tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52323101803300312812024-03-16T18:49:52.630+00:00Gary McMahon"Firmly in the front ranks of the new wave of British horror."
- <em>The Guardian</em>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.comBlogger524125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-64788497590459743942024-02-29T13:20:00.005+00:002024-02-29T13:20:42.198+00:00Writing Update<p>This month I've managed to finish the 11,000-word first draft of a project that's been on my mind for years.</p><p><b><span style="color: red;">The First Road to Hell</span></b> is an epistolary novelette about a man trying to locate a "lost film" directed in 1981 by his late father. The film was an Italian cannibal movie, but it's reputation is one of real life debauchery and bloodshed. The story is made up from sections of an article the protagonist is writing, extracts from interviews with various people who knew his father, and his own fragmented thoughts as he searches for what seems to be a surviving copy of the film...<br /><br />I have no idea what to do with this story once it's done, but I'd love to find a publisher who might release it as a limited hardback with a cover that evokes the imagery from the posters of 1980s Italian cannibal movies. We'll see.</p><p>I've also written a new short story called <b><span style="color: red;">Black Box</span></b>. I started this one for an anthology I've been invited into, but I'm not sure if it's a good fit for that project. A rewrite and further edits will clarify things for me.<br /><br />In other news, Ellen Datlow's <b><i>The Best Horror of the Year Volume 15</i></b> is now available. Among some splendid tales by superb authors, it also reprints my story <b><span style="color: red;">Likelike</span></b>. As always, I'm proud to be included in such a volume.<br /><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWk5jR3cwc6kF7bM09DMJRxXD97whHhwncmZsinkSQZM_SDAtAlEDoQ7vGUb_TWPbSkRimH2hf1PdcsvEyTVxzDGOmza3QzwErwE8eiPZwfHt5deqRZEzhKid0rnYYuThry76bg0qBW8zHYPBI3oB6giroqhGQYiwVUF9U4I1k4uuFwWvnLPK_scS3wxQ/s466/71ArTkXy68L._SY466_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="311" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWk5jR3cwc6kF7bM09DMJRxXD97whHhwncmZsinkSQZM_SDAtAlEDoQ7vGUb_TWPbSkRimH2hf1PdcsvEyTVxzDGOmza3QzwErwE8eiPZwfHt5deqRZEzhKid0rnYYuThry76bg0qBW8zHYPBI3oB6giroqhGQYiwVUF9U4I1k4uuFwWvnLPK_scS3wxQ/w268-h400/71ArTkXy68L._SY466_.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><p><br /><br /></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-37590082546188366682023-09-06T12:59:00.008+01:002023-09-06T13:05:51.169+01:00Terror Tales...<p>I'm delighted that my story <b>Shall Not Be</b> will be included in <b><i>Terror Tales of the Mediterranean</i></b>, edited by Paul Finch. This latest installment of the acclaimed "Terror Tales" anthology series is set to be released on Halloween from Telos Publishing and can be preordered here:<br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://telos.co.uk/shop/horror-dark-fantasy-and-science-fiction/dark-endeavours/terror-tales-of-the-mediterranean/"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Buy Terror Tales of the Med!</span></b></a><br /></div><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKE3SWEIWlcFPTGwkkF4bTVXxrfiGVuP9pt_qTcyOAZOlSyjtuMzeZMkug6l4z4s6gjWYP_0F0wNwx11S5T0Igyp65sS8OCo6A6Z94IwCm-IBkMP97iwcXf3SGMx5P3W-wWSK008SaDx1pba7NKylJPlmqF85nCC5W-7R8GOcDHwfUqC7hzy5ayg7AQI4/s775/TT-Mediterranean-Cover-4edge-F-100-510x775.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="775" data-original-width="510" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKE3SWEIWlcFPTGwkkF4bTVXxrfiGVuP9pt_qTcyOAZOlSyjtuMzeZMkug6l4z4s6gjWYP_0F0wNwx11S5T0Igyp65sS8OCo6A6Z94IwCm-IBkMP97iwcXf3SGMx5P3W-wWSK008SaDx1pba7NKylJPlmqF85nCC5W-7R8GOcDHwfUqC7hzy5ayg7AQI4/w264-h400/TT-Mediterranean-Cover-4edge-F-100-510x775.jpg" width="264" /></a></div><br /><p>I started writing the story several years ago, during one of our holidays in Turkey. The messy first draft was hand-written in a notebook while I relaxed in the evenings over a glass of local wine. <br /><br />The initial spark was the idea of Yabbel's Box, a phrase that appeared in my mind one day and wouldn't leave me alone. For a long time, I'd wanted to set a story in the area of Turkey where we'd stayed for three or four years running, and the story developed smoothly from these two starting points. It's one of my favourites. I hope you like it.</p><p><br /></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-56162403731751266502023-08-29T13:07:00.006+01:002023-08-29T13:07:59.146+01:00Best Horror of the Year Volume 15<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiTk3XO2gowoT2ZEbompI0AO80-oMKWXdQBnJ2N0Zc1JWjYbi2qe9GO-tsVNQT69L5Vy5HTC_IPrh-eu-NDU2hZdy2ABTBgRybhlLglA8PjZSCWztEc4VkoHqchq6Kf2GtGLDAUDdwRxB5g4v24K9-71PkCykJxGD8hAu4BeLplbpSAxaff6z1mVZOc4/s2700/Best%20Horror%2015.Cover%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2700" data-original-width="1800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiTk3XO2gowoT2ZEbompI0AO80-oMKWXdQBnJ2N0Zc1JWjYbi2qe9GO-tsVNQT69L5Vy5HTC_IPrh-eu-NDU2hZdy2ABTBgRybhlLglA8PjZSCWztEc4VkoHqchq6Kf2GtGLDAUDdwRxB5g4v24K9-71PkCykJxGD8hAu4BeLplbpSAxaff6z1mVZOc4/w266-h400/Best%20Horror%2015.Cover%20(1).jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here's the cover for the forthcoming <b>Best New Horror of the Year Vol</b>. 15, edited by the mighty Ellen Datlow. I'm delighted to be one of the "many others" with my story <i>Lifelike.</i></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-17437211623829662812023-08-10T13:11:00.000+01:002023-08-10T13:11:16.950+01:00August Update<p>I've decided I won't get rid of this blog after all. It seems that some people do still read them, which is nice...</p><p><br /></p><p><b><u>Latest news:</u></b><br /><br />I'm currently working on a new novel - an idea I've had in mind for a few years, and that I've described more than once as "Gloria meets The Brood". It's slow going because these days my writing time is limited, but I'm enjoying the process.<br /><br />Soon I'll have some exciting news to share. Film news, actually. I can't say much more at this stage, but as soon as I'm able, I'll spill the beans and let everyone know what's happening.<br /><br />Recently, I've sold stories to a forthcoming anthology from PS Publishing and <i style="font-weight: bold;">Terror Tales of the Mediterranean </i>(the latest of Paul Finch's excellent themed horror anthologies). Two good paying markets, and working with great editors and people I like.</p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-5624588461370210062023-07-20T12:51:00.006+01:002023-08-10T13:02:25.515+01:00July<p>This blog has become a window through which nobody looks. A dirty, grease-smeared pane, neglected and left to become opaque. <br /><br />I don't think people read blogs anymore. They inhabit other, more dynamic social media sites. Blogs are now a thing of the past - a sad relic, a shabby ghost.<br /><br />Perhaps, like other ancient artefacts, this one should be buried and forgotten.</p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-63491186902862300772023-01-22T18:06:00.002+00:002023-01-22T18:06:54.576+00:00White Rabbit Story: January<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>The Beetle and the Stones</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It had been a hard day: dull meetings
with clients and contractors, reams of paperwork; a long afternoon spent
debating the pros and cons of switching the current IT support contract to a
new company. Paul was tired. All he wanted was a large whisky, a small
sandwich, and a long film in the Blu-ray player.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
parked the car, traipsed along the drive, unlocked the door to his house, and
almost collapsed into the cramped hallway. Hung his coat on the hook, ran a
hand through his greasy hair, and headed into the small living room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Something
was different. Something was wrong. He didn’t fully correlate the information
at first, but then his brain caught up with the situation and he registered it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,”
he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was a huge black beetle sitting on the sofa. It had six legs; two of them were
propped up on the coffee table. Its shiny antennae twitched.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,”
he said again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
beetle just sat there, its black compound eyes catching the light and
glittering like jewels.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
didn’t look like any insect he’d ever seen before. Apart from its sheer size,
the thing didn’t resemble anything he’d seen on television or photographs. It
was more like someone’s idea of a beetle than an actual beetle: clearly an
invertebrate, three pairs of segmented legs, a three-part body (head, thorax,
abdomen), a set of mandibles, a pair of antennae, and those strange, dead compound
eyes. As it shifted on the sofa, he saw that it also possessed folded chitin wing
cases but no wings. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello,”
said the beetle, taking him off-guard.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Erm…hi.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
sorry for the intrusion.” It had a nice voice: soft, well spoken, middle-class
English but of an indeterminate gender. “I seem to have found myself stuck here
for a little while, but I’m not sure why.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paul
cleared his throat. “Is this a dream? I mean, am I asleep?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,”
the beetle waved one of its forelegs. “I thought the same at first, but this is
real. I’m real. I suppose that means you are too. But, if you don’t mind me
saying, you’re awfully small.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
you’re awfully large.” Paul blinked a few times, then became very aware that he
was blinking, and began to feel self-conscious about it; but he found that he
couldn’t stop blinking, no matter how hard he tried.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
blink a lot,” said the beetle.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
sorry,” said Paul. “I’m not sure why I’m doing that. Nervous, I guess.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
thought struck him: “Just to backtrack a little…do insects dream?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
question. I’m not sure. I suppose we must, mustn’t we? I mean, if I thought
this was a dream initially, dreaming must be something I do.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
beetle’s jaw twitched; its mouth shifted. “That’s a smile,” it said. “Just to
be clear.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“To
be clear?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
clear. I’d hate for you to be afraid. To think I was going to…eat you, or
something.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Eat
me?” said Paul.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Eat
you,” said the beetle. “I’d never do that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
need a drink.” Paul moved slowly to the cabinet where he kept the whisky, took
out a bottle and a glass, and poured a hefty shot of double malt. He downed the
drink in one and then poured another.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Would
you like one?” he said without turning around.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
thanks,” said the beetle. “I’m teetotal. At least, I think I am.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paul
fought the urge to laugh. If he started, he might never be able to stop.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
hope I won’t be here long,” said the beetle. “I think I’m waiting for someone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paul
turned, sipped his whisky, and tried not to stare too hard at his unwelcome
visitor. “Any idea how long? I mean, will you be leaving soon? I find you…I
find your presence…well, unnerving.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know. I’m sorry. One minute, there I was scuttling about on a rubbish tip eating
rotten fruit, and then – bang! – all of a sudden, I’m here. In your home. I
have no idea what’s going on.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
see,” said Paul, not seeing at all. “So, you could be here for quite some
time?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
suppose,” said the beetle. “There’s no way of knowing, not really. Until whoever
it is I think I’m waiting for turns up.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paul
set down his glass on the window sill and looked out into the front garden. “Waiting…there’s
a thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Indeed,”
said the beetle. “I feel like I’m waiting, so I must be.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.
