G.R. Yeates's Blog, page 12
July 18, 2011
Guest Post by Sue Owen: Chasing History
My book series, Chasing History is centered on the myths and legends of King Arthur and his round table. It encompasses the legends of Excalibur, Guinevere and Lancelot and their romance and the great wizard Merlin and his role played during those times.
The first book in the series, Wizard of Time, centers on Excalibur and the legend of the Lady of the Lake. I first become enamored of this era with all the romance surrounding Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot as well as Mordred, Morganna and all the fables and tales that came from them. As I tried to do some serious research into King Arthur specifically I was finding so many conflicting stories. Many famous historians from that time period include Arthur Pendragon in their listings of Kings. However, even to this day, I'm told that King Arthur and specifically Camelot didn't exist.
This allowed my imagination to run wild. The stories of Excalibur too were varied. Did Arthur Pendragon pull the sword from the stone to claim the kingship or did the Lady of the Lake give it to him, blessing it and his kingship or did both happen?
I turned to Wikipedia, it being the utmost expert in history (tongue in cheek). Keep in mind I didn't want to prove one way or another for sure if Arthur, et al existed, I was looking for rumors so my research is a bit biased. If you are interested in follow up on this era, here are a few names to consider. Geoffrey of Monmouth's c. 1136 Historia Regum Britanniae (The History of the Kings of Britain) states that Arthur pulled the sword from the stone, looses it and the Lady gives it back, blessing it. Gildas-de-Rhuys polemic De Excidio Britanniae (On the Ruin of Britain) from the 6th century doesn't even mention King Arthur or his reign.
In Merlin's case, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain states Merlin had no power but another famous poem (Merlin) by Robert de Boron labels Merlin a 'shapeshifter.' Mystery also surrounds Guinevere; did she or didn't she marry Mordred? The Vulgate Cycle from the early 13th century says no but Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia (mentioned above) says she did. Both are reputed sources for history of that era.
See why I was so fascinated? Who says I can't be right, too!
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July 17, 2011
Sample Sunday: The Writhing by G.R. Yeates
Angrisla Castle was a mouldering cluster of grey teeth thrusting out of the dark ground against the whitening dawn. The coach, dulled by years of use, hissed and creaked to a stop in the grounds. Feet squelched down into wet earth as the tourist party disembarked. Hearty American accents sounded out, too bright and heavy for the thin greying English air.
Elly could see it in his eyes, his resentment at being here. Barry was not a morning person by a long way and she could see his irritation as he made grand gestures of plucking the grains of sleep from his eyes. But she had so wanted to see Angrisla Castle. According to the guide, Mr Phillips, a pale-faced gaunt, the Castle was a very spooky place. There were stories about the last owner, a doctor of some sort, experimenting with this and that, making new kinds of animal. Just like in the stupid old movies she used to watch with her brother when they were kids. The stories, according to Mr Phillips, said that the doctor was arrested and put in the madhouse. They never found the things he made.
"His children," Mr Philips had said, "His children, no, they never found them. Not one of 'em left alive, no."
Probably all bullshit but it gave the place some atmosphere, a touch of awe, she thought.
Barry trudged along beside her as the party followed Mr Phillips up the path cut into the hillside to the castle entrance; a gothic arch that made Elly's heart quicken. There was something in this architecture that got her going, the weathered curves and old lines. Reaching out as she passed through it she felt the roughness of the stone under her fingertips, she felt a frisson, a pebbling of the skin.
Oh yes, she thought, I want to do something here.
Mr Phillips' voice was an insipid drone as he led the tourists from one open chamber of the castle to another. Limp gestures of the wrist indicating worn-out gargoyles and water-battered carvings, triggering mutters of varying interest and a clicking staccato of camera flashes from the crowd. Elly's hand was in Barry's and she was tugging him after her, away from the party.
"Elly, what're you doing?" he whispered.
"Didn't you see that small archway back there?"
"The one to the crypt?"
"Yeah."
"Mr Phillips said not to go down there. There's a chain across it, 'member?"
"Come on, Barry. I want to do something here."
"Do something? You're joking, Elly. Not now."
"Yes now, I want you to go into the crypt and do something."
"But he said it's dangerous down there. Loose stones. The ceiling's not safe."
"You either come with me, Barry, or I'll go down there myself and have a good time."
"Elly-"
"You try to stop me, I'll punch you."
"For God's sakes, why're you being such a hard-ass about this? Can't it wait until we're back at the hotel?"
"No, Barry. That's why I want to do something different, right here and now. In England. In this castle. In the crypt."
Barry sighed, rubbing his eyes, "Okay, Elly. You win. Let's go."
Elly beamed, leaned in, kissed him on the cheek and led him away.
