Hadesgate Forums Newsletter 8 - April 2007

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HADESGATE FORUMS NEWSLETTER

APRIL 2007

BIRTHDAY BLOOD BATH!

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..:WELCOME TO THE MADNESS:..

*Cue horrorfying music...*

Hello readers

Here we are again, and what a cracking issue this has turned out to be. We are here to celebrate Hadesgate Forums turning the grand old age of one. So it’s cake all round.

While we are settling down for a quick game of pass the parcel, cast your eyes over the following content:-

3 pieces of fantastic fiction, poetry, news, reviews and photos from the NEC memorabilia weekend, a competition result and a new competition to sink your teeth into. An interview with Steven Pirie by our very own Garry Charles. Plus, much much, more.

Take it away, birthday gang…

Matron
HGF Newsletter Editor

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HADESGATE SECTION


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HADESGATE PUBLICATIONS NEWS
Matron

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We can confirm that personal appearances for Garry Charles are now fully booked for the remainder of 2007. These include trips to London, back to Birmingham TWICE, Baltimore USA, Chesterfield and Nottingham.

Any bookings for 2008 please contact Paula at hadesgate @ hotmail.co.uk. (Remove the gaps, obviously.)

April release: Mage Reborn. We will not be attending the Alt Fiction extravaganza in Derby as planned, choosing instead to have a quiet it’s available now notice. More serene and individual a bit like Mr Dean.

Our website has been taken down in lieu of our new revamped version, including our shop. Our intention is that this model will be more user friendly for the more pc challenged amongst us…. that would be me.

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HADESGATE WEBSITE / FORUMS NEWS
Demon

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Website Watch:


The majority of you will probably have seen this thread from the Forums News / Announcements forum, informing you that the latest revamp of the Hadesgate website is underway. If not, go read it, it's funny.

It was all going swimmingly until I ran into the problem of how to get two DIV tags to sit next to each other and how to have their content spaced equally from browser to browser to sustain continuity. I'm sure you understand...

Well after starting a "HELP ME WITH MA DIVVIES" thread on another forum, I got the help I needed, and the template for the new website is complete. Done. Finito!

Therefore, baring in mind that it's the template so the content is a working progress and the links don't work, I present to you;

THE BRAND NEW HADESGATE WEBSITE!!!

Do let me know what you think...

Cheers!

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PRODUCT FOCUS

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Product Name: HAMMERHEAD: A SUMMER OF MASSACRE

ISBN Number: 978-0-9550314-8-9

Price Information: £7.99 // post and packaging FREE.

Product Description:

Edward Craven wasn’t born into a normal family. He was raised to be an animal, a hunter and a feaster of human flesh.

Four vacationing university students are about to stumble into his territory. They are about to discover why the town of Blackwood is deserted and they learn the true meaning of death as, one by one, they face their predator….

HAMMERHEAD

Prepare for slaughter

For purchase details pop along to our product zone.

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CHATROOM INFORMATION

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As always this facility is available for use 24/7. If anyone would like a larger gathering some time soon just give us the nod and we'll arrange a convenient time and date.

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COMMUNITY SECTION

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IN THE SPOTLIGHT

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Well who else could we ask? He's a little bit nocturnal, and a whole lot nutty (or are they just his droppings). He came out of hibernation early to entertain us, the one, the only Spikey!

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Name:

Andy / Spikey / Edjog / Oi you, Muppet! (basically I'll answer to anything)

Age:

32 on Wednesday (Hint, hint. Will look out for the hundreds of birthday cards!)

Marital Status:

Single

Location:

Bradford, West Yorkshire, England - trapped between the canal and the river.

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Occupation (by day):

Personnel Assistant in Supermarket (oh I do love the power of being able to sack anyone who crosses me)

Occupation (by night):

The world's first writing edjog

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Tell Us About Yourself:

Started off reading King at the age of 12, closely followed by Laymon and Koontz.
Diagnosed with epilepsy about 6 months after discovering these authors, so parents thought that was the cause and tried to stop me reading the stuff. Ended up hiding the books from them and reading under the covers by torchlight. Certainly helped with the atmosphere!

Always wanted to write myself but never had the time.
When I left school I was too busy getting into the wonderful world of work, closely followed by the not so wonderful world of debt, then I set up my own business which took up about 26 hours a day.
By 2002 the business was no longer making a profit so I stopped trading. At the end of the same year I walked out of my job as a cinema projectionist due to health issues (working in the dark, coming home in the dark, sleeping in the dark - good occupation if you're a vampire)
Spent the next 18 months looking for work and decided that this was an ideal time to get writing.

At the moment I work four days a week, working ridiculous hours, and spend the other three days sleeping, writing and generally surfing the 'net.

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Three best Words To Describe Yourself:

Quiet. Loopy. Nutty

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Favourite Food:

Chips, Beans and chocolate - not necessarily in that order - I'm just a big kid

Favourite Drink:

Coke/Pepsi/Bud

Favourite Film:

Alien/Aliens

Favourite Book:

Stephen King's "It"

Favourite Band:

Mike & The Mechanics

Favourite Quote:

"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read." - Groucho Marx

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Best Thing About HGF:

The friendliness of everybody (aawww)

What could be improved?

nuffink - don't change a thing

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Give Us Some Words Of Wisdom:

ermm...Never poke a hedgehog up the backside with a grenade??

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HADESGATE FORUMS MONTHLY AWARDS

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MEMBER OF THE MONTH:

Nominated by last month's gracious winner Kitten.

Scarlet

She's wonderful! Not only does she bat posts out with an cracking wit and a very naughty twinkle in her vocab, but she's also an absolute delight of niceness, both in putting up with odd posts from, um, certain people, and for just plain being a honey to everyone. She deserves to win because the forums would be a bleaker place without her.

THREAD OF THE MONTH:

Things you discovered, this week

Well what hasn't this thread included? We've gone from whisky to shoddy workmanship to wrestling in blancmange and beyond.

Well done INNO for starting this little gem.

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WORKS OF FICTION

We are being thoroughly spoilt for choice, 3 yes indeedy 3 pieces of fiction.

Remember how we all nearly tore Scarlet's eyes out for leaving us on a knife edge with her story 'HOLE?' Well this tale is here and complete.

Following on is short fantasy offering from our charismatic Mr Dean.

We end the hat trick with a debut from Roy Nicholson from across the pond (Canada) This is the first time Mr Nicholson has been published, but I can safely say it will not be the last. Your feedback on this particular story is welcomed and to this end I will copy 'LOWE'S DESCENT' to our feedback forum for your comments.

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HOLE
Scarlet

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The first time the hole in the ground spoke to Jan, she ignored it.
The second time she convinced herself that it was the neighbor’s TV or radio carried by the breeze to her back yard.
The third time, she listened.
As Jeff rinsed out his coffee mug at the sink, he glanced up and saw his wife on her hands and knees at the back of the yard. Putting his cup down, he continued to watch. Her head was very close to the grass, brushing it, but not resting on it. Her behind was sticking up suggestively, and he felt that familiar tug in his crotch. He was mildly surprised the poor ignored thing still could twitch to life. He hadn’t used it in so long. Not since the baby.
His thoughts quickly forgot little Jeanie as his wife turned her head to look at the ground. It took him a moment to realize her lips were moving. What was she doing, talking to the lawn?
She stopped talking and put her ear back to the grass, listened, nodded, then turned and spoke again. Jeff watched her engage in this activity for at least another ten minutes or so. Finally, she nodded one last time, stood, brushed her knees to free the clinging clippings the mower had left behind, and came to the house.
He met her on the patio.
“Let me guess,” he began, “I’m not fertilizing properly.”
She gave him a look of confused impatience that was all too familiar to him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
She brushed past him and went into the house. He heard a door close from within. Probably the bedroom. Flopping into a deck chair, he wished he knew what to do with her. He wished he could fix her.

She was bleeding, and it hurt. She was pretty sure she had a couple of splinters, too, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t stop.
Jan pushed the blade into the soil again and pulled up another clump of dark, moist earth. She threw it onto the growing mound beside her freshly dug hole and plunged the spade in again.
“I hope this is big enough,” she told it. “I hope I get everything right.”
And the hole answered.
Jeff came out back and found her at her work.
“Babe, what are you doing?” he called, striding towards her.
The hole whispered to her.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Hon, you’re digging a hole. What, do we need another septic? I know I spend a lot of time in the bathroom, but I didn’t realize I was in there this much.”
He came to stand beside her, noticing she was not smiling at his attempt to be humorous.
Jan wiped the sweat from her forehead, leaving a smear. Gently, Jeff wiped the dirt away.
“Hon, I wish you’d talk to me. If we could just—“
“Just what?! What do you want from me, Jeff?”
“I want you to be ok. I want us to be ok. I want you to be happy.”
She looked him in the eye and spat out words he did not want to hear. “I’ll never be happy! Jeanie is dead, and I can’t ever be happy! You go ahead and make your stupid ass jokes and go to work and get on with your life, but my baby is dead! You go and be happy for me!”
She threw down the shovel and trudged to the house. Hanging his head, he didn’t have the heart to watch her.
“I just want my wife back,” he told the hole.
It did not answer him.
Dreading the thought of going into the house to listen to her weep behind a locked door, Jeff turned and walked up the driveway. When he returned an hour or so later, she was back at digging up the back yard. This time, he ignored her, went into the kitchen to make some macaroni and cheese, and camped out alone in front of the TV.
When he finally went to bed a few hours later, she was still out there, digging.

Though small and subtle, the smile on her face was luminous, and it caught his eye immediately as he walked into the kitchen and found her there, drinking her coffee as if it were just another day. Afraid to say anything that might make it go away, he passed quietly behind her to get his own cup.
The hole was glaringly larger, staring at him from his place at the window. It had grown into an area much bigger than a grave.
“It’s like we’re putting in a pool,” he thought.
“What was that?” Jan asked.
“Nothing.” He was positive he hadn’t spoken aloud.
He turned to her and placed a small kiss on the top of her head.
“You doin’ ok?”
“I’m good.” She took a sip from her mug as he sat next to her. “I’ve been thinking of Jeanie.”
“Honey, don’t –“
“No,” she looked at him and the smile was still there. “It’s ok. I was thinking of her eyes. She had your eyes, you know.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“She was born with your dark brown eyes. Like chocolate.”
Seeing the tears filling up her own green eyes, he grabbed her hand.
“Honey –“
“No, it’s ok. Really. I need to get back to work. I have a million things to do.” She jumped up and left the room.
He heard the spade slicing through the earth as he walked out to his car a few minutes later.

The hole spoke.
“I know, I know.”
It spoke again.
“Yes, well, I suppose I –“
It said more.
Jan stopped digging. “I hadn’t thought of that. Oh, no. I hadn’t thought of that at all. Do you think I should…”
It told her what needed to be done.
“Ok. I can do that.” She turned to climb out but then paused. “I don’t need to dig anymore?”
The answer received, she climbed out and hurried to do her next chore.