Wait here,” said Paul. “I have something to show you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
beetle did not respond.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paul
went through into the kitchen, opened the back door, and walked out into the
little back garden he’d been trying to get into shape since last summer. He
grabbed the wheelbarrow and pushed it to where he’d demolished the old stone
shed. Rolling up his sleeves, he set to work picking up rocks from the rubble
pile. It didn’t take him long to fill the wheelbarrow; in a matter of minutes
it was piled high with rocks of assorted shapes and sizes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Straining,
he hefted the weight and pushed the wheelbarrow into the house, through the
kitchen, and into the living room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
do you have there?” said the beetle, crossing its lower legs. They made a
whispering sound. Paul thought it was creepy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’ll
see,” said Paul, bending to pick up a rock, a nice heavy one with sharp edges.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,”
said the beetle, just before the first of the jagged projectiles hit and
cracked its shell.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,”
it said, folding its limbs and trying to curl up into a ball on the sofa.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
beetle didn’t say anything more, not in terms of actual words, but it did make
a lot of high-pitched squeaking sounds. Then there was squelching. After a
while, the beetle went quiet and still. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
he was done, Paul was sweating. His arms ached. There was a pile of yellowy
mush on the sofa that was beginning to stink. There were crisp black pieces of
shell mixed in with the pungent gunge. He backed away, as if suddenly realising
what he had done and what it might mean about him that he’d gone to such extremes.
He went to the cabinet and poured another drink. It tasted odd. Something had
changed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was a noise from upstairs: a kind of slithering sound from the master bedroom followed
by a series of short bumping noises that came to a halt at the top of the
stairs. He put down his drink and went out into the hallway, stood at the
bottom of the stairs. He was blinking again. He couldn’t stop blinking.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
smaller beetle was standing on the top step, looking down. This one was roughly
half the size of the one he’d just killed, but resembled it in every other way.
Its mandibles slid sideways as it spoke:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mummy,”
said the beetle. “Where’s my mummy?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paul
turned away in disgust. He walked through the living room, not even glancing at
the wheelbarrow; moving quickly past the soft wreckage on the sofa, and stumbling
into the kitchen. He sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands. Still
blinking.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He wasn’t sure if he
was going to laugh or cry until the tears came. Then the sobs; long, wet and
heaving. He sat like that for a very long time, weeping uncontrollably, like a
lost child. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then something touched
him softly on the arm and sat down next to him. It moved in close, hugging him
with its jointed limbs and chittering to him mournfully in a language that he knew he might
eventually come to understand.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 18.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: right;"><i><span style="color: #1a222a;">© Gary McMahon, 2022</span></i><o:p></o:p></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-17105617545967965532022-12-21T17:56:00.003+00:002022-12-21T17:56:53.754+00:00White Rabbit Story: December<p style="text-align: center;"><b>This Winter Heart</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Snow falling like a thick white duvet, tucking-in the world before it
goes to sleep. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">We sneak out of the house in the dark, as quiet as
mice. Jane is cold but I’m wrapped up warm and snug. My sister never goes
anywhere unless she’s under-dressed or wearing the wrong kind of shoes for the
weather.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We vault the low fence
at the edge of our parents’ property, cross the open field, and scramble down
the side of the snow-banked ravine, where we find him huddled against the trunk
of a dead tree.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A carrot as a nose.
Two pieces of coal for eyes. A battered bowler hat perched on his big old
snowball head. One of father’s old pipes stuck into his face where a mouth
might be. A thin red scarf wrapped around his non-existent neck. We built him seven
years ago, when I was four and Jane was five. He has returned here every year
since, whenever the annual snowfall begins. We never question his presence,
just accept it as part of the grand mystery of life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jane is grinning.
Her breath turns powdery and white in the air in front of her face. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i>Let’s leave him this time.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i>But we always destroy him. To see if he comes
back next year.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i>Not this time.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i>But why?<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i>Just to see what happens.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 18.0pt;">I’m not convinced but I’ve always kowtowed to my
sister’s demands. She’s a year older and a lifetime wiser than me. It’s the
natural order that she takes the lead and I follow; it has never occurred to me
to ever question the chain of command.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 18.0pt;">So we leave him there, in the snow, in the shallow dip
in the earth, and we go back home to bed. Jane glances back at me as she walks
along the hallway to her bedroom, her eyes wide and excited in her cold white
face. She smiles at me but I don’t smile back. She’s spoilt my fun; she has
taken from me the joy of destruction.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">My dreams are uneasy but by morning they are
forgotten; vanished like melted snow. Sunshine streams through the windows. A cold
white glare outside. When I hear my mother’s screams, I run straight to Jane’s
room.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">The open door. Mother and father weeping by the wardrobe.
They look soft and empty, like deflating rubber dolls. A soft haze hangs in the
air. The smell of damp is lodged in my nostrils; the slightly metallic taste of
water on my tongue.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">On the bed, a large mound of snow lies in state: a
person-shaped drift on top of the soaked mattress. Twisted carrot nose. A
couple of black coal eyes. A crumpled bowler hat, its brim creased and bent.
