tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9793505729875640592024-03-03T15:07:20.435-08:00Shadow ChildrenThe work and musings of dark fiction writer John Vault.John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-31097098073313620712018-03-19T22:08:00.000-07:002018-08-15T16:55:00.196-07:00Space Monkeys.<br />
As a young child growing up in England, I had very little access to US format comics. We had plenty of our own publications to go at of course, but the US magazine format publications were like another world. The artwork was far more advanced, and the stories, especially the pre-code horror mags such as 'Tales of Terror', were horrifying in a way that has affected me to the present day. I absolutely could not get enough of it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS010hIfICJNx9slb776tU6BR_TI62t6ei6HKIyToEtfHQvtrdSVPeHiIE7JqgjkFdgq6F3Vsgwo-CfqcITAMWPiTVEVmn-vFRcrOeUFZd8Sp99EinWlO3An63nlLe9w4xmUs2bhDveIxZ/s1600/PCTOT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS010hIfICJNx9slb776tU6BR_TI62t6ei6HKIyToEtfHQvtrdSVPeHiIE7JqgjkFdgq6F3Vsgwo-CfqcITAMWPiTVEVmn-vFRcrOeUFZd8Sp99EinWlO3An63nlLe9w4xmUs2bhDveIxZ/s320/PCTOT.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My mother tried to take them from me. That didn't work. I invented new and unique hiding places for my insidious contraband and would adopt the classic method of reading by torchlight under the bedclothes. I really wish someone would just dig out all of the pre-code publications and re-release them.<br />
<br />
All that being said, the thing that really made the US format comics stand out were the advertisements.<br />
<br />
The ads were aimed at people of my age (despite the fact that the vast majority of pre-code consumers were undoubtedly adults), and they promised fantastic things:<br />
<br />
<i>'Be a super scary 7ft ghost!'</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>'Learn to throw your voice. Amaze your friends, Fun at parties!'</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>'X-Ray specs! See through clothing and walls!'</i><br />
<br />
There was always a tiny order form at the bottom of the ad.<br />
<br />
Wow! These were like superpowers. I soaked up all of the hook lines, my captivated prepubescent mind desperately trying to imagine where I could get some American cash, and how much the postage would be. Also... What the hell is a zip code?<br />
<br />
But the ad that really got me, the one that blew my tiny mind and sent my imagination into orbit was this one...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW1RmFm0_YdYbDDFtMHAnzb_YC6AYNiS5n2aqjTJ3_wXB4NJYH6maVupvXdhR0na0oXf5IuHriCLK_3uhHbZRa5oTLTAdmxkSjYosHS4P3Z6ctMj7mw5Sf3rQqjqAL9sExq_H09YOmp46s/s1600/Sea+Monkey+Ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW1RmFm0_YdYbDDFtMHAnzb_YC6AYNiS5n2aqjTJ3_wXB4NJYH6maVupvXdhR0na0oXf5IuHriCLK_3uhHbZRa5oTLTAdmxkSjYosHS4P3Z6ctMj7mw5Sf3rQqjqAL9sExq_H09YOmp46s/s1600/Sea+Monkey+Ad.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
The pictures said it all. I could have real, actual, tiny monkeys that swam joyously around in a special Sea Monkey tank. With a castle and a Sea Monkey King and Queen, and all the other Sea Monkey people wearing snorkels and goggles and waving at me as I stared, open mouthed, through the glass. You could even train them to do tricks! Awesome!<br />
<br />
Of course it was all complete and utter crap. They were just brine shrimp. A barely visible crustacean, completely lacking in any form of entertainment value. I dare not attempt to estimate the number of profoundly disappointed youngsters who have been viciously duped by Mr. Harold Von Braunhut, the 'inventor' of this malicious con, but really, he should be ashamed of himself. It's the equivalent of handing a modern day teenager an iPhone box containing two soup cans connected with string.<br />
<br />
Harold also invented the aforementioned X-Ray specs by the way, and it didn't matter whether you could see through people's clothes with them, because you couldn't see through the specs.<br />
<br />
And people wonder why I've grown up to be so cynical.<br />
<br />
Anyway, getting to the point, fast forward to December 2011 and according to the Mayan calendar, the world is supposed to end in about four weeks, so everyone is rushing around trying to figure out what to wear. Some people think that the dark planet Nibiru will arrive, full of ancient Mayan gods who will take us all as slaves to dig for gold. Others think that a new Messiah is coming to replace all the oil we've used so that we can carry on acting like assholes, while the really clever people are organising parties and selling beer and nibbles.<br />
<br />
I had my own skewed ideas of course, and they prompted the writing of the tale that you can read below. This was, in retrospect, a brave fusion of philosophy, religion and sci-fi, garnished with a final horrific idea. Who knows, someone may stumble upon it one day and build a nonsensical belief system around it. Hell, if it can work for L. Ron. Hubbard it can work for me.<br />
<br />
I've taken a very loose interpretation of the Sea Monkey, flipped the perspective and scaled it up. Here we go...<br />
<br />
<b>Space Monkeys.</b><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The brothers Lucifer and Yahweh, both top of their class in biosynthesis
and astrophysics respectively, were enjoying lunch in the school canteen and
the conversation naturally turned to an old probability teaser:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If you put an infinite
number of chimps together in a room with pencils and paper would they
eventually, and by pure chance, produce the entire works of Shakespeare?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘The problem is tractable,’ Lucifer stated, ‘by the
proposition that if you leave an infinite amount of anything anywhere for an
infinite length of time then everything that can possibly happen probably will,
and thus under those conditions the answer is yes.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yahweh nodded his agreement, chewing his mouthful of egg
sandwich with grim determination.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘But,’ Lucifer continued, ‘proving the proposition by
empirical means, there’s a real challenge.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a brief discussion, and bearing in mind that the
school holidays began the following day, the boys decided to perform a grand
experiment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘The rules are clear.’ Yahweh said to Lucifer later that
evening in their room. ‘Once the experiment begins we cannot interfere. It must
run its course and by the end of it we will either have the works of
Shakespeare or all of the subjects will have died out.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘But this doesn’t allow for an infinite time span.’ Lucifer
argued.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Agreed,’ Yahweh conceded, ‘ and yet we cannot permit any
individual subject to live forever because this allows the accrual of
significant experience, which in turn will skew the probability density, and if
the probability field isn’t entirely plain the experiment is worthless.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Then perhaps if one subject dies, we should simply replace
it.’ Lucifer suggested.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘That would surely count as interfering.’ Yahweh answered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Then we should make them capable of replacing themselves.’
Lucifer proposed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yahweh considered this and saw that it was good. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other trivialities were also cleared up before the
experiment began, such as the matter of how to feed the chimps in a
non-invasive manner. It was decided that the environment in which the chimps
were placed should be designed in such a way that it catered for all of their
needs in perpetuity. This was something of a challenge in itself and consumed
several hours of the boys' time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually a system was agreed whereby a basic amino acid
set would be entrained using self assembling molecules to form proteins which
would then accrue into organisms that could convert broadcast energy form a
distant source into simple sugars. The resulting organisms would then be devoured
by other more complex forms and so on, providing and endless supply of self
replicating biomass on which the chimps would feed, assuming that they had the
wit to capture it. An unexpected bonus of this method was that all of the food
remained fresh until the moment that it was eaten, thus keeping the smell to a
minimum.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once built, the chimp enclosure had to be tested.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Let there be light.’ Yahweh smiled and initiated several
small nuclear fusion devices set at varying distances from the enclosure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘How very dramatic,’ Lucifer mused, ‘and pretty too!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boys went downstairs for a snack while the energy
transients dispersed and the experiment achieved a steady state.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When they returned everything had settled down nicely. The
enclosure was now lush and green and entirely pleasant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘How many should we create to begin with?’ Yahweh asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Two I think.’ Lucifer answered. ‘Just to see what happens.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yahweh agreed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The two chimps self assembled by virtue of the helical
bonding language protocols. They emerged from the generator whole and perfect.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boys transferred them to their new home and watched
avidly as their test subjects simply lounged around and did nothing in
particular.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucifer was unimpressed, but Yahweh suggested that they
should leave them alone to become acquainted with their surroundings. It had
taken six days of work to get this far and they deserved a day off, so on the
seventh day they rested.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was on the evening of the seventh day while Yahweh was
still asleep that Lucifer, on his way to the bathroom, decided to take a brief
peek at the chimps.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To his great disappointment they were as they were when he’d
left them. They were idle and lacking any kind of motivation. It was one thing
to set up an experiment in infinite time but quite another to use it all up
before even beginning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He felt in this case that he would be justified in giving them
a little push. Just to get things going. He was fully aware of the implications
of so doing, having a complete understanding of chaos mathematics and its
application in catastrophe theory. One can make a minor, almost imperceptible
change to an event at its inception which in the fullness of time will change
the fate of nations. But since this experiment had only one objective and since
the nature of the chimp was relatively undefined in the project specification he
felt that Yahweh would have no sound objection to him making a fine adjustment
before it really got going.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just a small tweak, Lucifer thought as he assembled a
retro-virus with the specific task of inserting a few more directives into the
chimp’s helical instruction set. Having finished his work, he introduced the
retro-virus into the enclosure and went back to bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the boys awoke, Yahweh was most displeased.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Look at them!’ He announced pointing to the chimps that now
numbered in the thousands, ‘All their hair’s fallen out! And they’re making war
with each other! We should check the figures,’ He added, ‘something has surely
gone amiss.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucifer said nothing. He didn’t want to upset his brother
further by admitting the changes he had made.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘We have to start again.’ Yahweh whined.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I would remind you of the first rule Yahweh.’ Lucifer
stated. ‘We have started an ongoing process which is to decide its own outcome
and the subjects are unaware of the purpose for their being. We cannot simply
wipe away that which we do not like. This has to run its course.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After some deliberation Yahweh nodded gravely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boys left the chimps to their own ways from then on,
occasionally popping back to check up on them. Lucifer was entertained by their
constant warring, bloodshed and fornication but Yahweh became concerned not
only for their welfare but that the final outcome of their experiment may be
delayed or even negated by the chimps many distractions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it happened it was their mother Ain-Soph who decided the
matter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both boys upon looking into the enclosure one morning found
that it had been washed clean. They appealed to their mother to leave their
project alone and She agreed adding that the ugly little things were dirty and
starting to smell and that She didn’t know what the boys saw in them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Luckily one of the chimps had seen fit to design and build a
huge boat and had gathered to itself enough food to survive the flood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘See how clever they are?’ Yahweh asked of his brother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘That would be my
doing.’ Lucifer admitted in his pride. ‘I have made an adjustment in the early
moments of our project. I have made them self aware.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And self important.’ Yahweh scolded. ‘And this has caused
their wars and their greed and their lust. Lucifer, you have interfered.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘But without their lust they would not multiply,’ Lucifer
argued, ‘and without their greed they would have no wars and their wars have
been their time of greatest invention. So you see Yahweh,’ He added, ‘I have
brought our project to life. Without my intervention they would be nothing and
go nowhere.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘But that was not the project specification.’ Yahweh
reminded him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘We must agree to differ on that point my brother.’ Lucifer
replied. ‘The school holidays will soon be over and I have other things to do.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Your impatience has always been very apparent.’ Yahweh
sighed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘So be it.’ Lucifer shrugged.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some time later, when the chimps had recovered their
population, their behaviour became worse than ever. Yahweh noticed this and was
saddened. Lucifer merely smiled at his brother’s empathy for their lab rats.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The chimps made good progress in their way. They developed
metallurgy which they used to fashion weapons. They cast gold into coins which
they used to fuel their greed and their wars. They began to wonder in their
limited way, how they had come to be there and why. They developed written
communication to make account of their greedy gains and of those who owed them gold.
They even began to create their own art as a means to imitate the work of their
fictitious gods.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yahweh grew to love their babbling politics and their
faltering philosophies, but their wars and their greed and their cruelty made
him sorrowful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked around himself to ensure that Lucifer was not
present and then, with great trepidation, he decided to intervene.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He fashioned for himself another chimp, a better chimp, a
chimp that would carry the message from Yahweh that communion, and not war, was
the way to happiness and fulfillment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having made this chimp, Yahweh introduced it to the
enclosure. He watched carefully as the new improved chimp carried out its
purpose. As it walked among the other chimps and told them how to be better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He watched in dismay as the other chimps nailed it to a
piece of wood and then carried on as usual.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucifer on his arrival immediately noticed this and laughed
loudly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘See Yahweh!’ He sneered. ‘It is you that seeks to ruin our
great work, not I!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I seek only to save them from themselves.’ Yahweh pleaded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘They are nothing Yahweh.’ Lucifer answered. ‘They are less
than nothing.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both boys continued to watch as after a thousand
years of relative time the chimps developed great nations, traveled freely,
traded and otherwise explored their vast enclosure. They witnessed the rise and
fall of great and fierce chimp kings and the destruction of civilisations. They
watched the development of the written word into an art form and were
entertained by the chimp’s efforts to describe and enact the concepts that fell
limply from their dim and feeble minds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then one day Yahweh called frantically to his brother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Lucifer! Lucifer!’ It’s happening at last!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boys looked on with bated breath as a single chimp sat
alone in its room by candle light and with ink dipped quill in hand. It sighed
deeply and began to scrawl upon the yellowed parchment page…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the blink of an eye it seemed, the experiment was over
and the hypothesis proven.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘We should write this up as fully as possible.’ Lucifer
suggested. ‘I have made copious notes. We shall include the output from this
chimp for it is indeed the entire works of Shakespeare, word for word.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Yahweh appeared concerned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘But if I were to be objective about the results,’ he began,
‘I would surely leap upon the potential flaw in our method which is that our
subjects have been changed by the experiment itself, and that they are in fact,
no longer chimps.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucifer thought deeply on this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘The premise merely stated that they should start as chimps
it gave no stipulation that they remain that way.’ He concluded. ‘And besides, their
biological deviation is less than two percent. They are close enough.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And what shall we do with this?’ Yahweh asked, pointing to
the enclosure. His glorious face grew dark with concern. ‘Now that our subjects
are no longer required.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucifer saw the sadness on his brother’s face and felt the
same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Would you agree that, since we have performed this feat
together, half of the subjects should belong to me and the others to you?’ He
asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yahweh nodded his agreement.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Then,’ Lucifer proposed, ‘we shall go for a short stroll
around their enclosure to see that all is well, by which time, if my
calculations are correct their relative date should be the year two thousand
and twelve, and if they have not destroyed themselves by war, eaten all the
food or drowned in their own faeces their numbers should be in the region of
six billion.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yahweh agreed with his brother’s initial estimates.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘At which time,’ Lucifer continued, ‘you may keep yours to
do with as you wish and I will have mine.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I will take all the good ones and keep them as pets.’