There was a wicked deliciousness to ducking under the loose chain hanging across the crypt archway and setting her feet on that first step. As she went down into the emptiness below, Elly could smell the mould in the air; feel the soiled dampness of the space. This place was so old, older than anywhere back home in the States. That was the attraction. Doing something bad on this hallowed ground, made sacred by its ancient age. She could hear the reluctance in each footstep of Barry's. He was a sweetheart but he needed his training. There was no denying she was the alpha in their relationship, the one who liked to do things like this.
Elly reached the flagstones of the crypt itself and stopped, waiting for Barry to finish his descent. Through the gloom, she could see the oblong hollows in the walls of the crypt, where dust that had once been bones resided. Her eyes came to rest on what she had hoped would be there. A long, raised central stone, possibly a tomb, just what they needed.
"So, what now?" Barry said, carefully, into her ear, not wanting to upset the stones hanging overhead.
The whistling of his breath, so warm, so close, made her nibble on her lip. Already getting excited by what was to come. Her palms were clammy as she took Barry's fingers and squeezed them, "Wait out here, sweetie. I'm going to make myself comfortable over there," she pointed at the central stone, "and then you come in and we do it."
"You want me to be like a monster in one of those movies?"
"If you like, sweetie," she kissed his fingers and then let them go, "if you like."
Elly shucked off her shoes and peeled off her socks. The cold kisses of crypt-stone were like crushed ice being pressed against her soles and toes, it made her fidget with her fingers and thumbs, enjoying the moment. She finished undressing her legs, leaving her shirt on, for now. She reclined, giggling in her throat, onto the central stone, peering up into the black static of the ceiling and its corners, throwing her arms about dramatically, giggling some more.
She caught a glimpse of something, white, wet and tuberous. It was moving with uneasy, trembling motions, strangely bulbous in places, like a malformed albino caterpillar.
Weird, she thought.
Then it was gone, lost amongst the shifting underground shades.
The central stone was an arctic block under her buttocks, she could feel them growing gooseflesh as she waited for Barry to make his entrance.
Come on sweetie, she thought, don't get cold feet on me now.
From the darkness of the entrance there came a sound. A punctuation of the dismal air. Barely begun, then stopping so suddenly. Elly felt her ardour diminish, her loins becoming less eager than they were. She closed her waiting thighs together and sat up straight, pulling her shirt back down over her bared stomach.
"Barry?" she called, low and hoarse.
A footstep, a pause, then another. Then another pause, then another step. There he was, steadily stumbling in, emitting soft, throaty groans.
Oh, I see, she thought, playing zombies, are we?
"You are so bad," she said.
Barry came slowly towards her, his legs and feet as bare as hers. His manhood was already arching out, long and swollen. The head glimmered in the dim light, thoroughly moistened. A single sticky white tear wept from its tip.
That's what was holding you up, she thought, you were getting yourself ready for me over there.
"Good boy."
Elly lay back across the stone and parted her thighs for him, closing her eyes as she did. She heard his breathing, still stopping, starting and stopping.
"Really working hard at the zombie thing, aren't you, hun?"
She felt him kneeling, then his hands moving across her feet, ankles, reaching up her legs, brushing over her upper thighs. His fingers had grown cold. They made her gasp as he teased the dampening lips of her vulva apart with them. They were rough too. Cool and rough like the stone of that arch she touched earlier.
Odd thought, that. No, don't be ridiculous, stop thinking dumb shit, let go, relax, enjoy.
Those rough, cold fingers of his, they pierced her, one at a time, and she let out a cry, then a long shuddering breath. He was drawing himself up over her, she could feel his weight, so familiar yet somehow different. There was something he was doing, a halting motion in his rhythm as he pushed the hard meat of his erection into her, that made her still wonder, want to pull away, make him withdraw.
It's just the zombie thing, she thought, nothing to worry about. He's doing what you said to do. He's going at it steadily, taking his time, making it last out. Being a good boy.
Christ, he was so hard though and so cold. And his cock felt rough inside her, like his fingers had been, like the stone underneath her. Elly's breath quickened, because of him, because of what she was feeling, thinking.
Rough, cold, stone.
Dead.
Everything stopped, all of it, she could feel space closing in around her, going black, growing tight. Her heart was beating in her ears. Her throat was a whistling pinhole. Her breath became as halting as Barry's. She tried to move, raise her arms up, but she was caught under him, him inside her, spearing her, keeping her in place. This was not how she had thought it would be. This didn't feel like fun anymore. This was too much like those stupid old movies she used to watch with her brother. The crypt, the damsel, the monster, the ritual.
The sacrifice.
Her eyes were now as wet as her nethers. It hurt inside, his cold, hard stone abrading her soft, tender layers.
She opened her eyes.
"Barry, please."
