"One of the surest tests [of the superiority or inferiority of a poet] is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different than that from which it is torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion."


Let's all be good thieves together.

Thursday, 4 December 2008


I'd just like to take a moment to welcome anyone coming from the link Nicky provided on his AC article. A quick glance will reveal that I'm not the most active of bloggers and to be honest that won't change anytime soon. I also like to take my time writing so you'll have to wait to see what I'm actually capable of. Still feel free to compare my Halloween Girl to his which you can find here and hopefully enjoy this little short story I wrote one night in January while feeling a tad melancholy, I could do with fixing up the grammar a notch but it'll do for now to refute Nicky's claims that I can't write anything original without sex in it.

The Last Sunset

I watched the sun set today, perhaps for the first time since I was a lad sitting on the beach with my family while we listened to the gentle song of the ocean as it whispered a lullaby to those who cared to listen. My view was poor but I made sure to follow it as best I could while it slipped beyond the horizon. In youth, long before science robbed me of dreams and whimsy, I knew with all my heart that the sun had gone home to his cottage where it would have tea and scones and read its paper while smoking a pipe and disdainfully tut-tutting at the state of the world followed by a remark or two about how things were so much better when he was a lad, just as my own father did, but now I know instead of stars and planets dancing their ordained orbits like stately old men and woman, waltzing to the orchestra of time. I watched this sunset as it stained the sky red with blood and stood by the window until long after day had passed into night and the stars twinkled in the firmament. I do not doubt that I have seen better sunsets, even if I cannot recollect them at this moment, but none have ever been so poignant to me I think, as this was my last sunset.

For on the morrow I hang.

Doubtless you wonder how an innocent child who dreamed of the sun in a cottage enjoying tea and scones has come to such a sad fate. I could protest that I am innocent, that I have been framed by powerful and corrupt men jealous of my success, but if you are reading this then I can safely assume that you know of me and my crimes and that such deceit would serve no point. Still it matters not, I have no desire to dwell on my fall from grace, suffice it to say that as in all such matters it began with a small sin, barely noticeable, and grew from there, the snowflake that became an avalanche. It is however a small consolation to me that I am the last of my line, and that there are none dear to me who will have to live with the shame my deeds would have brought unto them… A small consolation indeed but at such a time I will accept what little I can gain.

For on the morrow I hang.

I return to this endeavour, to set my final thoughts to paper, a final vanity to salve my pride after having finished my last repast. It is strange how even the simplest of fare was transmuted by my situation into a meal beyond the skills of the finest chef, indeed there is some truth in the thought that one does not truly live until he is to die. After the meal the prison chaplain visited me to offer solace and hear my final confession. He waxed eloquent regarding his God and the torments that would await me should I not take this final opportunity to unburden my soul and repent. It was truly a magnificent performance and I almost feel a smidgeon of guilt at his expression when I informed him that unless his God could provide me with a key to my cell, a change of clothes, and a fast horse at the steps I would rather keep my sins to myself.

For on the morrow I hang.

Damn that foolish priest and his sermons! I had hoped to rest and look well for my hanging, that those who attend would note it and mark that I died with no regret. A brave monster that had left the world a better place for his death, rather than a pitiful wretch put out of his and their misery. But now I see their faces once more, all those whose blood eased my way to a life of notoriety and leisure. I will have no sleep this night, and yet of them all I regret but one strangely enough, and not even the one for which I will dance the hemp fandango; I only wish that clod had a thousand lives so I could savour the taking of them all the more. Perhaps the priest did have a point after all, perhaps this is a time to make confession and beg forgiveness… Not from some distant, detached God, for I know that any God worthy of the name would have nothing to do with a soul as stained as mine. No I shall make what peace I can here and now with the shade of a sweet innocent girl who deserved far more than the untimely death and shallow grave she received.

For on the morrow I hang.