Yahweh smiled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘As for myself brother,’ Lucifer sighed, ‘I will take mine
away. I have analysed their protein structure and I believe that they will make
a most nourishing soup.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With that, both boys strolled off at just below the speed of
light for a thorough inspection of their grand experiment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You know Lucifer,’ Yahweh said, ‘I’ve heard it proposed that
a tree, upon falling over in the middle of a large forest, would not make a
sound if there were no-one there to hear it.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Ah, but to prove it empirically.’ Lucifer smiled. ‘There is
the challenge.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***</div>
<br />
<br />John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-46019630186370621002013-04-23T18:22:00.001-07:002018-07-10T00:05:42.377-07:00Looking after Granddad.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQVcSOFAxGfOacQeRWRUajzA2Zn5dcG4LHMQSPImIJlQ4l2-tBSte4EpmyO_wtT7vxyR-t-caxbPGqEPW3uLwXEwmkmava3-hIayRJ4kkAtJyAP0-MYMTUFQ49VjSLodo5umIqwSjRc9x/s1600/looking+after+granddad+cover+KDP.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQVcSOFAxGfOacQeRWRUajzA2Zn5dcG4LHMQSPImIJlQ4l2-tBSte4EpmyO_wtT7vxyR-t-caxbPGqEPW3uLwXEwmkmava3-hIayRJ4kkAtJyAP0-MYMTUFQ49VjSLodo5umIqwSjRc9x/s200/looking+after+granddad+cover+KDP.jpeg" width="127" /></a></div>
<br />
My granddad, now long gone, was called Joe. When I was but a nipper of about six I was helping him clean out a cupboard when I spotted a small tin cracker box stuck away at the back. I dug the rusting container out from under several old magazines and presented it to him. He accepted it with an expression that puzzled me. I asked him what was wrong. His thick fingers worked their way under the rim of the lid and with much grunting and heaving he managed to open the box. Inside were coins from several foreign lands and perhaps six medals circa the second world war.<br />
As a kid of six I was impressed by the fact that my Granddad had been a soldier and had been off to far flung corners of the world to fight our enemies. As a kid of six I was a complete and utter dumb ass who, knowing nothing of the real world, had formed the idea that all these medals were somehow cool. Joe had other ideas.<br />
He picked a coin from the box, turning it over in his hand. It was a large bronze coin which was, I think, from Egypt.<br />
'My mate (name withheld) gave me this.' he mumbled softly, 'He was dead in a ditch the day after. It's all I've got to remember him. It's all anybody's bloody got!'<br />
He went through the rest of the contents, picking out each item and then almost throwing it back in. My young eyes flicked back and forth between the old tin and the old man. To me the two didn't seem to fit together, a box of military honours worthy of pride, and a derisive sneer on an old man's white whiskered face.<br />
It turns out that Joe had 'seen a few things' to put it euphemistically and as far as he was concerned they were things that he'd much rather forget.<br />
It's sadness upon sadness when we're forced to bury not just our friends but also our memory of them.<br />
I am also ex military although thankfully I have been for the most part spared from 'seeing a few things'. I do however understand the need for remembrance. I see our elders solemnly marching shoulder to shoulder with medals abreast and I appreciate their sacrifice and inwardly I thank them for it, but is there a need for pride?<br />
Isn't military pride just the shiny suit that sorrow wears when it steps out for the day?<br />
There's a difference between war and violence. I have no problem with violence so long as it's personal. The urge to give battle to my enemies looms large within me. It's a part of every human being's deepest nature and I find that acceptable. We feel insulted, we feel anger, we retaliate.<br />
War is different because there's no anger. It's a cold and considered act. A soldier is asked to kill a stranger and is dehumanised by it. If you're in a brawl in a pub and you knock the bastard out you don't then trot off and rape his family, whereas in war that kind of disgrace is all part of the show.<br />
So am I anti war? Absolutely.<br />
My granddad was damaged goods, and although he did the best he could to hide it, in a small tin box at the back of a cupboard, he wasn't the man that he would have been if the government of the day hadn't asked him to go out and gun people down.<br />
I think that the lesson here, despite my tedious ramblings above, is to try to see our elders as little tin boxes. I'm not suggesting that we stuff them into cupboards. What I'm saying is that they understand the realities of life in a way that the young do not and so we have to open the box and share their experiences so that we don't keep repeating the same stupid mistakes.<br />
At the end of WWII the Americans began filming inside German concentration camps. Why? Because as one general remarked, 'If we don't record this shit now, in fifty years time no-one will believe it ever happened.' Which tends to imply of course that it could all happen again, and just in case anyone thinks that I'm picking on the Germans, I'm not. You don't have to look very far to see countries, my own included, that have done a whole lot worse and on the same scale, and no amount of apology or excuses will ever justify their actions. We shouldn't ever be proud of our atrocities, but we should always remember them.<br />
<br />
<b>Looking after Granddad - overview.</b><br />
<br />
Looking after Granddad is all about how our experiences change us and how those changes affect others. It is the only tale that I've written thus far that has a monster in it, although who or what the monster is, and what it represents, I will leave up to you. The story is at least two thirds flashback, which serves to explain why the main protagonist behaves the way he does.<br />
<br />
<b>Characters.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Leo McDonald</b> - A formerly good man, made bad by his experiences, who lives in a nursing home for the elderly. Leo is the living proof that we are all capable of despicable acts when the situation demands. The real problem arises when dementia sets in and Leo thinks that he's back there. <br />
<br />
<b>Billy Giles </b>- A young man who is slowly paving his own personal road to hell with his good intentions. He's another good man made bad by his experiences, primarily at the hands of the aforementioned Leo McDonald.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53116">Here's a link to the ebook version from Smashwords.</a><br />
<br /><br />
Looking after Granddad is one of <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36709">Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.</a>
The full collection of ten stories is available in ebook format on
smashwords.<br />
<br />
For those who prefer a print version Uncle John's Bedtime Tales is available from:<br />
<br />
Amazon.com: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947012&sr=1-1">Click here</a><br />
Amazon.co.uk: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947213&sr=8-1">Click here</a><br />
Direct from Spinetinglers publishing: <a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/uncle-johns-bedtime-tales.html">Click here</a>John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-46988957298801981992013-04-14T18:37:00.001-07:002018-07-10T00:06:55.830-07:00The Swing.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqUVh2wb5Nr9kQqrBycrA3y8grDfn4FMmmN2WHo4eA6aNENcu3rQloOuIXd8XeQXinIgl9IyAuZDERfDB8Viqjb1N-fhT-SZupn8Us8jQNEcrCIxCn12z7V9UjoUGzJtoeDHAFG6ujHG1/s1600/the+swing+cover+smashwords.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqUVh2wb5Nr9kQqrBycrA3y8grDfn4FMmmN2WHo4eA6aNENcu3rQloOuIXd8XeQXinIgl9IyAuZDERfDB8Viqjb1N-fhT-SZupn8Us8jQNEcrCIxCn12z7V9UjoUGzJtoeDHAFG6ujHG1/s200/the+swing+cover+smashwords.png" width="125" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I have always loved stage magicians. Granted, some of them are pretty crap, delivering age old tricks that have long ago lost their mystery and been relegated to the 'every fucker knows that one' shelf of the local joke shop. These 'illusionists' resort to bright colours and flamboyance to spin out their delivery, in the hope of bullshitting the audience into believing that they're watching something new. It's like seeing your granny with a makeover - I've got no time for them.<br />
But occasionally someone stands out - delivering a stunningly simple but utterly baffling illusion that makes you believe for a fleeting moment that the only possible solution is magic. I love these guys.<br />
I particularly like the close up stuff, where there's no room for error. I used to work in a factory where one of the supervisors was a former stage magician who specialised in close up card illusions. After twenty something years in the trade he lost his nerve and had to retire. They may look all cool and debonair up there but believe me they're sweating bullets all the way through. He'd been ten years off the stage but occasionally he'd pick the card deck up off the canteen table during lunch break and go to work on us. I'm no expert, but I never managed to figure any of it out. There were cards disappearing all over the place and he could shuffle the deck and deal out any poker hand that you asked for straight off the top. By the time we'd been delivered back into the real world my tea had gone cold - now, to coin a catch phrase - 'that's magic!'<br />
So how the hell do they learn how to do these things? Well according to my aforementioned friend the key to it is simply practice. Day after day, hour after hour, heart breakingly tedious, to the point of obsession - practice.<br />
Obsession is a juicy word in my phrase book. It makes me wonder - how far is someone actually prepared to go to get another round of applause?<br />
It's pretty much common knowledge that the only reason the old stage magicians used white doves for their animal magic was because they were all identical - so you could crush one poor bird to death to squeeze it into a secret compartment and then pull another one from up your arse and the audience thought it was the same bird that had just 'disappeared'. I'm fairly sure that they don't do that kind of thing any more, but if they do I hope that if mister magic ever gets to heaven all those nice white doves are there waiting to do an Alfred Hitchcock on his sad ass.<br />
Now let's imagine that this very same magician, to whom killing harmless creatures for our entertainment is merely a part of the job, decides to expand his trade a little. What else would he be prepared to dispatch if he thought he could get completely away with it?<br />
<br />
<b>The Swing overview.</b><br />
<br />
The Swing is primarily built around a negotiation between the two main characters who are attempting to agree a price on a piece of magical memorabilia. The story line develops as each man tries to gain the upper hand, with each protagonist offering more information about why they want the object and how they came to be there. There is of course more going on than meets the eye, and each revelation and twist in the tale pushes the stakes higher and higher.<br />
<br />
<b>Characters.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Edgar Henry</b> - a man on a mission. He's an obsessive collector of magical props who will stop at nothing to know their macabre secrets. He tries to be good, he really does, but certain traits run in Edgar's family. Traits that are best kept as secret as the props that he so avidly collects. <br />
<br />
<b>Paul Jenkins</b> - He has something that Edgar Henry wants and he's determined to get the best possible price for it. He's an okay sort of guy and he does have a wife and four kids to support but he asks for more then Edgar can possibly afford and he doesn't realise how far Edgar is willing to go to get what he wants.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/52922">Here's a link to the ebook version from Smashwords.</a><br />
<br />
<br />
The Swing is one of <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36709">Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.</a>
The full collection of ten stories is available in ebook format on
smashwords.<br />
<br />
For those who prefer a print version Uncle John's Bedtime Tales is available from:<br />
<br />
Amazon.com: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947012&sr=1-1">Click here</a><br />
Amazon.co.uk: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947213&sr=8-1">Click here</a><br />
Direct from Spinetinglers publishing: <a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/uncle-johns-bedtime-tales.html">Click here</a>John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-8882573508886540412013-04-08T21:43:00.001-07:002018-07-10T00:08:03.028-07:00What the butler saw.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgpHq0lRpTh8bJ3G-JEHQZfr8MTUSuTeaRv6kCWgmHOvXnugfvx1b1h7tcxIwebV8EsGgcn2pT6EtT23KBzU1zwicjKtipYFhQgYXHr_U2TurBdvcZrq2ZoeMURu_rpZCU5S5VIEY6MdaD/s1600/what+the+butler+saw+cover+smashwords.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgpHq0lRpTh8bJ3G-JEHQZfr8MTUSuTeaRv6kCWgmHOvXnugfvx1b1h7tcxIwebV8EsGgcn2pT6EtT23KBzU1zwicjKtipYFhQgYXHr_U2TurBdvcZrq2ZoeMURu_rpZCU5S5VIEY6MdaD/s200/what+the+butler+saw+cover+smashwords.png" width="125" /></a></div>
<br />
When I was a lad it was unusual to go anywhere. Most people lived and worked within a two mile radius, and even a trip to the nearest town was regarded as a subject worthy of conversation. Summer holidays rarely lasted more than a week and were usually spent at the nearest coastal town or fishing port, and even then it was only ever once a year.<br />
If we were lucky we may get the odd organised day trip, which for the women and children meant sitting on a dim and dismal beach eating ice-cream or fish and chips while the khaki coloured ice cold waves of the North Sea washed the feeling from their toes, while for the men, it inevitably meant having somewhere new to get drunk.<br />
When the day was done everyone would be packed, sweating and intoxicated, back onto a coach for the return trip, which is where the fun would finally begin. For there is nothing more entertaining than stuffing your face with candy floss while fights break out between large pissed up blokes in the narrow aisle of a coach as it ploughs along the central lane of a busy motorway at sixty miles an hour.<br />
Fucking bliss!<br />
There was perhaps one saving grace to the whole grubby affair. One shining light in the mire of debauchery that was the local working men's club day trip. And if there was, it was the penny arcade.<br />
Flashing lights and ringing bells, rock 'n' roll music and money on display everywhere, ready and waiting to be won by the next lucky punter. It was another world. The land of promise. An alien landscape of copper coloured fountains and silvery waterfalls. Anything and everything there for the taking and all up for grabs for a penny a pitch.<br />
While the kids stuffed the 'one armed bandits' with their parents hard earned cash in the hope of striking it big and investing in a lump of candy floss the size of a Magellanic cloud, the men would invariably find other ways to spend their penny. Hence we discover - the Mutoscope...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjYm6M6QOOpX8kg4MCLJGAItrRhAQZMfmdPovHYc6mfFHBJBC35FnlE7hPx9pgReXxiUSx2Q51pYO6TExg3FXUD1NIYpmRS5HFFR64rgvvlfDNAb2Ag2HUJBltEGR15yaFL2i4wVl56AFK/s1600/mutoscope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjYm6M6QOOpX8kg4MCLJGAItrRhAQZMfmdPovHYc6mfFHBJBC35FnlE7hPx9pgReXxiUSx2Q51pYO6TExg3FXUD1NIYpmRS5HFFR64rgvvlfDNAb2Ag2HUJBltEGR15yaFL2i4wVl56AFK/s1600/mutoscope.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="irc_iis" id="irc_hd"><a class="irc_itl" data-ved="0CAcQjB0wAA" href="http://www.mechanicalmemoriesmuseum.co.uk/about-us/4535879878" id="irc_hol"><span id="irc_ho">www.mechanicalmemoriesmuseum.co.uk</span></a><span id="irc_dim"></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was a simple enough device. You put a penny into the slot and turn a small handle (in the early models) while watching all your wildest fantasies being played out through a small shrouded screen. All the advertising around the device promised 'foreign' films, with suggestive titles such as 'what the butler saw', which implied limited censorship and thus lovely, yummy porn. Of course she's going to take off all of her clothes and cavort around naked for your personal viewing pleasure. There she goes now. First the dressing gown. Then the nightdress. Come on, come on (there's smoke coming off the rapidly rotating little handle). Now her stockings are coming off. You've got a headache because you're jamming your eager face up against the metal shroud. Okay, here we go. It's bra time. She reaches slowly up behind her. She's going to do it. She really is... Oops! Your penny ran out!<br />