Jeff was relieved to see she was not in the backyard. He entered the house through the French doors. Taking off his coat, he heard a faint noise. Music? A check of the radio and TV proved fruitless; they were both off. Maybe from upstairs.
Jan was in the shower. He heard the water as he entered the master bedroom. It must have been that.
No. No, he could still hear something.
He went down the hall to the second bedroom. It was to be Jeanie’s nursery, but after coming home from the hospital with no baby in tow, the room had been closed and forgotten. Well, not forgotten, but definitely ignored. Both he and Jan had felt too much sorrow and grief to enter it. But now the door was opened, a breeze pushing at the lacy curtains.
He stepped in. Everything was perfect. There was no dust, the playpen was out of its box and assembled. Toys and books lined the shelves.
Turning to the crib he discovered the layette had been freshly laundered. The pink blanket with the silk edging was all spread out, as if it were waiting for a baby to swaddle. And above it, tinkling a lullaby, the mobile twirled.
With dread seeping throughout his body he realized she had been in here, preparing the room.
He jumped when her arms snaked around his waist.
“I think it’s all ready,” she said against his neck. “What do you think?”
He couldn’t speak.
“I know. It’s exciting, isn’t it? I can barely believe it myself.”
“Jan…”
She squeezed tight and planted a kiss on his neck. “Oh honey, I love you so much!”
He turned and kissed her deeply, letting her touch him and hold him and kiss him back. He pulled her down onto the soft rug with the unicorns romping under a rainbow, removed her wet towel, and made love to her like he had wished he could for all those months. He found her to be warm and willing and alive under him. So alive. So unlike Jeanie, who was still so dead, no matter what she thought.

He awoke to a cold, empty bed. He rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe the sleep from them, trying to remember what day it was and if he had work. It was Saturday. Well, that was good. May 12. May 12? That was supposed to mean something. He searched his half awake brain for anniversaries, birthdays, trips, schedules, anything that would make this date more significant to him.
May 12, May 12, May 12…
Twelve! It was the twelfth of the month. He sat up. Jeanie had died the day after her birth, November 11. Jeanie had been dead for six months. Was this the reason Jan was acting so weird? Was she in some kind of super-mourning now that half a year had passed?
The smell of bacon came to his nose, and he followed it down to the kitchen.
There was a heaping plate of it on the table, with Jan putting coffee out for them and toast with butter and jam.
“Morning, honey,” she called.
What was going on here?
“I know this is early for you, but I wanted it to be all ready before I got too busy.” She put down silverware in front of his plate. “Let’s see, what time is it?” She turned to the microwave. “Oh no! It’s 8:31! I have to be out there now.” And she dashed into the dining room and out the French doors.
“What is she…?” Jeff went to the window above the sink and witnessed his wife running to the hole and jumping in.
8:31? 8:31?
“Time of death, 8:32.”
“Oh sweet Jesus!!”
He ran to the doors, yanked them opened and made it across the patio and part of the yard before she emerged, bringing him to a halt. She was covered in mud, smiling from ear to ear, and holding. . .oh God! Oh God what is she holding?!
“Jeff. Jeff, babe, you’re just in time! Look who’s here. Look!”
Jeff couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Thoughts of babies and pets and people coming back from the dead through holes in the ground raped his senses. All those horror comics, and zombie movies, and cemetery scenes flooded back on him at once. She wasn’t holding their baby. She couldn’t be holding their baby.
“What is going on?” he screamed at her.
“My prayers have been answered, Jeff. Our prayers. We have Jeanie back. The nightmare is over.”
No, this is how the nightmare begins.
“Oh, babe,” he sobbed. “Oh Jan. Shit, Jan, I love you. I love you so much.”
He ran to her and pushed her and whatever was in her arms back into the hole. He watched as it swallowed them both up completely.
He spent the rest of the day filling in the hole while he wept.

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THICK AND THIN
Steve Dean

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“We are being followed.”

“Huh, I doubt that very much.”

“You over-estimate your abilities, my friend.”

“As do you, again. That masking spell I cast is one of my finest, Bessom, so I doubt very much anyone could track us.”

“Nevertheless, my young wanderer, we are being followed, by persons so far unknown. I can only conclude they wish to acquire something of yours, possibly that which you carry.”

“Don’t call me young, you know I don’t like it.”

“Then desist in calling me Bessom, you know I have no liking for that.”

“Fine, let’s not argue, but consider the matter at hand. You say we’re being followed, and if true can only mean one thing. Deathmask, or one of his lackeys.”

“An astute, if grammatically incorrect, observation, for one so young. More importantly, what is our plan of action?”

“Why do you always go on about my age? I know I’m not as old as you, but who is, you withered old stick.”

“I am by no means withered, I may be a little thin, but that is hardly my own fault. You on the other hand are stout because you eat to excess.”

“You are so ungrateful. You were sweeping up in a tavern when I found you. I’ve a good mind to take you back, or leave you right here.”

“Fine, I am quite capable of independent existence. You, however have an almost childlike dependency on my abilities. The first crossroads you arrive at, or the first miscreant that crosses your trail and it will be ‘Mythrata, help me!’”

“However do you think I got on before, without you? I was doing very well for myself.”

“Oh, yes Brother Treesong, a fine mount you had, and a purse bursting with gold, and the knowledge and power of one of the Great Ones. Huh!”

“I had a horse once. Very nice it was, although a bit chewy. And gold, who needs gold?”

“Not I for truth, nor horse. But it may be pleasant upon occasion to travel by coach instead of being dragged along these muddy, thorn infested trails you call ‘Ways.’ This damp is doing me no good at all. I might yet leave you at the next suitable place, settle down in some lords palace.”

“And what would a lord do with you beside sweep the floor.”

“Oh off we go again with the old broom jest. Can you not be more original?”

“It’s just that you’re such an easy target, being so thin and all.”

“They’re getting closer.”

“From which direction.”

“South, and a little east.”

“How can I tell which way that is with trees everywhere I look and a grey sky over our heads, you fool?”

“I won’t tell you now.”

“Then how will I protect us?”

“I am quite capable of self protection thank you.”

“Just tell me Mythrata.”

“Behind, over your left shoulder. It’s no use looking, you buffoon, they’re still too distant.”

“They?”

“Three, one is Deathmask, and therefore almost certainly High-eye. The other is unknown to me.”

“So, you’re not perfect then?”

“I have never claimed such.”

“I don’t understand how he found out.”

“About what you carry? He is clearly cleverer than you think.”

“Clever is hardly a word I’d use. Lucky yes, daddy’s favourite spoiled little rich boy, everything handed to him on a platter, and what’s that ridiculous name all about?”

“Don’t get bitter now, it only brings on your complaint.”

“What would you care? Anyway, a bit of flatulence never hurt anyone.”

“But it may alert them to our position.”

“How, he’s tracking us with magic, surely?”

“I have been able to deduce the identity of the other. Not a person but a creature.”
“So, he’s been smart enough to bring along a hunting hound.”

“Hunting, correct, hound, I’m afraid not.”

“Oh. Er, would this thing be sort of scaly, bigger than a big dog and possibly of another plain?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly. A Slynk?”

“Correct.”

“Ah. Red or grey?”

“Mostly, red.”

“Mostly red, or all red.”

“All red actually, I was merely attempting to spare you a little anxiety.”

“Thank you. What’s the plan?”

“I was under the impression that you did all the thinking.”

“No, I do everything else, and half the thinking. You merely do the other half of the thinking.”

“Fine, please inform me of your contribution.”

“Well, we could hide, no we couldn’t could we. Or run, we could run away.”

“We could turn around and charge straight at them, they will be greatly surprised. I can then dispel the Slynk and you can immobilise Deathmask. Then, as one, we neutralise High-eye. He is a little on the tardy side, which should give us ample time.”

“It’s a good plan, I’ll think on it. No, I like mine best.”

“You can not run forever. If that Slynk has us scented it will follow us ever more, halfway around this globe and any other. The grey ones are tenacious enough, the red are far worse.”

“If we just go a bit further we might find a town, or something.”

“The next town is approximately three days north west. There is a village a few hours away. Lovely, peaceful little hamlet. Bit of a shame to lead a red Slynk in there. All those wide eyed country folk, clutching their rosy cheeked babes to their...”

“I get the idea. Can we at least find a tree or a cave or something to protect our backs?”

“Umm, I’ll have a look around.”

“Quick as you like, I can sense the Slynk myself now, so it must be very close.”

“This forest is very young you know, nothing over fifty years. It is possible there was a fire, or a war, lots of timber used in conflict.”

“That’s very interesting but it doesn’t help our situation.”

“Aha! There is a river.”

“Where?”

“Straight ahead and a little to the left. Feels quite large. Mayhap we can ford it, or perhaps a little swim. It may put off the Slynk.”

“It won’t and you know it, but it might slow Deathmask down, and High-eye never did like water. If we can split them up we might have a chance.”

“It is the best we can hope for. Come along, a little faster with you.”

“I’m not going to run too fast, I’ll be no good to us out of breath.”

“Can you hear the river now? It’s not far. A few paces more.”

“Oh, that is a little wider than I had expected Treesong, still it’s quite slow. Let us get wet shall we?”

“Slowly, no need to rush, they’re still a way back yet. Ah good, at least it’s firm underfoot here, but my goddess it’s cold.”

“Cease your complaining and move faster, we need to acquire the opposite bank in order to make our stand.”

“We must be halfway, tell me we’re halfway, if this water gets any deeper Deathmask will just need to scoop us from the water as we float by.”

“It is already shallower, keep moving, we’re doing fine.”

“What was that splash behind us?”

“Oh, just salmon leaping, or some such watery denizen.”

“What, in the middle of summer at dusk?”

“Of course, that is the best time to watch them feeding.”

“It was the Slynk wasn’t it.”

“Merely concentrate on not falling over. We are almost there. Just face ahead, don’t think about anything at all rapidly approaching from the rear.”

“Thanks Mythrata, that helped. I’m turning around right here.”

“Fine, but two more steps and you’ll have the bank.”

“All right. One, two, and turn.”

* * *

“That’s the first time I’ve heard a Cyclops cry. Quite pitiful really.”

“I was not even aware they favoured the keeping of pets.”

“Anyone who has a pet Slynk is asking for trouble.”

“That was an excellent shot, if I may say, Brother. Your fireball impacted quite centrally on the end of its bulbous nose. Certainly slowed it down a mite.”

“Yes, but it was your lightning bolt that made it turn tail and run, well swim.”

“You should have observed the legs of the creature, hammering like a thing possessed. All ten of them thrashing like the spokes on a runaway cartwheel. The next instant Deathmask begins to shout, wading into the river, steam pouring off that ridiculous aura he insists on wearing. He is such a large man but that Slynk was fairly moving when they collided.”

