“Vasily Kosov is Dead” was published in Wilde Times

In the cramped and dirty hotel room, Vasily tried to get used to the sagging bed underneath him while Hart paced back and forth in front of the door.

“I don’t need a guard,” grumbled Vasily. His voice was slurred, his Russian accent more distinct now as he put less effort into speaking English and more into extending his last moments of life. He was an old man, but tenaciously grasped at fleeting life with straining lungs and heart.

“What happened back there?” asked Hart.

“We got careless. We made a mistake. We were outnumbered,” said Vasily. “Take your pick.”

“And when did you start using the hollow points?” asked Hart.

“When I realised that I couldn’t shoot worth a damn anymore,” Vasily chuckled to himself. “I didn’t think you would notice.”

“I noticed.”

Junior Doctor was published by Wilde Times

“I see you have locked the study door again. Is the boy to live on bread and water forever?”

“What would you suggest father?” asked Joshua, his eyes fixed on his plate, “That I take a hunting crop to his legs?”

Joshua’s father’s cruel eyes flashed as he skewered a quivering piece of fish from his plate.

“It worked on you,” he said darkly, popping the cold flesh into his mouth.

Why Snow Should Not Be Read was originally due to appear in David Haye’s new Masters of the Macabre anthology. When that publication was cancelled, it became the prose feature in Monkeys with Machineguns #2.

I did Peter and Jenny quicker. I was still Daddy after all, and they were good kids. They stood still when I told them to, even with Mummy crawling back from the stairwell, trailing red slush behind her. I think she might have tried to call out to them, but the patch of skull that I had stripped from her head must have been one of the parts that connected her jaw to her face; it hung down like a broken drawbridge, and she could only grunt and scream hoarsely as she hauled herself across the icy roof.

Timebomb Monologue was the second story that I contributed to the Monkeys with Machineguns Hammer of Time anthology.

“I see you have locked the study door again. Is the boy to live on bread and water forever?”

“What would you suggest father?” asked Joshua, his eyes fixed on his plate, “That I take a hunting crop to his legs?”

Joshua’s father’s cruel eyes flashed as he skewered a quivering piece of fish from his plate.

“It worked on you,” he said darkly, popping the cold flesh into his mouth.

Business Lunch was entered in the alt.fiction.original newsgroup’s February 2004 challenge.

Hello.

My name is Katie and I am nine years old. You don’t have a name yet because you are just my imaginary friend. I wish I had real friends, but you will have to do. I’m locked in a box at the moment you see, and I don’t think anyone else will fit in here with me.

I’ve been here for a few hours, I think. I’m not sure how I got to be in this box, although I am quite sure that I used to know. When I first woke up I was very scared, and very hungry. I felt like I had been asleep for a hundred years. Its very dark in here and I can’t really see very much. I found a piece of cake on the floor of my box as I moved around, I ate it, and since then I have been forgetting more things that I can remember.

I think I used to have real friends, and a family, but I can’t be certain. For all I know, I might always have lived in this box and that might be quite normal. Perhaps I banged my head, rolling around in my sleep, and now my brain is all wrong. I’ve heard that can happen, but I’m not sure where. I wish you could tell me what you think.

There are noises outside the box. Things bang, click, clank, and thud. I hear voices often, although mostly they are muffled and far away. Sometimes I box feels like it is being moved, as if there are things behind it that someone wants to get to. The voices say bad things then, and I try not to listen. I don’t think I am a nuisance, I am very quiet in my box and disturb no-one. Still, the voice says that I will be gone soon, and so I try not to worry. I am sure wherever I am going will be much more convenient for everyone.

Anyway, I wanted you to be here because I’ve heard one voice say that friends are coming to have tea with it. It’s a croaky voice, like an old lady who has swallowed a toad and can’t get it all the way down her throat. The voice is very excited, and it sings to itself amongst the rattles and clanks and hisses and bubbles somewhere outside my box. I don’t recognise the language that the songs are in.

Seeing as the voice was having friends around, I thought it was only fair that I did too. The voice doesn’t seem to want to ask me what I want to do. Another voice arrived just before you did. This one is a man’s voice, it rolls around outside the box like thunder. I think the croaky one said that another friend was coming as well. I hope their voice is not as loud as the new man’s voice. He frightens me a bit.

If you look up, you can see the odd shadow moving on the lid of the box. I suppose a little light must creep in between the cracks, though not enough to see by. I’ve searched for more cake, I think it is very rude to have nothing to offer your guest, but I am afraid that the box seems to be empty except for you and me.