Your hands fly up and down your body searching your pockets desperately for another coin while your distorted face remains wedged into the shroud. You seek. You find. You insert the coin with sweaty fumbling fingers. The handle turns... and it's an entirely different movie. WTF!<br />
Never mind. It's only a penny.<br />
These machines were a ubiquitous part of any tourist town. Why? Because they made a great deal of money and no-one ever saw anything indecent.<br />
<br />
In 'What the butler saw' I wanted to expand on the theme a little. What if for example, the punter got to see the entire film? What if that film contained material so profoundly offensive that the machine was taken and locked away somewhere deep and dark so that no-one could ever see it again? Then what if... Well, you get the idea.<br />
<br />
<b>What the butler saw - overview.</b><br />
<br />
This is a narrative tale following the exploits of a museum curator called Harry who is drafted in to catalogue various unusual objects which have been unearthed after the discovery of a hidden room. Amongst the rediscovered treasures is a Mutoscope, and Harry, the thorough and diligent worker that he is, soon realises that if he's going to do the job properly he's going to have to know what the machine is showing. What he discovers leads him into the dark heart of one of the most infamous serial killers of all time.<br />
<br />
<b>Characters.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Harry.</b> An all round good man. He's clever, hardworking and diligent, and it doesn't end there because there's a whole new side of him just waiting to be discovered. After all, it's not until we're pushed beyond our limits that we find out who we really are...<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53112">Here's a link to the ebook version from Smashwords.</a><br />
<br />
What the butler saw is one of <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36709">Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.</a>
The full collection of ten stories is available in ebook format on
smashwords.<br />
<br />
For those who prefer a print version Uncle John's Bedtime Tales is available from:<br />
<br />
Amazon.com: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947012&sr=1-1">Click here</a><br />
Amazon.co.uk: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947213&sr=8-1">Click here</a><br />
Direct from Spinetinglers publishing: <a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/uncle-johns-bedtime-tales.html">Click here</a>John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-91526428802613868102013-04-08T03:20:00.002-07:002018-07-10T00:08:58.884-07:00Home from home.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW8mEzsga1D_VL7eitngH8GYNm0zYHlZbNbmQclaQb5vicpQ18b9dI7NcAizUWQaszrfnyZld29cTgf1seKbm2y3syGZBFF2HGUkuWKSSjAscN78mCHiCtQBkMCKeDDbPAka25ucOYzrbi/s1600/home+from+home+cover+smashwords.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW8mEzsga1D_VL7eitngH8GYNm0zYHlZbNbmQclaQb5vicpQ18b9dI7NcAizUWQaszrfnyZld29cTgf1seKbm2y3syGZBFF2HGUkuWKSSjAscN78mCHiCtQBkMCKeDDbPAka25ucOYzrbi/s200/home+from+home+cover+smashwords.png" width="125" /></a></div>
<br />
This is, in part at least, based on a true story. 'Absurd!' I hear you cry, but no, not at all. Pull up a sandbag and gather around...<br />
<br />
When I was fourteen years old I had a school friend, who's real name shall remain a secret. Let's call him William.<br />
William's parents had some spare money which they used to buy a holiday home on the Isles of Scilly, off the South West tip of England. They found a nice house for a fair price, although it did need a bit of tender loving care to bring it up to the standard to which they were accustomed.<br />
Being practical people they were able to do a lot of the work themselves, and so, at the next available opportunity, they made a start.<br />
Some of the floor boards in the old house were a little loose and so William's father decided to pull a few up to see if the substructure was sound. Underneath the dry and warped old planks they discovered, to their great delight, another floor, approximately six inches below the first.<br />
This floor was different however... it was made of glass.<br />
It should be understood that at the time this happened there was a bit of a rush on for character houses in which old and original features had been preserved alongside modern enhancements - a sort of steam punk retro-modernism, if such a thing exists, so it's no real surprise then that William's parents decided to rip up the entire wooden floor in favour of showing off the glass one.<br />
But first it needed a bit of a polish...<br />
William's mother set herself to the task with great vigour, scrubbing away decades worth of grime and dust and then polishing up the thick glass surface until it shone like new. Only she didn't get to the shiny part of the plan, because she suddenly began screaming hysterically.<br />
Father and children ran to her rescue to see her ashen face staring downward. They all looked. They all saw. They all ran away.<br />
Underneath the glass, and staring right back at them, were several of the house's previous occupants. All long dead and in various stages of decay, they had obviously loved the house so much that it was their idea of heaven and so they'd been buried there.<br />
Apparently this is not an unusual practice in the Scilly Isles. There are several graveyards sporting glass topped graves so that visiting relatives can chat away to great grandad Albert while he gently moulders away to dust.<br />
Now I'm not in the business of criticising the customs of another culture regardless of how close it is to my own (a matter of a perhaps two hundred miles from my town of birth geographically), but I think in this case a little forewarning by the realestate agent, who surely knew about the other occupants, wouldn't have gone amiss.<br />
Shortly thereafter William's family put the house up for sale, and at something of a financial loss it seems.<br />
This is a tasty story in itself but of course I couldn't let it rest there, so I've taken the idea and embellished it somewhat with a story entitled <i>'Home from Home'</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>Home from home - outline.</b><br />
<br />
This is a straight forward narrative following the story line development of a single character called Maria who inherits an old house. An old, creepy house that is, to everyone but her. She falls in love with its ramshackle appearance and its rampant, neglected gardens, much to the disappointment of her partner and children who want nothing to do with it. The house itself however, has an agenda of its own and is more than capable of deciding who lives there... and who dies there.<br />
<br />
<b>Characters.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Maria.</b> A property developer with a driving ambition - to make lots of cold hard cash. She starts out as a bit of a bitch but softens as the tale progresses, by which time it's far too late. I tried to sympathise with her, I really did. It's just not something I'm good at. Still, all is not lost... <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Rob.</b> Maria's long suffering partner and father of her children. He spends most of his time being dragged along in her wake but in the end he finally puts his foot down, albeit in the wrong place.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The twins.</b> Two lovely kids, even if they are a bit cheesy. Initially put off by the state of the place, the house wins them over in the end. Shame.<br />
<br />
<b>Greedyguts.</b> The resident pet. A firm and faithful friend ...if he likes you that is.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53104" target="_blank">Here's a link to the digital version from Smashwords.</a><br />
<br />
Home from home is one of <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36709">Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.</a>
The full collection of ten stories is available in ebook format on
smashwords.<br />
<br />
For those who prefer a print version, Uncle John's Bedtime Tales is available from:<br />
<br />
Amazon.com: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947012&sr=1-1">Click here</a><br />
Amazon.co.uk: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947213&sr=8-1">Click here</a><br />
Direct from Spinetinglers publishing: <a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/uncle-johns-bedtime-tales.html">Click here</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-5530185985794490062013-03-30T20:33:00.000-07:002018-07-10T00:10:29.329-07:00Crones<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCeqf4aVoTYPME4SS-sh40yr7F7zHtKjXvH_0iWC-SHT_abPr2zYpG5tiQgeGlhiWfh5rL2lt887Pp6-DK_N630_Xh7WFxvr4kEpk-ePdO9puFtEThgFJQQnXax93xV19WKK2YSaJy0z4/s1600/crones+front+cover+png+image+600dpi.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCeqf4aVoTYPME4SS-sh40yr7F7zHtKjXvH_0iWC-SHT_abPr2zYpG5tiQgeGlhiWfh5rL2lt887Pp6-DK_N630_Xh7WFxvr4kEpk-ePdO9puFtEThgFJQQnXax93xV19WKK2YSaJy0z4/s200/crones+front+cover+png+image+600dpi.png" width="123" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The definition of a crone: 'a withered, witchlike old woman'.<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Random House Kernerman Webster's College Dictionary)<span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span><br />
<br />
Penelope Darlin, the romantically challenged proprietor of
the Lilac Grange nursing home, is regularly murdering her elderly residents in
the name of profit. Next on her to do list is ninety one year old Catherine
Scrivens, but Catherine is aware of Ms. Darlin's business model and determined
not to go down without a fight she recruits two accomplices who are hell bent
on getting to Penelope before Penelope gets to them.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile Linda Hawthorne, a Grange staff member, inherits 'Mac
Lir's gate', a strange and ancient artefact with the power to transport her to
the Wildwood - a place of Celtic myth and legend. Intrigued by Mac Lir's gate
Linda begins to experiment with its power and inadvertently releases the Black
Dog, a vicious and predatory creature who wants the gate and who will do
anything necessary to possess it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the paths of these characters clash the fates of two worlds are up for grabs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Crones there is romance, tragedy and comedy, ably
assisted by Banshees, talking animals, Celtic spirits, murder in the tool shed
and three delightful old ladies with a dark and bloody secret... and a zombie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:ApplyBreakingRules/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:UseFELayout/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
</style>
<![endif]-->Crones is the third tale in the Luddensley Chronicles, a set of dark fiction stories that share a common geographical setting, that of Luddensley village and Neerthorpe town. Crones is slightly unusual in that all of the main characters are female, and the most memorable of these (in my opinion), are also geriatrics.<br />
It's not easy depicting elderly women as action heroes, after all most of the heroes we are accustomed to have all their own teeth, and hips that don't creak when they walk, but there's a lot to be said for grim determination and no-one gets to live to ninety one without having the will to do so. It is that will to live that is put to the test in this tale.<br />
I like old folks - I really do. I remember once finding myself in the local community centre sharing a room with perhaps fifteen elderly residents who were gathered for a cheap lunch and a good old chin wag. It occurred to me that if I added all of their approximate ages together, (all were between sixty five and seventy), the result would amount to something in the region of a thousand years.<br />
I'll say that again - <b>A thousand years</b>, of life experience in the same room. Different names, different places. Heartbreak, achievement, joy, loss, knowledge and skill. If they could be somehow combined into one person they could rule the world, and yet the only thing that the young folk were asking them was if their sandwiches were okay.</div>
In Crones I wanted to give something back, to let the oldies have another crack of the whip. Those familiar with the 1985 movie 'Cocoon' will remember seeing formerly decrepit people suddenly invigorated after swimming in a pool with alien artifacts. The issue for me was that having regained the energy of youth they immediately went out and started making all the same mistakes that young folk make. Not a chance. They may possibly do the same things - but they'd do them a whole lot better!<br />
Crones follows a different line because the idea that old people have to be given youth in order to be of value is itself a puerile perspective. In my world the elderly stay elderly and despite painfully arthritic joints, lack of teeth and poor bladder control, when it comes to the scrum they get up and fight just like they always have.<br />
<br />
<b>Main characters.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Penelope Darlin.</b> One of the most self centred, neurotic and fundamentally nasty characters I've ever created. She's the owner of the Lilac Grange nursing home and she runs it like a holocaust campaign. As far as dear Penelope is concerned the residents are merely commodities and when they've lost their value they're shipped out... in boxes. Penelope is in a world entirely her own but in the end she's going to have to find room for someone else or die trying. <br />
<br />
<b>Linda Hawthorne.</b> A grange staff member who's about to go to hell and back after inheriting an ornate box with magical properties. She's all alone, save for a few close friends, and fighting to save the world. The real pity is that the world doesn't even know that it's happening. Nevertheless our Linda just keeps on giving.<br />
<br />
<b>Catherine Scrivens.</b> A ninety one year old lady who still has plenty of life in her and who is determined to keep it for as long as possible. Her late husband was a military man and she herself was something of an adventurer. She's a tough old bird who, as the tale progresses, will learn just how tough she really is.<br />
<br />
<b>Doris Walsh.</b> Hard and strong, Doris has been a worker all of her life. She's stoic and pragmatic and she takes no shit. If something has to be done you can rely on her to be the first in line to do it.<br />
<br />
<b>Gloria Brooke.</b> A lady with more secrets than the CIA, Gloria should never be underestimated. She appears somewhat dimwitted but then again you can never be sure with Gloria. Her morality is significantly more flexible than a rubber pole dancer and she's capable of anything, just ask her about the funnel and the jelly beans!<br />
<br />
<b>Cat. </b>He's... well... a cat. But he's also a great deal more, and when he's on your team things become a whole lot easier to handle. On the other hand, maybe that's just the cat's perspective. Everyone else either sees him as a pain in the arse, or not at all. Not that he cares either way.<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:ApplyBreakingRules/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:UseFELayout/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:ApplyBreakingRules/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:UseFELayout/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]-->Crones is available worldwide in all <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/323110">digital formats</a> and in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Crones-John-Vault/dp/1906755590">print</a>.<br />
<br />
Enjoy.John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-35711157631191176162012-07-07T19:21:00.002-07:002018-07-10T00:11:51.161-07:00Thaddeus.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5VDcCuAmvBRjP1-uKwu9mJJVtyn_MtixTOvNWXVr1_N2jD5bbzsaWDNudD4HTEz_AoDOzOuWYjBhDIBXRyBhiRbHHZbObE_O7bwBmLQI2b9LulYxi4py1OnirwLWvDV5UjxIspQGZHIo/s1600/Thad+cover+final+Spiney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5VDcCuAmvBRjP1-uKwu9mJJVtyn_MtixTOvNWXVr1_N2jD5bbzsaWDNudD4HTEz_AoDOzOuWYjBhDIBXRyBhiRbHHZbObE_O7bwBmLQI2b9LulYxi4py1OnirwLWvDV5UjxIspQGZHIo/s200/Thad+cover+final+Spiney.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;"><i><br />