“And such cursing, it’s been a good few years since I heard language like that.”

“Of course that’s when I deduced the Slynk was old High-eye’s pet. He assaulted Deathmask most grievously. Of course you heard him. ‘Leave it be, it be mine!’ Oh dear, terrible it was, terrible.”

“So old High-eye ‘rescued’ the Slynk from Deathmask and it turned on him?”

“Oh yes, treacherous creatures those. Ironically, it was the Cyclops that destroyed the Slynk and thus Deathmask was now very much alone. He spots us on the bank, standing pretty and not so much as a bead of perspiration, then turns and retreats, abandoning the Cyclops, whom is presently sobbing against a tree nursing the Slynk corpse as it slowly fades from this existence.”

“No one will believe us you know.”

“That is the truth, but it may yet procure us a cosy chamber for the night. The village I mentioned earlier lies just ahead.”

“So, back to the old routine?”

“It would seem so.”

“Ah, villagers, best keep quiet.”

“Not a word, Treesong, not a word.”

“Alms, alms for a poor old blind man with only a thin staff to lean upon.”

“Oh for goddess’ sake.”

The End

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Lowe's Descent
Roy Nicholson

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Tuesday morning, another cold rainy January day in Vancouver. City Bus no. 52 barrels down Granville Street, loaded with the weary faces of commuters trying to earn a living. Some sleep, a few are trance-like and stare straight ahead. Some chat with the person sitting beside them and others read paperbacks. The younger ones wear I-PODS and nod to the beat of their favorite artists, unaware and uncaring that they are the future for the soon to be booming hearing aid business.

One man sits in an aisle seat mid-way down. He has today’s newspaper spread on his lap and stares intently at the front page headlines “Ahmadinejad denies Holocaust, threatens to wipe Israel off the map”. A look of disgust crosses his face, then anger, finally worry. He leans toward the lady sitting beside him.

“Mrs. Feldman, can you believe this madman?” He holds the newspaper up for her to scan the headline.

“It could happen again.” They look at each other, as though each bears the burden of horrific memories, forever etched into their brain cells. The man folds the paper and stands up, the bus slowing for the next stop.

Charles Lowe, age 66, proprietor of Lowe’s Antiques in trendy Gastown, exits the bus, newspaper and briefcase in hand. He waves at Mrs. Feldman as the bus roars off, turns and walks towards his storefront. As he approaches his place of business, he sees two panhandlers have taken up residence directly in front of the entrance in the alcove between the display windows. A couple of twenty something’s, man and woman, together with their faithful companion, a golden retriever. They are unkempt and offer empty coffee cups for spare change from passersby. Unfortunately for them, Charles Lowe is not a passerby, but the owner of the business and he does not want two vagrants taking up space outside his front door.

“You’re going to have to leave right now!” Lowe barks. “I can’t have beggars in front of my store, get out, get out! And take that mangy animal with you.” The panhandlers slowly rise, gathering their cups and blankets, but not before asking for a donation.

“How ‘bout a coupla bucks for some mochas?” the male asks.

“Mochas be damned! I’m calling the police if you don’t leave now,” Lowe bellows.

Reluctantly the threesome move away from the unsympathetic silver-haired figure who watches them slink away. Lowe turns and opens the door to his establishment to commence the day’s business.

Lowe’s Antiques is filled with expensive works of art from throughout the world. European paintings, sculptures, and pottery, all museum quality, fill every wall and shelf. These are expensive pieces to be sure and reveal Mr. Lowe’s clients to be very well heeled indeed. No ticky tacky browsers welcome here.

Lowe removes his overcoat, plugs in the kettle for his morning tea then picks up the telephone. He dials his banker and after a dozen rings he actually hears a human voice.

“Mr. Smith, have you reviewed my recent credit line application?...Have you reached a decision on my extension?... I require the increase in order to acquire the Carr and O’Keefe paintings… You need more financial information?... Look, I have already provided the bank with my last three years financial and net worth statements, what more could you possibly require?... I really do not appreciate these delays in the bank’s vetting process, it’s unacceptable. I may in fact have to find an alternative banking agent. Good day Mr. Smith!” Not a good conversation.

Lowe slams the phone down, angry and frustrated after the call to his bank. The whistling kettle grabs his attention and just as he pours the boiling water into his teapot with two bags of Earl Gray, he notes with great vexation the two panhandlers have returned to his door. Setting the kettle onto his desk he rushes to the door where the beggars are sipping Java Hut coffees and the golden retriever is stretched across his front entrance.

“That’s it, I’m calling the police right now!” he yells.

Once again, the panhandlers slowly move on, smiling at each other. A pedestrian stops and observes the confrontation. He is a thin, gaunt man in a black suit, small black Homburg and dark rimmed glasses. Lowe sees him staring.

“What are you looking at? You’d get rid of them too if was your business.”

Lowe stares at the man, there is some recognition, something familiar about his face.

“Do I know you?” Lowe asks.

The man turns and walks away. Lowe watches as the beggars and the stranger fade into the pedestrian throng.

“Idiots,” he mutters as he returns to his store.

***

At six o’clock Lowe begins to close shop. He looks tired and depressed. It’s been a long day with only one sale, an 1895 English hardcover sold to a young husband for his wife’s birthday. Hardly enough to pay the rent. He picks up the newspaper lying atop his desk. Again he stares at the Iranian leader’s mad and unbelievable statements in the headlines, and then throws the paper into the garbage basket.

Locking the door Lowe looks up and down the street. He notices some skinheads have gathered in front of a business a few doors down….they are staring at him. As he glowers back their faces suddenly morph into hideous demons… skull faces….pig noses…hollowed eye sockets. For a second he is stunned, but then the faces return to normal just as City bus no. 52 pulls up.

Lowe quickly climbs aboard flashing his transit pass. The bus is full, one seat left across the aisle from the thin gaunt man in the black suit. He collapses into the seat with a deep sigh of fatigue.

Who is this man, where has he seen him before? The bus rolls on.

As the bus begins the express service along Granville Street, Lowe tries to relax. He is feeling so exhausted he just hallucinated for God’s sake! He must get a better sleep tonight. A glass of warm milk might to the trick. His eyes dart all over the bus observing passengers and the overhead ads. Food ads everywhere, no wonder everyone is fat! Medicine ads, is everybody sick? Lowe’s eyes stop suddenly at the plain white ad with large black letters:

ARBEIT IST DER WEG. WORK IS THE WAY.

What the hell? What kind of ad is that? He blinks hard, looks away and looks back at the ad. It says NEED A HOLIDAY? Lowe is confused, troubled at this second hallucination. He makes a mental note to call his doctor for a check-up. He grimaces at the knot in his stomach. The bus takes him home.

Lowe opens the door to his apartment, takes off his coat, prepares a pot of tea and turns on the television. He settles into his chair just as the evening weatherman begins his report.

“Another mixed bag today, cloudy with showers, ARBEIT IST DER WEG, clearing overnight with sunny periods tomorrow WORK IS THE WAY, we may hit ten degrees with a slight breeze.”

Lowe spills the hot tea all over his lap. He stares at the TV, incredulous at what he has just seen and heard. He grabs the remote and almost breaks it in half turning off the TV. He sits in his recliner for a good ten minutes staring at the blank screen. He looks over at the book shelf with family photos, stands up and reaches for the one with the fanciest frame, a young couple with a child.

“Mame, Tate, is it happening again?”

Lowe returns the photograph to the table. He looks into the mirror but does not see his reflection. Instead he sees living skeletons, men, women and children, death trains, gas chambers, swastikas, hellish images parading before his eyes. He begins to gently weep.

***

The next morning Lowe waits for the City Bus. His appearance is not as dapper as before. He slept poorly as seen by the dark circles under his eyes. His posture is that of a tired old man, shoulders forward, stooped, not the sharp businessman of before. No.52 arrives, he gets on. As he walks the aisle he peers at the overhead propaganda. To his great relief, all the ads are normal. He gets a window seat. Three stops later he sees the black suit man get on. He stares at the black suit man as he looks for a seat. Lowe quickly places his briefcase on the seat beside him as black suit man comes down the aisle.

“May I?”

“Of course,” Lowe replies. He wonders again if they have previously met.
There is something particularly familiar about his face, his features, that countenance. He has seen this visage before and it is not a good feeling.

The bus roars away and Lowe stares out the window at the passing scenery. Lowe has memorized every building, every intersection, every streetscape on his daily route. Coming up to Minto Crescent his heart flutters as he sees the giant billboard:

ARBEIT WIRD SIE BEFREIEN SETZEN…WORK WILL SET YOU FREE.

Good God! He is losing his mind. The bus blasts past the sign before Lowe can do a double take. He immediately stands and pulls the cord to exit at the next stop. He gets off and turns to see the black suit man has moved into the window seat and is staring directly at him. Black suit man mouths something to him. Lowe thinks he knows what he said but surely it couldn’t be.

***

Lowe walks the rest of the way to his shop. He lurches, almost zombie-like, his mind far away, his eyes blank, his stomach in his throat. As he approaches his business he is stopped in his tracks by the swastikas and anti-Semitic graffiti spray-painted all over the front of the store. And the panhandlers are back too, but they look different today. Their dreary, filthy street clothes have been replaced by crisp brown trousers and shirts and shiny boots. The friendly golden retriever is gone and a dangerous looking Rottweiler growls menacingly as Lowe rushes towards them.

“Did you do this? You did, didn’t you?” Lowe screams. “This is a hate crime, you’ll pay for this.”

“Calm down Mr. Lowe, or should I say Mr. Loewenstein? We were not involved with this; it was here when we arrived. I suspect the bald headed ones down the street may have had something to do with this last night.”

“What did you call me?” Lowe shrieks. “My name is Lowe, and don’t you forget it!”

“Oh don’t worry, we never forget,” replies the male.

As they turn to leave, the Rottweiler bares his fangs at Lowe. Lowe grabs the hankie out of his sport coat and attacks the graffiti, but with little success. He rushes into his shop and dials 911.

“Hello, yes I want to report a hate crime, my store has been vandalized and I am being harassed by vagrants.” He pauses and listens.

“No, I have not been physically harmed, they’ve left. Are the police coming?... Charles Lowe, 225 West Pender. Lowe’s Antiques, right, right.” Lowe slams the phone onto its cradle.

Lowe is incapacitated by his whirling emotions. Rage and fury mixing with fear and anxiety. He realizes he must calm himself or he will either have a stroke or heart attack. He plugs in the kettle for his trusted calming pot of tea. He turns on the small television on his desk.

“And now a word from our sponsor, Progressive Bank. Your FINAL SOLUTION is here.”

Lowe drops the china teapot and it smashes on the concrete floor. He whips his head towards the television.

“Your financial solution is here with Progressive Bank. Call us today.”

