The Devil's Fauna

'The Devils's Fauna' has gone through Critters. Plenty of people looked at it and, with only one exception, it got the thumbs up. Plenty of useful comments. Nothing to prompt a major rewrite, just a few sentences to trim here and there, and some others to beef up, but like I said, nothing major. What has surprised me is that not one person out of the twenty or so that have read it said they identified what the creature -- the usurper -- revealed at the end of the story, actually is. Some seemed to think it was a kind of worm or alien thingy, or maybe a parasite, but no one recognised the description of a brown crustacean with a soft corkscrew body, pincers and pinkish legs as that of a hermit crab without its shell. I only mention this now because prior to submitting it to Critters, I fully expected opinion to be divided between those that saw it was a common hermit crab (these readers liking the story) and those that wouldn't twig what the usurper was (and thus not like the story). But, it appears no one recognised the animal and apart from one dissenting voice they liked it anyway. I needn't have worried. Just need to find a home for it now. Anyone know of a nice roomy whelk shell, currently unoccupied?

Thumbs intact

Underlay laid under successfully in about an hour and a half. The laminate flooring is taking . . . a little longer. I foresee a few gallons of midnight oil burning away here. If anyone tells you it's easy, that it's just click, click, click and it's done, hit 'em for me, will you? Better still, send 'em round here with a sharp saw and steel ruler.

Disappointed with a book I ordered from the US. I've waited months for it to arrive: James Barwick's 'The Kremlin Contract', as new with dustcover. I carefully removed it from the padded envelope to find it as new sans dustcover. Damn and bugger! Have sent a whinging email to the sellers, but don't hold out for much luck.

Blind cobbler's thumbs

In a few minutes, after typing up this, I am going to put some underlay down in preparation for the laminate flooring. The last time I did anything comparable was the carpet tiles in the conservatory, and that went okay as I was extremely careful. Careful because the time before that, laying tiles in the kitchen, the craft knife jumped out of my homemade guide and sliced across the top of my thumb. I lost about a half inch of thumbnail and very nearly the tip of my thumb with it. It bled and it throbbed. For days.

I'm going in. Wish me luck.

Only when I laugh

Chris Hall has emailed me from hospital. They supply the inmates -- sorry, patients -- with a bedside TV-cum-computer thingy. Typing on it is a pain, he says, but at least he has something to keep him occupied. On a more sinister note, he adds that it doesn't permit access to joke websites. Why is this one wonders: Is it because that many joke sites carry content of a dubious nature or that the Health Authority at Hull don't have a sense of humour? Or are they more concerned about patients busting their stitches and all those bits the surgeon has spent all morning rearranging dropping out?

Hmm.

If you're reading this, Chris, don't worry, mate. I'm sure you're in safe hands.

I'm Gandhi, and bloody proud of it.

Was looking at Jonathan Eyers's blog this morning, and he mentioned something called the political compass site. Now, I'm as apolitical as can be -- all politicians are inherently self-serving fat bastards, okay? -- but my interest was piqued enough to take the test. Result: Left-wing libertarian. It places me in exactly the spot on the sample graph as Mahatma Gandhi.

http://www.politicalcompass.org/

Have a go. But if you end up rubbing shoulders with Stalin, don't come crying to me.

I am about to embark on a healing of the rift between the north, south, east and west of this beautiful country of ours. Cockney will speak unto Geordie, Brummie unto Glaswegian and Cornishman unto Yorkshireman. Interpreters required. Shaved heads and outsized robes not essential, but preference will be given to applicants with own sandals.

I missed my calling.

Maybe I'm still being insecure, but . . .

A comment to a posting I made earlier this week (Maybe I'm insecure but . . .) has got me thinking.

While I agree with jeyers comments, I can't help measuring a story's worth by whether it finds a home in a mag or book. See, that sense of 'knowing a story is good by ones own standards' only goes so far. There's some stuff I wrote two or three years ago that I thought was brilliant. I look at it now and think 'ho-hum'. I'm sure all budding artists feel that. If not, it probably means they are stagnating.

It's only when an editor has waded through hundreds of submissions and plucked mine out as the one they were after -- and offers a payment, no matter how small -- that I can stop tinkering with that story and consider it finished.

But then, maybe it's just me: maybe I need the latent praise that comes with a story's acceptance for publication to keep me writing. I truly admire writers that do it purely for the joy of it -- and by that, I mean those who (despite being good) never submit their works, anywhere -- but I can't do that.

