Supa Princesses and a Much-Needed Multi Pass

Supanova was fun, as per usual. Sure it's crowded, and sure you get to queue a few times, but the atmosphere is always incredibly genial and everyone is there to have a good time. I also like that the attendees are of all age groups, with your tiniest tots (there were two cute sisters dressed up as unicorns, and a couple of small Captain Americas with diminutive shields) mingling with happy groups of young gamers and manga fans made up as their favourite characters, right through to veteran oldies. Comics, artwork, books, movies, games, modelling - all aspects of the scene are covered, and it's a place where those just starting out can sell their wares alongside established artists.

And always, there's a parade of costumes to admire, everything from your Wookies to your Doctors, Mulders, Scullies, Leias, Solos, Vikings, robots of different persuasions, samurai, zombies and zombie hunters, one dragon, many unidentifiable (to me) gamer characters, and much Game of Thrones finery, which enthralled many of the small girls present. One particular knee-high admirer just stood in the busy exhibition hall staring up at four female Throners with an air of disbelief, a huge, blissful smile on her face while her dad looked on, and everyone politely moved around the group and made room for her moment. Every year the cavalcade changes. There didn't seem to be any steampunk costumes  this year, no Daleks or Weeping Angels, there was nary a Star Trek officer to be seen, likewise Resident Evil soldiers and girls wearing fluffy cat ears.

But there were princesses. Disney royalty and the aforementioned Game of Thrones ladies were definite hit this year, though some carried it off better than others. At one point, a pink clad figure came schlepping by, her posture stooped, bags hanging criss-cross over her outfit, and she was rather indecorously downing junk food. I felt she was letting the side down. But the others all seemed to keep their princess personas going no matter what, regularly but discretely touched up their make-up and kept an eye on their hair, and were exceedingly gracious to all the little girls (usually in pink dresses themselves) who ran up to them for a close gander, arranging their big dresses and posing with the star struck kiddies for photos.

I bought a few things, of course, including the obligatory, geeky T-shirt (actually, I got three) and a Leeloo Dallas multi pass to  hang on the odds and sods board over my writing desk. It's a bit of a running family joke, and makes me smile when I see it.

We also attended a talk with Gary Lockwood and Keir Dullea from 2001: A Space Odyssey, and heard all about the brilliance of Stanley Kubrick, Arthur C Clarke anecdotes, amusing and serious information about the making of the film, the public reaction afterwards, and much trivia about Hollywood in the 60s. There were plenty of other guests, the stars of shows from the olden days as well as the latest productions, but after a second whizz around the grounds, we called it a day.

Because it's Time to Buy that Annual T-Shirt with a Geeky Message Which I'll Probably Only Wear Whilst Writing.

Plus, this is a family thing. We do it each year.

So, to bed, to bed ASAP, for I'm off to Supanova early in the morning.

I'd better pop the tickets in my bag. Wouldn't want to be halfway to Melbourne and realise I'd forgotten them.

See you there, maybe. There's usually an awful lot of people.  

There Went That Sunday

After a morning of reading, I've just spent almost 4 hours finishing up a story for the funny anthology and sending it. I keep trying to get into this antho (this is my second sub for this round). I've almost made it a couple of times, but never quite. It's a bone I won't let go of, unfortunately. A challenge I want to conquer, I suppose you could also call it. Possibly a waste of a Sunday, you might also insinuate, or a delusion I won't get real about (Funny! Hah!) The upshot of this writing frenzy is that I haven't done a single domestic thing around the house, and must now get a move on to fit in a few mundane practicalities before the sun goes down.

Still, I had fun :) Even if the funny folk at the funny antho don't think it's funny...

And in a feel-good addendum, exactly just as I hit send, an email came in about a horror story that might be published if I'm amendable to minor edits - but it's still just a great big MIGHT. Anyway, I'm grinning because the first of the three comments from an editor reads: An elegant and technically precise story; excellent core concept and well maintained rhythm throughout.