She looked into his eyes. She went as limp as one of Mr Phillips' hand gestures. Barry's eyes, his dead eyes, were as cold and rough as stone. His mouth hung open and, from between his lips, she saw long, white things dangling. A host of thin tubers writhing in the musty air that was coming from his broken mouth, strangely bulbous, trembling uneasily. She saw the deep gash on Barry's crown, a piece of bone showing through the flesh there, where a stone had fallen. No, where a stone had been dropped. By something that looked like a malformed albino caterpillar, something that had not been found when the authorities searched the castle.
One of his children.
The voice of Mr Phillips spoke the words inside her head.
Then, with a grinding granite groan, Barry came inside her, hard and cold.
And, whatever it was that came out of him and went deep into her, burrowing away, she knew it wasn't semen. There was no warmth there; no rush to the motion of ejaculation, there was only the writhing, insipid and slow.
Nothing but the writhing.
END
© G.R. Yeates 2011
The Eyes of the Dead is available now:
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July 11, 2011
The End of War
When Claude Stanley Choules passed away this year, we lost our last living connection to the First World War, making it now and forever a part of history, no longer a thing of living memory.
I can remember thinking about what this would mean back in 2006 when I started researching for The Eyes of the Dead, some of the titles of the books I bought at the time tell the story well enough; The Last Tommies, The Last Veteran and Forgotten Voices, these acknowledged that we were on the brink of a historical precipice but what does that mean now that we have crossed onto the other side?
I think it means that something has been lost.
Of those that survived the Great War, only a few were willing to talk of their experiences and the horrors that they told of are unequalled in recent military history. I say unequalled because the Great War was a grey war, purpose was eclipsed by pointlessness, worth by waste. The military and political leaders applied the tactics and politics of the nineteenth century to a mechanised twentieth century war. Even in the late stages of the conflict, during the Passchendaele campaign, there were Generals hoping for the moment to arise when they could send the cavalry in and sweep away the Hun in a glorious charge to victory. It sounds ridiculous and comic now but they thought this would genuinely be possible. The price though was paid not by the Generals but by civilians and the men in the trenches, ever has it been so.
As we move further into the twenty-first century, there seems to have been little change in how our conflicts are fought and resolved, almost as if the First World War served as a grotesque blueprint for what was to come, which I think signifies just what was lost, the nature of that something I mentioned before.
Understanding.
From those civilians and the men who served and survived, like Claude Choules, we could have better understood what path we were on and still going down. Better than annual tributes, we could have looked at and understood not only why wars happen but what they do to us as people, the scars that they leave behind. Sadly, we did not do this and now that chapter in history is closed to us, because we were not there and if you are not there then understanding is difficult, if not impossible. We could have made the nickname it earned of 'The War to End All Wars' actually mean something but we chose not to and now that phrase stands instead as a judgment over us.
The next chapter to close will be that of the Second World War and I hope that humanity can learn something there before it is too late, from a time that gave us the Holocaust, Little Boy and Fat Man, and thus make a start down the path that will lead us to the end of war.
The Eyes of the Dead is available now:
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June 30, 2011
Guest Interview: Jessica Meigs, Author of The Becoming
Today I am pleased to be interviewing Jessica Meigs, author of The Becoming; a series of post-apocalyptic zombie horror coming soon from Permuted Press. Read on for discussion of the apocalypse, pulp .vs. literary horror, her favourite authors and thoughts on the zombie movie that started it all.
Tell us how you got started as a writer and who or what your early inspirations were?
I've been a writer for almost as long as I can remember. I spent a lot of time as a kid writing goofy little stories that mostly mimicked things that I had read; I know for sure that as far back as second grade, I was actually actively writing down the stories I came up with instead of just telling them out loud. However, it was only in the past year or so that I started to get really serious about my writing and becoming a professional author. It was last October that I decided that if I was genuinely serious about making a career out of writing that I would actually have to start selling my work. I was intrigued
by the process of self-publication on the Kindle and Nook, especially since I'd been reading eBooks for quite some time and was a big fan of the technology. As I had had a decent demand from people on Twitter for the book I was writing, I decided that that was the way to go.
I self-published the first part of my story as The Becoming: Outbreak in the last week of December 2010. The response at the time was moderate; in that week, I sold somewhere in the neighborhood of 45 copies. In January and February, though, my sales absolutely exploded, and they continued to surge with the release of my second novella, The
Becoming: Safe House, in the last week of February. Both novellas were on the Amazon Bestsellers' in Horror list for quite some time; I don't believe either one dropped off of the list at all during the month of
March.
And then on April 1st, I received an email that, I believe, changed my life: to have my little zombie story (and the three following novellas I'd planned for release) reissued by Permuted Press as a trilogy beginning at the end of this year. To turn the offer down would have been ridiculously stupid, as I was after exposure more than money at that point, and so I signed the contracts and became, in my eyes, the professional writer I wanted to be.