The axe has swung

10 redundancies were made at the factory, yesterday - 9 women and 1 bloke. Many of the women affected didn't seem too put out. I think they just came to work for a bit of pocket money or to get them out of the house. Rather them than me.

How long the company can limp along for remains to be seen, and it is limping now. Badly. So the axe has swung, and thankfully I wasn't underneath it ... this time.

Introducing Chris Hall

I've mentioned Chris Hall a few times on this blog -- he's the main guy in the BADASS HORROR project. I just came into thing as a sort of glorified proofreader and probably overstayed my welcome. Anyway, he's now got a tidy little blog he designed himself and the link is down there on the left. Go say hello, tell him I sent you and have a laugh at the picture.

Chris goes into hospital next Monday for an operation -- to sort out his ribcage as I understand it. He'll be out of action for a few weeks while he recuperates, and again next year when he goes back in to have a plate (or rod or something) removed. I wish him well.

Maybe I'm insecure, but . . .

I'm pleased to have sold another story. The money isn't anything to shout about -- it's not anything to whisper about either, come to that -- and it's not that I go weak at the knees when I see my name in print. Nope, the reason it pleases me, is that until a story gets that editorial thumbs-up, you've no real idea whether the story is good or not. It is a golden rule in writing: don't ask your friends and relatives for their opinions on your stories. Or rather, don't rely on their opinions. After all, what do they know?

Consider this: all those people you see making a complete twat of themselves at the Pop Idol or the X-Factor auditions are there because people have told them they're good. Friends and relatives who are, presumably, neither deaf nor cruel, have encouraged their nearest and dearest to go on national TV and completely humiliate themselves. What makes this writer different? Well, until he gets that editorial thumbs-up, not a great deal sadly. So that's why I'm glad to sell 'No Dogs Allowed'. Before yesterday, I only thought it was good; today, I know it's good.

Sugar sugar

The doctor tells me that my blood result revealed a slightly higher than desireable level of sugar in my blood. As there's no history of diabetes in my family, there's probably nothing to worry about, but I've got to take another blood test -- this time after fasting -- just to double-check. Does this mean no more doughnuts? Aargghh! Stay tuned.

On a more positive note, I heard today that a story I submitted to the TWISTED CAT TALES anthology has been accepted for publication. The anthology is coming out February next year, published by Coscom Entertainment. My story is called 'No Dogs Allowed'.

Mix-up

About 8 weeks ago I went to see my GP with a pig of a headache that wouldn't go away. I'd put up with it for about four days then decided to see my doc about it. I mentioned some other flu-like symptoms, such as uncontrollable shivering and aching joints, so he sent me for a blood test, to see if there was any underlying cause, especially as this was the second time this year I've suffered from it. I phoned the surgery about a week later: no results. Tried again after 10 days: no results. I thought 'Sod it'. I figured that if anything was wrong with me they'd call me.

They did, or rather they wrote to me. Would I make an appointment as soon as possible? I did. For today. Monday the 19th at 4.10pm. Went, only told that no, my appointment is for Tuesday the 20th. How I laughed, ho bloody ho . . . along with all the people in the waiting room, who really shouldn't be listening, should they?

So I've another day to wait to see what they found in my blood. What's the betting that when I get to see my GP he'll look at me and ask "Right then, Mr Stone, what can I do for you?" He will, I know he will. And I will be sorely tempted to smite him one upon the nose.

Mix-up

About 8 weeks ago I went to see my GP with a pig of a headache that wouldn't go away. I'd put up with it for about four days then decided to see my doc about it. I mentioned some other flu-like symptoms, such as uncontrollable shivering and aching joints, so he sent me for a blood test, to see if there was any underlying cause, especially as this was the second time this year I've suffered from it. I phoned the surgery about a week later: no results. Tried again after 10 days: no results. I thought 'Sod it'. I figured that if anything was wrong with me they'd call me.

They did, or rather they wrote to me. Would I make an appointment as soon as possible? I did. For today. Monday the 19th at 4.10pm. Went, only told that no, my appointment is for Tuesday the 20th. How I laughed, ho bloody ho . . . along with all the people in the waiting room, who really shouldn't be listening, should they?

So I've another day to wait to see what they found in my blood. What's the betting that when I get to see my GP he'll look at me and ask "Right then, Mr Stone, what can I do for you?" He will, I know he will. And I will be sorely tempted to smite him one upon the nose.

That's not how I'd do it.