</i>Hector Crane is a funeral director with no-one to bury. Business is at a standstill, he's on the verge of bankruptcy and his delinquent apprentices are stealing both from him and his dear departed clients. Just when he thinks things can't get any worse he receives a letter from a man whom he thought long dead, who owns half of his business, and who will be knocking on his door very soon looking for answers.<br />
<br />
Enter Thaddeus Moribund, arriving from God knows where, and who by Hector's reckoning should be at least ninety years old but appears half that. As the weeks progress, Hector can only watch powerless as Thaddeus overturns every aspect of his life in a bid to pull the business through. But there's more to Thaddeus than this, immeasurably more. Thaddeus' story unfolds in a series of revelations that span two millennia, beginning in Biblical Jerusalem and ending in modern day England.<br />
<br />
Thaddeus Moribund is on a mission of his own that has nothing to do with Hector Crane but which will nonetheless challenge Hector's patience, his strength, his concept of good and evil and finally his sanity as the connection between them is ultimately revealed.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;"> ***</span></div>
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;">Originally titled :<i> 'The return of Thaddeus Moribund' - Thaddeus</i> is effectively book one of the Luddensley chronicles although admittedly it didn't start out that way. The initial idea for the story was prompted by a simple question: why do people do the things they do?</span><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;">I have a friend, she's young, attractive and intelligent, and yet she's chosen the role of mortician as her profession. Every day she goes to work and puts makeup on dead people, she washes their naked, limp, blue-white bodies, drains their cold black blood and replaces it with a cocktail of nasty chemicals, she takes frequently nauseating, possibly fly ridden, cadavers and puts a great deal of effort into making them look presentable for their final journey.</span><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;">This begs a question though doesn't it? Why the hell does the average person want to do a job like that?</span><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;">Of course it has to be done, I won't dispute that, but why does someone who has the choice want a job like this in preference to say, bar work for example? Wouldn't you suspect, upon meeting the aforementioned young lady in a night club, that she was perhaps a little askew?</span><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;">I mean, if you ever meet a middle aged overweight, stubble chinned man standing behind a bush in the park, wearing a big overcoat in mid summer and squinting at you through thick, wire framed glasses, who drools as he tells you that he's <i>always</i> wanted to work with children, you're not going to let your kids within twenty miles of the bloke are you? You may immediately begin to suspect that he has motives other than being America's next top nanny and you make a mental note of his facial features in case you're ever questioned by the police.</span><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;">In <i>Thaddeus</i> I decided to take all of the above implications and stereotypes and then turn them on their heads. Just as the reader is sure who the heroes and the villains are, the entire tale does an about face and everyone is suddenly cast into doubt.</span><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;">I like my villains to be complex. I like them to be nasty of course, but the reasons for their behaviour must also be known which leads to some degree of empathy with the reader and thus the victory of the hero is inevitably tinged with remorse.</span><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;">My style of writing usually involves several timelines and characters that intertwine and affect each other without neccessarily being aware of so doing, and <i>Thaddeus</i> is no different in that the character of Thaddeus himself is on a mission that is tangential to that of Hector Crane but in the end changes Hector's life forever.</span><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;"><i>Thaddeus</i> is at once a very tragic tale and darkly comedic. It opens with one of my favourite lines:</span><br />
<br />
<i><span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;">'Death is as popular now as it's always been...'</span></i><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;">I remember being very much into the work of Terry Pratchett (an author capable of tremendous dark insight) at the time of writing and I think that his talent for the double entendre influenced this sentence. That's not to imply that <i>Thaddeus</i> is in any way Pratchettesque (new word alert), far from it, because it</span><span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;"> doesn't involve the parallel world fantasy that Mr. Pratchett is famous for. It does have a very strong supernatural backdrop to the main character however, a plot line which is uncovered quite late in the day but which serves to enlighten the reader about who Thaddeus actually is. I changed the title in favour of <i>Thaddeus</i> prior to publication because I feared that the original title implied that the book was a sequel, and who would want to read a sequel if they hadn't read the one before it?</span><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;"><i>Thaddeus</i>' characters are motivated to do the wrong (often quite despicable) things for the right reasons, and vice versa, which leaves the reader unsure how to feel about them. This is deliberate because I'm attempting to explore their motivations to add depth and interest to the story line.</span><br />
<br />
<span id="longdescr_full" style="display: inline;"><b>Main characters.</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Hector Crane.</b> A funeral director with a family business that's fading fast. He can't figure out why, with people dying all over the place, he's not getting any trade. He receives a mysterious letter heralding the arrival of an even more mysterious visitor and from then on his life begins to spiral out of control. <br />
<br />
<b>Thaddeus Joshua Moribund.</b> The mysterious visitor who can't possibly be as young as he appears. He seems determined to revive the ailing business but his ideas fly in the face of Hector's more conventional outlook creating instant distrust and no small degree of resentment on Hector's part. As the plot develops Hector feels increasingly helpless and frustrated, a situation of which Thaddeus seems entirely ignorant, but Thaddeus has been in this business for a<i> very</i> long time and has no regard for Hector's petty whining. <br />
<br />
<b>Janice Feathers.</b> The company accountant. She's a middle aged woman with a nineteen year old soul who is looking down on life from a very high shelf. Desperate for love she is comedically needy and everyone knows it, but there's something in store for this gold hearted lady - something big.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Philip 'Ginger' Wilson.</b> One of the company apprentices. A not too bright but nonetheless extremely cunning young man who, in partnership with his cousin Gordon, is determined to steal everything that's not nailed down. Things get bad for him when Thaddeus arrives and Ginger decides that there just isn't room in the company for two villains and that Thaddeus must go. He then dreams up an elaborate plan aimed at Thaddeus' demise. In several ways he bites off considerably more than he can chew.<br />
<br />
<b>Gordon 'Gordy' Wilson.</b> Ginger's even less intelligent cousin. The villainous side kick who is the Laurel to Ginger's Hardy. He's not really a villain as such, just deeply misled and fiercely loyal. He is left, toward the climax of the tale, at a fork in the road of his life, whereupon he chooses to shine - as the darkest of things often do.<br />
<br />
<b>The extras.</b> A plethora of characters, many of which are dead, that suffer the fallout from the dark machinations that define the relationships between the above people.<br />
<br />
As an early work <i>Thaddeus</i> was a grand experiment. I like to think of myself as a fairly normal person and when I read I tend to pick a character to identify with. So what happens when, having picked such a character and become accustomed to sitting inside their skin and living their life, that person, who is by now as comfortable as old shoes or a warm bath, suddenly turns out to have bodies in the basement? This was the process that I aimed for when writing the story. So pick a character, any character, but don't get too comfortable, and just in case you select Thaddeus Moribund himself as your ride, there are some excellent recipes in the back of the book.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/thaddeus.html">Here's a link to the print version available from Spinetinglers Publishing.</a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36715">Here's a link to the ebook version. </a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Virtually all of your favourite on-line
ebook sellers will be able to provide Thaddeus in ebook, Apple,
Sony, Nookbook and Kindle formats using the digital ISBN: <span class="" itemprop="isbn">978-0-473183-02-8</span>.<br />
<br />
Alternatively it can be bought in print from any online bookstore or
ordered by your local book seller using ISBN: 978-1-906755-18-8.<br />
<br />
<i>'Am I right in thinking that... you actually intend to eat him?'</i>John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-64796459778743552932011-10-31T20:27:00.001-07:002018-07-10T00:12:20.454-07:00The Mushroom Man.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTwQQv_WIVG4phGMmNbPFMTDsVQFW-Ag4RH0PHz34yEgWiX6fXOsYXNm8hSvooV-W8lsuXXpNX04IzO4GzYwSGS2rNS8e3d7mmZCbKGuCC_Vt85ftd94thjc2Loa-Su_CeBPOINW1PWPTS/s1600/mmFrontCover300ppi.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTwQQv_WIVG4phGMmNbPFMTDsVQFW-Ag4RH0PHz34yEgWiX6fXOsYXNm8hSvooV-W8lsuXXpNX04IzO4GzYwSGS2rNS8e3d7mmZCbKGuCC_Vt85ftd94thjc2Loa-Su_CeBPOINW1PWPTS/s200/mmFrontCover300ppi.png" width="123" /></a></div>
<br />
Welcome to the second story in the Luddensley chronicles - The Mushroom Man.<br />
<br />
Based in the (mostly) fictitious Luddensley village and its neighbouring town Neerthorpe which together boast far more than the usual amount of murder, mayhem and paranormal activity, The Mushroom Man tells the tale of Gerald Pembroke, a harmless and somewhat stressed mushroom grower who is not faring particularly well in his chosen profession. His wife Marion considers him something of an idiot and is more than happy to treat him as such while she herself engages in a string of affairs with younger men.<br />
<br />
Things start looking up when he discovers that Derek, his grow room manager, is using his facilities to grow hallucinogenic Liberty Cap mushrooms as a sideline to enhance his meagre salary. After a brief discussion it becomes apparent to Gerald that there's a quick fix way out of his debt situation staring him in the face, and after a little exploratory fumbling he eventually turns the entire farm over to Liberty Cap production.<br />
<br />
As a general rule, if something looks too good to be true it usually is, and as the local drug dealers get a whiff of Gerald's new product they decide that they want in on the action, which attracts even further unwanted attention from the local constabulary.<br />
<br />
After an impromptu visit from the police Gerald's courage takes a massive swan dive and in a fit of drunken panic he clears out the entire crop and dumps it down a disused well on the farmland. Unfortunately and unknown to Gerald the spring that feeds the well also feeds a local spring water bottling plant so now everyone's getting some and the whole of Luddensley begin to discover the wonderful benefits of hallucinatory paranoia and this, as they say, is where it all begins...<br />
<br />
The Mushroom Man is a story of hilarious tragedy, misconception, violence and blood letting wherein only one man knows the truth and he's the one that caused it all and is therefore, very wisely, keeping his mouth shut.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>The Making of...</b><br />
<br />
People are now familiar with the extra features available on DVD that describe how a movie was made, but there's no reason why I can't apply the same principle to the written word so long as I don't give too much of the plot away, and while I'm aware that someone reading this may not have actually read the story I can live with that if it'll pique further interest, so here it is, the making of The Mushroom Man.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
The process began with a simple idea, ending some six months later with a bizarre set of characters on quite literally the 'trip' of a lifetime. The initial premise is drawn from true accounts of the Salem witch trials of 1692-3 wherein about fourteen women and five men were wrongfully convicted of, and executed for, acts of witchcraft. Modern speculation is that they were the unfortunate victims of ergot poisoning, which results in manic behaviour, hallucinations and delirium but isn't fatal unless you jump off a cliff while under the impression that you're a bird.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Mushroom Man uses a similar scenario with the exception that the offending substance is derived from particularly strong hallucinogenic Psilocybe Semilanceata mushrooms. Of course if you're going to poison an entire village you'll need an awful lot of mushrooms as well as a rapid and sneaky means of delivering the stuff, because not everyone likes mushrooms and even fewer will try the magic variety.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It stood to reason that the main character would have to be a professional mushroom grower and luckily the way to grow magic shrooms is pretty much the same way that commercial Bispora (white buttons) are cultivated so that was a no brainer. But what were our mushroom grower's motivations? Why would he turn all of his resources over to producing the illegal fungi while being fully aware of the penalties involved? The star of the show, Gerald Pembroke, had to be a man of conscience and he had to be broke, and the best way to be broke is to turn all of your production toward servicing the supermarkets, who have been notorious of late for setting their own purchase levels, much to the detriment of the financially exclusive growers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being a good man, Gerald couldn't just take the first step toward villainy, he had to be led, and so there had to be characters around who could harass him toward, and lure him in, to the same destination. Marion, Gerald's wife, is the one who was never happy, thus driving Gerald to be more successful, and Derek, the grow room manager, is the one who does the luring by being seen to reap large benefits with very little work. With these key personalities influencing him all that remains is to catch him in a moment of weakness and he'll make the requisite mistakes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having grown all the mushrooms then how are they to be delivered? Not as mushrooms of course because nobody will eat something that they're not familiar with. The delivery method also needs to be invisible so that the victims are completely unable to see the cause of their delusions, only then would they accept them as reality. It had to be put into the water supply somehow and to be readily consumed by everyone. The bottled water plant covers the distribution part but how to get it into the water in the first place was an issue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember in my infancy living in a house with a communal well in the front yard. The well had long since been covered over with large sandstone slabs but I remember digging away with a stick all the earth that had become trapped between the stones and finally working my way completely through. I stared between the stones with one eye and saw the still perfectly round tunnel of brick work and the flickering black disk of water at the bottom of the well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All wells are essentially connected by the water table so it makes sense that something foul falling into one well would be detectable at another eventually. I used this notion to connect the old well that was on Gerald's land with the bottling plant which is fed by the same spring, and thus the key features of the plot fell into place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After giving Gerald the motivation to grow the mushrooms I then had to motivate him to dump them down the well when the time was right, so he needed to be a bit of a knee jerk merchant, someone who would be panicked by authority figures. This opened up several other character vulnerabilities, such as his tolerance of Marion's extra marital abuses, his feelings of personal responsibility toward his employees and his envy at Derek's initial but minor success.