Back to School (Again)…

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The leggy waitress stood there – a chewed biro in her right hand and a tattered notebook in her left. She tugged at the collar of her too-tight uniform and fanned herself with a plastic menu. Her face was red. She looked like a pimple that was ready to burst.

– Replay

My horror novella, Replay, is now available for purchase directly from Dark Prints’ website. In the coming days you will also be able to purchase it from other online retailers such as Amazon.

If you do buy it, I’d love to know what you think.

A (Quick) Rant…

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HiI write.

And invariably, when I tell people this, I’m (at the very least) regarded with suspicion. I don’t really know why – it’s not contagious.

Oh wait, you write too? Oh, you want to… I see… uh-huh… Wow, yeah. Interesting. You should really go for it.

But you know what? It’s not interesting. And it’s actually not an amazing idea at all. You know, the one you’ve been sitting on all these years; the one about the aliens coming here with their advanced farming practices, and the twin brothers with diametrically opposed personalities, and how the whole thing’s really just a social commentary on how we are killing our planet, and that if we don’t learn how to get along, that soon it will all be too late? Yeah, that one.

Sure, I’m nodding and looking kind of interested, but every man past the age of eighteen knows how to fake that. Women do it with orgasms: men do it with conversation.

No, your story idea doesn’t sound all that entertaining or even vaguely marketable these days. But if you’d like to step inside my time machine and head for the early 1950s – when your plot wasn’t a thinly-veiled cliche; your protagonist wasn’t a cut-and-paste job from every sci-fi story ever written; and your political/ecological resolution didn’t depend on the reader missing a plot-hole you could pilot the Millenium Falcon through – then I’m sure you’ll make millions. But, quite frankly, the only thing that would make the idea any less enticing to prospective publishers is if you told me the whole thing was a dream…

Oh right, so he wakes up at the end? Uh-huh, I understand.

Yeah. Good luck with that. It sounds awesome.

Back to School…

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ReplayI am pleased to say that my horror novella debut, Replay, will be released electronically by Dark Prints Press on April 15th, for the low-low price of $3.99 Australian (other currencies are available) either as an instant download from the main site, or via e-retailers such as Amazon, Bookworld, and Kobo. Replay is an unapologetic, old-school horror tale about a reunion that should never have been. Fate may be late to the party, but she is always on her way…

I am particularly impressed by the thirty-second promotional video that editor, Craig Bezant, put together for the release:

Dark Prints is an Australian outfit I have been involved with several times over the last few years. I had short fiction in the first four issues of the now sadly defunct ezine Eclecticism; and was also featured in The One That Got Away, a dark crime paperback anthology, released in 2012, so I am very pleased to be extending the relationship further with this release.

When Yes Actually Means No…

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withdrawnLast week I had a short story accepted, which is always a good feeling, especially as it’s been a fairly lean year thus far, and the piece in question is a good one. However, after reading over the contract and investigating a little further, I decided not to go ahead with it. Shame.

I have withdrawn an accepted story before, (and that was at professional rates, which stung a bit) but this is the first time doing so has felt… icky. Suffice to say, I’ve learned a valuable lesson about the process of submitting material, and where to submit material; and it’s reminded me that even though I’ve done it hundreds upon hundreds of times, I’m still prone to the (occasional) schoolboy error.

For any writers who may be reading this, I guess there’s a slightly heavy handed moral to this tale. It’s your work, so take pride in it. Believe in your words, and don’t sell yourself short. Know where you are sending your efforts, and be careful.

It’s a jungle out there.

The Darkness Loses a Soul…

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James HerbertJames Herbert died today. He was sixty-nine years old.

My dad was a fan. In fact Moon and The Magic Cottage are probably the only two novels I saw him read. Ever. Years later – when I read both of these for myself – I thought if that was as far as my dad dipped his toe into the library of books the world had to offer, he could have done a lot worse.