I recall Garry Kilworth saying, either in an interview or in personal correspondence during my 'Spiral Words' days, that once you become a writer, your enjoyment of reading suffers for it. You're forever thinking "That's not how I would do it".

It's dead true. It was brought to mind this morning after I'd done a critique of a story in the Critters online workshop. I'd spent twenty minutes or so correcting any typos I came across and offering my opinions (for what they're worth) on this writer's story. When I'd clicked on 'send', I thought I'd check out his bio on the Critters website, and there found quite a long treatise on what this guy thought was good and bad about science fiction. He said he'd read Dick, Niven, Pohl, Cordwainer Smith, Clarke, Asimov et al, but found them lacking and, somehow, not quite right. So this is a wannabe with no publishing credits picking fault with the giants of the field. Join the club, bud.

In the past week I've read 'Earthlight' by Arthur C Clarke and 'Lord of the Flies' by Wlliam Golding. Clarke first: I found 'Earthlight' staid and boring. Clarke did some of his finest writing in the fifties and sixties, but this novel I felt was merely a short story with lots of padding. Impressive florid descriptions don't paint a picture on the inside of your eyelids. As for all that soul-gazing, give me a break! I found myself unable to engage with the moon dwellers' plight as Earth waged war with the Fderals, using the moon as a battleground. Now Golding: 'Lord of the Flies' is a terrible book. I don't care what anybody say, it's crap. Pointless dialogue punctuated by those infuriating long dashes, and an almost complete lack of dialogue tags had me tearing my hair out. I'm sure it's a terribly worthy story about civilisation breaking down, with each of the characters representing different aspects of society (oh, very clever) but the story sucks. Or at least the telling of it does. My version of 'Flies' would have complete sentences, far fewer dashes and dialogue tags. An injection of humour wouldn't go amiss and oh, less of those pretty but meaningless descriptions of the scenery too. As Jim Royle would say, 'Classic, my arse.'

The point is, though, I would probably have found the shortcomings (as I perceive them) quite forgiveable five years ago. But now, I expect everything I read to be far better than anything I could do myself, especially when it comes with the weight of Clarke's or Golding's name on the cover.

What shall I read next? I fancy a Pratchett. Now there's someone who amazes the hell out of me. He's got a pile of money bigger than St Paul's Cathedral (his words, not mine) so it's no longer cool to like him, but Pratchett has yet to be equalled in the field of humorous fantasy. I shouldn't think there are many writers shaking their heads and saying "Nah, I wouldn't have done it like that" and a lot more saying "I wish I could write like this!"

Rumours

Well, I got to work without mishap. Only another hundred-and-something days to go 'til light mornings come round again.

A lot of scuttlebut floating around on the factory. Everyone seems to have some inside knowledge, but it's all a crock of shit. Has to be. The only people that know what's in the pipeline are the ubermensch on the board and the boys and girls from the union, and they aren't going to share it with us. No way. We just have to sit tight and sigh deeply when the bullet hits the next man. Do I think I'm in the firing line? I'd say I'm feeling 50% pessimistic (or optimistic, depending on how you look at it).

Dark mornings

Today was probably the last day this year I will walk to work in daylight. There was just that hint of blue in the sky at 6am, and a pale white band on the eastern horizon to help me see by. Tomorrow it will be pitch black (to my eyes, at least), and stay that way for my morning walks to work until March next year. The thought kinda depresses me. Colliding with lampposts and telegraph poles, missing kerbs and stumbling into inconsiderately parked cars will be my lot for the next six months. I could get a taxi, I know, and it's not just the expense that puts me off. There is a stubborn streak in me that impels me to get to work under my own steam . . . even if the prospect of it causes butterflies in my stomach.

Maybe.

The firm I work for has announced that redundancies will have to be made in two weeks. As soon as I read the memo on the notice board, I thought That's me gone. I've always felt reasonably secure, but for the past twelve months it has become apparent that only four mouldmakers are required by the new stripped-down company I work for. And I'm the fifth mouldmaker. I've been there 22 years, which would work out at a settlement of about £6000. Not much is it? And as for reemployment elsewhere, it's going to be an uphill struggle finding someone to take me on when I tell them - and I will have to tell them - that I effectively have less than ten years of 'useful' vision.

So those butterflies in my stomach at the prospect of stumbling to work for the next six months may be premature.