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once his personality was sorted out his dialogue flowed easily and his petty frustrations shone through in comedic fashion. Of course, being the hero of the piece meant that he couldn't remain the way that he was in the beginning of the story. There had to be a grand transformation, from victim of vicissitude to man of the hour. He had to lose everything and in so doing, find himself. I made him realise where the true values of his life were and then, having nothing left to lose, I made him reach out and take them back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On his journey he comes into contact with some extremely unpleasant but nonetheless very entertaining characters and being the adaptive creature that we all are, some of their dark nature inevitably rubs off on him. It is this adoption of darker traits that enables him to escape the consequences of his earlier actions. It does beg the question though; can the powerful ever be truly innocent? In the early stages Gerald was a victim of circumstance and may perhaps be forgiven for his bad judgement, but as his anger develops he takes power from the situation and begins to ignore his own concept of justice by blaming the whole thing on a dead man. In all honesty I don't like the way that he turned out, but it was either that or put him behind bars for a very long time for making a bad decision when the pressure was on. I didn't feel justified in jailing him but then I've never let that worry me before. Maybe I just thought that he deserved a break for once.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted to save Marion because despite all her bravado and her constant belittling of Gerald's achievements she was probably the most vulnerable character in the book, wanting little more than a bit of attention from the man that she loved but essentially felt unworthy of. I toyed with the idea of killing her at the hands of Sir Douglas but she and Gerald need each other and so I let her live.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love Topper Turpin's character. He's a totally hard and selfish bastard but he's also very intelligent and worldly wise and the only way to kill someone like him was with sheer bad luck. You can't sneak up on a man like that. He sleeps with his eyes open, when he's not shit faced on whiskey that is. He is immune to threats and is capable of anything. Unfortunately time has its way with everyone and so he needed a willing young apprentice. Bosch Clegg didn't even need to apply for the job. He was another man who knew what was his and was willing to kill to defend it, or in order to get some more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the surprises for me was Tracy Pleasance. Who'd have thought it? A young woman with a dark secret who comes into the plot very late to save the day by being essentially the most barbaric character in the story and having no greater a motive than the fact that she liked killing people. Bless her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sir Douglas was another character that I wanted to somehow save but he had to move over to let Tracy in. He did end up as a local legend of sorts which is no less than he ultimately deserves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As ever, there are inevitably several throw away characters who meet with grisly deaths, my favourite in this case being Santa who has always struck me as a bit of a weirdo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fun part of any dark fiction project is always sitting back with a Tequila Diablo, or three, and deciding who lives and who dies. It's important not to apply favouritism in these cases in order to create shock factor by killing off characters that are perceived by the reader to be key players. This takes all of the inevitability out of the plot and keeps people wondering what the hell's going on right up to the end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope that you've enjoyed reading The Mushroom Man as much as I've enjoyed writing it and that I've given a little insight into how the story evolved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you haven't read it yet but would like to know what I've been rattling on about for the last eighteen paragraphs why not buy a copy? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/mushroom-man.html">Here's a link to the print version available from Spinetinglers Publishing.</a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/71111%20">Here's a link to the ebook version. </a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Virtually all of your favourite on-line ebook sellers will be able to provide The Mushroom Man in ebook, Apple, Sony, Nookbook and Kindle formats using the digital ISBN: 978-1-4658-5628-9<br />
<br />
Alternatively it can be bought in print from any online bookstore or ordered by your local book seller using ISBN: 978-1-906755-23-2.<br />
<br /></div>
John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-58098147550675865112011-05-25T01:00:00.002-07:002018-07-10T00:12:59.958-07:00A Brief Moment of Lucidity.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85KY4kvifjxWPmJP96eiDoa9XejLqS0pWpa4VAR3cqxymEJVekA9BT0-tzQhaGIZrVQucORFIW1J-jdkV3Ivv3K3NNfYrOR5eqENibahBEJyHFJZwNgD0b6RtSF0qvZNcmRizCRjg85en/s1600/a+brief+moment+of+lucidity+cover+smashwords.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85KY4kvifjxWPmJP96eiDoa9XejLqS0pWpa4VAR3cqxymEJVekA9BT0-tzQhaGIZrVQucORFIW1J-jdkV3Ivv3K3NNfYrOR5eqENibahBEJyHFJZwNgD0b6RtSF0qvZNcmRizCRjg85en/s200/a+brief+moment+of+lucidity+cover+smashwords.png" width="125" /></a></div>
<br />
I was never good at waking up. Some people leap merrily out of the sack as soon as their eyes flick open and they hit the ground running. I don't. My consciousness pours into the day like syrup (with the sweetness taken out). I dawdle forever on the edge of the abyss. I do it because I like it there.<br />
As a teenager I was even more susceptible to the pull of the dawn limbo than I am now. I used to linger in the strange psychopompic state that lies between wakefulness and dreaming for hours, barely able to distinguish one from the other. This was particularly true of school days.<br />
<br />
One particular occasion stands out. I was late getting up for school (nothing new there) and my mother was standing at the bottom of the stairs shouting for me to get my bony adolescent ass out of bed. I slid out from under the duvet, made a toilet trip, went back to my room, dressed, and then descended the stairs yawning. I walked into the living room and my mother was standing there with my bowl of cereals. As I took the bowl from her she opened her mouth and screamed: 'Will you get out of that bloody bed!' and I woke up.<br />
<br />
I had actually dreamt the entire previous ten or so minutes in microscopic detail. So real was it that I was utterly convinced that I had already gotten up, washed, dressed, everything. I remember feeling quite shocked at the realisation but as I rolled out of my bed for the second time I also began to ask the question; how do I know that it's not happening again?<br />
<br />
How do you tell? The stream of consciousness is continuous. Even a lapse of consciousness results in little more than the moments before and after the lapse being stitched seamlessly together so that we have no memory of the darkness in between. The primary difference between the sleeping and waking states is that when we sleep the faculty of judgement is temporarily dormant so we don't question what we 'see' when we dream. This is a potentially dangerous situation because everything is automatically true, which is why the body has to switch off so that we don't strangle our sleeping partners while under the impression that we are fighting for our lives against invading hoards of Samurai warriors (in the UK a man was once put on trial for killing his wife while she slept and this was actually his excuse, although I don't remember if he pulled it off). It's not until we awaken that we can appreciate the absurdity of being chased around the house by giant snakes, (it's happened to me) and may dismiss the event with a trembling sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
A Brief Moment of Lucidity takes this theme and, as usual, extrapolates it to a monumental extent before presenting it for your viewing pleasure.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>A Brief Moment of Lucidity - outline. </b><br />
<br />
This is a third person narrative following the bizarre adventures of a fifteen year old boy who, having woken up three times on the same morning while firmly believing that he's already lived it, finds himself unable to tell whether or not he's still dreaming. Confusing as this all is for him, the shit really hits the fan when his whole life then becomes one long nightmare.<br />
<br />
<b>Characters.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Daniel Norris</b> - a fairly standard fifteen year old who is grumpy, spotty, sleepy and a general pain to all but his peers with whom he regularly meets to drink cider around the back of the corner shop. His rapidly developing adolescent brain takes him on a nightmare voyage through dreamland with somewhat twisted results.<br />
<br />
<b>Trina Norris</b> - Daniel's younger sister and a key player in most of Daniel's dream episodes, unless of course he's making her up.<br />
<br />
<b>Daniel's parents</b> - as unwitting pawns.<br />
<br />
<b>Gay Dave the drama teacher</b> - He means well but doesn't manage to help much.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/52915">Here's a link to the smashwords version.</a><br />
<br />
<br />
A Brief Moment of Lucidity is one of <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36709">Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.</a> The full collection of ten stories is available in ebook format on smashwords.<br />
<br />
For those who really do prefer a print version Uncle John's Bedtime Tales is available from:<br />
<br />
Amazon.com: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947012&sr=1-1">Click here</a><br />
Amazon.co.uk: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947213&sr=8-1">Click here</a><br />
Direct from Spinetinglers publishing: <a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/uncle-johns-bedtime-tales.html">Click here</a>John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-59637612954221945952011-05-24T01:17:00.007-07:002018-07-10T00:13:53.906-07:00Tiw's Cup<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnVl-Jw3UzliYweH2XLNFqeE0PAfNWQANGToYgdFj_LFVdbItVmrT0GxMxlk8pGAoSZhhiLepz6WmnJx9Zwkwo0XDkSfT-xpROVj1iuoxz4Awly8ZCsabCPqaGLYyYynZ13X76q-Wdrq7/s1600/tiws+cup+cover+smashwords.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnVl-Jw3UzliYweH2XLNFqeE0PAfNWQANGToYgdFj_LFVdbItVmrT0GxMxlk8pGAoSZhhiLepz6WmnJx9Zwkwo0XDkSfT-xpROVj1iuoxz4Awly8ZCsabCPqaGLYyYynZ13X76q-Wdrq7/s200/tiws+cup+cover+smashwords.png" width="125" /></a></div>
<br />
In the normal state of things we are fairly simple creatures with only two prime motivators - <b>Sex </b>and<b> Death</b>.<br />
<br />
I capitalised them and made them bold because I'm not just talking about sex and death. I'm talking about everything that they represent, effectively the carrot and the stick that in various forms prompts we poor donkeys to keep walking, regardless of the load that we're forced to bear.<br />
<br />
In general, Sex represents all the good stuff. The sweet flavours, physical pleasures and groovy sensations that are the comfort zone that we strive to stay warm within. Death on the other hand is the pain, the cold and the absence of comfort that we all naturally dread, and the whole of human joy and misery can be found in the merry dance that worms its way endlessly between one and the other.<br />
<br />
Some of the merry dancers will try to gravitate toward the Sexiness of it all because they believe that you only get one turn around the floor and that you should grab what you can. Others lean towards the Deathliness because they believe that the dance is some kind of test and that there are prizes at the end for those who can defer their gratification, (a bit of a risky policy in my humble opinion).<br />
<br />
Finally there are those who wander the middle path and carefully pick their way between the other dancers indulging in none of the available adventurous potential. We shall ignore these people because their lives are a complete waste of fucking time and they just get in the way of us real men.<br />
<br />
Let's go back to the first bunch. Those who love the Sexiness. These are the Hedonists. Unashamedly self-indulgent they eat everything, drink everything, smoke everything, try all the lovely drugs and are always on the lookout for a girl with bigger tits. They are shallow people but tremendous fun at parties. The only ones who fail to be entertained by a good Hedonist are people from the second bunch. I'd use the term death eaters because it's perfect but unfortunately already taken. You can't entertain Death lovers because they make a point of not being entertained. Being terminally bored and pale faced is sexy to them.<br />
<br />
Hang on a minute! Doesn't that make both sides of the dance floor sexy? Well yes, because this dance floor isn't flat or circular. It's shaped like a Mobius strip. It only has one surface and which ever extreme you care to dance toward you'll inevitably end up at the other. Think about it. The final outcome of the true Hedonist can only ever be stagnation and boredom because in the end nothing is ever enough - hence we find Death. On the other hand, deprive your senses of stimulation and they seek it out. That's why sensory deprivation floatation tanks make you feel so good. You come out of the darkness into the normal world and life's a fucking cartoon for the next few hours because your senses have turned up the volume. So in seeking Death we find the sexiness of our lives enhanced (adrenalin junkies take note, there will be a test).<br />
<br />
So, here endeth the lesson and now down to business...<br />
<br />
<b>Tiw's Cup - Outline. </b> <br />
Tiw's Cup is a cocktail of drugs imbibed by the Viking Berserkers before they go into battle. It's their way of making our metaphorical dance floor very much smaller. So small in fact that Sex and Death end up wearing the same party dress, with hilarious results.<br />
A thousand years later, put a profoundly Hedonistic adventurer in the same room with the ancient recipe, take a seat, crack open a beer and watch the fireworks.<br />
<br />
This is a third person narrative told almost entirely in flashback. The beginning and the end are in the same place. I thought that would be appropriate, bearing in mind the above lecture. <br />
<br />
<b>Characters.</b><br />
Ethan - A great guy. A very intelligent man born to wander the earth looking for the next good time. He's done it all and almost all at once. Eventually, burned out and bored, he dissolves into alcohol and waits for the end until a passing remark by a fellow drunkard alerts him to the fact that there is a path as yet untrod. This is where the tale truly begins because for Ethan, too much is not enough...<br />
<br />
In the true spirit of the story I'm giving it away as a complete feebie but only for a limited time. The Hedonists amongst you will appreciate the sexiness of getting something for nothing whereas my dear friends on the morbid end of the spectrum will thoroughly enjoy not enjoying watching the Hedonist in the tale pay a hefty price for his idiocy.<br />
<br />
YES. It's free to all who have read this far! But if you feel guilty about accepting it then leave a review here or on the smashwords site as payment for all my hard work.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div class="sectionhead">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Tiw's Cup - Introduction.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As a reader of dark fiction you are no
doubt familiar with the tingle of uncertainty that a good horror story can
bring. Indeed, it's probably the very reason that you pick a story like this up
in the first place. Some people dive to horrendous depths on a single breath to
experience that thrill while others will scale to dizzying heights with little
more between them and bone crushing death than a moist fingertip hooked onto a
nub of fragile rock. But what do these people do when they've done everything?