Lowe glares at the television, and then reaches for a large hard covered reference book on the shelf above his desk. He looks at the cover.

HOLOCAUST

It states in big black letters. He is staring at the photos on the cover when the phone rings. He picks it up.

“Police? No? Who’s calling? Progressive Bank?... Mr. Schmidt?... I know of no one by that name at the Bank… I was dealing with Mr. Smith, not Schmidt… What, my credit extension has been denied?... You want more collateral?... What is wrong with you people?... Perhaps you are not telling me everything. I can see what you are doing now!” Lowe cries out.

Once again he smashes the phone down. Lowe is sweating, he’s nearly hysterical. The kettle whistles as Lowe looks up to see the black suit man on the sidewalk staring into the store. He mouths “STERBEN SIE JUDE”. DIE JEW.

Lowe is now apoplectic. He grabs a silver candelabra and rushes to the front door but black suit man is gone. Lowe looks up and down the street but sees only the skinheads staring back at him, skinheads wearing Gestapo uniforms. One raises his arm and points at Lowe.

“Jude!” his demon head shrieks.

Lowe rushes back into the store and locks the door behind him. He runs behind his desk and collapses to the floor.

***

Evening has followed, its dark outside and quiet. Lowe has been in a stupor sitting on the floor for hours. The Nazi slogans run through his mind over and over again. Seen in every concentration camp, the slogans were simply another cruelty perpetrated on the Jews. Work is the way, work will set you free. And then you will be killed.

He rises with great difficulty and makes his way to the front of the store, peering out the window. It’s almost eleven PM; he must catch the last bus home. He quickly locks up as the No. 52 approaches. Lowe gets on, almost unrecognizable from his previous handsome appearance. He stands beside the Driver and peers down the length of the bus. No signs, no black suit man, no skinheads. He takes the first seat and sits down. Within minutes he’s asleep. Not a calming sleep, but a tormented one, with tortured souls standing helplessly by large ditches as stone faced soldiers aim their guns at them. As the rifles crack, Lowe suddenly awakes with a start, just in time for his stop.

Lowe shuffles to his apartment, enters the building and takes the elevator to his floor. As the elevator doors open and he exits, two uniformed Nazi officers are waiting for him. It’s the two panhandlers, now in full Stormtrooper regalia.

“Good evening Mr. Loewenstein. Did you have a comfortable ride home? How was work today? Sales good? Did you get your credit line extension?”

Each Nazi grabs Lowe by an arm and drags him to his apartment door. Lowe struggles without effect.

“What are you doing? My name is Charles Lowe, why are you doing this. Who are you?”

“Come now Mr. Loewenstein, please cooperate with us; we just want to ask you a few questions.”

The female Nazi reaches into Lowe’s pocket retrieving his keys and opens his door, pushing him into the hallway.

“Drop your trousers!” barks the male Nazi.

“What?” Lowe replies incredulously.

“Drop your pants!”

Lowe spits at the Nazi, who yanks him in a full nelson from behind as the female pulls down his pants.

“Circumsized,” says the female.

“Aha, just as we thought Mr. LOW-EN-STEIN,” the male sarcastically replies.

Lowe is released and attempts to pull up his pants.

The male Nazi pulls out a cloth badge and pushes it in front of Lowe’s face.

“You will wear this yellow star on all your clothing. This will identify you as a Jew wherever you go. Failure to wear the yellow star will result in severe sanctions. Now, where are the Vermeers?”

Lowe cannot believe what he is hearing.

“What are you talking about? What Vermeers?”

“We know your family had Vermeers and possibly a Picasso. Where are they? They must be secured for Der Furher’s collection.”

“Nazi Bastards!” Lowe blurts out.

He erupts in a fit of fury, flailing at the two Nazis. The stormtroopers push him away and Lowe falls back striking his head on the countertop edge. His world implodes in a sea of darkness.

He is unconscious.

***

Lowe is underwater, struggling to reach the surface. As he breaks through into the sunlight, Lowe’s eyes open and he realizes he is on the floor of his apartment, a throbbing pain in the back of his head. Sticky blood coats the hardwood as he drags himself to the hallway side-table where the telephone sits. He pulls the phone off the table and weakly punches 911. He wonders why his pants are down around his ankles, and drifts off into the warm sea again.

***

The ambulance rushes Lowe to the hospital. Paramedics work to get the oxygen mask on him and check his pulse. Lowe is laid out on the stretcher and slowly awakes. He looks up to see two uniformed SS guards, one of whom is trying to suffocate him, the other tying his hands.

“Whoa there partner, take it easy, you’ve had a fall and a nasty gash on your head. We’re on the way to St. Paul’s Hospital to get you checked out.”

Lowe squirms as his brain tries to separate reality from the hell he has lived through the last couple of days. He is rushed directly through Emergency and lies in a private cubicle. The ER doctor enters.

“Mr. Lowe do you have any family or friends we can contact to advise them of your situation?”

“No, I have no family here, no children,” Lowe replies.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I can’t remember anything but a face, a man’s face I’ve seen before.”

The doc stitches up Lowe’s laceration and determines there is no need for a hospital stay. He bandages Lowe’s head and calls the nurse for a wheelchair. Lowe sits at the Emergency entrance waiting for a cab to take him home.

“Good luck Mr. Lowe, you take care of yourself and watch out for those slippery floors,” says the Nurse.

She gets him into the taxi and gives the driver his home address. Lowe stares out the window as the driver speeds away. Lowe’s mind is far away when he notices the cabbie is not driving him home but heading downtown.

“This isn’t the way to my apartment. Where are you going?” Lowe asks.

The cabbie is wearing a baseball cap and takes it off to reveal a bald pate. He’s the skinhead who yelled ‘Jude’ at Lowe yesterday. Lowe cringes as the shaved one turns his gargoyle face around and exhales a stinking breath through yellowed teeth and blackened tongue, the stench of evil.

Lowe tries to get out of the cab but the doors are locked. The cab pulls up in front of Lowe’s Antiques. The cabbie races out and pulls Lowe from the back seat, dragging him into his shop. Lowe has no strength to fight the skinhead as he is dragged further into the store, away from the display windows.

The store has transformed somehow, not the aristocratic antique shop but rather a bare, ominous interrogation room. The Nazi twins are there and all the Gestapo skinheads too. They surround a wooden chair beneath a single stark overhead bulb. Lowe is thrown onto the cold wood.

He is bewildered, lost, having descended into a personal limbo from which there is no escape. From the darkness a figure emerges. The black suit man stands before Lowe. His civilian suit has been replaced by a Nazi death’s head military uniform.

“Hello Charles, may I call you by your first name? I am Lt. Col. Adolph Eichmann, Director of Section B4, Jewish Emigration Dept. Do you know why we have brought you here?”

Lowe is dumbstruck. It all comes together as he realizes who the black suit man really is. His confounded mind fights to survive.

“This is not happening!” Lowe blurts.

“Your parents Charles, Herschel and Rose, they are gold merchants are they not?”

“My parents are dead, murdered long ago by you Nazi butchers!”

Eichmann laughs. “No, No Charles. Your parents were sent on the train to Palestine for resettlement, to help other Jews, to teach them.”

Lowe interrupts. “You bastards! My parents were gassed at Auschwitz!”

“Come, come now Charles, what are you saying? Jews are not being gassed, they are working. We are helping to create a new Jewish homeland for you and millions of other Jews. ARBEIT IST DER WEG.”

Lowe and Eichmann lock eyes in a silent eternal stare.

“But now I need your help. I need to know where your parents kept their business records, their materials, their supplies, the gold and silver bullion, the diamonds and rare gemstones, and the paintings.”

Lowe tries to rise off the chair but is restrained by the Gestapo thugs.

“Eichmann, you are dead you Nazi dog! Mossad tracked you down and you swung by your neck!”

Eichmann ignores Lowe’s outburst.

“Charles, you must help me here. I personally knew your parents. They were goldsmiths to the most important and successful Jews in your community. As part of their relocation they agreed to donate to Der Furher all their assets. But we have been advised that they held back, hid the majority of their wealth. Only you can know where the safekeeping is.”

Lowe seethes. “You murdering pig, I know nothing and even if I did I would swallow my tongue before telling you!”

Eichmann backhands Lowe across the face. “Your attitude is regrettable Charles. We will have to persuade you to tell us what we need to know.”

Lowe is slumped on the chair, reeling from the blow.

“Charles, Dr. Josef Mengele is here. Dr. Mengele is a brilliant medical man whose experiments are advancing Der Fuhrer’s wonderful objectives.”

“Go to hell Eichmann!” Lowe spits.

“Where are the goods, Charles?”

“Has your wife slept with Hitler yet, or are you sleeping with him?”

“Restrain him.” orders Eichmann.

A skinhead Gestapo moves towards Lowe pushing a tray with a menacing array of medical tools, scalpels, probes, clamps and a couple of huge syringes. Dr. Mengele follows behind.

“We have done this experiment with children Charles, changing their brown eyes to blue. But I would like to see if it will work on adults. Do you wish to tell Herr Eichmann what he needs to know?”

Lowe screams and fights but is helpless against the muscular skinheads.

“Very well, Charles.”

Mengele takes a syringe and slowly plunges it directly into Lowe’s right eyeball. As the needle empties its contents Lowe’s eyeball turns purple and expands until it ruptures. Lowe screams again, his face a bloody pulpy mess.

“Just what I suspected. The adult eye requires a more concentrated solution. Hand me the smaller syringe.”

Mengele plunges the second needle into Lowe’s left eye which expands slightly and turns a deep blue, and then bursts like a ripe tomato.

“What a pity,” quips Mengele.

Lowe’s head flops forward as he slips into unconsciousness.

***

“Mr. Lowe, are you there? Are you OK?”

A group of people stand at the front of Lowe’s Antiques, trying to get the door open. Two JAVA HUT baristas, Rob and Melanie, with a couple of young guys with close shaven heads from ATHLETES ATTIC. They pry the door open and rush in to find Lowe on the floor at the back of the store.

As they rush up, they suddenly stop and retreat.

“Oh my God!” Melanie exclaims. “Look at him!”

Lowe is on his back, feet crossed at the ankles. His right hand grasps a large pair of bloodied scissors. His head is covered in blood, and both eyes have been mutilated, poked out. A large book, “Holocaust” lies on the floor beside him, and a shredded newspaper lies under his left arm.

***

The Police, Coroner and witnesses are gathered in front of Lowe’s Antiques. A detective interrogates the kids who found him.

“Did you know the victim?”

“Yeah, Mr. Lowe, this is his shop. He’s been here a long time. Usually he’s real friendly, but lately he’s been acting kind of strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he just wasn’t himself. Something must have been bothering him. It was as if somebody or something was out to get him. Like he was paranoid” says Melanie.