As for my early inspirations, they were wide and varied. Everything from L. Frank Baum to R.L. Stine and Lois Duncan and everything in between. I was a heavy reader who dug into anything I could put my hands on (and really, I'm still that way!). When I was in the 8th grade, I started to get really into the science fiction and fantasy genres and in the process read J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit and, later, The Lord of the Rings. After that, I was sold on the possibilities of the genre, and since then, I've made it a habit to re-read and study LOTR every year. I've had many, many other inspirations, but Tolkien's writing in general (and LOTR in specific) were the catalyst for me starting to write more than silly little short stories.
The first novel in your zombie horror series, The Becoming, is soon to be released by Permuted Press. Could you tell us why the zombie appealed to you out of all the classic monsters in the bestiary?
I've been fascinated by the concept of zombies and zombie-like creatures (and the post-apocalyptic / dystopian subgenre in general) ever since I saw Night of the Living Dead on TV as a kid. The fascination was just sort of a side thing initially, mostly along the lines of, "Oh, look, a zombie movie on TV." But it was when I started to really get into reading zombie literature about two or three years ago that I started to see the possibilities of using zombie lit as a vehicle for the multitude of ideas that I wanted to shove out there for the world to read. The zombie genre is incredibly flexible and can
be used to show just about any theme a writer wants to put on display. You can take average people and make them extraordinary just by throwing them into this unimaginable scenario where they find themselves not only fighting for survival but fighting for survival against these creatures that have the faces of the people they love. The very idea of having to, say, shoot your mother or your father or a sibling or even a child because they're trying to kill you is one of
the worst things I could imagine, and what other way outside of zombies could I show that horror on a grand scale?
What do you think makes The Becoming unique?
This is a tough question! I think when it comes to it, one of the major things that makes my trilogy fairly unique is that it's a zombie book that isn't about zombies. It's really more a story about survival, about friendship and love and finding out who you are and what makes you human and digging your nails in and never letting go of that. It's about recognizing your destiny when you find yourself facing it, and taking hold of it and fulfilling it. It's a trilogy that is very much character-driven as opposed to blood-and-gore driven like a lot of zombie novels seem to be nowadays; I've read many that are a borderline list of anti-zombie military tactics and weapons lists right out of a survivalist's wet dream, but those books tend to focus on that to the expense of characterization. I didn't want to do that. The zombie apocalypse is just the circumstances the characters live in; the weapons are just the tools they use to survive. Ultimately, it should be about the PEOPLE themselves.
Is there one character in The Becoming you identify with the most, and why?
I think in an effort to keep from confusing any potential readers, I'm going to stick with characters from the first of the trilogy (especially since the cast of characters essentially doubles by the beginning of the second book). I believe if I had to choose a character from The Becoming that I not so much identify with as look up to, it would likely be Cade Alton. Cade is a very strong-willed, tough-minded woman who takes no shit from anybody, who is willing to stand up for what she believes in and is willing to fight to survive in the dirtiest manner possible if she finds it necessary. She's a very strong character, probably the strongest female character I've ever written, but at the same time, she isn't afraid to be feminine.
She's also, by all accounts, the most original character I've ever written; my editor tells me that she's incredibly realistic and very believable, and she generally seems to be readers' favorite character (overwhelmingly!). She's definitely the one I'm the most proud of, to say the least.
However, that's not to say the other characters aren't ones I identify with though. There are elements of the other characters that feel as if they're a part of me or my life in general. As an example, Ethan Bennett is a police officer; growing up, my father was one and I've had a great respect for law enforcement officers ever since. And the
character Theo is a paramedic; I myself am an EMT-Basic, so there's an element there that I can definitely identify with. There are others, but to try to list all of it here would make this entirely too long!
What are the pleasures and pains of writing a series of novels as opposed to a standalone?
Standalones are, in my opinion, far, FAR easier to write than series novels! With a standalone novel, once the end of the story is reached, typically it's over and done with. But with a series, you have to know exactly where you're going in book two and three while you're writing book one, so you can adequately foreshadow and work hints of the forthcoming plots into the first book. And if your book gets published and something drastic happens in the third that changes your storyline? You end up having to turn tricks to twist the story to where you need it to go WITHOUT contradicting anything in the first
book. Writing a series, at times, is the very definition of insanity, and honestly? I wouldn't trade it for anything!
Why do you think zombie and post-apocalyptic horror is so popular at the moment?
I think that the zombie and post-apocalyptic horror genres have always been popular; how else to explain the presence of publishers like Permuted Press, who specialize in the genre and have been around for quite some time? However, I believe that, like vampire literature, zombie lit experiences ups and downs in popularity, some higher than others. And right now, we find ourselves in the midst of what I can only call a renaissance of paranormal literature; everywhere you turn,
there's books on paranormal topics.