I think the voices have food. If you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of plates being put down on top of the box. I wish I could see what they are eating. I can smell warm cakes, fresh from the oven. I don’t know how I know the smell, perhaps it is one of things that I haven’t forgotten yet, although I seem to have already forgotten how I know it. Things are very confusing in the box. Perhaps you can remember some things for me?

Of course you can’t because you are just imaginary. Perhaps I can imagine that you remember them, and that will help me to remember.

The voices are speaking again, can you hear what they are saying?

“Did you give it to him?” the croaky one says.

“Of course,” says the booming one. His voice is so loud, can you feel how it rattles the box?

“Did you get a fair price?”

“For a super-bowl touchdown? My dear, you know how important the stupidest things can be to them. There is only one price that is fair.”

“Been a while since I had a fresh, young soul. Most of the people I get in here trying to sell theirs have already worn them practically through, and I didn’t think the young ones still even believed nowadays.”

“I believe the young man had the benefit of a religious upbringing.”

They are laughing now. I don’t understand what’s so funny. Perhaps I can’t remember how jokes work.

There’s a tinkling noise far away, a tiny bell. Can you hear the footsteps? I think this is the third voice come for tea.

“Hello Miranda,” says the croaky one.

“Hello.”

The one who says “Hello” back has a soft voice. I like it much better than the others. I don’t dare to speak, but I hope my voice would sound like that one if I did. I can’t remember what my own voice sounds like. Is that quite normal do you think?

“Greetings.”

That’s the booming one. He sounds pleased to see this new one.

“Am I too late?”

“Not at all Miranda, we were just pouring the tea.”

“Nettle?”

“Blackberry.”

“Ooh splendid.”

“I got a bag of it from a warlock, traded those old cat skins that I’ve had laying around for ages.”

“What on earth did he want those for?”

“I don’t think he was going to use them on Earth dear.”

“Ah, I see. Do you think you should have sold them to him then?”

“Oh I don’t see the harm. After all, how many warlocks do you know who come back from that trip?”

“Warlocks? Oh,well … none!”

Can you hear them all laughing again? I don’t understand what they are talking about, but if it is making the booming one laugh then I just know that it is something bad. I’m sorry I made you come here, because I don’t think this is a good place anymore.

The croaky one is asking questions now.

“How’s business your end?”

“Oh you know, Valentine’s coming up, so I’m getting lots of new people through the door looking for advice.”

“Ah, love spells.”

“Actually, Cupid seems to be more into curses than charms this year. I’m advising young lovers not to make any long-term plans.”

“Very wise, very wise.”

Are you still there? It’s gotten darker in here, I don’t know how because it was so dark before, but it is definitely darker now. I think the booming one is standing up now; I feel cold, as if something is blocking out wherever my warmth was coming from. Don’t ask me how I know, but his shadow has fallen me and my little box. Can you feel it? Tell me, please, that you can feel it.

The plates are moving again. They don’t seem to have had them there long enough to eat very much at all. Perhaps they were just having afternoon tea, a drink and a slice of cake before doing whatever it is that they do in the afternoon. The shadows that were where the plates were aren’t disappearing, even though I am sure the plates are being taken away. I can hear them clattering into a sink, and the sound of running water. What is it that you do with plates when they are dirty?

“Shall we open it up then?”

The booming one is speaking, and he sounds much closer now. I thought he was just outside the box before, but now he sounds so much closer and louder, as if there was something more than just the walls of the box between him and me before. Now I know for certain that there is only the lid of this box between me and booming man. I am very afraid, and wish I hadn’t brought you here, even though it will be nice to have someone with me when I meet him. Would you hold my hand?

We’ll have to close our eyes soon, because I hear them opening the the box, and it’s sure to be bright outside. I think it is nailed shut, they are using something long and metal that pokes in underneath the lid as they try and prise it open.

“Lid’s on tight,” says the croaky one. “She’s a little bigger than usual, a real find.”

“Excellent,” says the booming one.

“What fun.”

Keep your eyes closed. Keep your eyes closed. I can feel the light coming in, it’s so bright, it’s making my eyelids burn. Keep your eyes closed, hold my hand. I’m sorry I never had time to name you. I think I probably would have forgotten your name anyway, because I can’t really remember anything now.