“Yeah, I saw him talking to himself on the street the other day. He was saying something about it happening all over again. He kept repeating it over and over. I don’t know what he meant by it,” says one of the ATHLETES ATTIC clerks.

Footsteps are heard as a smallish, thin, pale fellow in a dark suit and horn rimmed glasses and briefcase arrives on the scene.

“I’m looking for Charles Lowe. My name is Frank Smith from the Progressive Bank. I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Lowe about his bank loan. I’ve got some good news for him.”

THE END

====================================================


VARIETY SECTION


====================================================

PLUG AND COMPETITION

====================================================

This is the cover of Issue 19 of GOREZONE MAGAZINE, out next week at a newsagents near you. Well worth picking up a copy, the production team really go above and beyond the call of duty, and it shows in the quality of the product and the content.

We have a number of back issues to giveaway in addition to a rather special t-shirt.

The t-shirt as worn and signed by the star of Hammerhead: A Summer of the Massacre, MICHAEL BAUGHAN, during the GOREZONE FX Lab at the NEC.

As usual we'll go for a caption contest, just let us know what you think Demon is saying above.

Last month's contest, the prize of which is a Troma double bill feature goes to...

(drum roll please).........STEVE DEAN.

Well done that man

====================================================

THE INNO VIEW
Inno

====================================================

Tiny Terrors: Volume 1
Hadesgate Publications

Well, hello. It’s me, it’s me, it’s that… guy. OK, just ignore that and pretend I wrote something snappy, original and witty. YEAH! So, like the title says – it’s a book review – which I warn you now, I am usually terrible at, and I just know I’m going to do a disservice to one, or possibly all of the creators involved in this project, so I apologise in advance!

Tiny Terrors Volume One is the first (duh!) in an ambitious series of books by Hadesgate that sees them collecting together short stories from their roster of authors, and slotting them together in a pocket sized volume; a little book of horrors, if you will.

I can actually verify that it is pocket sized, as it lived in my pocket during a quick weekend trip to Dublin, and was exceedingly handy for those “quiet moments of solitude” that come along a lot if you drink vast amounts of Guinness, if you see what I’m saying… and that’s probably waaaay to much information, but never mind.

To the book itself! The book contains 5 stories, weighing in at just over 120 pages – to me, that’s great value and variety for under a fiver – already a plus point! Dealing with the stories in the order they are printed, the collection opens with “The Strange Disappearance of Liam Nichols".

The main thing that grabbed me about this story is the manner of presentation; the story is basically about a strange happening 35 years previous, but the narrative is in the present day, in the form of an interview. This style of telling the story, from one of the characters’ involved own point of view works really well for me; the writing flows very well, and at some points, you do forget that this isn’t a factual retelling of an actual event.

Suffice to say I won’t reveal any spoilers about this, or any of the tales enclosed, but the ending made perfect sense, and while coming as a sudden twist, didn’t feel bolted on as a quick scare, like some short stories can. For my money, while all of the writing in the book is exceedingly good, this is my personal favourite.

Still, no let up in quality for the second story, Patricia Snodgrass presents “Rock and Shoals”. Telling the tale of a reclusive woman and her struggle with The Nightwalker, this is a very short, sharp and sudden tale – very dark in its imagery and style. For that reason, the biggest compliment I can pay this is that it really wouldn’t have seemed out of place in a short story collection by Stephen King or Dean Koontz.

With “City of Reflections”, John Paul Catton has the shortest story in the book, but the length is no barrier to quality… I’ve used that line on many an occasion, but that’s another story. Catton’s tale starts out innocuously enough, reminding me slightly of Alan Moore’s “League of Extraordinary Gentlemen” graphic novels – but before the end of the story, everything is turned on its head by… well, that would be telling. It’s up to you to find out, but rest assured, it’s worth looking for. I certainly didn’t see it coming!

The inimitable Guy N. Smith provides the introduction for Rakie Kreg’s “Rust”. Rust is perhaps the most out and out “scary” story of the book for me – a welcome change of pace from the previous two stories. A simple tale (as the best stories usually are) excellently told, with some fantastic descriptive writing from Rakie. As with all the stories in this collection, the pacing is spot on, leaving you wanting more… again, as with all the best stories.

Guy N. Smith returns to introduce the final story of the book, “Lambkin” by CJ Lines. When a man from the city ventures into the countryside, you just know bad things are afoot… and Lambkin doesn’t disappoint. A strong way to close the book, “Lambkin” is gripping until the very bitter end. Strong writing, an unusual tale and a strong ending all combine to make sure this book goes out with a bang.

Allow me a moment to make mention of the illustrations in each story too. Usually, I find illustrations distracting – I like to build a picture in my mind of the action or the characters. This time, however, being a book of short stories, using smaller illustrations really helped get a feel for the stories – the sparse use of them and strong placing of them helped the stories flow, so for me – a good thing.

Now, looking back on this piece, I know I haven’t exactly gone into great detail about the stories themselves… and that’s the point. You owe it to yourself to pick up a copy of this book. I don’t care if you don’t know the authors or haven’t much (if anything) that they’ve done previously. I must confess, I hadn’t read anything by anyone involved with this book – but as a taster for their talents, the collection works perfectly. It’s enough to get draw you in and hopefully investigate their work further.

I think I must just go and do that now… enjoy the book. Just… not last thing at night… you never know what’s in the darkness…

====================================================

SPRING MEMORABILIA SHOW - NEC, BIRMINGHAM
Matron

====================================================

As often happens at Hadesgate, opportunities arise when least expected and true to form we grab 'em.

Our eternal thanks are sent to BRYN HAMMOND editor of GOREZONE for giving us a chance to present GARRY CHARLES to a wider audience, he was well received, so much so that he was immediately invited to the WINTER MEMORABILIA SHOW in November.

What is remarkable about this particular weekend is the fact that just eighteen months ago Garry was releasing his debut novel Heaven's Falling. From being a complete unknown September 2005 to a VIP guest at the NEC April 2007.

This achievement is spectacular and is a direct result of Garry's drive to succeed. This passion shows no sign of diminishing. As said previously Garry's diary is now full for the rest of this year and he has a whole host of new and varied projects to keep him busy.

I have a review of the weekend, or rather two of them, one each from Garry and Darrell Joyce, let's take a closer look and see just what they got up to........

Garry's review of NEC

I could make my review quick and easy and just say this...

"WHAT A F**KING WEEKEND!"

But, I know you lot so well and I'm sure you want a bit more than just one line of text.

I'll start with the bad points... one word... VIRGIN! Before you get excited I don’t mean a young lady with hymen intact. I mean the train service.

The train to Birmingham had been over booked and so Demon and myself spent the entire journey in a packed vestibule, right next to the sodding lavvy. We ended up playing ‘guess who’s just had a shit’ with our travelling companions (a young uni student from Dudley and a hilarious young man who’d actually paid £50 for a reserved seat). Anyway taking deep inhalations every time someone left the loo helped pass the time and pretty soon we’d arrived.

With our goodbyes said we braved our way into the NEC complex, that proved harder to negotiate than we had planned.

After wandering aimlessly for nigh on an hour we discovered the venue and was introduced to the organiser PHIL ALLEN. He gave us our ‘guest VIP’ passes and showed us to our table. Imagine my surprise when, after only expecting a dealers table,he led us to the purple carpeted area that would be home for celebs for the next two days.

Behind the table was a huge ‘GARRY CHARLES; AWARD WINNING AUTHOR’ poster. I (and this is a rarity) was left speechless. I mean not a f**king word speechless.

Whilst unpacking our boxes the man I owe so much arrived. “Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for BRYN HAMMOND!” (mad applause from the crowd). Bryn, chief editor of GOREZONE, was everything I expected and (as they say on Springer) a bag of chips. This guy f**king lives, breathes and sleeps horror. He buzzed around like the Duracell bunny on acid, pausing only to introduce me to GOREZONE writer MARK BENNETT another gent among men.

With our ‘Hello’s’ said we decided it was time to try and find the hotel. Now hotels are big things and, you’d think easy to locate. It’s all a f**king lie. The NEC is designed to swallow you alive and never let you leave. Trying to find the correct exit was like starring in THE CUBE. But Demon and I rose to the challenge and eventually saw the glowing lights of sanctuary.

‘NOVATEL’

The words were like a sign from the heavens in neon blue. One monorail ride later we were stood in the lobby and checking in.

DARRELL JOYCE joined us not long after. He was hobbling, cursing and his usual jolly self. He is a trooper. (He’ll tell you about his friends and the meal. I’ll stick to the rest).

THE EVENT

My trusty phone woke us up at 6.00am with an authentic barking dog. After a shave, a shit and a shower I was ready to go… go… GO!

And so started another 48 hours in the bandwagon that is my life.

I met plenty of would be fans and people who had already read HF1 & HF2 all of them were a pleasure to talk to.

ED TUDOR POLE is the politest man I have ever met and I hope to do so again over a pint. A funny man and my recommendation for the next Dr Who.

TONY ‘CANDYMAN’ TODD is a giant, his hands are bigger than my head. We talked more than once and I hope it grows into the friendship we talked about.

JONATHAN ‘CREEPER’ BRECK was very impressive. Again we spoke more than once and a friendship was struck.

BRYN is the ultimate salesman and anyone planning on ever sitting behind a dealers table should take his course ‘Don’t let ‘em leave until they buy.’ He is the God of the sales pitch.

The most shocking part of the whole weekend was supplied courtesy of the Powers Rangers. To be precise it was the Red Ranger. Tight spandex, no underpants and a cock like a python is not a match made in heaven. In fact it was so wrong on so many levels. The image will be ingrained on my mind forever and a constant source of night terrors.

One of the highlights was the stage area. The GOREZONE team once again came up trumps and provided an FX lab on both days. This was backed up with SIMON ROBB interviewing TONY TODD, JONATHAN BRECK and CAMDEN TOY.

If you love movies, be it horror, sci-fi, action or fantasy this is the event for you. I’ve been invited back for the November show and I hope you all can pop along and say hi.

I’ll finish where I started with that frigid tart known as Branson’s love child –VIRGIN!!!!
We arrived at the station nearly two hours early and I asked the teller which platform I needed to be on. She tapped away on her keyboard and then we had a totally ‘Computer says no’ moment. The journey Matron had booked three weeks earlier did not exist. She stamped the tickets free ride and told us to get on to the next train to Birmingham New Street and then play it by ear.
Due to my stunning ability to work under pressure I worked the situation to our favour and we arrived home two hours earlier than initially planned.
NO THANKS TO MR BRANSON!!!!!!

Matron was all over me as soon as we met, like a ferret up a trouser leg, she was. We hugged and we kissed and there may have been some inappropriate touching, but I forgive her.

Ok over to you, Mr Joyce

Greetings everyone,

As I’ve already said on the threads, I made it to the Memorabilia Weekend after all!