Nice. I love a little praise on a Sunday. Or anytime :) See, I put in another smiley face. It's that kind of a day. I'm a bit high on writing, me thinks.

Now, where's my vacuum cleaner? I know it should be in the house somewhere...

***18.40 update. There, housework time wasn't a complete bust. Whilst ironing, I came up with a vague idea for a dieselpunk story, the name of the main character, and a first line that pleases me immensely. Now for the rest of it. I'll play with it tomorrow on the train. It's going to be a nasty one...

Have A Happy, Horsey Halloween

You can read more about the stupendous, seasonal painting of this very sweet, pretty, and obviously supernaturally patient pony appropriately called Raven over at the site of the person who actually did all the hard artwork rather than just, like yours truly, lazily pinching her cool photos because I simply cannot resist the opportunity to post a demon horse on this All Hallows' Eve:

https://www.facebook.com/notes/knot-just-rope/learn-more-about-knot-just-ropes-skeleton-horse/10152302769845760

Doesn't the sight of this skeleton horse make you want to throw a saddle on it, put a voluminous, black cape around your own shoulders, mount up and go galloping though a dark and stormy night whilst laughing maniacally?

And imagine if some little kid happened to look out the window...

The Mist: The Ride

My sister and I went horse riding in Daylesford today, and I managed to stay in the saddle for both the morning and afternoon rides, which isn't bad given it's been 5 months since my last equine outing, and even before that, my track record was reluctantly sporadic due the past 18 months worth of hospital crap. It wasn't a hard all-dayer. Both times, it was just the two of us so we could set the pace according to what I was up for, which was not a lot compared with my derring-do of yore, but any attempt to move faster than a trot was also seriously thwarted by the weather.

The morning was wet and hazy enough - the rolling hills remained obscured by fog for the whole ride - but my sister and I crossed fingers that it would clear up by the afternoon.

Alas, it was not to be, not by a long shot.

When we headed out again after lunch, the mist was thicker and more saturated, and it grew increasingly more so until we were moving through a drizzly, surreal, Stephen King-created, vapour-shrouded landscape of limited vision, stands of spooky, leafless trees vaguely outlined by the white stuff, sky and air and land and lakes merging with each other into dreamlike scenes, and an intense silence broken only by the sounds of horse hooves clopping, wet things dripping, and the plaintive bleats of newborn lambs coming from the unseen fields beyond. It was the kind of thick mist from which tentacles suddenly reach out to pull poor, helpless riders from their horses and drag them back into the murky miasma.

And it was cold, bone chillingly cold - we were mightily glad for our drizzle-repelling drizzabones, with many layers of clothing and downy vests underneath - and the ground was wet and far too soggy for speedy riding unless one desired to take a chance on spending the next few months with various limbs in plaster casts.

But we had a good time, took it easy, made jokes, and enjoyed the unreal atmosphere and strange visual and aural effects created by the uncanny weather. Afterwards - and this is a very important part of the Winter horse riding experience - my sister and I warmed our boots and bums in front of a roaring log fire, drank cups of hot tea, ate steaming leak and potato soup with toast followed by berry strudel, and all was wonderful and well with the world.
  
*satisfied sigh*

But for sure I'll be sore tomorrow...

Shadowy Figure

Well, it's official now. A bit scary, but official.

If you pop over to the Australian Horror Writers Association's website, click to the Australian Shadows Awards and check out the 2013 Shadows Awards judges, you'll spot yours truly suspiciously lurking on the Short Works / Collections / Edited Works panel.

How did this come about?

Well, I received an email in 2012 inviting me to participate, and I almost jumped on board then, being both interested in the behind-the-scenes process and wanting to give something back to an organisation that has so many sterling volunteers giving up their precious time to help their fellow writers. One cannot just be a taker.  I'd just had major surgery and knew I was going to be off recuperating for 8-10 weeks. I thought I'd quickly recover and have oodles of time for reading (and writing.) But I also worried things might go pear-shaped and that I wouldn't be able to fulfil my obligations, so I declined, telling the awards director to try me again this year (and thank goodness I did, given that I spent most of my days until the end of October napping, and my brain was mostly zonked out on painkillers.) One year later, almost to the day, in comes another email. This time, after much thought, I decided to do my bit for the organisation, and so there I am, on a panel, judging...