Pipe crudely set at an angle. The scarf, red as blood against all the mute,
dead white of her absence.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">I walk to the window and look out at the snow,
wishing that I could see her there, dancing through the drifts in her thin
dress and her inappropriate shoes. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">I still look for her every year, hoping that she
will come back. But neither of them does – not her or the snow effigy we once
created. Nobody comes; nothing happens. Just the snow and the cold and the wind
gusting through the empty chambers of this frozen winter heart.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 18.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 18.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 18.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 18.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: right;"><i><span style="color: #1a222a;">© Gary McMahon, 2022</span></i><o:p></o:p></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-72741067829404973782022-12-06T17:12:00.006+00:002022-12-06T17:17:16.030+00:00White Rabbit Story: November<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b>This is Where I Live<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p>I’d not lived in this neighbourhood for long, just a few weeks, so I
decided one fine Sunday morning to take a walk and familiarise myself with the
local street layout. It was early. Not many people were out and about. My neighbours
were possibly enjoying a lie-in, or having a nice family breakfast.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It all looked the
same: identikit houses with identical lawns and gardens, variations on the same
family car parked on the mostly block-paved drives. The sun was a tiny disc in
a big, clear sky, shedding plenty of light but not much heat. There were hardly
any clouds. The sound of birdsong. The smells of petrol and cooking fat. Just a
normal suburban street.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi,” said a quiet,
amiable voice behind me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">Turning, I flashed what I thought was a friendly
smile. “Hello.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">There was a small boy sitting on the kerb at the
side of the road. He was wearing a curiously dusty school uniform with frayed
cuffs and several small rips in the material of the blazer. The trousers were
too short for his stumpy legs. He was not wearing any shoes but his feet were
white and clean, even the soles.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">When he smiled, I finally realised what disturbed me
so much about his appearance. The child had the face and head of a fully-grown
adult. This caused in me an odd, discombobulated effect: he resembled some weird
disproportional puppet there on the path, and I was entirely unsure how to
react.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">“I’m Ben,” he said, still smiling. In fact, I could
hardly see his mouth moving because of the expansive grin.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">“Oh…” I didn’t know what else to say.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">“My father’s over there.” His choice of the word “father”
rather than “dad” seemed deliberate somehow but I wasn’t certain what it
implied. In a jerky, restrained motion, he lifted a narrow hand and pointed in
the direction of the nearest unremarkable house. He did not turn his head; I
had the impression that he couldn’t. His neck was completely immobile, his
shoulders stiff.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">A tall, broad-shouldered man was mowing the lawn
with an old-fashioned rotary mower. He was wearing a pair of cut-off denim
shorts that looked to be a size too small and no shirt. His torso was lean and
hard; even at this distance, I could make out his straining muscles. The man’s
head was too small for his body. It was, in fact, the head of a child.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">I glanced at Ben. His horrible empty smile. His male
pattern baldness. The five o’clock shadow on his cheeks. Then I looked back at
his father, and the contrast of the man’s cherubic, grimacing features was
vaguely horrific.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">Stumbling backwards. I raised my hands in a
ridiculous defensive gesture. I almost tripped and fell as I inched away from
the boy at the kerb.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">“Why don’t you join us for brunch?” said Ben, cordially,
starting to stand but losing his balance slightly because of the weight of his
oversized head on his little body. He tried again, supporting himself with an
outstretched arm. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">I turned and ran; sprinting all the way back to my
unsecure home, where the locks now seemed so flimsy and the glass in the windows
looked too brittle to offer any form of protection from the outside world.
Where I locked the door and squatted down on the floor, out of anyone’s eye-line.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">I waited, hoping that I would not hear slow footsteps
walking calmly up the drive, or the sound of a polite knock on the front door.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">I waited, knowing that I could do nothing to change
this.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;">I live here now. There is nowhere else for me to go.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><i style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right; text-indent: 0px;"><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><i style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right; text-indent: 0px;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><i style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right; text-indent: 0px;"><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><i style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right; text-indent: 0px;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>© Gary McMahon, 2022</i></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-71441625069370734062022-10-16T16:45:00.006+01:002022-10-16T16:51:40.789+01:00White Rabbit Story: October.<p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b>Damp Rooms in Empty Houses<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So that’s it. Finally.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maxwell nodded. He
was smiling but he looked nervous.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, this is it.
The skull of Andrei Rubikov.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I paused in the
doorway. “It looks…fake.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Everybody says
that. I think it’s the size, the shape. They make it seem like a film prop.
Please, do have a closer look.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I walked over to
the open display case to inspect its contents. The skull was huge; twice the
size of a normal human head and sitting on a bed of yellow silk. The eye
sockets were elongated, the jawbone distorted.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They say it was
the visions he had. The knowledge he crammed into his brain. Such dark
secrets…they transformed his cranium, gave it outlandish proportions.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I glanced at
Maxwell. He was old, out of shape. Far from the formidable presence he’d once
been. “And you believe that?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He smiled. “I’m not
sure. I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my life, and I try to keep an open
mind. This thing, though. I’m really not sure. I do, however believe in hell,
and I think everyone sees their own personal version of it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m assuming
you’ve had this tested.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes. It’s
definitely a human skull.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Authentication
documents?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All as one might
expect. For all intents and purposes, this is the real thing. I have no reason
to doubt its authenticity.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I walked slowly
around the skull, unable to keep my eyes from it for more than a few seconds.
Its surface was rough, blackened as if by fire. There were cracks and fissures
in the bone, and everywhere upon it there were carved symbols. Some of them
might have been ancient occult runes, others were nothing more than crude
graffiti – Anarchy signs and peace symbols; the childish likenesses of cocks
and tits and gurning faces. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The rest of the
skeleton is long gone, I’m afraid. There’s always been a strong trade in
saintly relics…especially the darker saints, if you’ll excuse the phrasing. By
that, of course, I mean the saints of the occult rather than those of the
Christian faith.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn’t respond to
his chatter. I was fascinated by the skull. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You have the
money, I hope.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pulling my gaze
from the display case, I lifted the briefcase to chest level. “My client has
instructed me to pay you if I’m happy with the item.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And are you? Are
you happy?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I looked at him
again, his greedy face and hungry eyes. “Never. But I’ll take it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The transaction
didn’t take long. I was out of there within fifteen minutes, carrying this
fabled 16<sup>th</sup> Century artefact, the skull of Adrei Rubikov, in an
oversized sports bag. It was unexpectedly heavy; felt like I was carrying a
sack full of bowling balls. My arms ached; my back complained.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Deep down, I think
I knew what I was going to do even before the idea came to me, as if it had
been placed inside my head by an external source.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Try it on</i>,
said a voice deep inside me. <i>What harm could it do? Try it and see if it
does what it’s meant to.</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put the bag on the passenger seat and drove
a few blocks, turned down an alley, and parked up outside an abandoned
warehouse. It was dark. The stars were weak and the moon seemed to be hiding.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I reached over and
opened the bag, taking out the skull. It felt cold. Iced bone. The tips of my
fingers traced the lines of the carvings.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’d heard all the
stories, read the books. I knew what to do. Gently, I lifted the skull and
placed it over my own head, like a helmet. It slid on easily, as if it belonged
there. That’s what all the accounts said: if you put it on, it feels like it’s
always been yours, as if it was designed to fit only you.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stared out
through the eye sockets and I waited. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nothing seemed to
be happening.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Inside the skull,
it smelled of damp rooms in empty houses: the aroma of lonely despair.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’d heard that for
some people things changed immediately, but others had to wait a while. It all
depended upon how susceptible you were. Perhaps I’d seen so much strangeness
over the years that I’d become hardened to such sights.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was said that
during his time in the Russian wilderness, the adventurer Adrei Rubikov had
opened a portal to hell. That he’d journeyed between the realms many times. The
things he saw, the horrors he was party to, transformed him into a being that
belonged neither here nor there, but could slip between worlds whenever he
wanted.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stared into the
darkness, watching as it began to boil.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rubikov was, at
various times, a holy man, an artist, a scholar, a master of arts so dark that
they tattooed his skin black. In certain regions, people had called him The
Shadow That Walks. Others had called him simply <i><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">пепел</span></i><span style="background: white; color: #202124; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">, which
translates as </span>Ash.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The darkness beyond
the windscreen fractured, nothing more than a slight judder in my eyeline. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nothing changed.
Everything stayed the same.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It took a little
time before I saw the first one darting out of the shadows, but once I’d seen
it, the rest of them came into view. And they were dancing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Their exact shapes
were tricky to pin down. It was like watching oil on water. Shadow on shadow. No
form; all substance. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I kept as still as
I could. Tried not to breathe too loudly. This was a dangerous game, a deadly
dance. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The real trick was,
I knew, to make sure I took off the skull before they noticed me, and do it
quickly enough that they couldn’t make up the ground between us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>A minute more.