I am of the opinion (and I might be wrong on this, but all evidence points to the contrary) that zombie and post-apocalyptic literature is experiencing its present surge because there is a segment of readers who have gotten tired of the whole vampire shtick. Everywhere you look, it's nothing but vampires and werewolves, a phenomenon that I can only blame on the popularity of series like Twilight. These fans of paranormal literature are looking for something other than vampires
to read about, and I think a natural movement towards zombies has begun that, I believe, will only grow with the future releases of movies like World War Z.
Is there one particular writer of horror fiction that has inspired you? If not, please discuss two or three of your favourites, what you feel is unique about their work, and what you think you took from reading them.
I read a LOT of books, both in the horror and non-horror genres (non-fiction included!), so I'm inspired by tons of writers in all the genres I enjoy reading. But focusing JUST on the horror genre, if I had to choose my favorites (who have, incidentally, inspired me greatly in the process), it would definitely be Max Brooks, Mira Grant, and Jonathan Maberry.
I absolutely LOVE Max Brooks' World War Z. When I'm asked about what my favorite zombie books are or which ones I would recommend to someone new in the genre, I typically recommend this one first. While the Zombie Survival Guide is a useful book to have for reference in the process of writing a zombie novel, it's World War Z that has made a significant impact on my own writing. As a historian, I feel that the oral history style of writing Brooks took in WWZ was an interesting way to write it; it really made the events of the book feel like they really happened, and I think that made it the most frightening of all the books that I typically recommend. I think Brooks absolutely nailed the way human nature would play out in the process of a zombie apocalypse or other major, worldwide disaster.
Mira Grant is another author that I've been absorbed by. She's writing a trilogy called the Newsflesh Trilogy. Currently, the first two books are out: Feed and Deadline. They follow a brother and sister approximately fifteen years after a major zombie outbreak called The Rising as they cover a presidential campaign as journalists/bloggers. The world Grant created in the process of writing her two novels is absolutely brilliant. Unlike Brooks', which seems to look more at the behavior of ordinary humans and governments in the event of and aftermath of an outbreak, Grant's novels are more in line with the type of zombie novel where the zombies have a heavy presence and the virus is a major motivating factor of the plotline. I don't want to say anymore about the plotline of either book because it would likely spoil it for future readers; however, if you haven't read either book yet, definitely pick up Feed (which is available as an eBook for only $7.99 on Amazon) and give it a try. Let's just say there's a reason it's been nominated for a Hugo Award!
And lastly, Jonathan Maberry. My first exposure to Maberry was through his book Rot & Ruin, and I was totally blown away by it. It's really more of a Young Adult novel, but I had heard so much good stuff about it (and it included ZOMBIES, man!) so I had to give it a try. And I'm SO glad I did. Unlike a lot of zombie authors, Maberry really hammered home the idea of the humanity of the zombies, if that makes any sense. He reminds the reader throughout the books via the main character's older brother that the zombies used to be people and they're just sick and deserve to be treated with respect and dignity when they're put down. That's a point that I think a lot of authors miss, and while I won't say how that influenced my own trilogy directly, I will say that I definitely took that aspect of a zombie apocalypse away from Rot &
Ruin.
Romero's Night of the Living Dead or Fulci's Zombie, and why?
If I had to choose, I'd definitely say Romero's Night of the Living Dead. I think the main reason for this is because it has some connection to my childhood (in that I first saw it as a child, as I mentioned previously) and because it's the movie that kicked off my interest in zombies. The black and white and heavily shadowed film adds to the horror, and the film was one of the first to show an African American man in charge of a group of Caucasians, which in the 60s was very significant and highly unusual in film. Besides all that, who can beat the creep-factor of lines like, "They're coming to get
you, Barbara!"
What is your own opinion on the perceived division between pulp horror and literary horror? Do you think there is a difference or is it all smoke and mirrors?
I'm probably going to get shot for this opinion, but I'll throw it out there anyway. I DO think that there is a difference between the two, but the difference is all smoke and mirrors. I think that the "literary" horror simply involves an author writing the exact same things as an author of "pulp" horror, with the sole difference being more flowery sentences and the overuse of a thesaurus to make it more "respectable." Despite the supposed respectability of "literary" horror, I think pulp horror sells and will always sell far better than literary horror, because it offers an easier escape for the average
reader.
I once read a three-part article on The Monster Librarian where she discusses the reasons why the horror genre is treated as if it were the redheaded stepchild of the literary world. The article is here and she definitely outlines my thoughts on the matter far more eloquently than I could ever hope to. It's essentially a must-read for horror fans who are tired of their favorite genre getting picked on!