My name is Katie, and I am nine years old, but when I look into the big black eyes of the booming man I can see my reflection and I look a lot older. His face is bright red, and his mouth is full of jagged yellow teeth. He has long, pointed ears that twitch when I open my mouth to speak, and a tongue that pokes out at me when he realises I can’t think of anything to say.

“Hello Katie.” says the booming man.

I’m going to let go of your hand now, because I don’t want him to know that you are here.

“How old is she?”

I can’t turn around to see what the honey-voiced one looks like. I can’t take my eyes off the booming man, and the naked girl staring back at me from inside his giant black eyes.

“Her driver’s license says she’s eighteen this month. I caught her trying to steal a book this morning.” It is the croaking one that replies. She is behind me as well, just a shadow looming in the eyes of the booming man.

“Another one of your familiars?” asks honey-voice.

“Oh no, not one of mine. I’ve seen her around, but no potential to speak of. She didn’t even know not to eat the memnos-cake I left in there with her.”

“Ah, I was wondering how you’d kept her so quiet.”

“And so afraid,” adds the booming man with a smile that looks like a row of gravestones. “There’s nothing less palatable than defiant meat.”

“I’d say she’s lost almost ten years in there,” says the crone. There’s pride in her voice.

“If only there was something like that for our old frames, eh Gerta?”

The crone and honey-voice laugh together.

“This one looks good enough to eat though,” says the booming man.

“Our thoughts exactly,” coo the others.

And then they all laugh together. I think I know why.

Day Three was published by Eternal Night

“I’m not sure why I’ve started this diary today. I found the notebook and the pens a few nights ago while I was hunting through the kitchens for food. I’m not even sure why I took them, as I’m trying not to carry anything more than essentials with me from day to day now. I guess I just want to leave something behind when I’m gone and I’m sure that that time isn’t too far away. I want to record what’s happened to me, to the others, so that anyone who finds this will know to get off this island as quickly as they can and never come back. Maybe I just need to talk to someone, even if it myself, to drown out the noise of the drums.”

Acquired Tastes was published in 2004 by Another Realm

The princess dropped her bedding slightly, revealing the top of the intricate lace-work of a bodice. “And being all alone for so much of the time, just thinking and dreaming,” she said, her voice husky now and audibly dripping with intent, “One has the opportunity to acquire some most remarkable tastes.”

“A bodice?” said the thief with a smile. “How positively medieval. “It is the twenty first century you know.” Dropping his sack to the floor, he advanced on the bed, pulling his knife from it’s sheath.

“You won’t need that,” said the princess. “I won’t scream.”

“If you scream,” said the thief, slipping his knife away, “Rest assured that I won’t need it.”

9,000,000 Different Senses was published in Night2Dawn issue 5. This was the final issue of Night2Dawn, and can only be purchased directly from the publisher.

Do you ever get that feeling that you are not in your body? Do you ever get that feeling that your body isn’t you, that it’s just this bag of flesh and fat and bone that you are somehow trapped inside, looking out? I used to feel that way all the time; the strange detachment from what was happening all around me, the effortless disconnection from the world. Up until a few months ago I’d lived my life like a receiver hanging off a phone, just drifting back and forth with that buzzing tone coming and going in my head. A corpse hanging from a noose made of spiralling plastic cord. Effortless disconnection.

That’s all stopped now. I’ve found a new way to live.

The Longest Day was written for the alt.fiction.original newsgroup, just to prove that I can do funny (sometimes) as well as scary …

Judgement day was full of surprises.

Firstly, there was the moon of blood. Only the astrologers cared at first, until Coca-Cola found a way to trace their corporate logo across the scarlet disk with a high powered white laser light.

Then the sky went black, leaving the entire world under the dull red light of the blood moon. Photographers were mildly encouraged that the afterlife might resemble a dark room, and torch manufacturers recorded record sales.

The police predicted a massive increase in crime in this world that looked like a perpetual sunset, and were prepared for riots and looting. Thankfully, something to do with the presence of the all-mighty and the imminent judgement of all souls, kept people mostly at home. The only places that were busier than normal were the churches, which found themselves packed to the rafters with sudden converts, and the tanning parlours that saw increased traffic after a popular fashion magazine reported that the red moonlight made some celebrities look pasty.

Some people questioned the notion of a judgement “day” in the following weeks, when it appeared that the all-mighty may have slipped on his delivery date for this one. The church’s official response was that a day is measured from sunrise to sunset and since the sun had failed to rise, there had not been a new day in five weeks.