Just a minute…<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was a sound
behind me. The subtle shifting of weight on the back seat as something moved
its position.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I closed my eyes
but I could still see them dancing. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Something soft and
heavy gripped my shoulder with far too many fingers. Once again, I caught the
waft of empty rooms in abandoned houses, but this time because I was there. I
knew I would remain there forever, a prisoner of my own stupidity.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The soft hand and
bloated fingers drifted to my neck, tenderly stroking the jugular.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Within the skull, I
didn’t want open my eyes. I’ve kept them shut ever since. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><i><span style="color: #1a222a;">© Gary
McMahon, 2022</span></i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-12827165672137298292022-09-03T15:09:00.005+01:002022-09-03T15:09:43.273+01:00White Rabbit Story: September.<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b>Not A Place I Recognise<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p>I’m driving at night because it’s the best time to catch them. They
like to stay in the shadows, the dark little sanctuaries that form after the
sun goes down.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Several miles out
of town, I finally find myself on a road I do not recognise. It’s more like a neglected
track than a road: the pitted Tarmac is uneven; the verges are overgrown with
weeds; the drainage channels behind the cracked kerbs are dried out and
useless. This is exactly the kind of place I’ve been looking for.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I sense him before
I see him, so I’m prepared for the sight of him walking in the middle of the
road, shoulders hunched, feet dragging. He’s small, not much over five foot
tall. He’s wearing a long coat, dark trousers, and big boots.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I slow down the
car. I know he must be able to hear me but he doesn’t react, just keeps on
walking. Finally, as I draw closer, he shifts at a diagonal to the side of the
road, still walking at the same pace.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I slow right down
as I come alongside him, sliding down the driver’s side window. The side of his
face is pale and drawn. He looks young but tired.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Need a lift?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">He doesn’t respond.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can take you a
few miles up the road. There’s another town. You could probably find a ride
with a trucker or a farmer there.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">He turns his face
towards me. It’s a beautiful face, I can see that now. Like that of a
Michelangelo sculpture. White and pristine and filled with a longing that is
impossible to put into words.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah. Thanks.” His
voice is normal. No accent. Nothing to make it distinct from any other voice
one might hear.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I stop the car and
wait as he walks round to the passenger side and opens the door. His clothing
rustles softly against the upholstery as he slides onto the seat.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I’m not going
far,” he says, staring straight ahead. “Just looking for somewhere to stay.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I push the
accelerator and let the clutch pedal rise, moving slowly away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I have a place. I
can offer you a bed for the night. No strings. Just one stranger helping
another.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you,” he
says, his voice soft and quiet. “That would be good. It’s been a long time
since I slept in a proper bed.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I knew he would
accept my offer. They always do. They think they’re the hunter and I’m the
prey. They’re wrong, so very wrong, but they only find that out when it’s much
too late to matter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We don’t speak as I
turn around and drive back to the cabin. It takes me a while to find the right
road, but once I’m in a familiar spot I start to feel calm. Serene. I keep
glancing at him but he doesn’t move, just keeps staring through the windscreen,
at the dark and the road and whatever lies ahead. Making a good show of
ignoring the small silver crucifix dangling from the rear-view mirror.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We’re here,” I say
as I pull up on the gravel outside the cabin. “My humble home.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I get out of the
car and walk towards the door, getting the keys out of my pocket. Behind me,
the car door opens and then slams shut. Footsteps on the gravel. His presence
at my back. For a moment, I almost flinch, expecting an attack, but then I
remind myself that he doesn’t know anything and he’s biding his time, waiting
until my guard has completely dropped before making his move. It’s how they
operate: hit you when you least expect it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I open the door and
walk inside. He follows.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The door closes; I
spin around, pulling the pistol from my inside coat pocket. I see him register
momentary alarm, and then I move in, hitting him across the side of the face
with the weapon. I think his cheekbone breaks. He stumbles, reaching out to
grab the door frame, but I kick him in the knee and he goes down hard, face to
the floor.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">He’s still
conscious as I strip him but he’s in too much pain to resist. Once he’s naked,
I check his back, the curve of his spine. There are no signs there. His
tailbone looks a little lumpen, the coccyx more pronounced than normal, but it’s
still not what I expect to see. He’s hiding it well; this skinsuit is a good
fit.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">He struggles a
little as I tie him to the wooden kitchen chair, but I’m easily strong enough
to subdue him. His face is starting to bruise. His eyes are fogged. Once he’s
securely tied, arms and legs bound against the chair, I walk across the room to
the old chest of draws and take out the clippers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Please,” he says,
but it’s barely audible, as if he realises it’s pointless to beg. Part of the
act.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I return to his
passive form and switch on the clippers. Rechargeable. No lead. Professional
quality.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don’t move. It’ll
be easier if you keep still.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I start to shave
the hair off his head. Blinking, he mumbles something, but I don’t listen.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Before long, his
scalp is almost bare; just a fine layer of dark stubble remains. It’s enough
for me to see, to find what I’ve been looking for.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">They’re small, but
they’re visible if you know what you’re looking for. Small nubs, sticking out
barely an inch from the surface of his skull. It looks like at some point he
might have tried to shave the horns down, or remove them entirely, but he
couldn’t quite manage that last little bit of hard bone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I knew you were
one of them.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">He stares at me.
The expression on his face could be a smile or a grimace, I’m not sure which.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Let me go,” he
whispers. “I won’t tell anyone about this. You can trust me.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I pause a moment
before I speak. “<i><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">De profundis clamo ad te domine</span></i><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">.”</span><span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">He begins to laugh, a low, deep
chuckle; the sound of mocking. It’s all the proof I need.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It doesn’t take
long. I use the short sword I keep in the bottom drawer of the dresser – the
gun is only ever for show; it isn’t even loaded. The sword is a holy relic,
meant for this task. When I found it buried in a field on the other side of
town, it was rusty and worn yet still held the glow of something touched by
grace. I cleaned it up and sharpened its edge.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Unlike some, he
doesn’t make much of a fuss when the end comes. Just a whimper. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">After cleaning up
the blood and burying the body in the forest at the back of the cabin, I sit
down on the tiny porch and drink a cold beer. It tastes good. It tastes…holy,
somehow, like wine from His table.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The moon is full
and bright, the stars are small and insignificant, punctuation points in the
black sheet of sky. It’s still early. There’s time enough left for me to go out
again. To see if I can get lucky twice in one night.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I know where they
are, the places they like to wander. I hunt them on the lonely roads and
byways, in the empty plots and forgotten edgelands.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">All the lost and blighted places.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">I’m the last thing they expect to encounter on a
cool, dark night. The final thing they see as I end their bloody reign upon
this earth.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I am the Good
Shepherd, doing God’s dirty work. His servants – just like his enemies – must never
sleep.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I am the road less
travelled. I am the sword in His hand.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>From out of the
depths, I cry unto thee…<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I finish my beer
and lock the cabin door. Climb into the car and pick a route at random. I’m
driving at night again, because it’s the best time to catch them. I plan to keep
driving until this is no longer a place I recognise. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #1a222a;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><i><span style="color: #1a222a;">© Gary