The Motorcycle Diaries (part 3)

Directly opposite to my sindow at work is a petrol station, and despite the proprieters banging the price up to a quid a litre, there have ben queues all day long. Which makes a pedestrian like me feel quite smug. If everybody had a Honda C70 -- 2000 miles on an eggcup of petrol -- we wouldn't be in this mess.

I sold my Honda C70 after it let me down while taking my test. This was just spite really, or maybe impatience to get my leg over a proper bike. But either way I sold it and bought a Yamaha RS125. I bought it from new for £600, at a time when most 125s were in the region of £1200, mainly because it wasn't fashionable like the DT or RD models. Like those it was a single cylinder 2-stroke, but air-cooled whereas they were water-cooled. My only real memory of this bike is riding it home from the shop: it felt enormous. I really felt as though I had to stretch to reach the bars. The bike was pretty small really, the 'BIG' effect was down to me being accustomed to the even smaller Honda C70. It was a pretty reliable little bike, apart from an annoying tendency to refuse to start when hot -- probably due to fuel evaporation or something -- and it got me through my test. Although a full license meant I was no longer restricted to 125cc, I kept the little RS for my daily transport for another year before selling it.

The next bike was another Yamaha, and a complete pig!

Soft touch

I'm doing the dishes when the phone goes. Jill answers it. "Mike, it's a lady from the World Wildlife Fund."

Oh, bugger, they'd found me at last.

When I moved house eleven years ago I neglected to inform the various animal and environmental charities I donate to. The reason for this is I can't say no to someone on the phone. I could, on accasion, ignore the begging letters (and that's what they are, let's be blunt) and even return the raffle tickets unsold, but the phone calls . . . never could deal with them.

But I am older now, and wiser. I threw down my sponge and picked up the phone.

"Mr Stone?" She has a lovely cultured voice. "Can you spare me five minutes?"

No, I'm busy. "Yes," I say. "No problem." Damn. First blood to them.

The woman then launches into a five minute monlogue about the dangers facing the forests of Borneo. "The Orang Utan could become extinct in the wild within ten years, Mr Stone. We are determined not to let that happen."

"Quite rightly," I say.

"So would you like to make a contribution?"

Be strong. "No." Wow. I just said no. Way to go! "That is, not at present. I'm a little strapped for cash at the moment and . . ." This is perfectly true. The recent building work has wiped me out.

"That's okay, Mr Stone. Would you consider increasing your yearly membership fee?"

"By how much?" No, don't ask questions, just terminate the conversation.

"Well you are currently paying £24 a year."

"So if I was to add another . . ." I name the first figure that pops into my head. Jill raises her eyebrows at me. I shrug. I know I've crumbled.

I go on to make some agreement about the WWF using my taxes to increase any donations by a third, and probably agree to extra newsletters, catalogues and raffle tickets. I say probably because by this time my defeat is total. I'm saying yes to everything. I even hear myself giving them my email address.

"That's wonderful, Mr Stone. Can I say on behalf of the WWF how nuch your generosity is appreciated."

"You're very welcome."

"Would you mind if we contact you again by phone?"

"No, not at all. I look forward to it."

Just not cricket

The Ashes has, apparently, got the nation gripped. We are all tuning in to radios, glued to our TV or scanning newspapers for up-to-the minute reports on those sporting heroes in funny hats.

Are we balls. I don't get cricket. Never have done, and doubt I ever will. There's too much standing around. Yesterday I was reading how the visiting Aussies may be beaten by the weather. If they can't amass enough runs by the time rain or poor light stops play then that's it - England have won. I'm speechless. The sport (I don't actually consider it a sport, but for the sake of convenience will refer to it as such) has just dived even lower in my estimation. So it's not enough that most of the players just stand around looking on, only touching the ball if someone tosses it to them to pass to the bowler, who then spends twenty minutes polishing it and making his run up, chucks it at the batsman, who stops it and that's all the action over and done with for another twenty minutes . . . it's not enough that it's so tedious to watch, they all sod off home if it starts spitting and say "Oh, let's call that one a draw, shall we?" For God's sake!

All the radios at work are tuned in to the Ashes, which means my mp3 player has seen even more use than usual. Been listening mostly to the band Snow Patrol and an audio book by Barbara Vine called 'The Blood Doctor'. Never read one by the writer also known as Ruth Rendell, but I have to say I'm bowled over (groan) by how fully her characters are fleshed-out. Can't remember ever feeling that I know people as well as I do these in this novel. I will add Vine/Rendell to my reading list, I think. Or at least add her to my audio books-to-borrow-from-the-library list.

