Jerry's eyes, it was shining, a freezing light, precious and old, then clouds came over the moon, drowning it in darkness. There was a whispering in his ears that was not the wind. It was inside his head, a crackling in the wet undergrowth crept up on him. Dead things were rising, heaving their moist, mouldy weight out of soft earth, wheezing and breathing. Jerry thought about running.

Black Wood erupted all around him, drowning him in its bloodthirsty roar.

© G.R. Yeates 2011

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Guest Blog by Alan Nayes: Unnatural Thoughts

BOO!

Did I scare you?

Probably not, but the topic for this post is horror—writing designed to frighten as well as entertain the reader.

First, I would like to thank Greg James for inviting me to his blog this week. Greg who writes as G. R. Yeates and is author of The Eyes of the Dead is a horror author and though I don't call myself a horror writer per se, my next release The Unnatural could be loosely categorized as a horror story, dark as it is. So since I am not strictly a writer of horror tales, what inspired me to dip my pencil ( not literally) into the horror genre. Several things.

Horror is fun to read. My favorite horror author is undoubtedly the incomparable Stephen King. I recall when Pet Sematary was released several decades ago—has it been that long?—and I read it thinking not only is this story a fun read, wouldn't it be fun to attempt to write a story like this. I wasn't writing fiction then but I always kept that thought on the back burner. His The Stand is another one of my favorite Stephen King books. So yes, reading horror—good horror—definitely was an impetus for me to delve into the macabre when I finally did decide to write.

But long before King or Pet Sematary , when I was young I used to love watching horror movies on television. I still do when I'm cruising late night cable and see a good flick that catches my attention. Bela Lugosi's Dracula, Boris Karloff's Frankenstein, and Lon Chaney's Wolfman are all horror classics that never cease to make me put the remote down and watch awhile. I've always thought wouldn't it be a fantastic feeling to accomplish what Mary Shelley did—and at only twenty-one—to publish a novel that would be a horror classic for almost two centuries—and counting.(pub in France in 1823)

My inspiration is derived from both mediums—the written and the visual. Though The Unnatural  is my first horror story,  I enjoyed writing it so much, two more are in the works. Hemlock Pond is about a woman and her young son who move into an old farmhouse with a haunted pond on the property. Sometime early next year I hope to release Girl Blue, the dark story of a terminally ill sculptor who becomes haunted by his last work.

So if you hear something under your bed late at night — DON'T LOOK!

Sweet dreams.

Again, thanks Greg for hosting me.

Alan Nayes

 

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Guest Blog by Jeremy Bates: The Situational Thriller Vs. The World!

I write situational thrillers. You know, those books or movies you've seen when the protagonist is smack-dab in the middle of something nasty, and you're thinking: that could happen to me. One of my favorites is Scott Smith's A Simple Plan. Why? Because as I read it I was thinking, Yeah, I would have taken the money too. A couple prominent films along the same lines that come to mind are Open Water—what would you if your scuba diving boat has left you stranded in the middle of the ocean? And Frozen—two guys and a girl stuck on a ski lift in freezing weather. Oh, and some hungry wolves far below!

What would you do?

Why do I like situational thrillers? Because, like legal thrillers with courtroom drama, the suspense is inherent. Why do I write them? My lighthearted answer: because they're easier for me to write than other thrillers, such as action-adventure, medicine, legal, etc. I love reading action-adventure, but, man, does James Rollins and the crew do their homework. Same with the other genres I mentioned. You have to know your stuff. And truthfully, I like telling the story, not doing the research. Sure there is research that goes into situational thrillers. But you're usually dealing with regular characters in regular environments (albeit exceptional situations), which makes it easy to take that initial "What if…?" idea and run with it.

My novel White Lies, which will be released by Oceanview Publishing in spring, 2012, is about a woman who tells a single white lie which quickly spirals out of control until her life and the lives of all those close to her are in jeopardy. What I enjoyed about writing it (aside from taking morbid amusement in sinker the protagonist deeper and deeper into trouble), was the fact that it touched on some pretty significant themes, namely the existential theme you are what you do, not what you say. Or, simply put, action speaks louder than words. In the end, it comes down to realizing you've muffed up and taking responsibility for your actions. After all, everyone has told a lie at some point. Who cares? The real judge of character is how you handle that muff up when it begins to turn sour. Do you take the apparent easy way out and tell another lie? Or do you man up and bite the bullet? It's an interesting question, one in which the answer might not be what you would have yourself believe.

Jeremy Bates

http://jeremybatesbooks.blogspot.com

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