McMahon, 2022</span></i><o:p></o:p></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-30171428833709390302022-08-28T16:13:00.002+01:002022-08-28T16:15:20.354+01:00Handmaids and Glory Holes<p style="text-align: left;">Not a lot of writing activity to report this week, I'm afraid. I'm still working on the new novella but at the minute it's all about the thinking and note-taking phase rather than the actual writing. But, as we know, that's still classed as writing because it's part of the process - and my process almost always involves a hell of a lot of thinking and prodding ideas with a stick before I get much of anything down on the page.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Over the past few days I've binge-watched the last few episodes of <i><b>The Handmaid's Tale</b></i> Season 4. As always, it was brilliant - powerful, heart-wrenching, and incredibly bleak. I found this season so downbeat, in fact, that it affected my mood all week. If you can take it, this remains the most powerful show on television. I think it's a masterpiece.</p><p>I also caught a great little indie horror flick on Shudder. It's called <b><i>Glorious</i></b>, and despite the limitations of a low budget, it's a very ambitious piece of work. Set in a public toilet, it's about a man who meets a god and what happens when the god asks him for a favour...</p><p>There's a good mix of black humour and cosmic horror, tied together by a tight script and some great performances. Highly recommended.</p><p>The trailer can be viewed on YouTube: </p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esqxTzc3lgM">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esqxTzc3lgM</a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-91580605557772770922022-08-20T10:17:00.003+01:002022-08-20T10:21:45.961+01:00Peking Men & Pallbearers<p>This is the first of what I hope will be a weekly update, just to get me blogging again. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Writing</span></b></li></ul><p></p><p>As usual, I'm up and down with the writing. The sense of urgency that used to grip me is simply no longer there, and I've come to terms with that. So instead of writing obsessively, as if my life depended upon it, I've begun to write only if and when the mood takes me. Writing isn't my job; I no longer want to treat it like one. Instead, I'm using it as an outlet for my anxieties - which it always was, anyway.</p><p>This week I made some notes and got down a few hundred words on a new project, initially titled <i><span style="color: red;">Smackmouth</span></i>. It's a proposed novella about a young man returning to his childhood home to confront his personal demons. I know this is a common (and even cliched) theme in horror - it's also been a common theme in my own work ever since I first started writing seriously - but I really don't give a fuck. I'm just going to write it and see what kind of darkness is dredged up from my depths.</p><p>This project - if I complete it - will feature some elements of northern folk horror, a little home-made magic, and some body horror. I feel positive about it but I'm also aware that over the past few months I've started several projects only to see them wither on the vine. We'll see. We'll see.<br /><br /></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Viewing</span></b></li></ul><p></p><p>I've been unwell this week so haven't been to karate classes so my evenings have been spent watching films and TV shows. </p><p>Earlier this week I binge-watched <span style="color: red;"><i>The Sandman</i> </span>on Netflix. I've not read the comics so I came to this cold. I thought it was rather hit and miss but overall I enjoyed it - with some reservations. It was a bit "Dr Who-ish" for my tastes, and parts of it were downright <i>cringey</i> (as my teenage son would say). I also felt that it was trying too hard to not offend anyone and kept falling over itself to appeal to all-comers, so, to me, it felt far too safe...or perhaps safe isn't the right word: virtuous, maybe, or reverent? I imagine the comics are much more grungy and irreverent.</p><p>Midweek I re-watched an old favourite, John Cassavetes' <span style="color: red;"><i>Gloria</i></span>. Gene Rowlands is glorious in this, and the film is a love letter to New York in the early 80s. Wonderful.</p><p>I'm slowly working my way through the brilliant Arrow bluray box set, <i><span style="color: red;">ShawScope Volume 1</span></i>. It's a sheer joy. Last night I watched <span style="color: red;"><i>The Mighty Peking Man</i></span>, a film I'd wanted to see since I was a kid. It was a delight. An unparalleled work of mediocrity. One of the best worst films I've ever seen, up there with <span style="color: red;"><i>Food of the Gods</i></span>, <i><span style="color: red;">The Giant Spider Invasion</span></i>, and <span style="color: red;"><i>Empire of the Ants</i></span>. </p><p><i><span style="color: red;">ShawScope Volume 2</span></i> has just been announced. I put in my pre-order two days ago.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWE9ikQBISBcCe78ZSGch2kXgeUDBVt2YovfOzpsSIRoXXtlJdRKOhOyWCOaUrybQwAO_oEV-plqa6aOTB3GegRf-BJRmEFNIdOOOP_CSiR3F4YbR35gOkxywHhkHV0_9XiyP9N26CrvZV-GZd0f5Tzd0ad2RDM1y96PJwc_NJ2YUt22IlMXISOmxh/s1440/Mighty-Peking-Man-1977.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1440" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWE9ikQBISBcCe78ZSGch2kXgeUDBVt2YovfOzpsSIRoXXtlJdRKOhOyWCOaUrybQwAO_oEV-plqa6aOTB3GegRf-BJRmEFNIdOOOP_CSiR3F4YbR35gOkxywHhkHV0_9XiyP9N26CrvZV-GZd0f5Tzd0ad2RDM1y96PJwc_NJ2YUt22IlMXISOmxh/s320/Mighty-Peking-Man-1977.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Reading</span></b></li></ul><p></p><p>I'm still working my way through Paul Tremblay's <i><span style="color: red;">The Pallbearer's Club</span></i>. I'm enjoying it immensely and looking forward to seeing where the story takes me. </p><p>I'm also still working through Steve Toase's short story collection, <i><span style="color: red;">To Drown in Dark Water</span></i>. So far, it's a solid read.</p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b><span style="font-size: medium;">General</span></b></li></ul><p></p><p>For some reason. my mind is currently drawn to cold things. Endless stretches of barren tundra, looming white mountains of ice, the stirring of something desolate, tired giants moving slowly through the black depths beneath the ice cap. I have an urge to re-read <span style="color: red;"><i>At the Mountains of Madness</i></span>. Icebergs gather in the ocean of my dreams. Part of me feels as if there's a story idea building. For many years now, I've wanted to write a horror story set in the icy Arctic wastes. Maybe it's coming. </p><p><br /></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-16888039616906322242022-08-18T19:55:00.000+01:002022-08-18T19:55:01.601+01:00White Rabbit Story: August<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Ascendant</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rainer had no idea what he was doing in
the little church. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It was as if he’d
fallen asleep somewhere else and then woken up here, dressed as a vicar,
standing in front of this small, eager congregation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
people sat on the pews and stared at him, expecting him to begin a sermon. He
didn’t know what to say. He was not a religious man – in fact, he rarely ever
thought about things like faith and belief.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
tried to think what it was he did for a living, but drew a blank. All he knew
was his name, and that he was standing here.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Faces
shone with expectancy. He smiled. The stone walls of the church looked cold and
damp. It was a tiny building, not much more than a single room with pews and an
altar; he was standing behind the altar, lost and confused.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not
knowing what else to do, he turned around to face the wall behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
it wasn’t a wall; it was a window. A stained-glass representation of angels
ascending towards a blazing star. Hundreds of them, with gossamer wings and
holding golden spears. Their faces were upturned, bathed in the glorious light
emanating from the star. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was beautiful.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
he turned back to face the congregation, the church was empty. Dust and cobwebs
lay piled in the aisles, and on top of the seats. Bibles and pamphlets lay torn
and scattered like the detritus of a disaster.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From
behind him, Rainer heard the fluttering of wings, as if a million birds had
suddenly taken flight at once. The sound was deafening, and it was glorious.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then,
around him, the church walls began to crumble. The windows shattered, piercing
his skin with shards of painted glass. The church roof came off, as if ripped
away by a hurricane. This all happened to the accompanying sound of beating
wings: a soundtrack which drowned out all other sounds.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
looked up, at the near-blinding light of the star above him; held in its fierce
light, he saw the army of angels rising upwards, holding their spears. Because
of him, they had been freed from the stained-glass prison to finally finish
their ascension. One of them turned its golden head to look at him. It bore Rainer’s
own face, but washed in a light so bright that its skin was translucent. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now
he knew why he was here, and he didn’t want to leave. His feet started to rise
from the floor; he was hovering inches above the cold stone. This was it. He
was about to join them. Everything would be fixed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rainer smiled, so
close to understanding everything that the distance between here and there was
meaningless.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The angel smiled back
at him; but the smile became a snarl. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then, as one, all the
terrible angels drew back their arms and threw down their spears, the sharp,
silvered tips tearing him apart like a sack of meat. Sending him back where he
belonged, so that they might raid the dreaming-lands above, with no mortal remaining
to witness the horror of their infinite savagery.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">*<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When Rainer awoke from the dream, his
eyes remained unfocused for several minutes. He blinked, rubbed at them with
the heels of his hands, and waited for his vision to clear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was a stone angel sitting in the chair at the end of the bed. Its huge bulk
shifted as he watched, accompanied by the grinding of stone as its furled wings
flexed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
your guardian,” said the angel, its voice like gravel being mixed in a steel
hopper. “I’m here to watch over you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rainer
got out of bed and approached the angel, aware that he was naked but not really
caring. Surely an angel wouldn’t be offended by nudity?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
do you want?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“To
serve you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
me? Why now?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because
I am yours and you are mine. Your dream was a spell to summon me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
it stood, the angel’s stone arms brushed against the walls, scraping off the
plaster; its enormous head crushed the ceiling, causing wide cracks to appear.