How do they cope with an existence made monochrome by the absence of adrenalin?
And what will they do if they then discover that there is one more step left to
take? Tiw's Cup is the first of Uncle John's Bedtime Tales…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">*********</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="sectionhead">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Tiw's Cup.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The mist was lifting, leaving only the
bitter cold behind. It bit into his face with icicle teeth as he drew a deep
breath and turned his stiffened neck to look around him. He couldn’t remember
anything, not even his name.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ethan, his own voice eventually told him.
His name was Ethan.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ethan sat, his back propped up against the
mouldering dampness of the wall. The half light revealed something of his
surroundings. An old room; empty and smelling of rot. Wires hung out of the
walls like burst veins. Floorboards, dry like old bones. The windows dusty and
pock marked with brick holes placed by the young engaged in dismantling the
old.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And all this blood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The survival instinct is a singular entity.
Ethan didn’t care where the blood had come from, only that it wasn’t his. He
felt no pain and was therefore gently reassured.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The mist lifted further. Ethan sat for a
short eternity between thoughts. His body, rigid and heavy, felt no inclination
to move. This pale mist, an odd composition of thickness and light felt almost
tangible to him. In normal circumstances thick fog allows you to see that which
is close up but obscures the distance. This mist, which filled the room, seemed
to work the opposite way around. But it was lifting, Ethan felt sure. It was
only a matter of time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">His cold mind though still somewhat solid
and lethargic forced his eyes to rest on his bare feet. At least he assumed
that they were his. These were dirty and misshapen, bulbous and swollen, but
they seemed to be in the right place so they must be his. Damn this fucking fog!
Where the hell was he?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This question was not uncommon in Ethan's
life. Anyone else would have had grave cause for concern if they had been in a
situation that prompted this question more than a few times in their entire
span. But in Ethan's life this question came up a lot! Ethan was an adventurer,
a spiritual warrior, a Byronic hero. Waking up in strange places with no memory
of the previous night was what he did. From an early age he’d been considered
intellectually gifted. He could speak intelligibly at six months old and read
pretty much anything by the age of four. His parents positively celebrated him
but they were inevitably missing something. He was beyond them in virtually
every aspect by the time he was nine. That’s not to say that Ethan was arrogant
or dismissive, far from it. He loved his parents deeply but his inner nature
drew him into fundamental conflict with their orderly lifestyle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He wasn’t going to university. There would
be no PhD. No scientific breakthrough or miracle surgery. No concert pianist or
prime minister.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ethan had decided to live instead.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">They had accepted his decision in grave
silence, and their unvoiced disappointment had torn him down more effectively
than all the anger, tears and emotional blackmail that they could have used had
they loved him less than they did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There was so much in the world to be
appreciated and Ethan was spiritually inspired to appreciate it. He’d left home
at eighteen with a rucksack and two hundred pounds. He’d picked a road at
random and stuck out his thumb.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There had been women on his travels. He was
known by name in almost every brothel in </span><span lang="EN-GB">Europe</span><span lang="EN-GB"> it seemed. He’d shagged his way around the world, eaten every
conceivable delicacy, stood atop mountains and drunk the oceans dry.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And then of course there were the drugs.
Opium in </span><span lang="EN-GB">China</span><span lang="EN-GB">, hashish in </span><span lang="EN-GB">Morocco</span><span lang="EN-GB">, peyote in </span><span lang="EN-GB">Mexico</span><span lang="EN-GB">, LSD in </span><span lang="EN-GB">San Francisco</span><span lang="EN-GB">. You name it; Ethan had snorted, swallowed, smoked, popped,
sniffed, chased or mainlined it. He had screamed into the face of God after
drinking virola juice in Columbia and awakened ten days later emaciated and
caked with shit, strapped to a stinking, bug ridden mattress in a far away
hovel. He’d almost died of dysentery.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">What a fucking rush.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But what if anything, had he learned? Ethan
was quick but he still never quite figured it out. The big lesson, that
hedonism dulls the senses. You can only take so many stimuli before the brain
begins to close down and ignore them. So to get the same buzz you have to go
further, take more, and do more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So he did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Spiritual greed is greed nonetheless. His
body had suffered. At twenty seven he looked like a man of fifty. Only his eyes
betrayed his true age. They burned in their darkened sockets like emerald
flares. He would not live a long life. But it would be a life to make the Gods
envious.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At the peak of his own self destruction
he’d been sitting, or rather slumping in a bar in </span><span lang="EN-GB">Reykjavik</span><span lang="EN-GB">,
listening to a silver bearded academic piss head rattling on about how the
Viking invasions of </span><span lang="EN-GB">Western Europe</span><span lang="EN-GB"> were still affecting world politics. His Absinthe glass was empty,
this made him sad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘If we still had it’, the piss head
slurred, ‘we could rule the world.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ethan picked his forehead up from the
table.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Had what?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Tiw's cup.’ Piss head belched. ‘Tiw's
fokking cup!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘What?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘The Berserkers.’ Piss head's eyes rolled
in their sockets. ‘The Viking warriors, feared by everyone. They drink from
Tiw's cup and go completely fokking insane. They run into battle naked and kill
everything that moves. The recipe was lost. If we still had it….’ His voice
trailed off, his drunken stupor victorious.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sometimes the smallest of things are
significant. The discarded cigarette that begets the forest fire. The
irritating glint in the foaming rapids that entices the salmon to the hook.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ethan was caught. His bored spirit had
found new hope in the small promise of a stone yet unturned. It stirred once
again engaging the help of his rusty but still remarkable intellect. He spent
the next few months in libraries, museums and internet cafes looking for
references to the magical brew known as Tiw’s cup. He found manuscripts,
extracts and historical notes that pushed him into lateral avenues of folk
lore, botany and neurochemistry. There were new languages and dialects to
absorb, places to go, people to see. Ethan's life turned around.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It took four years, but in the end a small
sheet of paper held the sum of his relentless enquiries. He had it, ‘Tiw's
Cup’, the recipe for divine madness. The ingredients were surprisingly easy to
obtain. Common sense dictated that they had to be freely available throughout </span><span lang="EN-GB">Western Europe</span><span lang="EN-GB">. Psilocybe
mushrooms formed the basic juice, Lobelia, Wormwood and Lopium followed
although the quantities varied with each account, throw in a little Hemlock and
garnish with a pinch of ergot of rye. There seemed to be no real complexity
involved. The reason for this was simple. It didn’t work. He’d locked himself
away in a hostel room and thrown the key out of the window because he didn’t
want to risk hurting anyone. Having cooked it all up he downed it in one gulp,
wincing at its bitterness. He’d buzzed for the next six hours, had a few
strange visions, laughed until his ribs ached, vomited liberally and then
fallen asleep. All in all it was nothing that he hadn’t done many times before.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There had to be some missing ingredient or
at least an aspect of the preparation that formed a catalytic effect. For weeks
he returned to his precious photocopies. Manuscripts, legends and the odd
learned dictation formed the core of his research. After hundreds of ever
decreasing mental circles there was one in the end that threw him a lifeline.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A photocopy of a single historical
reference which at first glance had seemed too superficial to be of any
importance, but being the man that he was he had copied it anyway. The key it
seemed was in the phrasing. It said simply ‘the drink was made for each
warrior…’ at least that’s the way he’d interpreted it. Ethan wasn’t that hot on
the use of redundant Scandinavian possessive terms. This implied that the brew
was customised to suit the individual. But how the hell was that supposed to
happen? He threw the papers down and sat in silence. Ethan's intellect,
powerful as it was, seemed lost. As his thoughts ground slowly to a halt a
small light went on somewhere inside him and in the silence his heart screamed
the answer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Blood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When he’d drunk the virola juice the shaman
who made it told him to breathe into the mixture otherwise it wouldn’t work
because the spirits of the tree wouldn’t recognise him. Ethan had laughed, but
blown into the pot anyway. He knew nothing of spirits, he just wanted the buzz.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He’d read various accounts of druids and
witches using blood to bind potions to specific people. It was common practice
in medieval medicine and in some areas of the world it still is. There was a
downside of course, the risk of severe allergic reaction. Everything’s fine the
first time you take it, but take it again and you’re dead. The problem is that
you don’t know whether you’ve reacted or not until it’s too late.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He knew he was right this time. He felt it
with the firm certainty that always accompanied the solution to a difficult
problem. He would make the potion again but this time he would add his own
blood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Over the next few days Ethan had found a
more suitable venue for his grand experiment. He’d been out in a small patch of
woodland hunting amongst the roots of the old birch for Psilocybe mushrooms.
The September weather had put a thick layer of mud and leaves on his already
distressed training shoes and the clothing that he habitually wore, jeans and a
loose fitting sweater, were proving of little help against the cold damp air.
As it started to rain he’d looked up from his quest to find shelter. He’d
noticed the old house then, set back amongst the thickest part of the wood. It
had been well and truly abandoned though Ethan could barely imagine why such a
formerly grandiose place had been left to decay. Perhaps the owner had more
money than sense.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On closer inspection the house proved to be
empty as Ethan had suspected although still quite secure it seemed. This would
be a good place. Quiet and secluded, away from everyone and any possibility of
disturbance. And if he became sick well he’d just have to deal with it. A
bottle of brine was guaranteed to empty his stomach within minutes if needed.
He’d bring some with him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He’d returned to the house two days later.