I'm already well into it, reading a story a day and letting each one swill around inside my head for a goodly while before I make my call. And believe me, being one of those anal, overly responsible types, I take the whole business very seriously.

So, yes, much to do until the end of February 2014

Legend of the Luminous Last Lines

There was a book sale in town today. I almost bought The Shrinking Man by Richard Matheson but opted for a couple of more modern tomes instead. Coming home tonight and finding out that the great man himself  had just passed away, I wished I had bought it.

Silly me. Tomorrow I'll go back and remedy my mistake. In the shop, leafing through it, I read again that almost last, tragic but full of wonderment, bittersweet-with-a-touch-of-hope line, which always gets me:

"If nature existed on endless levels, so also might intelligence."

Then there's the kicker of a very last line, but I won't spoil it for those who haven't yet dipped into this classic yet.  

He did last lines well. I cannot even begin to guess how many times I read I Am Legend. I loved the entire book (let's politely ignore the movies for now), but I mostly reread it just to relive over and over the full impact of that final prison scene and the very last, now very famous words which, when I first read them as a teenager, completely blew me away:

 ...a new superstition entering the unassailable fortress of forever. I am legend.

 Some writers fudge endings. Not Richard Matheson. Just as you (if you hadn't read his work before) with the last page turned, might have been winding down, he slammed an image or an idea or a possibility right into your brain, and there it stayed put, sending your thoughts skittering off into multiple, deep, dark, moving and twisty philosophical places. All that, and frightening and touching and entertaining too! I loved his books. I loved his Twilight Zone episodes. And who wasn't scared out of their wits by every passing truck for at least a month after watching the movie Duel?

Thank you, Richard, for all those great stories.

Richard Matheson

1926-2013

R.I.P.

Zombies, Zombies Everywhere

NO IMPORTANT SPOILERS, I THINK. I MEAN, IT'S A ZOMBIE MOVIE, FOR GOODNESS SAKE. WHAT'S TO GIVE AWAY?

As, supposedly, the first zombie movie in with a chance to win an Oscar, World War Z is a zombie movie for people who don't like zombie movies. In other words, it's classier than your average zombie movie - possibly even art house zombie?

 There are no scenes of gory evisceration, strewn body parts, intestines being slurped like spaghetti or close-ups of livers and brains being chewed with messy relish. Sure there are splashes of blood tastefully spurting across faces here and there, but that's about it. There are no cheap gross out shots of ripped off limbs being passed around to upset the audience here. No mumbled utterances of 'braaaaains!' either. Even the zombies themselves are quite nice looking. Not as nice looking as the walking dead in Warm Bodies, but they're not missing jaws and cheeks, rotting in horrible places or flaking all over the carpet.

But they're still very scary. They're scary because there are simply so so many of them (I was wondering whether there was an overpopulation subtext tucked away in the movie, but that's probably overthinking the script), they're fast, and they're a monolithic force of unthinking, unrelenting undeadness coming straight at you. You can't even take a rest from their scariness by making fun of their ridiculous shambling gait or making silly groaning noises, because these former guys and gals are silent and swift, agile hunters that bring folk down within seconds of targeting them. They're deadly efficient killing machines designed for the sole purpose of replicating themselves.