It very nearly didn’t happen. As you all know, I was injured in a fall a couple of weeks ago and have been on crutches ever since. Plus, I came down with a really bad bug a few days later, and still wasn’t feeling 100%. I was gutted about not being able to go to the event, as I’d been looking forward to it for ages (Matron had messaged me in advance, asking if I’d like to be there and saying that it would be good for Garry and Demon to have someone local with them). But I was resigned to having to stay at home, so much so that I posted in Garry’s thread on the subject to say that I was sorry I wouldn’t be able to make it.

Then I had a phone call from my good mate Dan Kershaw, asking what I was up to and whether I wanted to meet up. I explained about my bad ankle and he said he was happy to drive over and see me at the weekend, so we arranged for him to come round to my place on Saturday.

Then I started thinking. It occurred to me that, as Dan would be driving over to see me anyway, and was free on Friday as well as Saturday (he’d suggested Friday as a possible day to visit), I could always ask if he’d drive me to the NEC to meet with Garry and Demon. I rang him back and he very kindly agreed to be my chauffer for the weekend. It is entirely thanks to Dan that I made it to the event at all, and he deserves extreme kudos for going out of his way to get me there and back.

He turned up at my place with another mate of ours, Paul Hancox, and we set off at around 7.30 on the Friday evening.

We had a right game trying to find the Novotel hotel, which is where the Hadesgate-ers were staying. We actually drove to the far end of the complex and couldn’t see any sign of the place. We finally had to ask at another hotel for directions. Eventually, we found the place. My mobile rang just as we walked in - Garry, telling us to go to room 307. We went up in the lift.

Demon was waiting for us when the doors opened, although it took me a second or two to recognise him as he’d ditched his short spiky haircut in favour of a foppish boy band fringe that looked badly in need of cutting. We went to the room where Garry was waiting for us, and I made the introductions.

Garry was busy unpacking the books, ready to sell the following day. We knew we wouldn’t have our own stall (we were there as part of the 'Gorezone' team), so we didn’t have a range of Hadesgate books to sell. Instead, there was a large supply of copies of Garry’s new 'Hammerhead' novel - the story that some of the 'Gorezone' team will be filming soon - and 30 or so copies of 'Heaven’s Falling: Ascension.' Garry was hoping to sell most of the books so he and Demon wouldn’t have to lug too many back home with them. He very kindly gave me a signed copy of 'Hammerhead.'

We all went to a nearby pub for a drink and a meal, where Garry and I tried the mega stack-burgers – lovely, and very filling (they were also two for the price of one, which was a plus). Dan and Paul had to leave then, so they dropped us off at the hotel and went home.

The room was nice, and we couldn’t even hear the planes landing and taking off at the airport due to the clever soundproofing. We chatted for a while, watched TV, then Garry and Demon spent about three years trying to work out how to open the sofa bed out for me (it seemed to be designed like a Hellraiser-style puzzle box and took bloody ages to get our heads round), then we retired for the night.

I’m not a good sleeper at the best of times, and I never sleep well in hotels. I can’t have got much more than three hours’ sleep when Garry’s phone alarm (a barking dog) went off at 6.00 on Saturday morning. We showered, dressed, and made our way across the NEC complex to the hall.

This wasn’t as straightforward as it might sound. The Birmingham NEC and airport complex is a massive place, and it’s very easy to get lost. Garry and Demon had been to the hall the previous night, before I arrived, but we still took a few wrong turns before we found it. I also found it hard going, walking such a long distance on my crutches. I hadn’t walked so far since before my fall, and by the time we made it to the hall I was ready to go to sleep again. Luckily, I was able to rent a wheelchair for the duration of the event, which made things easier. It also gave young Demon the chance to mess about with the crutches, which he did at every opportunity. At one point, during a quiet spell, he took to doing strange body-popping manoeuvres that had to be seen to be believed.

As soon as we walked in, we found the 'Gorezone' stall and were very impressed with how it looked. There were two tables, one for their magazines and one for our books, and above the stand was a huge 'Gorezone' banner in large, eye-catching letters. We also saw that the event organisers had prepared a Garry Charles poster (even Garry hadn’t known about this in advance), using one of the photos from the black-and-white photo shoot he did a few months back. This wasn’t really surprising in view of what we’d seen elsewhere in the hall, though - all guest celebrities had posters for their stands.

As for the famous guests, there was a smattering of familiar faces - some up-and-coming stars (like Jennifer 'Hostel' Lim, who’s about two-and-a-half feet tall), and a number of people who were well-known in their day (a number of former top footballers, Danny John-Jules who played the Kat in 'Red Dwarf,' 80s singers Hazel O’Connor and Toyah Wilcox, and Ed Tudor-Pole from 'The Crystal Maze,' who made a point of coming over to say hello to Demon and myself). Val Lehman, who played ‘top dog’ Bea Smith in the old Aussie soap opera 'Prisoner: Cell Block H,' was at a stand directly in front of us.

The most famous horror personality I saw was Ingrid Pitt. Even though her stall was in our line of sight, over to our left, I didn’t recognise her until near the end of the first day. Tony 'Candyman' Todd was also there, and seemed to be one of the most popular celebs at the event. He came over and introduced himself to us all at the start of the day, saying he’d be happy to give interviews. He seemed like a really nice bloke, actually, a world away from the evil characters he often plays in his films.

I couldn’t help out much when it came to setting up our merchandise, so Garry and Demon put out the books while I arranged them in little groups on the table. Garry had his skeleton pen ready for when people asked him to sign copies of 'Hammerhead.'

The 'Gorezone' team were giving away free t-shirts and toys for the kids in an effort to drum up a bit of trade, and although business was a bit slow, they had a few people signing up for subscriptions and buying back issues. We shifted a few books when the place filled up, although not as many as we would have liked. Garry pointed out that events of this type are about networking as well as sales, though, and he took the opportunity of making one or two useful contacts. He got chatting to Jonathan Breck - the creeper in 'Jeepers Creepers' - who revealed that he has his own film production company.

It was great to encounter people who wanted to buy Garry’s books, and one or two of them were interesting to talk to (one guy was a magician whose stage act involves swallowing razors and apparently cutting his own throat to get them out again!). One or two people weren’t interesting in buying our books and just wanted to talk about the horror genre, which was to be expected in the circumstances. Garry took it all in his stride, and was happy to chat about horror, and his writing, to anyone who stopped at our table. He seemed popular with the visitors.

There was always plenty going on. In addition to the celebrity guests, there were all sorts of other attractions to amuse visitors. Near to our stand, the guy who’ll be playing Hammerhead in the 'Summer of the Massacre' film was chained to a large metal frame, made up to look like a zombie, and people queued up to have their picture taken with him. There were numerous sci-fi exhibits - one of the guests was a star of the original 'Planet of the Apes' - and Doctor Who-related stands (people could have their picture taken next to a mock Tardis). Former sports stars were signing autographs in one area, and some of the film and TV personalities appeared on stage at various points. Jedi knights, complete with light sabres, walked around having their picture taken with visitors, and troopers like those from the 'Alien' films led a huge black alien (well, OK, a guy in a rubber suit) round on a lead made of black chains, also getting stopped for pictures.

The coolest thing to happen all weekend was right near the beginning of the first day, when a female journalist and a cameraman appeared and asked if they could interview Garry. He walked round to the front of the table where they filmed him and asked a few questions, before panning the camera along our entire stall. I was actually sending Kitten a text message when they filmed me, telling her that some people from Zone Horror were interviewing Garry! I’ll be looking out for myself on TV for ages now.

Garry did another filmed interview later, with some people from a web site (www.andcream.com). They said they’d be posting the text and video at the beginning of May, so we’ll have to look out for that too.

Every so often, I wheeled myself round and had a look at what was on offer. The quality of the items for sale was variable. There were some good bargains to be had, but there was also a lot of very expensive merchandise (particularly the film memorabilia).

During one of my excursions round the hall, I noticed that the people on one stall had found a really good way of shifting their extortionately priced goods (autographed celebrity photos). A statuesque girl in a perilously low-cut t-shirt was on hand to give out the photos to anyone who wanted them. Samples were displayed in books on the table, but the pictures themselves were stored in a row of boxes underneath the table, meaning that the svelte young girl had to bend over to get them out (as it were). For some reason, there was always a long line of blokes queuing up to buy these stupidly priced pics….

The answer to your next questions is, yes I did - more than once!

(note to Hadesgate admin - get in touch with the nearest ‘statuesque blonde’ agency before FantasyCon)

Tearing my eyes away from the well-upholstered female, I had a look at the other goodies on offer, and managed to pick up 5 Hong Kong horror DVDs for £35 (maybe it was a sympathy vote when the seller saw that I was in a wheelchair), and 3 books - one on the history of splatter cinema, one about sexual taboos in the media, and one on mondo documentaries. £25 for the three, not bad at all (it was buy two, get one free).

Although business on our own stall wasn’t quite as brisk as we would have liked, Garry had to pass up at least one potential sale. At one point, Ed Tudor-Pole strolled over, and seemed interested in buying a copy of 'Hammerhead.' When he said it was for his 12-year-old son, though, Garry’s conscience got the better of him and he had to admit that it wasn’t ideal reading material for youngsters of that age!

Hadesgate’s very own Spikey Edjog turned up during the afternoon, buying a 'Hammerhead' and chatting to us all about the event and other things. I have to admit that I didn’t recognise him at first, as he looks nothing like his photos - in fact, the penny didn’t drop until I heard Garry ask him whether he wanted the book made out to Spikey or Andy.

Time passed slowly. It was a long day, partly because we’d had to get there way before the official opening time of 9.00 to set up our stall. Plus we had to hang around a long time after the official closing time to pack everything away and cover the table, ready to start trading again the following day. We stopped off at Subway for a sandwich before going back to the hotel. Luckily, the people at the NEC allowed me to take the wheelchair back to the hotel with me (it cost me £10 to rent it from them for the two days), so I didn’t have to hobble along on crutches for the return journey. Unfortunately, young Demon, who was pushing me along in the chair, kept threatening to push me into walls, a joke that was wearing a little thin by the fiftieth repetition (note to Demon - I’ll remember that, you little sh*t).

We arrived back in the hotel room in time to watch the first episode in the new series of 'Doctor Who.' Very soon, we were wishing we hadn’t bothered. We spent most of the programme’s running time taking the p*ss out of the stilted dialogue, inept scripting, uneven pace and unbelievably shoddy ‘special effects.’ Not long after it finished, Demon fell asleep. At my suggestion, Garry took a photo of him while he was dead to the world. Garry and I then chatted about all sorts of things, drinking strong coffee and smoking. Later, we all tried to get some sleep.

This was easier said than done. I’m a total insomniac, and Garry’s snoring didn’t help (sorry Garry, but it had to be said). I was lucky in some ways, though. Garry and Demon had to share a double bed, but I had the sofa bed to myself, so at least I had plenty of room. At one point, I realised just how tired I was when I started experiencing these strange hallucinations, blobs of colour floating across my field of vision and making it hard to think straight.