A fine white dust drifted down and covered its shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rainer
looked down at himself. At the wounds on his body, healing now, forming scar
tissue across his entire torso. After being broken apart by the spears, how on
earth had it been able to come together again, and so quickly?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
scars were edged with gold; pale light bled from them, illuminating his flesh.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are
you really here to serve me?” he asked, afraid of the answer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course not,” said the angel, grinning, bringing down its mighty stone fists to grab
him and lift him high, smashing through the roof of the house to offer him up
to the sky, and the light. “My mistake. What I meant to say was, I’ve come to <i>save</i>
you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rainer
was filled with elation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">At last, he was truly
ascending. Guided by this strange entity, he would finally take flight and
achieve some form of enlightenment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">If only it would stop
squeezing him so tightly…and why did it grin so broadly?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 288.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><i><span style="color: #1a222a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">© Gary McMahon, 2022</span></i><span style="color: #1a222a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-33170051871198935652022-07-21T20:29:00.003+01:002022-07-21T20:35:51.607+01:00Pointless Update...<p>Day job stuff: I'm back in the office three days a week. </p><p>I changed jobs during the first lock-down, so I've basically been working from home for over two years. It's tough adjusting. Getting up early. Wearing big-boy clothes. Interacting with colleagues. Driving to and from the office. But at least it's only three days a week; for the other two days, I get to sit at the computer in my shorts and flip flops, scratching my balls when I'm on a Teams call.</p><p>I've tidied up this website. Removed some stuff to make it more like a blog. I might go further and really freshen it up, but I probably won't because I'm lazy when it comes to technology.<br /><br />Oh, I've started working on short stories again, and - more importantly - submitting them to fiction markets. Hopefully I'll get into some kind of routine again with the writing and start to feel like a proper writer again. Despite my various (and boring) creative droughts over the past few years, I do miss it when I'm unable to write regularly. It feels like that creative part of me - whatever organ it is that makes me put pen to paper, or fingers to keys - has shrivelled up and is just hanging there, a limp dick awaiting some kind of stimuli.</p><p>Maybe that's it...perhaps the creative drive is like the libido, and sometimes we need to give it a little blue pill to get it going. </p><p>Where am I even going with this? I have no idea. Just random thoughts I felt I'd share with the void as I try to get back into the habit of updating this blog on at least a semi-regular basis.<br /><br />Pay me no heed. I'm just a typing fool.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7KTW1xrhvfuTqW4Jldhxv1BIDBsJZpHghDPpHx4wxbJm39BpmqlpUMFgdl2mjQKKgKGhnLjzNFNPM5_edlexXvVGNUuu6NBae-qvLJDGaOqdg5OmM1wO0MUrARbTtLzsL3M6rKRhNWkv937-rJ07PqK4a4IPb2eNOVcQweUzwCVsyii6PcmD-Z4s/s385/TINYK_extract.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="208" data-original-width="385" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7KTW1xrhvfuTqW4Jldhxv1BIDBsJZpHghDPpHx4wxbJm39BpmqlpUMFgdl2mjQKKgKGhnLjzNFNPM5_edlexXvVGNUuu6NBae-qvLJDGaOqdg5OmM1wO0MUrARbTtLzsL3M6rKRhNWkv937-rJ07PqK4a4IPb2eNOVcQweUzwCVsyii6PcmD-Z4s/s320/TINYK_extract.PNG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /><br /><br /></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-19474132299306100572022-07-02T21:17:00.001+01:002022-07-02T21:18:51.019+01:00White Rabbit Story: July<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> Wide, Sweet Eyes</span></b></p><p><br /></p><p>It didn't happen the way they say it did in the newspapers and on the local news programme. Not really. It happened like this:<br /><br />A small group of us had been day drinking. Hiking around town and hitting every decent bar we could find, necking ales for the first few hours and then, when we felt bloated, moving onto the shorts. The Whisky had made me weary so I decided to leave. </p><p>I staggered out of the bar - I don't recall which - and across the road to a taxi rank with a single car. It was still early evening so there was nobody queuing. I climbed into the taxi and told the driver my address. He nodded, flicked on the meter, and pulled away, joining the one-way system that would take us to the ring road, then the bypass, and home. The radio was playing softly. Weird music that might have been jazz.<br /><br />"And she didn't even cry," he said, as if we'd been in the middle of a conversation and he was resuming the chat. "No matter what I did, she never shed one tear."</p><p>I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror: a thin face, ace scars on both cheeks, short black hair, dark eyes with slightly less dark smudges beneath.</p><p>"She didn't speak either. Not a word the whole damn time."</p><p>I realised that he'd forgotten I was there. He was talking to himself; a sad, strange monologue. I wanted to get out of the car. Right there and then. In the middle of the busy ring road. I didn't want to hear any more. But he kept on talking, and it was as if his words were physically pressing me against the seat, trapping me there. Binding me in place until I heard what he so desperately needed to say.<br /><br />"I wanted her to tell me to stop but she didn't. She just stared at me the whole time with those wide, sweet eyes and I felt like I couldn't stop what was coming. It was beyond my control. There was nothing I could do but let it happen."</p><p>He drove carefully, if a little far over to the right, not speeding, not making any erratic manoeuvres. Just cruising. Hugging the white line. The exit for the bypass was just up ahead; our journey was almost done.</p><p>"She's a small girl so she fit inside the car boot easily. I didn't have to cut her up. Not this one."<br /></p><p>I closed my eyes. I didn't want to know this. Not any of it. When I opened them again, we were entering my street. He pulled up at the kerb and sat there, saying nothing else. <br /></p><p>Fumbling for the door handle, I stared at the back of his head. It was damp with sweat. His shoulders were shaking. When the door popped open, I almost fell out of it and into the road. As I walked slowly around the back of the vehicle, staring in horror at the lock on the boot, he pulled slowly away. He hadn't even asked for the fare.</p><p>I called the police on my mobile. They arrived quickly. No siren. I told them exactly what had happened and then went inside, where I made a cup of strong tea and sat staring at the wall while it went cold, trying not to scream.</p><p>A couple of days later a police constable called by to check my statement and give me a brief update. </p><p>She said they'd caught the man a mile or two from my house. He'd parked outside a carpet shop and sat weeping, his hands still gripping the steering wheel. He kept crying while the police car pulled up in front of his taxi. When the officers checked the car boot, there was nobody inside. They did find some spots of blood but when they passed the DNA through the system, they got zero hits regarding an identity.</p><p>Whoever she is, she's still out there, either injured or dead. I often think about her. Who she is, or was. Whether that maniac killed her, or if he let her go. She comes to me in my dreams, with her big, kind eyes and her forever open arms. She's bleeding, always bleeding, but she never cries.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><i>© Gary McMahon, 2022</i></p><p><br /></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-36526589272397234062022-05-08T18:40:00.005+01:002022-05-08T18:40:50.664+01:00Extract<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjITsy3ehle2ciUgtF7LrPIhN_q6o2Tc9JCu-FqYu2L6OKEU_cQCTeWuAMtxG_kaUU22Rvnq-CNdtvPk3HoM7eoCJpI_peGOJjXDZ2oyJ0EMMAC6k1UQ0u4MpKRn6TWP_yY2gumbwV26rzOzvmEsc5VNX1GPwp9wArJuttboWu_Greov5g006ckb8Sk/s646/TEASER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="646" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjITsy3ehle2ciUgtF7LrPIhN_q6o2Tc9JCu-FqYu2L6OKEU_cQCTeWuAMtxG_kaUU22Rvnq-CNdtvPk3HoM7eoCJpI_peGOJjXDZ2oyJ0EMMAC6k1UQ0u4MpKRn6TWP_yY2gumbwV26rzOzvmEsc5VNX1GPwp9wArJuttboWu_Greov5g006ckb8Sk/s320/TEASER.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Charles
stared into the darkness, at the dim outline of the tall trees and low bushes.
A figure detached itself from the darker mass of the foliage. Then another. And
another. More of them, stepping forward into the clearing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> There were men and women. They were
dressed in formal wear: dark suits and ball gowns. Some of them had
flashlights, which they switched on. Most of them were carrying hunting rifles.
Their faces were covered with masks depicting the faces of well-known actors
and actresses, politicians, famous musicians, and some that he didn’t recognise
but assumed were celebrities of some sort.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Charles held up his hands in a
placatory gesture and started to back away. “I’m sorry…I’m lost. I don’t want
any trouble.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> One of the figures snorted like a pig,
someone else giggled, and several others grunted in a guttural, wordless
manner.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> They were all moving forward, coming
towards him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Charles turned and ran.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">(an extract from "After the Reading")</span></p><p></p><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="color: red;"><i>THIS ISN'T ANYWHERE YOU KNOW</i></span></b></p><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">a collection of short stories available to preorder now from Black Shuck Books:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blackshuckbooks.co.uk/this-isnt-anywhere-you-know/" style="font-size: 18.6667px;">https://blackshuckbooks.co.uk/this-isnt-anywhere-you-know/</a></div></span><p></p><br /><p></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-32673156622311576972022-04-26T07:56:00.002+01:002022-04-26T07:56:21.679+01:00This Isn't Anywhere You Know<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBBVHPguxOvTb7f5nXqNvluQlQIsFWI1_5ODRBt7z5Sw1E1eEJ0HdfY64xguaK-Ir8hs4BHMMW-O12Yl9xgfPNa004E-wORRkXV1ercpVituW8Ijs6bswWEcNZoSTQNU74UBtMIimI6RRIbaf0NiQHyu-ni3b6jT5UeTwY9r6DQ0MdnFWkm1i2Iv5/s1000/COVER_TIAYN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="646" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBBVHPguxOvTb7f5nXqNvluQlQIsFWI1_5ODRBt7z5Sw1E1eEJ0HdfY64xguaK-Ir8hs4BHMMW-O12Yl9xgfPNa004E-wORRkXV1ercpVituW8Ijs6bswWEcNZoSTQNU74UBtMIimI6RRIbaf0NiQHyu-ni3b6jT5UeTwY9r6DQ0MdnFWkm1i2Iv5/w259-h400/COVER_TIAYN.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>The limited hardback edition of my latest short story collection is now available for preorder from the great Black Shuck Books:<br /><br /><a href="https://blackshuckbooks.co.uk/this-isnt-anywhere-you-know/">https://blackshuckbooks.co.uk/this-isnt-anywhere-you-know/</a><br /><br />The hardback contains additional content that won't be in the paperback, and is simply a beautiful object, so if you're interested, please act quickly before they're all gone.<br /><br />Putting together this book helped me through a tough time. There's a lot of pain between these pages, but also a lot of love and passion. <br /></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-71001934642038927632022-03-03T16:52:00.000+00:002022-03-03T16:52:02.640+00:00Book Review - KISSING THE LIZARD by Justin David<p> A few years ago, I was approached by a publisher to review a novella called <a href="https://www.inkandescent.co.uk/product-page/the-pale-ones-bartholomew-bennett" target="_blank">The Pale Ones</a>, which I loved. A few weeks ago, the same publisher asked me to review his own soon-te-be-released novella, and I gladly agreed to take a look.</p><p>The book is called <b><span style="color: red;">Kissing The Lizard</span></b>, and it's written by Justin David.</p><p>Ostensibly a sort of coming of age story set in the 90s, the book features a young gay man, Jamie, who moves to London and meets an initially fascinating character called Matthew. He rents a room in this stranger's house, and that's when things start to change for him - in terms of starting to know who he really is, and also discovering things about his new friend and landlord.</p><p>The story moves us from 90s bedsit London to a desert compound in New Mexico, taking in alien abduction theories, the absurdities of new age mysticism, and weird UFO cults, and introducing us to some strange, quirky, and interesting characters along the way. I don't want to give away too much of the actual plot because part of the fun of reading this is not knowing where it's going.</p><p>The writing is clear and crisp, laced with some quietly scathing humour and providing a few creepy moments. It isn't a horror story; in fact, it doesn't fit neatly into any genre, which is one of the book's strengths. It's just a story. A good story. </p><p>I thoroughly enjoyed this novella. Raced through it, in fact. Highly recommended.