Which is why WWZ is really more of an international medical thriller than a zombie movie, sort of Contagion with speedy corpses in lieu of an invisible virus. That said, plagues that move swiftly and have a high rate of attrition are panic-inducing at a primal level - I kept thinking about the Black Death diary entries I read a long time ago which recorded how people woke up feeling fine, had boils by lunchtime, and were dead by the evening. The scenes of mass, blind terror in the face of unbeatable odds are effectively portrayed. I mean, what can your average person do when overwhelmed by a veritable tsunami of undead monsters? One tensely watches the screen and hopes that in  similar situation one would be as cool as Brad Pitt's character, but...hmmm. Zombies or viruses, people are mostly not good at being calm and rational when everyone around them is screaming and scrambling to save their own butts. While still entertaining us, WWZ does good job of showing how quickly society can break down and revert to the rule of gun-power and elite connections. Useful and rich people are saved. Non-skilled folk and the unwashed masses are left behind as zombie bait. A certain amount of the film's scariness comes from acknowledging deep down inside that, come the Zombie Apocalypse, most of us would probably end up tackling the rampaging hordes as best we can all on our own with a pointy stick.

 So yeah, WWZ was deliciously fright-inducing, as any good zombie movie should be, and, ditto, fun to watch, with splatterings of supernatural, Hollywood-style social commentary added to the mix to give it that much desired, mainstream respectability that many genre pieces subconsciously crave.

Zombie Thesis

Large Hadron Collider. The Higgs Boson particle stars in a physics experiment that accelerates out of control. Zombies ensue.

Yep, zombies. More zombies. 2012 is definitely the Year of the Zombie.

In a breaking piece of Halloween-is-fast-approaching news, a group of Physics PhD students have put their degrees to good use and made DECAY, a horror movie set in the LHC. Apparently: The greatest discovery in physics could be our last.

But be warned, you nitpicking science buffs. Amazingly: This film has not been authorized or endorsed by CERN.

You can check out the trailer HERE.

Also, here's an ever so gentle reminder that the Halloween Giveaway will be drawn soon. If you'd like to possibly win a free print copy of Return of the Dead Men (and Women )Walking, click the pumpkin picture to your right sometime over the next forty-eight hours, or thereabouts, read about how easy it is to enter, and then do so or forever hold your peace.

Zombie Planes

In what seems to be turning into my own personal Year of the Zombie (I watched 2 seasons of The Walking Dead and am hanging out for the third, got a story in a antho that includes zombie stories, and have seriously felt like one myself as I've shuffled about for a goodly portion of 2012), at the Arvo Job yesterday, I finished listening to the first two books in Diana Rowland's White Trash Zombie series, namely My Life as a White Trash Zombie and Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues.

Wanting something light and fun to give a lift to my workdays and take my mind far from the office, the titles alone sold me when I was perusing the audio book catalogues. I had great hopes for many chuckles and euuuuuuwwwwws, and I was not disappointed. I did, however, at one point start to worry that the series was going to make being a zombie too nice, and actually enviable, so our down-and-out heroine Angel didn't seem too icky, sort of champagne zombies or zombies lite, but fortunately things quickly yucked up. Towards the second half of the second book, our smart-mouthed, halter-top wearing, trouble-prone Southern gal was being seriously disgusting and doing terribly monstrous deeds, so I went euuuuuuwwwww, relaxed and enjoyed the ride. I mean zombies! You cannot add sparkles to what are essentially rotting corpses and pretty them up the way you can certain other undead creatures (and even then, the outcome is questionable.) I'll have to download the third book in the series, White Trash Zombie Apocalypse, quick smart.

So what do you call a mechanical creature back from the dead? Is there such a thing as a zombie airplane? Just wondering, because I know my oldest little brother is probably extremely excited about the recent discovery of dozens of Spitfires that were grounded in every sense of the word over 70 years ago in Myanmar. Soon the soil will part and these revered fighter planes will rise once more from the distant past - reports vary as to how many there are, some estimating that up to 140 mechanical revenants will re-rev their powerful Griffon engines. Given that there are only 35 Spitfires still flying, the prospect of squadrons of these ancient, mythological beasts soaring amongst us again has aviation enthusiasts all over the globe almost airborne themselves, lifted by their own kind of fanatical raptures.