It was twilight and the air was cold. He’d already prepared the brew minus the
blood. He’d brought a razor blade for that job. Ethan wasn’t fond of pain but
sometimes you have to make sacrifices. Unfortunately he’d found the house to be
more secure than he’d initially estimated but there was an outhouse around the
side that may have something in it that he could use to pry open a window. As
luck would have it he found an old toolbox which held various bits and pieces
that were perfect for a spot of breaking and entry.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Having levered open a small window he
climbed inside. The smell of mildew greeted him as he sneaked into the hallway
looking for the stairs. This house could be safely categorised as spooky or
possibly borderline creepy. His mind flicked back to his childhood, watching TV
with his parents. Tales of mystery and imagination. ‘Not for people of a
nervous disposition’ the announcer had said every week before the program
began. Talk about the power of suggestion. That single phrase had scared him
far more profoundly than the incredulous rubbish that had followed for the next
hour. Ethan chuckled to himself as he mounted the dark staircase. Adrenalin was
already focussing his attention on the slightest of movements.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He checked out the bathroom. No water, just
grime on the mildewed shower curtain and puss coloured lime scale where the
bath tap had once dripped. There were dead flies on the windowsill and hanging
by the legs from the rotting lace curtain. The toilet bowl was dry and coated
with dirt but at least he’d have somewhere to shit and puke should the need
arise.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The bedrooms were next. Each one was much
the same as the others with its high ceilings ornate with intricate plaster
covings and pale squares on the walls where pictures had once hung. He chose
the one nearest the bathroom; it was as good as any. The window overlooked a
small roof that would serve as an escape route if needed. He tried to open it
but found his strength insufficient for the task. He went back downstairs for
the toolbox and having loosened the reluctant sash frame he put the tools away
in the corner.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He fished two tee light candles from the
pocket of his jeans and placed them on the floor. He lit each one carefully
with a dark blue disposable lighter that he’d carried around for months. He had
to tilt the lighter right over to get to the short wick and he cursed aloud as
he burned a finger on the tiny yellow flame. The house seemed to shudder at his
voice as if sound itself had become a thing long forgotten.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As each of the tee lights warmed through
their flames grew slightly brighter and the room became alive with dancing
shadows and although they couldn’t possibly have had any significant effect on
the temperature of the room Ethan would have sworn that he felt warmer and more
comfortable.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He sighed heavily and the flames flickered
and the shadows danced. He reached into his other pocket and retrieved a small
jar. He was glad to take it out because it had been digging into his hip as he
moved. He’d no idea of the dosage required or how much blood he’d have to put
in. Perhaps only a few drops would suffice, perhaps not. He unscrewed the lid
of the jar and placed both jar and lid carefully on the floor between the
candles. He reached into his back pocket to claim the razor blade which he’d
wrapped in several layers of paper. He unwrapped the blade and it glinted in
the pale candlelight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Holding his left hand over the open jar he
approached the base of his thumb with the blade. He hesitated, unable to make
the cut. He cursed his own cowardice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘It’s just subconscious self defence.’ he
assured himself. ‘Just make the fucking cut.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He swiped at his hand hoping to somehow cut
himself by accident. Oddly enough this actually worked although he had to keep
pinching the pitifully shallow wound to milk the liquid out. He managed two
drops, watching each one adopt the shape of a swirling toroid as it penetrated
the relatively clear liquid in the jar. He stirred it in with his finger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So then, this was it. He raised the jar as
if making a toast. He imagined for a moment that Tiw the Norse war god had
opened a lazy eye to witness an event not enacted for over a thousand years. A
mild shiver played along Ethan's spine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Tiw,’ he spoke aloud, ‘it’s been a while.
Can you still do it?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He gulped down half of the brew. At least
two of the ingredients were potentially lethal so if he survived the next hour
he’d consider drinking the rest then. He sat back and waited.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Twenty minutes elapsed. Ethan became
impatient, then frustrated. But something was happening. Nothing special, just
his heartbeat, slowing but becoming harder, almost audible. Some of the
alkaloids in the brew were depressants so it was no great shock that his
cardiac rhythm was affected. But it was loud, very loud, fearfully loud. His
vision grew foggy, as if a mist had descended on the place. He expected more,
flashing lights, voices perhaps, but nothing materialised and after a while the
beat of his heart subsided. His disappointment turned to desperation as he
picked up the jar and threw the remaining brew to the back of his throat. He
slammed the jar against the wall where it exploded into twinkling fragments.
Hitting the floorboards hard with his fist he swore into the empty room.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">His knuckles, grazed by the impact, began
to sting but this sensation was short lived and quickly replaced by something
else, something totally out of context and unexpected.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Pleasure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A warm, relaxed and almost orgasmic sensation
sprouted from his injured hand and expanded out towards his elbow. But it
didn’t stop there. It reached his shoulder, increasing in intensity, almost
burning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Fucking hell!’ Ethan gasped. His body grew
hotter, his skin felt inflamed, irritated. Soon the heat became unbearable. He
tore at his clothes, scratching at the flesh of his stomach as he pulled at his
sweater. Again the orgasmic wave began. Sprouting from the scratches, pouring
into his loins and down his legs. ‘Shit, shit, fucking Jesus shit!’ Ethan
pulled off the rest of his clothes. He had to get naked, to cool off or he’d
explode. He stood motionless in the cold darkness, totally internalised. He
knew what this was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sensory transference. It was common enough
with LSD. The brain confused the sensory input streams and misinterpreted
everything. You could see sounds as colours and hear colours as tones. Pictures
and words became the same thing mingled and indistinguishable. But this was
different. Pain into pleasure? He slapped himself across the face and the wave
started immediately. Blasts of hysterically intense sensations pushed into the
nerve roots in his teeth and ears, flashing like lightening in his mind's eye.
Ethan became ecstatic. Laughing manically he slapped himself again, caving in and
falling to his knees under the relentless pressure of orgasm after orgasm. His
knees hit the floor and pleasure burst forth like liquid fire engulfing his
testicles. He could sell this stuff. He would be seriously fucking rich.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He dropped forwards onto all fours. His
skin was reddened and he was sweating profusely. As his hands touched the floor
the waves started, immersing his head and neck in spasmodic jolts of ferocious
pleasure. So it wasn’t just pain that triggered the pleasure response Ethan
noted. It was any tactile sensation at all. A sickness fell upon him as he
crouched in the darkness. A side effect of the lobelia. His stomach heaved but
nothing came up and as his abdomen cramped the wave sprouted again. This time
it washed him away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Fuck this is good.’ Ethan groaned, barely
able to hold himself up. He reached for a piece of the broken jar and with some
hesitance jabbed it into his thigh. The pleasure wave hit him so hard that he
lost control of his bowel. But it wasn’t the same as before. A different type
of pain generates a different sensation of pleasure. Slaps and bangs were good
but cuts, Ethan thought to himself, cuts were totally fucking groovy! He jabbed
the glass shard into the same wound and then twisted it. He howled and fell,
rolling onto his back and giggling hysterically. He shit himself again and then
ejaculated. Breathing hard he rolled his head back and forth on the floorboards
feeling the powerful pleasure response now subtle in comparison to the
electrifying jolts leaping from his gushing thigh. He watched his blood expand
across the dusty floor caring nothing for it. Then he caught sight of something
that may as well have been the Holy Grail.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Oh yes.’ Ethan laughed. ‘Come to daddy.’
It took approximately seven orgasms to reach the toolbox but it was going to be
worth the effort.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ethan giggled, heaving open the rusted lid.
He picked out a large hammer, nodding his approval. He splayed his hand out on
the floor and slammed the hammer down hard on his index finger. He collapsed instantly,
all his strength blasted away by a pleasure so intense that he would have
cheerfully died right there. He gathered himself up and hit it again and again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Fight it Ethan,’ he moaned ‘you can take
this shit all fucking day.’ He launched a frenzied attack on the rest of his
fingers but in the end it still wasn’t enough. Hedonism dulls the senses. He
kept hitting though just to make sure, right up until he spotted the pliers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He reasoned carefully as he picked the
heavy rusted grips out of the box. If busting a finger sent him to heaven then
pulling a tooth should fire him straight up almighty God's arse and out of his
mouth. He chose a large molar. At least then nobody would notice the gap. His
plan misfired, but in a good way. Instead of gripping the tooth and working it
loose he squeezed too hard and the tooth shattered. His eyes rolled back and
his arms fell limp at his sides. He knelt for a while in a pool of hot urine
convulsing softly. When he finally became lucid he went straight for another molar
but something inside him shouted fuck it and in a twenty second flurry he
smashed every tooth in his head and begun grinding the stumps together while
choking on the pieces. He did indeed fly up God's arse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Having no more teeth left him at something
of an impasse. What he wouldn’t have given for a litre of boiling water and a
rubber tube. Then he remembered the razor blade.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Cuts are good.’ he reminded himself, ‘Cuts
are our friends.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The veins and arteries run longitudinally,
Ethan remembered from secondary school biology, so cutting across lost you more
blood per inch of incision than slicing up and down. Feeling smug at his
reasoning he picked the silver edged blade from the blood crusted floor and ran
it lightly down the inside of his left thigh. The pleasure wave was initially
sharp but quickly died off and then slowly built to a more acceptable
intensity. Ethan was disappointed. He wanted an explosion. After waiting a
little longer he put the blade in the same wound and dug deep. The explosion
came, pushing him beyond pleasure and into transcendence. Floating freely
amongst the gods for an eternity made instant Ethan was truly at one with all
things. He would have stayed there. He would have died a thousand horrific
deaths for one more second but the gods drew back, and as they abandoned him he
wept. A weakness overtook him. He inspected the wound in his leg through
tearful eyes. His femoral artery was open and his life was pouring out,
spreading like a scarlet vine at his feet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He lurched over to where his clothes lay
and scooped up his jeans. Ripping the thin leather belt from the loops he
wrapped it around his thigh at the groin and jerked it tight. He stood swaying
in the dim candle light. There was fear. There was dread. There was
realisation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The magic was failing. The potion was
wearing off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He wanted more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ethan wanted to live amongst the gods
again. He’d worked hard for it. He deserved it. To be away from them, only that
was death.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He screamed, kicking at the walls and
cracking the ancient plaster away, the bones of his toes shattered under the
impact. Not enough.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He punched the windows. The skin of his
forearms peeled and the tendons split and shrank back. Not enough.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Each remorseless act bore waves of pleasure
that died away like birth strangled children.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This was the moment that the berserker
became. Not in the gaining of his power, but at the loss of it. Screaming and
crying Ethan bowed his head and ran at the nearest wall. The cracking of his
skull echoed through the cold dark house. He finally fell, unconscious to the
floorboards.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Several hours later, as daylight hinted at
the possibility of its arrival, Ethan awoke.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The mist was lifting and Ethan knew the
truth. Soon the magic of Tiw's cup would be completely gone and he’d be cast
into a world of unimaginable pain. He reached down slowly and deliberately to
untie the thin leather tourniquet from his thigh and as the fount of his life
spewed forth Ethan thought that he may be lucky after all.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">What a fucking rush.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">*********</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Tiw's Cup is one of <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36709">Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.</a> The full collection of ten stories is available in ebook format on smashwords.<br />
<br />
For those who really do prefer a print version Uncle John's Bedtime Tales is available from:<br />
<br />
Amazon.com: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947012&sr=1-1">Click here</a><br />
Amazon.co.uk: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947213&sr=8-1">Click here</a><br />
Direct from Spinetinglers publishing: <a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/uncle-johns-bedtime-tales.html">Click here</a>John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-11340872578631797422011-05-23T02:41:00.002-07:002018-07-10T00:14:28.579-07:00Kirlia<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLArLyZZNxj32UOU8NLakgE9J1C1Z-cho-9vQiDIx7lLFhnp46mzRCrkBOXlDjxmwuvwvAt0Tpf23XShoBpJfzw4jy3MDThlA1bJvfWK1r9JMdbbYUQjRCfFiqKVylg-9eLTbdqiuLbjqK/s1600/kirlia+cover+smashwords.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLArLyZZNxj32UOU8NLakgE9J1C1Z-cho-9vQiDIx7lLFhnp46mzRCrkBOXlDjxmwuvwvAt0Tpf23XShoBpJfzw4jy3MDThlA1bJvfWK1r9JMdbbYUQjRCfFiqKVylg-9eLTbdqiuLbjqK/s200/kirlia+cover+smashwords.png" width="125" /></a></div>
<br />
I was brought up in an age of fringe sciences when various affluent governments were knee deep in the possibility of remote viewing and its applications in espionage. We had Bionics, although as far as I'm aware that only ever made any cash from television advertising during the Six Million Dollar Man. There was an entire academic underworld subculture based on spoon bending, telepathy, artificial intelligence, astrology, alien civilisations, lost worlds, ley lines, divination, magic, esp etc. The list goes on and on, and they were all wonderfully imaginative and eagerly explored by a plethora of pseudoscientists with flowers in their hair, assuming that the funds were available, (for the research, not the flowers).<br />
<br />