Just as life was returning to a semblance of normality, the dead began to rise from their graves. Or at least they tried to, but the very practical burying of the dead six feet down did serve as some impediment to the tired and frankly unfit and under-exercised corpses who now found themselves boxed and sunk with not so much as a trowel or small pickaxe. In countries where cremation was preferred to burying there were no such problems, although roving and strangely mischievous dust storms were reported in several cities.

Most of the dead were quickly rescued from their underground internment, although comments were made in several quarters about the lack of forethought in burying people one on top of the other. With no known date for the end of judgement “day”, several companies began offering “casket management systems” that claimed to remove multiple caskets simultaneously from a single grave and arrange them vertically for easy access. There was little call for these however, as most the industrious undertakers, having discovered that there was now no death, had reinvented themselves as “loved one retrieval specialists”.

The dead who were trapped underneath patios or in the foundations of buildings were more difficult to get at, and it was these that the undertakers found to be the most lucrative jobs. The police were initially keen to track the retrieval of these concealed corpses, but lawyers were quick to point out that since the dead had risen from the graves, all current or potential convictions for murder should be null and void. Thus, with no new criminals to defend, the lawyers found a burgeoning market in getting the old criminals they had failed to keep out of prison in the first place back out of prison on a growing list of judgement-day technicalities.

Several weeks into the dead-raising, the first practical problem of having dead people back among the living arose. It had long been a stated fact amongst environmentalists and people of low social tolerance that the planet was overcrowded. When the sodden earth disgorged its population, most people became strangely inclined to agree. Whereas many of the recent dead had relatives who were happy to put them up in cupboards, or underneath the sink, there were many that did not having any living relatives. Entire families, colloquially referred to as being “at the end of the line”, found themselves with nowhere to go.

Thankfully, the inventors of the “casket management systems” were quick to pounce on this problem, and quickly converted the now defunct machinery for getting caskets out of the ground into machinery for putting them back in, and then out again, ad infinitum. Thus, as the living built their buildings taller and taller to cope with their growing population, the dead found themselves digging deeper and deeper until their subterranean refuges had grown large enough to accommodate their considerable numbers. Thankfully, with no death, the difficult matter of people moving from the world of the living to the world of the dead was not encountered.

Automation of the underground facilities was increased until it was possible for a corpse to be popped from its casket and whizzed to ground level in a matter of minutes at the touch of a button.

Time moved on, as it had a tendency to do despite the conviction of the church, and the dead and the living found themselves cohabiting with surprisingly few problems in the early months of judgement day.

Problems did occur however, when the dead started to get a bit bored and began to think about getting themselves jobs. Through yet another legal loophole, it was discovered that the dead did not have to pay any form of taxes, making them ideal employees for anyone who wanted to pay a wage as low as possible for work that no one in their right mind would want to do. Although most of the living where uninterested in this; the teenagers who discovered themselves discharged from their jobs stacking shelves, serving burgers, or collecting glasses in pubs were greatly disgruntled. This disgruntlement was exacerbated by the fact that, as time passed, it became clear that they were not aging and were destined to be trapped in the form of hormonally raging unemployable pubescent psychotics for the rest of eternity.

Or at least until the end of the day.

And so it came to pass that “Peter Pan’s Law” was drafted by the international court. Australia was nominated as the continent of the teenager and all people over the age of eighteen or younger than twelve were required to relocate to another continent, an evacuation that was completely remarkably swiftly once everyone was told that an uncountable legion of teens were about to arrive.

Country by country, the nations of the world rounded up their children and transported them to Australia where they were placed in the careful care of the “Oz-Rangers”. Not only did the Oz-Rangers provide a much needed security service, but also solved the problem of what to do with all the criminals previously housed in prisons who now, like the dead, had nowhere to go.

Naturally, the church initially objected to the treatment of the world’s sons and daughters in this way, until it was pointed out that perhaps God would be able to deliver the rest of judgement-day more expediently if the living organised themselves by size.

There are almost as many blogging tools out there as there are bloggers. In addition to closed source vendors such as Movable Type and Blogger, big players are entering the field, including Microsoft with its MSN Spaces offering and the lesser-known .Text ASP.net toolkit. But even among both these, and the vast array of open source blogging tools, Wordpress rises above the others for being open source as it should be done.

Read the complete article at http://www.linux.com/articles/43358