Spelings and sintax

At Dybbuk Press's behest, I have contacted the artist Dave Magitis, asking him if he can furnish us with some roughs for the BADASS HORROR cover. Browsing the guy's site, I came across this:

http://www.damagitis.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/epitamy.htm

Epitamy? Epitamy? Is that some kind of made up word or is it meant to be epitome? If it is supposed to be epitome (meaning a perfect example of) then this book's title has to be, well, the epitamy of badd speling. Look at the extract on the right of the screen for more examples of od spelings and sintax. Rest assured, this story will not be going in BADASS HORROR -- no matter how appropriate it may appear!

Reality check

A lovely sunrise this morning. It stretched all around the east to pinken the skies to the north and south as well.

At 6.10, just as I was about to leave for work, Heather came into the conservatory. I sat her on my knee and we shared the peace and quiet, talking in hushed tones. She told me she was going to hurry and get dressed so that she could get on with the painting and glueing she'd started the evening before. Then she was going have breakfast and watch some telly, cut out some shapes and make a collage. "Sounds lovely," I said. "I wish I could stay at home too." I set her down and opened the door. This was the dangerous bit. I saw her bottom lip trembling. "Don't cry," I said. "I'll be back in . . . nine hours!"

Oh dear.

Tears, tantrums, kicking and screaming. Rending of garments and carpet chewing. Jill came in and told me I was setting a bad example and pushed me out. Heather looked on, nonplussed by it all.

Okay, so that last bit's a lie, but never let the truth spoil a good story, that what I always say.

'Humankind cannot bear very much reality.' T.S. Eliot.

Which as good an excuse as any for me to go away now and write some lies (or fiction as it's more popularly called) and play some of that Half Life 2 mod I've been raving on about this past couple of days, MINERVA: Metastasis.

Oh, nearly forgot, I just sold the film rights to my first published short story 'Memory Bones'. Sam Raimi is coming round to the bungalow tonight to go over some of the finer points. S'true.

Message to Valve

Dear Makers of Half-Life (and all you HL modders as well - listen up!)

We don't all possess the keen eyes of a carrot-fed hawk on vitamin A supplements, so can we have less night-time levels please, or those dismal unlit interiors. And while you are about it, how about making that crosshair a bit bigger, or at least give us the option to make it bolder. Dreamcatcher did with 'Painkiller', and Croteam gave 'Serious Sam' a big bold cross to line up on all those pesky hostiles intent on world domination, so what makes you different, huh?

Yours sincerely, blah blah blah.

Half-Life 2 Heaven

I'm in Half-Life 2 heaven all over again. I got immersed in this game - and the revamped original, Half Life: Source - when I was off work with cataracts at the beginning of 2005 (I could see well enough to shoot the combines and headcrabs, but the driving sections were a bitch). I actually felt sad when I completed the games.

I bought it from Amazon, using a free £20 voucher I had. It came in a big tin box complete with tee shirt and booklet. I sold the box, tee shirt and book on eBay for £19. Sound, eh? But I kept the games. I just love shooting things, see. And hitting the dead bodies with a crowbar to watch the ragdoll physics in action is pretty cool, too.

There's a contradiction here. I used to cry at school if I saw a fight, while all the other kids would be forming a circle and chanting Scrap! Scrap! Scrap! I detest boxing or kick-boxing or any variation of those combative sports. I feel slightly panicky when I see violence in films and I've switched off the news more times than I care to remember, unable to stomach all those scenes of war, violence and tragedy.

But yesterday, when I found the mod called MINERVA: Metastais I installed it, booted it up, and within minutes was experiencing that familiar thrill that comes from sneaking up behind a guard and killing him with a single headshot.

And then pounding him with a crowbar, just to check he's dead.

Sunday morning . . . aah. Work tomorrow . . . booo!

Last day of the holiday. Back to work tomorrow, and that will be it til Christmas. Bleugh.