What can we expect from Jessica Meigs in the future? Are there other avenues in the horror genre you wish to explore? Will you be looking to break into other genres as well?
The more immediate things you can expect from me are the releases of second and third books in The Becoming trilogy (after, of course, the release of the first book later this year). Besides that, I'm currently sitting on a stack of ideas, including a half finished manuscript involving poltergeists and a murder mystery (when I say it like that, it sounds SO hokey!), several novellas that will likely be expanded at some point, and a few other ideas that I don't want to reveal because they're really good ones, still in the research stage, and I'm trying to keep the details from getting out at this point. As you can see, I'm definitely planning to break out into other types of horror, but at the moment, zombies are definitely my focus!
I'm not sure if I'll break into other genres at this point. If I happen to get a great idea that isn't horror, I'm sure I'll write it,
just to see how it turns out. If it ends up being something sellable/marketable, then sure, I'll look into getting it published (most likely self-published, though). But I can't say yes or no at this point!
Thank you for answering my questions, Jessica. It's been a pleasure.
For further information on Jessica Meigs and her projects:
http://www.jessicameigs.com
http://www.facebook.com/JessicaMeigs
http://www.twitter.com/JessicaMeigs
The Becoming (Book One in The Becoming Trilogy) is currently available for preorder from Permuted Press on BN.com for only $10.08!
NB: This is the preorder link for the paperback copy; the eBook isn't available for preorder yet. Please also note that 12/01/11 is a placeholder date and it will most likely be out before that date.
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June 27, 2011
Guest Blog by Christopher M. Thompson: A Song without Music
As a form, I think poetry is an often overlooked art. Many people are under the misconception that it HAS to rhyme, which is not always the case. Others may think it simply to be couplets and not be aware of the many styles out there. My own book is a mixture of forms from acrostic, to couplets, to non-rhyming free verse. In fact, one of my favorites – "I Love Me" is little more than a head to toe list of things that a woman loves about herself, followed by a twist in the end that lets the reader know that she really hated those things about herself all along. Could it have been done in prose? Sure. When I wrote it, however, the words flowed like music in my mind and that, to me, is what poetry is despite the form…a song without music.
As a means of expression, I think that it makes wonderful use of what visual artists refer to as 'negative space, letting the reader fill in not only their own descriptive details, but emotional details as well. One of my early works, "Forgotten Warrior" was written purely as an abstract on purpose, to allow the reader to see the face that they wanted to see. Many saw Jesus. Others saw military veterans. Single parents. Cops. The list is exhaustive and seemingly endless. As pure prose, it would be more difficult to paint such a mental picture, I think, as narrative prose makes you define the adverbs a bit more clearly through both description of the subject and their surroundings.
Lastly, here are my thoughts on how poetry compares to prose as a whole. In my mind, there is no comparison, really. Both are written word and have as much in common as the edible choices between steak and lobster. Two totally different animals. There is, however, the hint of crossovers at times. The prose of many, depending on the wording, is often described as 'very poetic.' In the same tack, many poems like "Beowulf" or my own "Breakfast Anytime", serve to tell a narrative story. In the end, I think that the two are equals and that the match should be considered a draw but, for the reader's palate, there will always be the choice between steak and lobster.
For more information on Christopher M. Thompson:
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June 26, 2011
The Dead in June 12: The Graveless Dead
The total number of military and civilian casualties in World War I came to 37.5 million and it is currently listed as being the sixth deadliest human conflict in world history. The Entente Powers, otherwise known as the Allies, lost 5.7 million soldiers whilst the Central Powers, led by Germany, lost 4 million. Numbers such as this are difficult to truly comprehend when one sits back and thinks about them, that inability to have a clear conception makes the sense of loss all the greater. Having visited the military cemeteries on the continent, I can say that the sight of so many gravestones, then only numbering in the hundreds, is a sobering experience.
The lost and missing, the graveless dead, are listed on memorials to honour their sacrifice. The Thiepval Memorial, designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens, is the largest British war memorial in the world and contains the names of 73,357 British and South African men who fell on the Somme between July 1916 and 20 March 1918.
The Menin Gate Memorial to the Missing, designed by Sir Reginald Blomfield, is in Ypres, Belgium and is dedicated to British and Commonwealth soldiers who were killed in the Ypres Salient during World War One and whose bodies were never recovered. The Ypres Salient being the primary setting of The Eyes of the Dead.
It was chosen to be a memorial as it was the closest of the town's gates to the fighting though the Entente soldiers actually used the other gates of Ypres when entering and departing. The Menin Gate was a target because of its proximity to the frontline and often came under heavy shellfire.
The Menin Gate's Hall of Memory contains the names of 54,896 Commonwealth soldiers but not all of the names originally planned. The Gate's panels could only list the dead up until 15 August 1917, once again we see a representation of the enormity of the loss created by World War One. The remainder of the missing are commemorated on the Tyne Cot Memorial to the Missing.