<br /><br />You can order it here:</p><p><a href="https://www.inkandescent.co.uk/kissingthelizard" target="_blank">inkandescent</a></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-50960624128850263042021-05-16T14:00:00.000+01:002021-05-16T14:00:02.632+01:00This Isn't Anywhere You Know<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGGvAUoIL0f-5s4VX3jX7gvblJ8AHP18Kmc-fQ9XUwyBEfg8rkM1AgOWg6AQpn4r9atg7lkUzfH1_pZ9YDa_Zy66Kd7fWiKbQqCzByrqUqo-pbJ84G7naFCePqzb_Zs4IuLnQF-jNQ1U/s1000/COVER_TIAYN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="646" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGGvAUoIL0f-5s4VX3jX7gvblJ8AHP18Kmc-fQ9XUwyBEfg8rkM1AgOWg6AQpn4r9atg7lkUzfH1_pZ9YDa_Zy66Kd7fWiKbQqCzByrqUqo-pbJ84G7naFCePqzb_Zs4IuLnQF-jNQ1U/w320-h494/COVER_TIAYN.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>I'm absolutely delighted to reveal the cover for my forthcoming short story collection <b><span style="color: red;">This Isn't Anywhere You Know</span></b>.</p><p>The cover art is by me, the design is by Steve Shaw, and the font is by Priya Sharma - it's her beautiful handwriting, in fact.</p><p>The book will be published by<a href="https://blackshuckbooks.co.uk/" target="_blank"> Black Shuck Books</a>, date to be announced.</p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-70688492823746037852021-05-09T17:36:00.002+01:002021-05-09T17:36:48.680+01:00New Book - Coming Soon.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB5g4L__6E_lyCtOVlyQfunIVSKVdwGjCQSd0s_zLQvliWyXPl4e5llpTbMuIFwFU1BfSqUUGzFrT4qF3BXWFzq-LycsSD-4E6Aa0ai-eog8bmJ_Cx6j6HjQNY-fF1unALFm05MgImfIk/s646/TEASER.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="646" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB5g4L__6E_lyCtOVlyQfunIVSKVdwGjCQSd0s_zLQvliWyXPl4e5llpTbMuIFwFU1BfSqUUGzFrT4qF3BXWFzq-LycsSD-4E6Aa0ai-eog8bmJ_Cx6j6HjQNY-fF1unALFm05MgImfIk/w484-h371/TEASER.jpg" width="484" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>In a week's time, I'll officially announce my next book with a post about the cover and how it came about.</p><p>In the meantime, the title of the book is <b><span style="color: red;">THIS ISN'T ANYWHERE YOU KNOW</span></b>, and it's a collection of short stories.</p><p>The book was originally going to be called NIGHTCALLS, but I woke up with the new title in my head and went with it. The universe gives you gifts sometimes, and when it does, you're a fool if you don't accept them.</p><p>16 stories, 4 of them previously unpublished. This is a very personal book that was put together during this period of lockdown as a way of filtering my own issues through the medium of my art. If that sounds pretentious, I don't give a fuck. Sometimes art can help to heal us.That's what this book did for me.</p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-57742681740231397662020-08-21T14:01:00.004+01:002020-08-21T14:45:36.033+01:00A Lockdown Story
<p align="center" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span></span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Isolation</span></b></span></span></span></span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span></span></span></span></span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><p align="center" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
<p align="center" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gary McMahon</span></span></i></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Outside, the wind was rattling the patio
furniture and making the window panes creak in their casings. The tree in next
door’s garden swayed like a drunkard, as if threatening to topple at any
minute.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jackson
stared out through the French doors, the weather distracting him from the
computer screen. He didn’t like working from home; he preferred to be in the
office, surrounded by people he didn’t really like but whose presence provided
some kind of familiarity.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rain
began to fall in grey diagonals across the window glass. </span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Great,”
he said, softly. “Another day of British summertime.”</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
song playing on the radio was familiar but he couldn’t quite place the title of
the track or the band who’d performed it. Something from the mid-90s, when he’d
been in his heyday. He missed those years of freedom. At the time they’d seemed
like the promise of something even better – a precursor of yet more adventures
to come – but now they were nothing but faded memories left on a shelf to gather
dust and wither away. Sometimes he liked to imagine the ghost of his past self,
stuck in time around 1996, drifting through the life he might have had.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Something
passed by the small window to his right. A flitting shadow, as if someone had strolled
along the narrow pathway at the side of his house.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Smiling,
he thought: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and there he is, right on
cue. The pale ghost of me.</i></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
stood and approached the window, peering outside. There was nobody there. Even
when he moved to the French doors, he could see that the garden was empty.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
losing my mind,” he said to the room. The isolation was causing him to see things.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Group
gatherings were still banned by law, so he couldn’t invite anyone round for
company. Not that there was anyone to invite since he and Hannah had split up.
Their friends, it turned out, had only ever been her friends all along. She’d
even taken the cat when she’d moved out, just before the national lockdown
kicked in and nobody could move anywhere.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nothing
stayed the same. Everything was temporary. Even when you thought your life had
settled into a rut, the wheels were always capable of coming off to send you
careening along another channel.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
he turned back to the dining table, where his desktop computer and two monitors
were set up, there was someone sitting in his chair. At first glance, it was
little more solid than a shadow, but as he watched it grew in definition, taking
on substance, becoming a person.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The ghost of me</i>, he thought again.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
lonely,” said a small, dull voice. “I desire company.”</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jackson
sat down on the other side of the table, facing the figure. Its face was vague,
barely a smudge, but he could see that it was looking directly at him. He’d
been wrong about the identity of the interloper. It wasn’t him, it was someone
else. Someone he didn’t recognise.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
do what I can,” he said, not knowing entirely what he meant by the statement. It
felt as if he was saying something bigger and more encompassing than the
current situation allowed for.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
all I ever ask of anyone,” said the odd muted voice. “To try your best...”</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
figure reached out across the table and lay a hand on top of his outstretched
fingers. It felt like mist; it was cold and moist and unsettling, yet nestling
beneath all that there was a strange sense of comfort.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Time
slowed; the wind dropped; the rain continued to fall, but in silence.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jackson
felt weightless.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
figure said nothing else. It just sat there and waited for Jackson to begin. His
thoughts were muddled, but he knew that, given enough time, he would work out
exactly what the visitor wanted from him.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
perhaps everything might make sense. </span></span></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br /></p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br /></p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">
<br /></span></p><p align="right" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><strong>© Gary
McMahon 2020</strong></span></p><p align="right" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><strong><br /></strong></span></p><p align="right" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><strong><br /></strong></span></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">
<br /></span></p></span><p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><a aria-label="Visit Freepik" class="eHAdSb" data-ved="0CAIQjRxqFwoTCLjSrPqsrOsCFQAAAAAdAAAAABAJ" href="https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.freepik.com%2Fpremium-photo%2Frain-drops-window-with-green_5754353.htm&psig=AOvVaw0ngkkkmrpXXDN3tr9AXwtR&ust=1598101161137000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CAIQjRxqFwoTCLjSrPqsrOsCFQAAAAAdAAAAABAJ" jsaction="focus:kvVbVb; mousedown:kvVbVb; touchstart:kvVbVb;" rel="noopener" rlhc="1" role="link" tabindex="0" target="_blank"><img alt="Rain drops on the window with green | Premium Photo" class="n3VNCb" data-noaft="1" jsaction="load:XAeZkd,gvK6lb;" jsname="HiaYvf" src="https://image.freepik.com/free-photo/rain-drops-window-with-green_70626-10392.jpg" style="height: 395px; margin: 0px; width: 440px;" /></a></p></span><p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br /></p>
<p><p><p><p><p><p></p></p></p></p></p></p></span><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><p></p></p></span></p>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-35540102100695429352020-06-13T14:54:00.002+01:002020-06-13T15:11:49.174+01:00Is This All There Is?Lately, my life has been reduced to working from the dining table at a job I hate for people I want to punch, and sleeping (or trying to). That's it. There's nothing more. My existence has never felt so empty.<br />
<br />
Karate training is the only chink of light.<br />
<br />
I wish I could find it in me to write again. It seems like I've lost touch with the only thing that defines me as a person. The only thing I'm good at.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure if the Corona virus crisis has prompted an existential crisis, or if it would've happened anyway. In April I turned 51. I started thinking about how I've spent my whole life drifting from one situation to the next, buffeted by external forces.<br />
<br />
I've never had a plan, only a series of Plan Bs.<br />
<br />
I've never had a real purpose.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure why, but recently this has begun to bother me.What have I been doing here all those years, and why? I have a sense of urgency, a great burning need to change things, but I don't know how.<br />
<br />
I come from a background, and a generation, who were written off before we even started. Fatherless children. Rudderless lives. Half the people I went to school with now have alcohol problems. Too many of them are already dead. At school, we weren't taught how to hope; we were taught to make do. Nothing was ever expected of us.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what any of this means, but I want it to mean something. I want to come out of this period of my life having changed things. My fear is that nothing will change. It'll all just stay the same.<br />
<br />
Maybe next week will be when I'm able to write again. Maybe the words, when they come, will be the harbingers of those changes I desire.<br />
<br />
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<br />Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-54216905188406576162020-01-05T17:39:00.001+00:002020-01-05T17:39:05.953+00:00White Rabbit Story - DecemberI'm sorry this final White Rabbit Story is so late. Christmas got in the way, and illness (both myself and my wife), and a lot of other real-life banalities I won't mention.<br />
<br />
But here it is, December's White Rabbit Story. I hope it was worth the wait.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h2 style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000; font-family: "Covered By Your Grace"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; position: relative; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase;">
Ghostly</h2>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Last night I saw
the ghost again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was coming down the stairs and he
appeared in the hallway, as bold as brass. Startled, I took a step backwards,
stumbling slightly on the worn carpet, and yelled “get out!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The ghost looked at me with bagful
eyes. “No. You get out. This is my house.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why are you haunting me?” I said,
feeling bolder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The ghost looked confused. “But it’s
you that’s haunting me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Neither of us moved. A phantom
stand-off. One of us was lying, but both of us was convinced that we were the
one telling the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just leave,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I was here first,” he replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was no wriggle room here, no
space for discussion. I wasn’t going to back down, but nor was he. We had
reached an impasse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m alive,” I said. “I know I’m
alive.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He smiled. “As do I.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So where do we go from here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He paused, blinked. He looked solid
enough, but when I looked down at my body, so did I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I have no idea. We need something
to help us get past this – something to tell, once and for all, who’s the
ghost.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The rest of the house was silent.