I like this story a lot. It gives me hope. On a planet that often seems small and feels increasingly overcrowded, it's inspiring to know that there are still spaces big enough for secrets this huge to hide, and it's a comfort to all dreamers that the world can still come up with the goods for those intrepid questers who are stubborn enough and brave enough to go forth and seek buried treasures.

Gitte's Halloween Giveaway

With only three weeks to go until restless spirits unsettled by All Hallow's Eve walk amongst us for a while, it's time to get my very first giveaway competition up and shuffling. As posted last week, the good folk at Bards and Sages Publishing have offered to send a print copy of Return of the Dead Men (and Women) Walking anthology to the winners of any competitions that we contributors might get going, so I thought I'd give it a shot. A freebie is a freebie, not to be sneezed at but a thing to be seized with joy! I've made it as easy to participate as possible, and the drawing of the winner as random as possible. I may live to regret this, but what the heck. I'll muster up some Halloween bravado and forge on. So, with a long, teenage scream-queen squeal, here we go.

Step One:  Just leave a comment naming your favourite or most unfavourite, real or made up, living or undead, horror creature. One word will do it, although feel free to wax lyrical on why you like, or despise, your chosen subject. Please, keep it nice though, or you will be deleted. You don't have to come up with a little known subspecies of Mesopotamian werewolf or an obscure Aztec revenant who haunts the world for all eternity. A bog standard comment like 'I rooly trooly heart zombz' will do, even if many others have already written this. You can even be specific and name names if you prefer e.g Dracula. Don't sweat it, just participate, then cross your fingers.

Example of Stage One: My favourite undead creatures are politicians pink zombie ponies.

Step Two : Like a marine out on manoeuvres with his mates, "shout out" your number. To do this, you'll have to check the number of the person who left a comment before you. Like the marines, keep it sequential so the sarge-in-charge, a.k.a me, doesn't get confused. The first to leave a comment is one, the next person is number two and so on.

Example: My favourite undead creatures are politicians pink zombie ponies. Fourteen!

Step Two Point Five: if you're an anonymous commenter, you'll have to distinguish yourself from the other anonymous commenters by leaving a name of some sort, real or made up, or use a call sign like 'Rubber Ducky'or 'Sparkly Vampire'. Again, keep it nice or be forever vanished into cyberspace.

Step Three: There isn't a step three. You don't really have to worry about this stage of the operation. You've done your bit. Thank you, and good on you. Good luck too. No, stage three is for me. Depending on how many people sign up, I'll either buy a fancy raffle book full of tickets with printed numbers down at the super-cheap nic-nac shop next to the supermarket, or I'll just grab a nearby pen and scribble numbers on a couple of scraps of paper. Either way, the numbers will go into some sort of Halloweeny receptacle like a stylish plastic pumpkin or a witch's hat, and a ticket or scrap of paper will be pulled forth on that creepiest of nights, October 31, 2012, the one evening when you can't be entirely sure whether or not the raggedy people you see dragging their feet on the opposite side of the street are wearing costumes.

Anyway, the fanfare that goes with this special draw may be big, it may be small. Again, depending on how many people are eager to win a freebie copy of this fine tome which is so imminently suited to being a Halloween prize, I'll find someone who isn't me to draw the winning number - possibly a random stranger dressed up as a ghost that I happen to meet in the street on that spooky evening, or, less creepily, and less likely to end with me in goal, if the turnout is respectable, I'll see if I can find a volunteer at my local writers' centre to do the honours. I might even take a picture. And wear a tiara for the event.

I'll announce the winner on this blog on All Hallow's Eve. The winner can then use my contact email on this blog to send me their postal address, which I will forward to the people at Bards and Sages Publishing. They'll make sure you then get your free copy of  Return of the Dead Men (and Women) Walking anthology ASAP.

There, I think that about covers it. Easy and random. Give it go. You know you want to. Good luck.

True Terror

On my weekly Wednesday medicinal walk today, I was divebombed by a familiar black-and-white shape. Luckily, it was a rather half-hearted attack, but it did remind me that it's swooping season here in Australia, a time when nesting birds become aggressively territorial and the worst of them, the razor-beaked magpies, have us humans scared stiff and skittering about to their tune.