Ah Catherine my beautiful little wren, fair of face, dark of hair and quick of wit I can see your pale shade standing before me as I pen these words. The blood on your dress is a testament to my crime but worst of all are your eyes for I see no accusation, no hatred at what I have become, only pity and love for the man you once knew… I can write no more, I cannot… I must apologise to you my faithful reader, I do not know if her shade truly appeared to me or if it was merely an illusion caused by the stress of my imminent fate. I will continue however for her tale should be told. We grew up together in a small fishing village by the sea: she and I. As children we were playmates and confidants seeking escape from ever present boredom and the threat of education provided by the local schoolmaster, as time inevitably took its toll, and we became aware of the differences betwixt man and woman, we became sweethearts and eventually married. We were happy, I was happy, but I was not content in our little cottage by the river. If only I could have been… What a different life I would have led, a loving husband, a devoted father and in the fullness of time a wise and knowing grandfather, with her ever by my side, but such was not to be.

For on the morrow I hang.

As I mentioned, while I was happy I was not content with my lot in life; I was ever sure that I was destined for greater things than the simple life of a fisherman; that wealth and prestige were merely waiting for me to reach out and grab them. In short I was a fool. too distracted by worthless dreams of avarice to note the true treasures around me, and so when I was approached by a dubious little man who offered me more money than I would make in a month simply to take my boat out one dark night and receive a package for him, feckless youth that I was, I accepted without ever considering the consequences. All went smoothly that night, and I returned home with a spring in my step and wealth in my pocket with the promise of more to come. I was so pleased with myself that I announced my good fortune to my beloved Catherine without ever considering how she would react to such news. To say she was distraught would be putting it mildly, she cried and wept, calling me a fool who would wind up on the gallows should the excise men ever discover my crime. She begged me to return the money, and foreswear doing such deeds again for the wages of sin were death, and so on it went. I tried to reason with her, to make her see the life that could be ours, but she was too good, too pure and so neither of us could convince the other. During our argument the crockery and cutlery were scattered until I finally attempted to restrain her and convince her that I had done everything for us and a future brighter than that which we had been allotted, and she slapped me... I swear until that moment I had never raised my hand to a woman, but a red mist descended upon me and I struck her with the back of my hand… Such a gentle blow it was, you have to believe me, nothing more than a tap, but she flew, light as a feather, and fell to the ground where she lay, still and unmoving. I rushed to her side, turning her over, and then all I could see was the blood from the discarded knife that somehow had pierced her heart. I panicked then, and fearing the noose I buried her in a shallow grave by an oak tree along the river before I fled to the life of sin that has led me to this point. I swear that in all the time since, while I have known the company of many women, I loved only her and I beg you that if you should pass by that village, find the tree and ensure she has a proper burial. She deserves that much at least.

For the morrow has finally come. And I will hang.

Tuesday, 2 December 2008

Associated Content article is live

Sorry to love you and leave you with a short post but it's 1 a.m. and I'd like to get some sleep. My first AC article is now up and as always feedback is welcome. http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/1234004/sex_and_the_story.html?cat=9

I can see a few typos I missed earlier and a couple of rough transitions, but it gives me something to improve on and hopefully future articles will read a lot smoother than this one.

Edit: second article is up http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/1247728/just_what_is_a_poppy_z_brite_vampire.html?cat=38

Sunday, 30 November 2008

Monday, 24 November 2008

Associated Content

Well I've taken the plunge and submitted my first article to Associated Content, for amusement rather than any hope of financial gain, it's called Sex and the Story and covers my thoughts on the use of sex in creative writing. The article is currently awaiting approval but I've already started typing out another one as well as begun to write Spectral Exile. I'm going to take my time with this story and try to add more spit and shine to it than I did Halloween Girl, I might even throw it up on Associated Content as well as the blog if I'm happy enough with it, though I doubt that I will as despite the kind feedback I know my work has a long way to go yet before it's ready for wider viewing.

Wednesday, 12 November 2008

Still Alive

I honestly thought I'd have something to share with people sooner but I got distracted when my prepaid games came in, Fable II and Gears of War 2 eat time like Mr Creosote at an all you can eat buffet.

Anyway I have a couple of ideas brewing around in my head that I want to try and set down. These include a cat having to deal with vampire mice, a Mythos inspired tale of madness, and one or two rewrites of the basic ideas behind Nicky Pacione's terrible, terrible stories. I just have to be able to sit down and write without feeling the need to erase the document after the first sentence and take up alligator dentistry instead.