The start time for Sunday’s part of the event was 10.00, so we were able to lie in a bit longer the following morning. Garry was on the phone to Matron when I accidentally stood on my damaged ankle, treating him and Demon to a string of expletives. This happened a number of times in the course of the weekend, but walking long distances on the crutches was actually good for my injury. I had to put a certain amount of weight on the damaged ankle just to get around, and by the time I came home it felt a lot stronger.

One memorable incident occurred early in the day when I had to wait outside the disabled loo because it was engaged. When the door opened, two guys in 'Planet of the Apes' costumes walked out!

We changed our selling tactics on the second day, deciding to be a bit more active in dishing out our freebies (fliers drawn up especially for the event). Ray wheeled me over to the entrance where I passed out our fliers to people as they walked in, hoping they’d read them and visit us later to buy a book. As Demon was wheeling me down the aisle, I distinctly heard one guy use the phrase ‘f*cking spastic’ just as we passed him. Enraged, I was close to hobbling over and asking him to repeat what he’d said. Luckily, Demon calmed me down and we carried on with what we were meant to be doing.

Being a wheelchair-bound person at a crowded event was a real eye-opener for me. For example, I went out into the corridor to use the cash machine on Sunday morning, and my card got stuck in the slot. The machine started beeping, but I couldn’t work out which button to press because I couldn’t read the text on the screen from my position in the chair. I had to call a guy over to help me (good job he was honest).

Early on Sunday, Hadesgate stalwart Steve Dean turned up and stayed with us throughout the day. It was good to have an extra person there as we knew there’d always be someone to look after the stall if anyone else wanted to go and look around, make a food and drinks run, etc. Also, he was a great antidote to Demon’s annoying behaviour, and seemed to take great pleasure in winding the young chap up (which was good to see after all the time the youngster had spent messing about with those crutches).

Garry continued to network, talking to Tony Todd about a particular project, which I'm sure he'll announce in due course. I also spoke briefly to Mr Todd, making a complete idiot of myself in the process (stammering, not explaining myself properly - I even started wheeling myself away while he was still talking to me!). There were a number of famous people I would have liked to speak to, but I’d deliberately not done so, knowing I’d give a bad account of myself if I did. Tony Todd did accept a couple of copies of 'The Horror Express' from me, though, and I’d put my email address close to my signature, so I may hear from him at some point.

In many respects, the second day was similar to the first. Most of the same celebrities were there, and at some stages there actually seemed to be more visitors than there had been on the Saturday. Unfortunately, this didn’t translate into sales, and even with Demon and I doling out the fliers (and Garry giving out signed copies of the 'Heaven’s Falling' cover that the printers hadn’t used), we shifted even fewer books on the Sunday than we had the day before. When it was time to pack up, there were a lot of books left for Garry and Demon to put into boxes and take home.

Steve Dean went to drive back to Nottingham while Garry, Demon and I started to think about the journey home. There was a minor mishap when Garry found out that the return journey detailed on his tickets didn’t exist! Luckily, there was an alternative route with a bus leaving in fifteen minutes, so Demon put me on the monorail leading back to the hotel before going with Garry to get the bus.

Dan couldn’t come to collect me until after he’d finished work. He’d estimated that he’d be able to collect me at around 9.30, which left me with four hours to kill. I sat in the lobby of the Novotel for a while, until boredom got the better of me and I hobbled back into the complex to buy a sandwich, a drink and a DVD magazine. The time passed slowly, but I was glad of the chance to rest up for a while and not have to move around too much.

The only thing that spoiled it was the fact that the lobby music was the same r & b song, played over and over again. Even with the magazine to distract me, I was close to going insane by the time Dan appeared and drove me home. I was very much in need of sleep by the time I got back to my flat, but very glad I’d made it to the event.

Garry phoned me the following day to tell me that there’s a similar event, also at the NEC, in November. I’m looking forward to going. If anyone else from the Forums can make it, we’d love to see you there!

====================================================

POETRY CORNER
Catrina

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The Scarecrow

Out there in the field
A scarecrow stands
Dressed in rags
And made of straw
I watch it all the time
It fascinates me to watch
I’m sure I sometimes see it move
But it’s just my imagination
I like to watch it scare
I like to watch it there
Imagine if it was real
Imagine if it could move
One day I sat watching it
And the scarecrow moved its head
It looked right at me with buttoned eyes
And its straw swayed gently in the breeze
I couldn’t believe my eyes
My imagination was playing tricks again
It didn’t move again that day
So I went home very disappointed
The next day I sat and watched
Hoping for the scarecrow to move
I wished and wished but nothing happened
So I went home annoyed and sad
The same happened the day after
So I decided to go out at night
And watch to see what happened
That night I sat in front of him
The stars where shining bright
The moon was out and glowing
Making the scarecrow grey
I watched and I watched till midnight
When I swore I saw it move
I did see it move
Look its arms by its side
It was still after that
The arm must have come loose
Probably the nail came out
The weight of the arm pulling it free
But no, it moved again
This time it jumped off its perch
The scarecrow is stood in front of me
Shaking his head at me
It says that I shouldn’t wish to hard
As sometimes wishes come true
I felt a weird sensation then
As though something was running through my veins
I look down at myself and saw myself changing
Straw was growing out of my shirt sleeves
My clothes were turning to rags
I was being elevated somehow
Next thing I knew I was where the scarecrow once was
Looking down at a young boy watching me
I tried to move but couldn’t move an inch
Then it sank in, I had become that scarecrow
I tried to scream and shout
But of course I couldn’t do that
I was only now made of straw
I had no heart, nor no soul
How could this have happened to me?
I was only curious
I only wanted the scarecrow to move
Not the scarecrow to move into me!

====================================================

LOTS OF LAST WORDS
Steven Pirie

====================================================

INTERVIEW – STEVEN PIRIE
BY GARRY CHARLES

GC: I’m glad you agreed to this interview Steven, as everyone knows I admire your work tremendously and I feel kind of special to be able to ask you questions…
….cup of tea?
….custard crème?

SP: Thank you… (dunks furiously)… any Garibaldi?

GC: Try and keep the crumbs on your saucer. So where did it all start for you as a writer? Where and how did you acquire your unique and humorous style of fantasy/horror?

SP: Well, thank you for the ‘unique’ compliment. It started by accident, really. I had no great aspirations toward creative writing, but, in the heady days of the proto-Internet, some like-minded folks started telling me they enjoyed my writing and like a fool I believed them. So, over the years I taught myself the craft, writing only for me, for fun, for relaxation, until those damned friends popped up again and said, ‘Publish, why not?’ so I published and was bitten by the bug. As for my style, well that just seemed to come naturally. I’m generally a glass-half-full person, so I suppose my light-hearted style reflects that.

GC: If you give me a glass it ends up empty. I always find your character names endearing. Why do you use what many people would consider old-fashioned monikers?

SP: I think I was born too late. I secretly yearn for simpler times, when pigs were bobbies and thieves said sorry as they mugged you. Often my fiction is an odd blend of the modern day with times gone by. I like to push the ordinary as far as I can into the fantastical and, to a lesser extent, the horrific. It’s why my characters eat cornflakes and battle demons often at the same time. The names are a part of that, plus I’ve never liked the fantasy writer’s tendency to think exotic names full of apostrophes and odd consonant combinations leads to exotic characters. I call my characters Norman because Tc’HibvvaV’charrr is such a bugger to write.

GC: When you read a name like that, you just change it to Bob anyway.

SP: My point is made.

GC: From what I’ve seen of your likes and dislikes on the net, I was surprised to find that you didn’t have the snooty nature of some other authors, your tastes are quite diverse. What has been the most important book you’ve ever read? Which one made you think ‘WOW’ and stuck with you?

SP: I like to think in life I’m an easygoing person, so thank you for noticing. Yes, I love to read anything—it helps to read such diverse styles, both within and away from one’s genre, in fiction and non-fiction. In infant school, I had a teacher who loved to read Greek and Roman mythology to the class. He once read a book called ‘The Custer Wolf’ to us—it wasn’t genre, and even now I don’t really know what it was—and that introduced me at a very early age to the idea that a book can be a protracted tale, can take weeks to finish, can lose you in its world. I picked up an old, tattered copy of it up on ebay a few weeks back, and I’m going to find a lazy summer afternoon to reminisce. That, and I bet I was one of few seven-year-olds fluent in ancient mythology! As a humorist, of course I would also have to list the likes of Pratchett, Rankin, and Adams as influences. I tried to read the bible, but it’s too far-fetched even for a fantasy writer (grins). I love the small press. There’s often something raw about small press titles that the big houses edit out. Power to the small press, I say.

GC: Hear! Hear! You clearly love writing in most forms and you work avidly with the likes of ookami and Hadesgate, whilst still working on your own stuff. How do you schedule your writing and reading? How have you found the right balance for you?

SP: God, no. It’s all a bit frantic at times, as I guess it is for all of us, but I am a great believer that time (or rather its lacking) shouldn’t be an excuse to not write. I tend to write in bursts, because if I don’t then I feel my writing becomes a bit samey. It’s as if I need little breaks in projects just to recharge the prose and in particular the humour. I love reading but if I read for more than thirty minutes or so my eyes get tired. An age thing, I guess. It’s hard, because I joined BookCrossing and now people send me books and I feel obliged to read them and move them on at once. But no, I have no real schedule going, though perhaps I prefer to write early morning rather than late evening if I can.

GC: Time for one of my standard questions. Is there any question you’d love to be asked yet have never been asked?
And what would the answer be?

SP: Two (or more) dusky, willing maidens might pose an interesting question or two, and of course my answer would be… (coughs into palm). I’ve never been asked, ‘How did you get one that big?’ by a nun on a unicycle, despite my lurking regularly about the local convent with a big one and a unicycle under my arm. Possibly nuns don’t like home grown cactus plants, or have no sense of balance, or both, which is all a little surreal I suppose.

I should like to be asked: ‘What did it feel like when your novels became best sellers?’ Not because I’m a bread-head or anything, just because it would be nice to think I’d reached a wide audience. In answer I shall draw on my Cuban cigar (freshly rolled upon those willing, dusky maidens’ thighs) and say, ‘Simply divine, old thing, simply divine.’

GC: As you know, Digging Up Donald is my favourite book of all time. It was a fantastic reading experience. What was the writing experience like?

SP: Oh, wonderful. I wrote it in six months, physically, I mean, as it had percolated and bubbled for a lot longer before then. At times the writing soared and it was truly a pleasure to write. I don’t know whether everyone feels the same, but it seems to me when I write I’m also telling myself the story, so it’s akin to reading something that’s not actually there yet (if that makes sense). If I laugh at the humour myself as it comes out, I use the fact as a good sign that it’s stuff that’s working. That’s the hardest part, as by the time you’ve edited and edited, a joke that seemed fresh at the start can feel a little stale. If you write humour you must trust your first impressions.