I read a dozen of Herbert’s novels, and while he didn’t hit the nail squarely on the head each time, he was one of the few authors I would keep going back to every now and then, because he could always be relied upon to deliver a good, solid story, and I knew that he was capable of great things. The Fog is one of my favourite books of any genre, and definitely in the top handful of horror tales I have ever read.

He is often – unfairly, in my opinion – compared to Stephen King; partly because they both had their first novels published in 1974, but mostly because they both wrote broadly in the horror genre, albeit on opposite sides of the Atlantic pond. But the similarities really end there.

Herbert was (almost exclusively) a balls-to-the-wall horror writer, and he didn’t pull any punches with his prose. Having said that, he was never gratuitous just for the sake of it, and he didn’t care about cheap shocks either. He wrote it that way because that’s how he saw it, and I have always admired him for that.

Rest in peace, James: you will be missed.The Rats

Fah-Fah-Fah-Fah-Fashion…

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bad fashionWhenever I have the audacity to question what a woman is wearing – and I appreciate I am on shaky ground by doing so – the reply is usually: “it’s the fashion”, as it was earlier this afternoon. I think women like to fool themselves, and use that as a standard response whenever a man raises an eyebrow at their attire.

However I can assure you, it is not the fashion, nor does it do anything for you; and even if it is the fashion – and you know because you saw Adriana Lima rock it on the catwalk in Milan – it doesn’t therefore mean it looks fantastic on your outsized frame. Yes, heads will turn to look, but trust me, it’s not because they think you look good. The women do not envy you and the men do not want to get with you. It’s like people slowing down to look at an accident by the roadside.

Wear something appropriate… please.

It’s (Kind of) Me…

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For some reason, my eight year old, 800 word flash fiction, My Wife Glows in the Dark – which has been published legitimately on multiple occasions, both in print and online – has now found its way over here without my prior knowledge.

My Spanish does not go much beyond the song that Freddie Mercury did with that fat woman for the Olympics a while ago, so I will have to (grudgingly) accept the validity of the translation. Below this is what I initially thought was my original English language version, however it’s not quite… right. It’s like it has been re-translated from Spanish, rather than just pasted in as it was written: a copy of a copy, if you will. I would ask, in future, if anyone insists on lifting my work and putting it on their website, at least have the decency to use it, and not some bastardised version you have fed through Google Translator.

Unfortunately, it’s not the first time I have discovered someone replicating this story, although at least this time an attempt has been made to attribute it to me with the (rather lengthy) biography at the bottom of the page, which begins:

“Brian Ross is one of the most honored and respected journalists in the country.”

The problem is, of course, this ain’t me, although he does sound like a good guy.

The (judging by her picture) teenage girl to whom this website belongs, goes on to talk about my noted undercover investigation of nuclear smuggling; and how I was the first reporter to reveal new details on the existence of secret CIA prisons in Eastern Europe; neither of which I can recall, and both of which I am fairly sure would have involved some extensive time away from my regular office job and a higher clearance level than that which I currently possess.

I wonder if anyone ever asks him what other stories he has written.

You can read My Wife Glows in the Dark in its native version, if you care to, over here.

Is it a Bird…? No, Probably Not.

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super powersAll right: you only get one superpower. Which one would it be?

Most guys – and I know this even without asking them – will tell you that, of course, it would have to be the old standard, x-ray vision. But I don’t know. Is this really such a great superpower? I mean, it isn’t like in those old movies: where you are miraculously able to see through the outermost layer of clothing of whichever person you are looking at, but somehow your powers do not allow you to penetrate even the thinnest of undergarment fabrics. If Hollywood is to be believed, you are then invariably presented with (hopefully) a woman in her (unfortunately) not so sexy underwear. No, true x-ray vision would not be in the slightest bit exciting. I don’t know any people who get overly aroused by a particularly long femur, or a lovely curvature to the clavicle.