Then there's my personal favourite - Kirlian photography. I have to admit the evidence is there. The pictures prove it. You can, given the right conditions, photograph the human aura. Wow! A bit of a breakthrough there then. Think of the medical applications. According to some, the aura changes in the presence of disease and it's better than an x-ray because it can even tell if you're having a bad day (the colours reflect your emotions). Well no. Actually all the colours are an artifact of the development process and what you're really seeing is an electrical corona effect. Even inanimate objects have auras so you can tell if a basketball or a ten cent piece from your pocket is also having a bad day (and why shouldn't they?).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpl-BlcuCCzx2jXtpfsspdeorCN0PlKrQPR30y-y8ne2Pf03MtcRoQ2M7O7eyIV5zK_pHf6M8pgbRVTlh31sZposKfTAmB2Hq-ygt04cwc8QkuERXjxtxMX4J1FeAQXGiSzQyx_9bqGFg/s1600/754px-Kirlian_coins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpl-BlcuCCzx2jXtpfsspdeorCN0PlKrQPR30y-y8ne2Pf03MtcRoQ2M7O7eyIV5zK_pHf6M8pgbRVTlh31sZposKfTAmB2Hq-ygt04cwc8QkuERXjxtxMX4J1FeAQXGiSzQyx_9bqGFg/s200/754px-Kirlian_coins.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stolen from Wikipedia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anyway, picking up on the possibilities I started to wonder. What if all that 1960's fringe exploration was still going on? In the dark and underfunded basement labs where the fuzzy haired lunatics cackle insanely over disected frogs while the overhead flourescent tubes flicker themselves to death. Where would it be now?<br />
<br />
With this in mind I came up with Kirlia.<br />
<br />
<b>Outline.</b><br />
This is a third person narrative following the adventures of a single character who, through a bizarre combination of fate and being a tosser, finds himself with a backstage pass to the doors of Kirlia.<br />
Kirlia is a place. It is the landscape that you'd see if Kirlian photography were taken to the nth degree and it uncovered and made plain all those things that were normally concealed from the waking senses. Imagine a world packed full of UHF flora and fauna, flowers and butterflies, predators and prey.<br />
<br />
This is all well and good - unless the things that live in Kirlia don't want to be seen...<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Characters.</b><br />
Carlos Soames. He's a bit of a miserable bastard. He's a writer, an alcoholic, and a tight ass. He's chronically sarcastic and self centred and he's in for a bitch of a ride. I have to feel a little sorry for him really, he doesn't deserve his fate the low life that he is, but what the hell.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/52716">Here's a link to the smashwords version.</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Kirlia is one of <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36709">Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.</a> The full collection of ten stories is available in ebook format on smashwords.<br />
<br />
For those who really do prefer a print version Uncle John's Bedtime Tales is available from:<br />
<br />
Amazon.com: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947012&sr=1-1">Click here</a><br />
Amazon.co.uk: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947213&sr=8-1">Click here</a><br />
Direct from Spinetinglers publishing: <a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/uncle-johns-bedtime-tales.html">Click here</a>John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-69438165704729242032011-05-20T22:14:00.001-07:002018-08-15T17:40:52.256-07:00John's Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUY0gO5wUNM4AbxeXM89uuszWY7C807cduBo3NJoUhPg2YfqmAtjhM1XLfP_JEkdspabMCWPr1PHw-GJO1FGX2-6xEyIZb5gN8ucT1dcMFyUgzbx0R5iFkOJEZEaBYkOW9PIsox4SCXXxd/s1600/john%2527s+story+cover+smashwords.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUY0gO5wUNM4AbxeXM89uuszWY7C807cduBo3NJoUhPg2YfqmAtjhM1XLfP_JEkdspabMCWPr1PHw-GJO1FGX2-6xEyIZb5gN8ucT1dcMFyUgzbx0R5iFkOJEZEaBYkOW9PIsox4SCXXxd/s200/john%2527s+story+cover+smashwords.png" width="125" /></a></div>
<br />
I look around me at the the world news and I see that a few days ago a man ran into a shop in Spain, picked a meat knife from the kitchenware section and used it to cut the head from a fellow shopper, a woman whom he didn't even know. He then ran out of the shop and threw the head away along the pavement before running off. I mean, it's not as if he even needed it for anything, (although there's a good recipe for brain pate in my novel <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36715">Thaddeus</a>), so why on earth did he take it? He's been apprehended now but I think the authorities will be looking at him long and hard before they figure out what motivated him to do what he did and I'll be waiting with baited breath to hear what he has to say. Apparently he's some kind of mentally ill vagrant who probably saw it as a good way to get free accomodation and four square meals a day for the rest of his life. The only way is up.<br />
The point is that when he acted he probably behaved rationally from his own warped perspective. He obviously thought that his act was justified in some way, otherwise he wouldn't have done it. It seems pertinent to me now to use this tragic event as the lead in to this tale because it bears some similarity in that the main character, Dr. John Dante, is utterly deluded (or is he?) and yet at the same time entirely rational. It just goes to show that even the drooling psychotic nutter who sits in the corner of your bedroom while you sleep, gently and repeately stabbing the carpet with a butcher's blade can probably offer a valid explanation as to why he's there. So if you suddenly jerk awake in the wee small hours and notice him grinning in the darkness, ask him why he wants your liver and then drop me a line. I'd be interested to know.<br />
<br />
<b>John's Story - outline.</b><br />
<br />
This is a part third person narrative, part dialogue driven tale with flash back scenes, about a poor deranged man who thinks he's a killer. This may be true of course, you'll have to read it and then decide for yourself. Apart from the explicit violence and bloodletting that I love so much, the key to this story is in the fact that it isn't clearly resolved. It's left uncertain then whether he's merely a deranged simpleton or a serial killing bastard. In the end, as far as John Dante is concerned the outcome is the same, although after the end may also be of some concern.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Characters.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Dr. Robert Mason.</b> A lecturer in psychology who, using Dr. Dante as his model, attempts to explain the nature of his condition. Poor Robert has a limited perspective and tries to explain Dante's behaviour in his own terms. This is to some degree a mistake because he's not really equipped to live in Dante's world and so Dr Dante's treatment at his hands yields somewhat less than ideal results. Never mind. He tried.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Dr. John Dante.</b> A very successful and accomplished physician with a dark secret that's slowly killing him. Dr. Dante believes he's done something very naughty indeed and no-one seems to be able to convince him otherwise. The problem is that he's now determined to make recompense for his misdeeds in an equally despicable and violent way.<br />
<br />
<b>A cast of tens. </b>Various psychology students who all have their own opinion on the matter and serve to drive the discussion on the nature of delusion and how it is best approached.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/52713">Here's a link to the smashwords version.</a><br />
<br /><br />
John's Story is one of <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36709">Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.</a> The full collection of ten stories is available in ebook format on smashwords.<br />
<br />
For those who really do prefer a print version Uncle John's Bedtime Tales is available from:<br />
<br />
Amazon.com: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947012&sr=1-1">Click here</a><br />
Amazon.co.uk: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947213&sr=8-1">Click here</a><br />
Direct from Spinetinglers publishing: <a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/uncle-johns-bedtime-tales.html">Click here</a>John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-24567978352040483222011-05-20T21:18:00.001-07:002018-07-10T00:15:19.079-07:00How do you like yours?<b> </b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="2" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidVkbVpZ6zMBgwxz7pksIj4G7wUgw6ykr6kBQbrBj-RaDqHX7k1z92ZYQJt9VkMovic7_PokeVPhJ_QBG_QHBTo8iOqHEsJoLdmegeXKaDbIxAy2t6bxAtgoiG9xteAULykIYskQXREycf/s200/how+do+you+like+yours+cover+smashwords.png" width="125" /> </div>
<br />
I'm starting with a short story which I have to admit met with mixed reviews, predominantly because it deviated quite strongly from my usual writing style, and as all writers know, your writing style is your brand. It's what the readers enjoy almost as much perhaps as the story itself.<br />
<br />
My preference for a story is usually a third person narrative ie;<br />
<br />
<i>'As Leon put his head through the doorway into the darkness he knew that something primeval had taken place here. The smell of blood, like that of cold meat, filled his nose and his mind, and his body alerted him of its urge to run. This was the part that he hated the most. The physical sensations that always heralded the oncoming mental images, like the threat of a violent death...'</i> etc. etc. <br />
<br />
How do you like yours is very different. It's a first person account that reads like a lifestyle magazine article. This is because it's the main character Julia Smedley that's telling the story and that's how she speaks. If she spoke like me it would seem entirely false, so I let her have it her way, and for me it works.<br />
<br />
The key to the tale is in Julia's narrative delivery. Like most warped minds Julia's believes itself to be normal and cannot understand why anyone would consider her romantic preferences to be in any way abhorrent. For this reason Julia chronicles her personal adventures in a deadpan fashion despite the creepy nature of the content. From her perspective she is quite normal whereas from the 'normal' reader's perspective she's very far from it. This is what, for me, generates the energy and some of the shock factor in the story.<br />
<br />
<b>Background.</b><br />
<br />
This story, like all the best dark fiction and horror, has it's basis in fact. I saw, some years ago an American news broadcast of a live car chase down a main highway. The chase lasted for over two hours as police pursued a young woman whom, while working as a mortician's assistant, had fallen in love with one of the 'clients' and decided to elope with him in a stolen hearse. Eventually the pursuit ended safely as the woman pulled over to the side of the road and gave herself up to the police. The thing that struck me, apart from the absurdity of it all, was the fact that the woman, on being interviewed by police and the press, absolutely could not understand what all the fuss was about. In the end, since she hadn't broken any significant laws, other than taking a vehicle without the owners consent for which she apologised (she didn't even exceed the speed limit during the 'pursuit'), she got off with a fine after a psychiatric evaluation.<br />
<br />
To tell this story as it stands would be little more than plagiarism on my part and so of course I've added all kinds of embellishments, but I can't go into detail because this would spoil the show.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/52910">Here's a link to the smashwords version.</a><br />
<br />
<br />
How Do You Like Yours is one of <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36709">Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.</a> The full collection of ten stories is available in ebook format on smashwords.<br />
<br />
For those who really do prefer a print version Uncle John's Bedtime Tales is available from:<br />
<br />
Amazon.com: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947012&sr=1-1">Click here</a><br />
Amazon.co.uk: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Uncle-Johns-Bedtime-Tales-Vault/dp/1906755191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305947213&sr=8-1">Click here</a><br />
Direct from Spinetinglers publishing: <a href="http://www.spinetinglersbooks.com/uncle-johns-bedtime-tales.html">Click here</a>John Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979350572987564059.post-45019126813731287992011-05-20T21:06:00.001-07:002018-07-10T00:16:23.258-07:00Why Shadow Children?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]-->
I am John Vault. I write dark fiction, short stories and novels.<br />
<br />
Originality is my driving force, so I stay away from the run of the mill
horror fodder. There are no vampires, werewolves, zombies or flesh eating
aliens in my work. They've already been done, spun and respun, and even if I
get a great vampire idea I throw it on principle. It's not sufficient merely to
write. We indies have to bring something new into the mix.<br />
<br />
We need to get back to the drawing board instead of revamping (no pun
intended) ideas from the 1940s. Stephen King gave it a go, but alas I think
even he has been battered into submission by publishers who think they know
what sells.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, much like the music industry, the common man is only
presented with material that the publishers believe to be marketable. 'We sold
this stuff last time and we made a fortune, so let's do it again.' is the
clarion call, and inevitably the death rattle, of the fossilised few big
publishing houses. They don't live in the modern world. They don't understand
the way that on line media has bypassed the walls of their ivory towers and
flooded around their feet. They are doomed because they wilfully limit the
level of choice within the market that they presume to serve. It's the consumer
that gets to choose what they consume. It is the consumer after all, who fronts
up with the cash. It you see a shop window with only three items in it, you're
gonna walk on by.<br />
<br />
More unfortunately, the big publishers still control the route to market.
This thankfully is the only vestige of power remaining to them and it is fading
fast. Why? Because their market is the brick and mortar bookstore. For the most
part, traditional booksellers are influenced by advisors who, in turn, work for
the publishers, and again their advice is based on what has gone before.<br />
<br />
I therefore ask the question: How can you possibly foster originality based
on what's already been done? There are no prior sales indicators for purely
original work, which means that the publishers are in exactly the same
situation as you and I when it comes to helping you to decide on your next
reading purchase.<br />
<br />
Luckily the answer is not only afoot, it's sprinting toward you.<br />
<br />
If you have a manuscript ready - don't waste it on a publisher who will
never get around to reading it, will send you a rejection slip out of hand, or
worse, will take up your work and then fail to give it the support it deserves.<br />
<br />
Instead, place your work with someone who will understand it, cherish it and
do their utmost to see it put before the right people.<br />
<br />
In other words, do the
job yourself.<br />
<br />
Yes there's more work involved. Actually writing your story is perhaps
twenty percent of the task. There's proof reading (several times), editing,
styling for publication, cover work, pricing, genre selection and registration,
ISBN management... The list goes on.<br />
<br />
And then the work really begins, because the hard part, the really hard
part, is getting noticed.<br />
<br />
That's the challenge, more than anything else facing the indie author,
regardless of his or her talent, because if no-one knows you're there how are
they going to read your work?<br />
<br />
This then, is the purpose of my blog. I'm shouting out, waving a flag,
whatever it takes to get seen.<br />
<br />
Shadow children is a term that well defines the dark fiction indie author. Or
perhaps shadow orphan may be better. We're on the outskirts, of publishing and
of genre.<br />
<br />
Horror and dark fiction are not the big genres that they were. Why?
See above.<br />
<br />
Horror is more at home in the cinema these days. Why? See above.<br />
<br />
Because of this the publishing houses seem to have moved away from the horror
genre which serves to compound the issue. Low interest equals low sales equals
less support equals lower interest, and so it goes.<br />
<br />
I have often asked myself if readers are becoming less imaginative these
days. If they need all the visuals to be dished up and spoon fed along with the
popcorn. I sincerely hope not or we're all doomed to writer's hell.<br />
<br />
I want indie horror to flourish like a dark flower, a black rose amongst the
compost that the big publishers are trying to pass off as quality.<br />
<br />
The potential market is huge. It's our job to be noticed.<br />
<br />
Do you have a tale to tell? A short story or poem perhaps? Darkly themed and
dripping red?<br />
<br />
If so I'd like to hear it, and if it moves me I'd like to add it to a blog
page.<br />
<br />
It's worth a freebie, I think, to wave your flag.<br />
<br />
I've thrown my hat into the ring. It's called:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://johnvaultshadowchildren.blogspot.co.nz/2011/05/tiws-cup.html" target="_blank">Tiw's Cup.</a><br />
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";}
</style>
<![endif]--><br />
John Vault.<br />
Author of <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36715">Thaddeus</a>, <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/71111" target="_blank">The Mushroom Man</a>, <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/323110" target="_blank">Crones</a> and <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36709">Uncle John's Bedtime Tales. </a><br />
<br />
email: authorjohnvault@gmail.comJohn Vaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665267327593913250noreply@blogger.com0