When I was a kid living on the outskirts of a small coastal town that seemed to breed especially aggro maggies, this was the one time of the year when the children living on our long stretch of country road would put aside our tribal differences and band together. Our goal was simple: to get to school. There were three nests we had to pass, and no way to avoid them unless we wanted to add hours to our journey - those maggies had wide territories and flew extensive patrols.  And please, don't ask about our parents. In those long ago days, this kind of thing was kids' business, pure and simple. We would never have dreamed of bothering our parents with requests for protection or a lift in the car. It had nothing to do with them, and we had our pride to consider. That's just how it was.  

So, we set off each day, hoping the safety-in-numbers strategy would work, all bunched together, clutching our school bags like shields and wielding big sticks. My memory is no doubt faulty, as well as prone to dressing up the past, but I remember our formation as a rather ragtag version of a Roman testudo formation , and we kids as juvenile legionnaires bravely setting off to do battle every day, as deeply frightened by the thought of our eyes being stabbed or our heads being pierced by sharp beaks as our Roman counterparts would have been of barbaric, Germanic hordes. But we were also thrilled to the tips of our tiny toes by the prospect facing of real danger and testing our mettle. We scared ourselves even sillier as we went by recounting tales of the horrific manglings we had heard about, with tales of maggies plucking out eyes, maybe even two from the same victim, as perennial favourites, these vile tales acting both as encouragement to each other, but also as a mean-spirited attempt to reduce someone to tears or, even better, make them break ranks and run home. No-one ever did. To have been branded a coward would have been worse than getting a beak in the head. Or so we thought.

Our terror was deep and true and complete, and yet we went on, shrieking when we were divebombed and waving our sticks at the swooping monsters.  Each day that we kids made it to school without any blood spurting in great gushes from our temples was a triumph. Not that I recall anyone ever getting hurt. But there were enough close calls to legitimize and further feed our fears. When nesting season ended, our alliance fell apart until the next breeding season.

I mention all of this because it seemed to me today as I walked that those childhood adventures incorporated all the fundamental elements of a horror story - the terror that writers try to tap into and recreate in their protagonists and the delicious scares and primal thrills that readers seek when they pick up a book of dark tales. Then, of course, there was also the camaraderie of fellow travellers venturing forth to vanquish vicious beast, so we were also experiencing a daily quest. And anyone who thinks I'm exaggerating the menace of magpies obviously hasn't faced down one of those black-and-white monsters of the air.

It wouldn't happen nowadays, of course. Folk check out the location of swooping birds on the Internet, tweet updates on aggro birds, buy handy anti-swoop toolkits from the Department of Sustainability and Environment, and drive their kids to school. Not that I'm romanticizing getting your eyes gouged out or recommending that anyone send their kids into a lion's den armed only with a Bowie knife in order to prove themselves. I'm just saying it was a truly terror inducing situation for us children, but not one without its redeeming features, and that one often treasures memories of a little scariness as much as one does memories of happiness.

Waffling On About The Dead

 Bards and Sages Publishing have started their series of author interviews to promote the Return of  the Dead Men (and Women) Walking anthology. The first one is here.

Hmmm, apparently, they're micro interviews.

*gulp*

Micro? As in really tiny? Not very long? No-one told me that. I've checked my emails, and cannot see the word micro, or for that matter short, or any instructions about not waffling on anywhere. The utter wordiness of some of the answers I sent now seems a bit embarrassing. Once I get started, and I'm having fun, well, off I go. But hey, if my interview gets used, I'm sure they'll cut me down to a few pithy lines.