Monday, 20 October 2008

Halloween Girl

With Halloween coming up here's a little short story for people.

Halloween Girl

It had been a bad October. Things had started off well enough -- looking at wedding cakes with my fiancée – but then a week later she was going to France to be the muse for a sculptor and jazz musician called Jacques. The week after that I received a phone call from my agent, the publisher who had bought one of my stories for his magazine had died of a heart attack while snorting cocaine off the ass of a fifteen year old hooker. As a result of the scandal his company was going belly-up and would be unable to pay any debts. Including the money they owed me. The rest of the month was filled with petty annoyances: my car breaking down, my landlord raising the rent, and the spontaneous human combustion of the quarterback for my favourite football team. Just the minor trials and tribulations you get when God decides to use you for target practice.

The final straw came on the morning of the 31st when I went to feed my goldfish Fred only to find him floating on top of the water very, very dead. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity in my bathrobe and fluffy slippers holding his little box of fish food. My mind at first seemed unable to process his passing but all too soon the shock was drowned by a wave of depression, followed by the almost irresistible urge to stick my head into his fishbowl and follow him into the great beyond.

I was saved from the ignominy of an embarrassing suicide when the phone rang, shocking me out of my trance. On the other end was my oldest friend Dave, he had decided that with all my woes I needed to get out of the house. Looking at Fred’s tiny cadaver I couldn’t help but agree with him. He had managed to score tickets to a local Goth club where he assured me that the alcohol would flow to the point where a four foot tall, overweight little troll with halitosis and body odour that could knock out an ox could get laid. Standing just under six feet with only a little extra padding and being freshly showered I fancied my chances at a little action to chase away the blues.

I should have known better. Every girl I talked to I scared away by either comparing them to my bitch ex-fiancée, or just blubbering away, telling them how much I missed her and wanted her back. Finally I just gave up and found myself a deserted table in a shadow filled corner where I could have a drink in relative peace and quiet, while watching the girls dance.

Soon Dave found me in my little oasis of solitude, two attractive, giggling young Goth girls hanging off his arms. He told me their names were Cherry and Sherry, or something like that and he’d been invited back to their apartment. He wanted to make sure I was alright and was willing to stay and keep me company if I wanted. I smiled at him and told him I was fine, I was just going to have another drink or two before heading home and he should go and enjoy himself. Smiling gratefully he promised to make it up to me another time and the trio vanished into the crowd. I returned to my drink and watching the dance floor, feeling my depression rising again.

That was when I saw her. I can’t say for certain what it was that drew my eyes to her initially. Was it her sinuous, graceful dancing? The age difference between her and her dance partner? It could have been the way the crowd seemed to part around them as though they were subconsciously unwilling to get too close. It could have been any combination of these things or none at all, it didn’t matter. Once I saw her -- I couldn’t look away.

She was tall, easily over six feet, with well toned legs that seemed to go on forever in those tight black, leather pants she wore. Her red and black corset hugged an hourglass figure as though it were a second skin, imprisoning a pair of buxom breasts as they strained to burst free. Her shoulders and arms were bare; revealing alabaster skin that seemed to almost glow luminously in the flickering strobe lights. The only ornamentation she wore was a silver snake bracelet coiling around her left forearm. Her long flowing hair was raven black, though even at a distance I could see a tracery of grey hairs marring its ebon uniformity. Her face was beautiful though angular, with high cheekbones, deep dark brown eyes, and ruby red lips, slightly parted in a seductive pout. It bore the marks of time’s inevitable march well, a wrinkle or two upon the forehead, some crow’s feet at her eyes but they did nothing to detract from her beauty. I would have placed her in her mid to late thirties while her dance partner was clearly just out of her teens. Still more girl than woman, with curly red hair bouncing around a cherubic face, she was at least a foot smaller than the woman who had caught my attention, and wore a red blouse with a dark skirt and too much white foundation in an effort to appear pale and interesting.