Following the opening of the Menin Gate Memorial in 1927, the Last Post ceremony was inaugurated. Every evening at 8 o'clock, buglers from the local fire brigade sound the Last Post and, with the exception of the German occupation during World War Two, this ceremony has been observed ever since. The buglers remain at the scene for a short time after the ceremony and showing appreciation is only deemed acceptable at this time. To applaud during the ceremony is frowned upon as the event is not a tourist attraction but a solemn acknowledgement to those who died.
The following video shows an example of the ceremony:
The Last Post at the Menin Gate
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June 22, 2011
June 18, 2011
The Dead in June 10: Sample from The Eyes of the Dead
Its eyes were pools of absolute obsidian. Black howling portals of hell. Black as an ocean under a moonless night sky. The eyes froze the two soldiers where they stood. The scrawny naked thing cocked its head on one side, looking at them. A curving smile sliced across its thin, scabrous face. It showed them teeth that were cracked with decay. Splinters and needles, dark yellow and deep brown. Its fingernails were long and torn, clicking like hollow beetle shells.
It stepped forwards.
Then it fell.
It fell apart.
Wilson could not believe what he was seeing. The figure hit the ground in pieces. Hairy moving pieces. Squirming, shrieking pieces. A milling, verminous mass that came surging towards the two soldiers.
The paralysing gaze was broken. They turned to run. The rats were already under their feet. Writhing forms clustering, tripping them. They kicked and stumbled their way towards the steps. Tiny bones crunched underfoot. The vermin shrieked in unholy chorus. Wilson scrambled up the steps of the crypt, ahead of Smithy. The moon bobbing in crazy eights above him. He lunged towards the opening.
A scream pierced the air. Hands grabbed onto Wilson's legs. He was pulled back down the steps. Smithy had fallen. He was dragging Wilson down with him. The moon bobbed away. Abandoning him to the rats and the shadows. Wilson's front teeth cracked down on stone. Breaking, then slicing into his bottom lip. He spat out pieces of bloodied enamel. Turning his head, he saw what was making Smithy scream.
"Brookes! You let me go! That's an order!"
His torn throat flapping away, Brookes stared up at Wilson with glassy eyes. There was no life there. An emotionless grin cut its way across the dead boy's face. Brookes had Smithy by the legs. The old man was thrashing about, tugging at Wilson, trying to use him as leverage to pull himself free.
Smithy's voice broke, "Brookes, for pity's sake, let me go."
Rats swarmed over Brookes. Shredding his flesh as they passed. The corpse didn't flinch. The timbre of Smithy's screaming changed, rising high.
The rats had reached him.
Wilson's eyes swelled as he realised the rats would soon be upon him too. His stomach began binding itself into strangling knots at the thought. Feeling Smithy's fingers slackening, Wilson kicked himself free. Smithy pawed the air, grasping at Wilson, reaching out to him for help. Wilson shook him off. Smithy grasped again.
Wilson booted him in the face.
He drove one foot and then the other into Smithy's face. Cartilage gave way under the assault. Smithy let out a thick nasal yell. His broken nostrils spitting out thick streams of blood. Wilson clambered backwards up the steps, away from his comrades.
One, dead.
The other, soon to be.
Wilson felt sick, watching Smithy flounder, drowning under the grim, ferocious tide. His uniform hanging in shreds, as was his skin, Wilson could barely tell one from the other. Twitching scabby forms, slick with gore, wriggled over Smithy, chewing on him. As Wilson watched, Smithy's skin began undulating, rising and falling, bubbling.
There were rats under his skin.
Wilson gagged at the sight.
They were inside the Sergeant. Gnawing away his vitals. Smithy grasped one last time at the steps, trying to haul his violated body free. His eyes locked onto Wilson's. Smithy opened his mouth to speak. He could not speak. There was a lump in his throat. Wilson could see it, protruding, moving. Smithy tensed his oesophagus, trying to clear the obstruction. It didn't clear. The world spun in a hot, dizzy haze. Brilliant streaks of agony raced along the remnants of his nerves. Smithy felt hairs pricking his Adam's apple. Bony daggers raking the back of his mouth. Tooth and claw cutting soft membrane open. Blood ran into Smithy's mouth. Oblivion's brackish waters swept through his brain. He felt his bowels emptying, sending rats squealing away from the sudden gush. He couldn't stop his body convulsing. His mouth was filling with a mass of fetid skin and wiry hair.
His jaw cracked. Forced open. Splitting wide.
A black rat burst free from Smithy's mouth, robed in a miasma of blood and matter. Smithy fell. His eyes rolled up, revealing the whites. His fingers clutched-unclutched. Then he was still.