GC: How does it compare to Burying Brian that you are currently working on?

SP: I was keen to keep the same tone for the two whilst at the same time making each work as stand alone as I could. The tone I feel is one of the plus points – it’s that illusive ‘voice’ we writers so often crave for—and it goes back to your earlier question of dating my work in the past somewhat. It begins with old women playing Bingo. It ends with Judgement Day. The trick is in finding the middle bit (laughs).

GC: Digging Up Donald was published by Immanion Press. How did this come about and what were they like to work with? The product really did your work proud.

SP: I was ready to shelve Donald and move on having approached a number of agents and publishers to no avail. I saw an article in ‘Writers’ News’ in which Immanion were asking for submissions. They were in their infancy so I guess I approached at the right time. It was edited by Storm Constantine herself, and she was a dream to work with—very knowledgeable and clearly skilled in the art of writing. It’s fair to say I nearly blew it early on—I’m a shy person in real life, though I think that doesn’t come across on the net, and the fear of success was very real. Fortunately Storm kicked my arse and the publication went through.

GC: What’s the latest news of the paperback version?

SP: I saw the proof version a few weeks back and it will go ahead in the near future, though I’ve no date yet. It will have new artwork, possibly by Vincent Chong if he agrees.

GC: You have written fantasy and horror and a touch of sci-fi. Which is your favourite? Do you have one that fits like a comfortable pair of slippers?

SP: I like Dark Fantasy, because in a way that most easily encompasses all the sub genres. I love the humour side, and even if I sit down to write ‘serious’ stuff my characters so often won’t behave. I blame their parents.

GC: You're stranded on an island with two other people. One is a portly chap with a great intellect and you have some amazing conversations.
The other is a plump, yet attractive young lady with nympho tendencies, but she's thick as f**k.
Who would you kill and eat and who would you keep as company?

SP: A loaded question if ever there was! The world needs more nymphomania, but the fat bloke gives a good argument, even if he is a little too opinionated about the coconuts at times. I think it fairest to eat both and invent an iPod.

GC: The question now that everybody has been waiting for. So many people are eager to meet you. Will you be attending this year’s BFS FCon in Nottingham?

SP: I need to get out more, so I guess so. As I said before, I’m a bit shy, and the thought of people ‘wanting to meet me’ is an odd one. It always amazes me whenever I mention to someone I’m a published novelist how big a deal they often think it is. And then I think maybe it is a bit special and I should be a bit more ‘pushy’ about it. So, yes, one thing I need to work on is in getting out there and promoting my writing in person more.

GC: Have you ever dabbled outside of genre fiction?

SP: I’ve written and published ‘literary fiction’ (whatever that is). I’ve been Pushcart nominated and listed as ‘memorable’ in Story South. I’ve written humour outside the genres, and published about a hundred or so ‘spoof news’ stories at various places around the web. I love creating those little ‘news’ flash pieces—they’re quick to do and get my juices flowing—though I’ve published them under various pseudonyms just to keep the libel lawyers at bay. And it’s not the sort of stuff I’d necessarily want on my c.v. (I once penned a ditty about television documentary makers bemoaning the Queen Mum’s longevity, and the next day… you’ve guessed it… I had visions of being carted off to the tower for putting the mockers on the old dear).

GC: And before I let you go, please explain your love of biscuits, especially the lowly custard crème.

SP: All life may be seen in a biscuit tin. There’s a definite social order amongst biscuits that any writer ignores at his peril. From the smooth-skinned, sweet custard creams that everyone wants to the gnarly old coconut crunch left over from the Christmas before, digging down into a box of Peak Frean Family Assorted is drama all the way. I live a simple life (grins).

Seriously, when you write about old women and cups of tea you have to have them point biscuits at each other. Knitting needles work too, but they’ll have your eye out if you’re not careful. ‘It was biscuits at ten paces.’ So begins Digging up Donald.

GC: Thank you Steven, this has been a pleasure.

SP: It’s been fun. Sorry about the soggy biscuit down the couch.

====================================================

AND SO CLOSES ANOTHER CHAPTER

====================================================

We'll I'm well and truly whacked. Demon leaves me in charge of one hell of a newsletter, talk about in at the deep end. Phew!

Hope you enjoyed that, and roll on the next 12 months. Does anyone have any predictions of what this might bring?

Thank you, as always to all our contributors and thank you to all our readers. I'll be sloping off to a dark room now for a very, very long time. But before I go, I'd like everyone to take a party bag with them on their way out and give a collective three cheers to Fran Friel for her stupendous achievement in being nominated for a Stoker award. HIP HIP......

Matron

Matron
HGF Newsletter Editor

====================================================

WITH THANKS TO THE CONTRIBUTORS FOR THIS ISSUE

====================================================

Demon || Garry Charles || Inno || Matron || Steven Pirie || Scarlet || Steve Dean || Darrell Joyce || Spikey Edjog || Catrina || Roy Nicholson



The fictional works featured remain the property of their respective owners. All other content is copyright Hadesgate Publications 2006.

Haven't read the newsletter yet, folks. Just wanted to say that I cringed when I saw that photo of myself (I look absolutely bloody ancient!).

Anyway....

*goes back to the top of the thread and starts to read*

Thread of the month, baby!

ALRIGHT!

And I apologise to any of the authors involved in Tiny Terrors for butchering that review

Wow, that's a biggie!
Needing some coffee and time for this one, looks awfully interesting though on my first glance.

Darrell - I don't look nuffink like my photo?
Garry said exactly the same thing.
Is that a good or a bad thing?

Maybe I should have begged the guys at the Gorezone FX Lab to make me up like Hammerhead and use that photo in future?

Oh my!!

I never expected to ge this award; I have nothing prepared! There are so many wonderful people I was up against, and it was just an honor to be counted among them!

First off, I'd like to thank Kitten. Without her saucy comments (and nomiation) I would have nothing to bounce off of! *throws kiss*

Next, the wonderful people at Hadesgate Forums! Matron and Demon, for making this all possible. And the members. I love you all! *more kisses thrown*

Oh, and I mustn't forget to thank Richard Hipson. If it weren't for him and the Insidious Reflections Forum, I never would have met Garry and never would have made it here.

And finally, I must thank Garry.

Oh, and my husband and kiddies, who put up with my ignoring them to waste time here--

*music plays from orchestra, drowning Scarlet out, as the pretty gowned woman drags her off, stage right -- and the crowd breathes a sigh of relief*

OK, I've read part of the newsletter now (I'll come back later for the stories and Catrina's poem).

To all at Hadesgate - congratulations on keeping the Forums going for a year! They're going from strength to strength, a great place to hang around with like-minded degenerates!

Garry - good to see your busy schedule of personal appearances for the remainder of 2007. I'll be sure to be at the November Memorabilia Weekend! I hope you sell millions of Hammerheads.

Young Demon - I had a look at the revamped Hadesgate site, and was very impressed with what I saw. Some of the wording on the home page might need to be tweaked a bit (I'll p.m. you with my suggestions about this), but the new links are intuitive and prominently placed, which is just what you want on a site of that type. The online shop is a particularly good addition.

I noticed that some of the links aren't up and running yet, but I imagine you're still working on that. All in all, the site looks a lot more professional than the previous versions. Excellent work!

Spikey Edjog - very informative bit of work for your 'In the Spotlight' feature, lots of things I didn't know about you before.

No, you don't look like your photo. But the only one I'd seen of you was the one where you'd PhotoShop-ed your eyes to give them a demonic red glow, so I'm glad you don't really look like that!

Scarlet - nice Oscars-style acceptance speech for your 'member of the month' award! It's well deserved, this place wouldn't be the same without you. Now kindly leave the stage.

The Gorezone team - fantastic effort with the mag, guys. It deserves to reach the widest possible readership. Everyone, get over to their site and buy a subscription.

Inno - terrific review of Tiny Terrors 1 (which reminded that I still haven't read my copy - the shame!). Thanks for not posting spoilers, too.

Your 'thread of the month' award was richly deserved, by the way. I know we all enjoyed that one.

Steven Pirie - lovely little interview with you and Garry. I especially liked your answer to his staple 'who would you kill on a desert island' question. Can't wait to read Burying Brian.

I hope Mrs Elms hasn't breathed her last. I'd love to read more from her in future newsletters.

Caption competition - can't think of what Demon might be saying, but maybe the zombie is looking at Demon's top and saying, "Are you this Stripey Edjog chap I've heard so much about?"

Great newsletter, guys - as usual.

In actual fact none of the in-site links are working, which is generally how it goes with a template. You're just getting the 'look' for it, so you often throw in obscure wording which will be corrected later, and forego the creation of every page until you're happy with what's infront of you. Hence, the links don't go anywhere just yet.

I can't wait to get stuck in with the online shop, it's about time we had one. We'll be using a piece of software called CubeCart, and the homepage for said software refers to it as 'easily customisable'. We shall see...

Wow guys, another whopper, I'm feeling so well-tended to over here. Excellent newletter, simply wondrous, angels are singing, I can hear them, its so pretty.....

Awesome stories, enjoyed Mr Steve Dean's madness as much as I ever do (which is LOTS!) and Scarlet, you have a strange mind lurking in your pretty head, and I thank god for that!

Nice acceptance speech babes, we love ya, stay on stage and get out that pole to dance around!

Demon - I have been telling Darrell off for mocking your new haircut, but now I've seen it, I may have to side with him. Lucky for you it doesn't detract from your adorableness one lil bit.

Oh, and I would love to comment on the new layout for HG, but my computer won't let the link through. *sob* Ah well, i'm sure I'll see it soon and be blown away by its briliance!

Catrina - great poem, you talented minx!!

Groovy Gorezone write ups and wkd pictures! Garry, you look completely darlin' - if I hadn't already seen the beauty that is Matron I'd suspect Demon gets his good looks from you.

All the bits about members were great, Mr Pirie, you're a funny guy! And Spikey, you must be an edjog coz you're so down to earth!

Bless you all! And goooo Hadesgate! Happy Birthday, you menace to society!!

To be fair, that's then WORST possible picture of me they could have used.

But it fits so well on my dartboard.

...

I've said too much.

Wow, great newsletter everyone, one of the best. And I won a prize! I've not won anything for years! Weeeee!

I may have a celebratory drink.

Make it an Ovalteen, Steve, for all our sakes!

Prize on the way this week.

Now that I'm at work, I had plenty of time to read the newsletter!

Brilliant, yet again.

Steve, I loved that your story was entirely dialogue!

Steve P., you make me laugh! Nice interview, Garry.

The only thing I haven't read is the Nicholson piece, which I'm going to get to over in the Feedback Forum.

Happy Birthday Hadesgate!!!!!