Dead Men Up and Walking

So late Sunday night I finished and emailed the final edit of The Snowy River Feral for what is referred to somewhat ignobly as The Dead Men antho in the contributor emails buzzing back and forth. The answers for my author interview to help promote the book went off over a week ago. The cover art has been finally finalised - looking good. I've been peeking at the other stories - they look good too. Things are falling into place and hotting up. Now I just have to sit back and try not to fidget too much as I wait for October (not so far away), for that is when the antho finally comes out in all its glory and with its full title rightfully restored. I feel like a kid gazing longingly at a bike-shaped package under the Christmas tree, itching to unwrap it and take it for a whizz around the block.

Given my glee, it was only to be expected that the Real World, which constantly, above and beyond the call of duty, I sometimes think, goes out of its way to keep me humble, tried to stuff up my good mood with a two-rejection Monday night. But hah, I can take it! There's a book full of zombie and vampire stories on the way with my name in it, so suck it up, Real World, suck it up!

Horrible Homework

Having just quickly, and nervously, perused the questions for the author interview that Bards and Sages Publishing will use as part of their promotions for the Return of the Dead Men (and Women) Walking horror anthology, I am now totally relaxed. I'll blitz that interview! You see, apparently I've been working up to this triumphant moment over the past many months without realising it.

Consider the fact that whilst recently recuperating, I not only studied in depth that huge, vampire apocalypse tome The Passage by Justin Cronin , but also watched, as chronicled here in a few posts, the first two seasons of The Walking Dead. I am, if I may say so, completely up to scratch on how to take out large numbers of zombies or vampires, and have along the way developed theories as to which weapons I might prefer in certain scenarios. Also, whilst yelling at less rational characters on the screen or in print, I've batted about a few ideas of my own on what might constitute sound battle tactics when up against the shuffling or fast-moving undead. Adding to my confidence is the well-documented fact that I've read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, and the as yet publicly unknown information that today I saw the movie Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Slayer, so I'm feeling particularly well-versed on the subject of zombie and vampire mash ups. Also while recuperating, I saw Zombieland, and, I seem to vaguely recall, Vampires Suck (I was unwell!! You're allowed to watch crap when you're zonked out on painkillers!!!) Also, as I passionately posted about some time ago, I did try to get through the Twilight books, so I definitely have a few opinions about those characters to impart, and, as the jewel in my crown, I'm a Buffy fan from way back.

So, despite what some judging souls might think, none of that mostly enjoyable time spent on swotting up on popular horror was wasted, for now I can call upon this vast repository of knowledge about creatures fanged and rotten to formulate kick-ass responses to tricky interview queries about the undead.

Possible Argument in Favour of a Zombie Apocalypse

After hissing or shouting "shush up for crickey's, bloomin' sake !!!!!!" at the screen last night for the umpteenth time while watching the second season of The Walking Dead, it occurred to me that really, scriptwriters' conveniently placed boltholes aside, only quiet people with organising skills and impetus control would survive a zombie apocalypse. Then, evolution being what it is, surely after a few generations of weeding out the screamers, moaners, drama queens, arguing-for-the-sake-of-arguing arguers, cupboard shakers, fumble-fingered looters and trigger-happy shooters, the human race would be a lot less shoutey, more emotionally disciplined, more graceful of movement and prone to actually plan ahead. And did I mention less shoutey?

Alas, my Darwinian theory soon begins to fall apart like the proverbial rotting carcass when I factor in that the people with the most and/or biggest guns would also have a significant advantage. Once in power, such folk usually like to wave their weapons around a lot. And shout a lot. Same old same old. So, there goes that paradigm of possible paradisaical peace and quiet populated by shuffling corpses already.

Back from the Dead

Cleaning up old anthology links, on a whim I clicked onto one that I'd long ago consigned to the great crypt of dead publication projects located at the back of the expansive cemetery of ambitious intentions that never got off the ground, and discovered that apparently there's still life in the concept.