I haven't wallowed in any self-indulgent writing chatter for a while. Time to put things right. Work-in-progress, 'The Devil's Fauna', is in the queue at Critters. It's set in a similar world to a previous story of mine called 'Sacred Skin'. That story proved pretty successful, being published at bloodlust-uk.com and in the Cold Glass Pain anthology, edited by Chris Hall - and I was recently asked if it could be included in a 'Best of' anthology but I haven't heard anything of that since. Be nice if 'TDF' was as well received. We'll see.Once TDF has been critiqued, I shall put 'The Uinta Incident' through the same process. I wrote it early 2004 and, after it had been critiqued, I rewrote and submitted it to several pro markets. It got bounced back. But I did get some good advice from a couple of editors. TUI it seemed, was nearly a sale, but these two editors felt I hadn't explored the human consequences of the disaster that takes place at the end of the story. Expand it, they said. Tell us what happens next. It's taken me a long time, but I've finally figured what happens next. So now TUI is 5000 words compared to its former 3000, but has considerably more depth; albeit at the expense of much darker feel. Is it better? I'm sure all those lovely critters out there will be only to happy to tell me. And while I consider those two stories drafted, I have two more to complete. 'The Reconstruction of Kasper Schrodinger' (a satire on the cosmetic sugery industry) and an as yet untitled one about two guys recovering from their experiences in the Great War.

Unpublished tales languishing in submission hell are: 'Pretty Useless Says', 'No Dogs Allowed', 'Raising Archie', Sheep', The Emigrant', 'Four Minutes and Counting', 'Schrodinger's Bug' and 'Pig on a Motorcycle'. It would be nice if one of them found a home. I've also sent out 'Clob' as a possible reprint.

Getting a handle on things

I'm trying to - mentally - push the BASDASS anthology to one side. I'm over the diappointment of a couple of days ago and the whole experience has made me realise I'm getting too wrapped up in it. Chris has introduced me to a great artist http://www.damagitis.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/ who might be more to the taste of Dybbuk Press. I don't put this guy in the same league as Player, but some of his work inspires me. Also on the plus side I've just read two submissions from the reliable Messrs. Paul Finch and Ronald Damien Malfi. Chris will have the final say, but I enjoyed them immensely.

But enough of that.

The bedroom was fitted out yesterday. Wardrobes, bedside cabinets, chests of drawers, a plush dressing table for Jill and a wonderful computer workstation for me - all sliding platforms, ingenious cable tidys and cubby-holes. Everything tickety-boo, until I pulled off one of the handles a short while ago! £5k and they skimp on a friggin' screw long enough to hold a handle on properly!! The bedroom people will be getting a phone call.

PS D'you see what I did with the heading? 'Getting a handle on things'. Geddit? Getting a handle on things . . . Oh, please yerself!

Coming undone

What a rapid about-turn. The proposed publisher of the BADASS anthology hated Stephen Player's sketches. Or rather he saw them as unsuitable. His feeling is that we need an "action shot" on the cover. I told Stephen the news and he bowed out with the good grace I expected. He's a professional, and it's not like he was doing this for the money. The link in yesterday's entry, to the rough sketches he did for us, no longer work. I'm so disappointed not to be having a 'Player cover' when one seemed in the bag, I was tempted to pull out of the antho last night. But that would have been chucking my toys out of the pram and unfair to the writers counting on us to deliver their stories. Instead I waited 'til I'd calmed down and told the publisher that in my opinion we just made a huge mistake. Whereas we could have had a striking cover that looks a million bucks, we may well end up with something amateur-ish, like many small-press anthos have. I don't think Dybbuk Press really undertsand the direction of the antho. He's citing Hubert Selby Junior and 'Last Exit to Brooklyn' as possible influences for BADASS, and Chris and I are looking at more dark and pulpy, Frank Miller's 'Sin City', gangsters and crime, a supernatural or fantasy element a big bonus.

Also, partly due to the publisher, both Chris and I had the irksome tasks this morning of notifying writers that we were having to drop their stories. One of them was dropped because the antho has changed direction since her story was accepted at the beginning of 2005 - that's probably my fault - and the other writer's story has been dropped because the publisher had issues with it. Both took it with good grace. Which is more than I might have done if I'd been in their shoes. So we've gone from 8 stories last week to 5 this week.

Sketches? Works of art, mate

Stephen Player has delivered some sketches today, based on a few summaries of stories Chris and I hope to be presenting in the BADASS anthology. Take a look. http://playergallery.com/badass.html Click on the numbers at the bottom of the page.

Good, huh? My personal favourite is #1, the one with the book's title tattooed across the twins' arms. The stance, the slender junkie arms, the arrogance in their stares . . . somehow Steve has summed up BADASS perfectly. This image is a rough, according to Steve, but I'd be happy to use it as it stands. What will it look like fully-worked up? Head over to: http://www.playergallery.com/intro.html and have a guess. Bloody amazing, I reckon.