The rat looked at Wilson. He recognised it. It was the rat from the shell hole. Big, black and unafraid. It made no move towards him. Neither did any of the other rats. They all perched on the corpses of Smithy and Brookes. Dozens of tiny glittering eyes illuminating the crypt, calmly watching the shivering Private.
They know me, thought Wilson.
Wilson clambered up, one unsteady foot after another; he started backing up the last few steps to the surface. He looked at the rats. They looked at him. None of them moved. He felt rubble grind under his heel. Another few steps. There was a squelch underfoot. One more step. He felt a light breeze. He was back on the surface.
Out of the crypt.
Wilson turned and ran. The wail of shells was, for the first time, greeted by him with a smile. He flung himself onto the ground. Breathing in a mouthful of muck. It tasted good. Rolling over onto his back, he spread his arms wide. Rain hammered down on him from the heavens above. It mingled with the tears pouring from his eyes. Wilson looked up at the skies, at the empty darkness there, the cold and ancient light of the stars. He laughed out loud.
It was an awful sound.
© G.R. Yeates 2011
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They Live Forever: Guest Blog by Laura Yirak
The vampire! It's a creature that has always held me in curiosity, but not fear. My first encounter with it was in the 1987 movie "The Lost Boys", I was eight. Why did my parents let me watch such a movie? They didn't. I snuck in and watched their video rental and there it began, my attraction to them.
They can live forever! That's if you don't cut their heads off or stake them through the heart. They can transform, be invisible; the possibilities seem endless and for a writer this has my head spinning with ideas!
Symbolically they hold onto another idea of heaven, a very dark idea of heaven. In my previous work I have seen many people die. In this realm I always felt that there was something else in the room with me physically after the heart stopped beating, the air was thick, palpable, I could just feel some kind of energy.
I took this experience and used it creatively in my book, "Delivered to Eternity." The vampire gave me all the possibilities to play with the idea of one's soul and what happens to it. My vampires can take your soul because to me it is a physical thing to be had!
Delivered to Eternity is out now!
Click here to visit Laura's website.
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June 17, 2011
Taking the First Step: Guest Blog by Heather Marie Adkins
Fifteen years ago, I was one of millions who wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Today, I'm still one of millions with the same dream, but the difference is I'm finally doing something about it.
It was a lava-encrusted road to this point. I began with the skewed traditional-publishing-is-better attitude when my dad first recommended I try publishing my own work. You know the arguments–if you self-pub, your book will never see a trad pub press; you could ruin your name and completely bomb, etc. etc. etc. The rejection process is completely disheartening, even to the most talented of writers. My dad got sick of listening to me bih and basically told me to get the heck out of my own way.
So, I did. I ran some research–gods, I love Google, don't you? What I found made me a convert, and her name is Amanda Hocking. His name is JA Konrath. Victorine Lieski. But, ultimately, it was Cheryl Shireman whose success story pushed me down this path. What do they have that I don't? Nothing but the gumption to go for it, to make their dreams a reality. After begrudgingly admitting to my father he was right, I began planning.
The Temple began life as a Nanowrimo novel in 2009. Of course, I never considered it would see the light of day, but here it is, set to be uploaded June 20th. Thirty days of sweat, tears, and enough coffee to fill our backyard swimming pool culminated in 55,000 words of a story that owns my heart. Quite different from my usual de-structured writing of serious procrastination, doodling around online or sticking my nose in a book. I am the epitome of "I should be writing"–one day, I'll get it tattooed on my forehead; after I make my first million 
A round of final revisions left the tips of my fingers skinless. A dash of formatting a la Guido Henkel made it in to an honest-to-goodness e-book. Add a book cover, a magic spell for success, and a quick prayer that I'm not headed for heartache.
I'm terrified, people. The idea of self-publishing makes me want to tear out my hair and cast handfuls into the flame of a sacrificial fire. Or drink myself to oblivion. Then again, it's also liberating. There's a world and a market for people like me. When I look at my experimental publication, a free e-book short story called Underneath, my hair blows away from my face as the first strains of Freebird play in the background…
Ahem, sorry. Been a great week!
If I want to be a published author, making a living from my writing, then it's long past time for me to start. If you're one of those out there, balancing precariously on the edge of I-don't-know…fall with us.
We are an army of literarians (I made that word up, just go with it). Together we laugh, we cry, we offer each other condolences, congratulations, and a constant supply of figurative stiff drinks when our own wells run dry. We are writers.
Boy, does it suck a big one. Only sometimes.
The Temple will be available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords on June 20th. I'll link to it from my blog, listed below.
Check out Underneath for free here:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/65758
Find me at:
http://heather.bishoffs.com (my blog)
http://www.facebook.com/heathermarieadkinsauthor
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