As I watched them dance I soon saw that the red haired girl was responding to the older woman’s movements in an almost dazed fashion, as though she were not in full control of her body. It was then that I realized their movements weren’t even remotely in time with the fast paced beat of the song; they were following a tune that only they could hear. I stared in fascination at their slow precise movements as they danced. I could see hints of an ancient symbolism in their movements that had been forgotten long ago. It was a dance of seduction and supplication, the older woman represented some unearthly predator while the younger was its prey, pleading for mercy while slowly moving towards the inevitable surrender to the predator’s will. As their dance reached its conclusion and the young woman opened her blouse baring the flesh between her neck and breasts to the older something strange happened to me.

The ever present music that reverberated through the club seemed to fade until only its beat remained fast and rapid, then that began to slow as did the other dancers until they were unmoving statues and all I could hear was the steady, slow thump – thump echoing in the club like giant heartbeat. At the same time the colour seemed to drain away turning the club into a cold, lifeless tableau like an old sepia photograph. As I looked around my first thought was that I was dying, but then I realized that the women I had been watching dance were still flush with colour and visible signs of life in stark contrast to the rest of the club. I drew in breath to call out to them but some primeval instinct prevented me from speaking as the older woman leant in towards the younger.

I could see a sudden flash of steel as she opened her ruby lips to reveal a razorblade she had somehow concealed in her mouth. With a lover’s gentleness she slowly drew the blade in a crimson line across the flesh of her victim whose mouth opened in an O of pain or pleasure I couldn’t be sure, all I could hear was the damnable thump – thump. Then as suddenly as it appeared the razorblade vanished and the woman’s tongue slowly and gently licked up the blood that had begun to slowly ooze from the wound before suckling at the wound itself like a hungry kitten. I could see the girl’s eyes roll back in her skull as her head tipped back, clearly in ecstasy at the sensation of the older woman feasting upon her. As I continued to watch in terrified fascination barely able to remember to breathe, I noticed that the older woman’s hair was slowly growing darker and more luxurious, the grey hairs changing before my eyes to black. At the same time the crow’s feet and wrinkles gradually vanished as the skin tightened and became taut once more.

Finally the woman finished with her meal, now looking in her early twenties. After a last languid lick of her tongue to clean up any stray droplets of blood she kissed the wound and I watched stunned as the flesh closed leaving no mark behind. She then gently closed the blouse and stroked the hair out of her partner’s eyes before planting a tender kiss upon her lips. At that the colour and signs of animation had fled from the red haired young woman and she joined the rest of the club in that bizarre frozen moment they seemed to occupy. Her business concluded the raven haired woman began to make her way towards the exit while I held my breath and tried to remain as still as possible lest she realise I had witnessed her ritual.

She froze halfway to the exit and turned to face me. For a second deep within the centre of her brown eyes, I swear I saw a fiery red spark that threatened to consume me but then it faded and she smiled. She raised her hand to her mouth and blew a kiss at me before vanishing out into the night. The instant she left the club, the beat began to pick up pace once more, the colour and music returned and everything was normal. For a second or so, before I heard a scream and turned to see the red haired girl lying prone on the dance floor. I sat in that corner shivering until the club closed, unwilling to go out into the night afraid she might be waiting for me. I finally got a cab home and in the morning I was almost convinced it had just been a hallucination brought on by too much alcohol and my fragile mental state. Perhaps the red haired girl had just collapsed due to overheating or exhaustion, perhaps even some form of drug abuse. Unfortunately my morning newspaper quickly disabused me of that comforting belief when I read the review of the Halloween party.

It had gone well though there had been a moment of concern when Ms Regina McKay, 21 had collapsed on the dance floor. Paramedics were called and it was soon determined that she was suffering from a form of anaemia or lack of blood. She was being treated in a local hospital and was expected to make a full recovery.

I felt every hair on my body rise in terror and my heart threatening to explode in my chest upon reading that, fearful that the raven haired woman whoever she was might come after me. I soon calmed down though as I realized that if she had wanted to hurt me she would have done so at the club, I tried to tell a few of my friends the story but they just laughed at me and in time I put it to the back of my mind.

I’ve gone back to that club a few times but I’ve never seen her there again, though she does appear occasionally in my dreams, forever dancing, forever young, with droplets of blood on her smiling lips she’s my eternal Halloween girl.