Outside, it was dark and cold. Rain began to fall against the windows, but I
could not hear it, only see it on the glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m cold,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not. The dead are always cold.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He grinned. “Oh, it isn’t going to
be that easy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How about an arm-wrestle,” I said,
jokingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He nodded. “That sounds as good as
anything, I suppose.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I followed him back down the stairs
and into the living room. The lamps were on, providing some mood lighting. The
television was off. He sat down at the small dining table near the window and
rested an elbow on the table top, flexing his fist. I sat down opposite and did
the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ready?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I nodded. “I guess so.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We both leaned in, ready to take the
strain, and clasped hands. Or tried to. Our hands passed through one another,
not making contact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Interesting,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What does it mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He had no answer. Neither did I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Outside, the rain continued. There
was no sound. Not the house creaking, the wind blowing, or the rain falling. I
could not even hear myself breathing. Or him. I could remember nothing before
coming down the stairs: everything prior to that moment was lost in a mental
fog. It was if I only came to exist in that moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wondered if he felt the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Silence filled the house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We waited.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And we wait still, sitting together at
this table, searching for feelings that we cannot experience, emotions that will
never come to fill us, lost memories that cannot be found. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">We are both the ghosts of this place, and yet neither
of us can remember dying. If we’re honest, we cannot recall ever living either.
It is as if we have always been here, in the house, in the silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The rain continues. It never stops.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I do not believe it ever will.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right;"> ©Gary McMahon 2019</span></span></div>
<br />Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-52767197071973292452019-12-02T14:41:00.001+00:002019-12-02T14:50:49.627+00:00BeastsAbout a week ago I finished the first draft of a new novella, <strong><span style="color: red;">Glorious Beasts</span></strong>. This pleases me for several reasons, not least because it's the first substantial piece of writing I've managed to finish for a few years. I've done the occassional short story, but nothing longer than 5,000 words. The novella clocks in at just over 20,000.<br />
<br />
It's a strange beast, this one. And hopefully a glorious beast. It's set decades after a cataclysmic event that reduced the world's population by more than 50%. It feels like a western wrapped up in a horror story - there are a lot of influences in there, including Julia Leigh's <em>The Hunter</em>, <em>The Road</em>, <em>Mad Max</em>, <em>The Hills Have Eyes</em>, and the Turkish horror film <em>Baskin</em>.<br />
<br />
In my head, this world-breaking event - The Plague Years - happened in the mid 1970s, well before home computers and mobile phones came into existence. I wanted to hark back to a time before social media, a more innocent time when everything wasn't splashed across the Internet. I also wanted to write a story where I didn't have to write about moden technology. I'm bored by it; I needed to bypass it for once in the plot instead of having to allow for it.<br />
<br />
The story started off being about a man and his son climbing a hill. Then, as I wrote it, things evolved and it became the story of what was inside that hill, and what was inside the man's barren heart.<br />
<br />
I'm about to start the second draft. I only hope I can do the story justice.Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5232310180330031281.post-41242657798286443812019-11-13T18:24:00.000+00:002020-01-05T17:39:40.803+00:00White Rabbit Story - November<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">This month's White Rabbit Story is a little different. It forms the opening of a novel I'm working on. The novel is called <span style="color: red;"><b>Fingers</b></span>, and now that I'm back in the swing of writing regularly, I'm hoping it'll be the next big project I actually finish...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<h2 style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Don't Talk</span></h2>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">When he woke
in the night he was thirsty and his eyes were sore. He climbed out of bed and went
downstairs to the kitchen, where he filled a pint glass with water from a tap
and drank it down in a series of huge gulps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> The dream still clung to him like
scraps of paper blown in a gale. He couldn’t shake it off. Probably wouldn’t be
able to until it was morning and he was fully awake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">He always knew it was a dream. He’d been experiencing it for most of his
life. It wasn’t what he’d call a recurring dream, because it didn’t come often
enough; but it was certainly a dream that had repeated since he was a small
child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> As best he could remember, he’d
first had the dream when he was twelve years old, so that meant he was <i>always</i>
twelve years old in the dream. It was as if the dream had stuck there, like a
stylus in a scratch on an old record, and he’d been unable to move on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> The dream always followed the same
strand. It never wavered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> It went like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> He was a small child and he’d just
woken up from a dream. The bedroom window was open and a light breeze was
blowing the curtains. He got up and closed the window, shivering from the
chill. The streetlight outside his window flickered once, twice, three times,
and then stopped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> He turned back to his room. The
family dog was sitting on the bed. They’d had the dog a long time. It was old,
and its fur was patchy. It was a mongrel but nobody had ever managed to decide
which breeds had mixed to create this hybrid hound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> “Come on Fluffy, get down from
there.” His mother didn’t like the dog climbing up on the beds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> He glanced towards his bedroom door
but it was closed. He had no idea how the dog could have gained access to the
room, unless it had somehow got outside and climbed in through the open window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> He walked over to the bed, sat down
next to the dog, and stroked its neck. The dog nuzzled his hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> “Come on, boy. I’d better let you
back out, or mum will kill me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> Standing, he heard the bed creak;
the mattress undulated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> As he walked towards the door, he
heard someone cough – a polite cough, like the kind of sound someone makes when
they’re trying to get your attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> Turning, he stared at the dog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> “No one will ever believe this,”
said the dog, in a voice that was calm and soft and quite well-spoken. “Tell
whoever you want that your pet dog spoke to you, and they’ll just laugh and
think you’re joking. Persist with this fantasy, and they might think you mad.
Dogs don’t talk.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> He felt a chill again but this time
it wasn’t the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> “Fluffy? What did you say, Fluffy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> The dog stood up and plopped down
off the bed, then walked to the centre of the room. It squatted down and took a
shit on the carpet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> He didn’t know what to do, what to
say; this situation was too much for a twelve-year-old boy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> The dog strolled calmly to the door
and waited to be let out. He opened the door and watched it leave. The dog didn’t
even look at him, it just walked along the landing and vanished around the top
of the stairs. He heard its paws gently padding on the carpet as it went
downstairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> This was always the point at which
he woke up, his head filled with questions that he couldn’t have verbalised if
someone had asked him. Usually, he felt some kind of obscure muted terror. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">It always took him a long time to get back to sleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right; text-indent: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right; text-indent: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right; text-indent: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a222a; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right; text-indent: 0px;"> ©Gary McMahon 2019</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a222a; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><div style="color: #1a222a; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: right;">
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</span>Gary Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981206709642828785noreply@blogger.com0