Now, the power of invisibility is a marginally better choice. I can – initially, at least – get on board with that. But, apart from the (admittedly childish) thrill of being in the women’s changing rooms when you shouldn’t be, what else can you really do with it? Sure, you could hang about after you leave a room to find out what your friends really think of you (or your boss, if you’re at work), but trust me – that will never work out well for you. You’re probably an asshole, and even if you’re not, you’re never as well liked as you think you are. Andrew from Sales thinks you talk too much; Wendy from Accounting doesn’t like the clothes you wear; and Sandra the canteen lady only laughs at your sexist jokes because she’s too nice not to.

I think the power of flight has to be the one to go for. Although it has the added value of serving to impress the ladies (even with the underwear on the outside), the crucial point is that it has actual potential beyond those schoolyard fantasies that x-ray vision and invisibility offers. You wouldn’t have to battle the morning rush hour, so you would never be late for work. You’d have no more worries about where to park your car, and as a result of that, there would be no more paying for parking your car. Awesome, eh? If that isn’t good enough, you’re up with the fresh air, above all that inner-city pollution, getting the exercise you’re probably otherwise avoiding.

I appreciate that every silver lining has a cloud, and it’s probably no good for those of you who don’t deal with heights very well… but just fly a little closer to the ground. Simple. You’ll still get to where you’re going. You’ll maybe annoy a few people, because you’ll be knocking off hats and distracting the drivers (who don’t have the power of flight), but they’d never catch you, right?

It would be fantastic for holidays as well. Just think how good it would be not to have to spend two hours before you even board a plane; wrestling with your luggage because you think you’re over the allowance; buying magazines you don’t really want to read, and chocolate bars you really shouldn’t be eating; watching the departure screens to see exactly how long you’re going to have to wait before you eventually take off; and joking with the check-in girl that yes, you packed everything yourself – how else could you be confident the bomb was secured in the false bottom?

Just put on your cape, grab your suitcase, and away you go.

Of course, if your bags really are that heavy, perhaps you’ll want a touch of super-strength too.

Something For the Weekend, Sir…?

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Hot towel shave

No, that’s not me. Well, I don’t think it is…

Anyway, today I had my first hot towel shave – you know, that dubious homo-erotic tradition, masquerading as male grooming (not the grisly concept of befriending young boys) in a world where most of the pampering belongs to the women.

It’s a strange institution: a relic of a more innocent time. It comes from an era when a man spending an hour in the bathroom was exclusively down to last night’s curry, and not because he is moisturising, exfoliating, flossing, brushing, spraying, smoothing, and applying both pre-shave and after-shave lotions.

People say the hot towel shave is one of those things you have to experience once in your life. You know, like it’s a rite of passage or something. Well – although I certainly have more pressing concerns than the three millimetres of facial hair I occasionally sport – I’m a sucker for anything that increases my testosterone levels, so I thought I’d give it a try.

It was quite humbling to sit there while another man – whom I had only met three minutes earlier – held a blade to my throat, smiling (and occasionally whistling) while he did so. Thankfully he didn’t make the obvious gag of telling me that this was his first time; nor did he pretend to suffer from a nervous tic or muscular deficiency, which forced his bladed hand to spasm in a mildly comic fashion across my jugular – both of which I had half-expected upon making the appointment.

After the shave, he gave me a seated massage (I was, not him); rubbed my face until I thought he was going to remove the top layer of my skin; cracked my back (and what sounded like a rib); then held my hand in what I thought was a street-style handshake variation I had not seen, but was more likely some kind of reflexology thing. After all that, I momentarily thought I was going to be offered a happy ending as well, but fortunately things didn’t go that far.

I’m not sure it’s something I would do again. There’s only so long I can feel comfortable with a man touching my face, before I start to ponder the softness of his touch, and how precisely manicured his nails are; and I’m not entirely convinced I am more of a man for having put my life in those (admittedly, rather tender) Turkish hands, but it was certainly an experience I won’t forget anytime soon.

Now, if you don’t mind I’m going to shelve the masculinity for forty-three minutes: Glee is about to start…