This is good news, because if it goes ahead, this anthology will include two flash fiction stories by me (a 500 worder and a 1000 worder) that were accepted back in December 2010 (aaah, those were the days!) just after I'd decided to have a serious go at being professional about getting my short stories out and about. Ever optimistic, I had them listed as 'forthcoming' for about 18 months before I decided to remove them until I had real evidence that the publication was actually going to happen, and as said, I'd pretty much given up on it and moved on. If this collection does see print, it'll be great - flash fiction doesn't get much respect, and an anthology like this might help to showcase that micro fiction isn't all obtuse shortcuts and airy-fairy wankery. You can tell a layered tale in under a thousand words. I'm not sure why some people so vehemently contest that. They have a right to their personal preferences, of course. I'm just saying that like everything, there's good flash and bad flash. Some stories are born tiny and poignant rather than sprawling and analytical. That doesn't make them better or worse, just different.

Anyway, onwards into the day. I'm definitely going to fiddle around with some words today. And tonight - yay! - I'll start on season two of The Walking Dead. I love this series. It's a nice throwback to my favourite survivors-journeying-though-apocalyptic-landscapes-whilst-arguing-every-step-of-the-way television viewing of yore. Threads (it gutted me!), Survivors (the original 1970s series, thank you very much, devised by no less a stalwart of the genre than Terry Nation), and the 1981 version of Day of the Triffids (I was soooo in love with John Duttine!) all shaped my thinking, filled my imagination and haunted my dreams. Alien nasties invading our world, or homegrown viruses, nuclear holocaust or zombies, whatever - I love 'em! They all boil down to a band of people demonstrating why we humans thoroughly deserve to be wiped out by our own stupidity (it's not always our fault though - sometimes the [fill in the relevant cause] apocalypse does go on for a tad too long, the writers lose the plot, the characters get petty, and you start barracking for the agent of our destruction...), whilst presenting arguments that plead for a more clement view of our basic natures.

What's For Dinner?

All connoisseurs of things feline should pop over the Robert Hood's very cool blog Undead Backbrain and read about this yummy horror movie:

http://roberthood.net/blog/index.php/2012/05/02/breaking-news-the-moggies-are-back-for-a-third-helping-of-human-flesh/

There are pictures of mutant cat-monsters. Mutant cat-monsters that eat... well, I'll say no more.  

Equine Odyssey

We saw War Horse today. WARNING - spoilers ahead.

So it was out with the old way of trampling folk underhoof on glossy steeds and slaughtering folk with shiny sabres...

...and in with the new way of crushing people with dirty tanks and shredding them with machine guns.

The war scenes were harrowing, and I was glad to read this piece about how all the horse and battlefield stunts were done, especially those involving barbed wire.

However, as a fan of the book by Michael Morpurgo, I found it enormously irritating that the boy's family was cleaned up and made Disney-nice at the beginning. Given that it was a movie about the horrors and cruelty of mass warfare versus individual decency, I also thought the use of the father's regimental pendant glorified war in a way that was contrary to the general message. I realise that handing over this symbol of a past war and the father-son handshake at the end, one soldier to another, was all about 'now you understand what I went through, son', but to me it also had uncomfortable overtones of that 'and war has made a Man of you' bilge that helps to perpetuate the notion of war as a character building experience for young men. And the film ends right there, with that message.

In the book, Albert goes back to the family farm with his horse, marries, and puts the war completely behind him rather that dwelling upon it, embodying the very virtues of Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus (519 BC – 430 BC) who fought when he had to, but preferred his plow to the battlefield. The handshake at the end of War Horse, and the cinematography which so blatantly evokes Gone with the Wind, seems to give back to the concept of war a sense of nobility and honour that the film spent 2 hours (sort of) dismantling.

Ah well, perhaps I'm reading too much into it. I wonder what T.S. Elliott and Siegfried Sassoon would have made of it all.

My alley runneth over

Jason Fischer has posted this over on his blog:

Issue #6 of the Australian Horror Writers Association’s magazine Midnight Echo will be edited by David Conyers, Jason Fischer and David Kernot, and the theme will be science fiction horror. Why? Well we just don’t believe there is enough science fiction published in Australia , and dark science fiction is even better.

Cross genre SF/horror? This too (like the Coeur de Lion anthology) is right up my alley. I might finally get a story into ME...