It was illustrated by the ever lovely Emma Louise Barltrop, whose other work can be found on her Tumblr here.
Without any further ado, I present to you A Matter of Tide. Click for full-size.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
A Matter of Tide
I recently entered the Observer Graphic Short Story Prize. It's a pretty prestigious competition, and lots of people enter, but I thought it was worth a shot. Especially with a £1000 prize...
It was illustrated by the ever lovely Emma Louise Barltrop, whose other work can be found on her Tumblr here.
Without any further ado, I present to you A Matter of Tide. Click for full-size.
It was illustrated by the ever lovely Emma Louise Barltrop, whose other work can be found on her Tumblr here.
Without any further ado, I present to you A Matter of Tide. Click for full-size.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
Momento Mori
______
Something I wrote for an assignment this week. It was meant to be horror, and maybe it still is, but it seems to me to be more like fantasy.
But I digress. Enjoy!
______
David hated Halloween. Not even on the subway could he escape it: the tacky rubber bats; the garish plastic jack-o-lanterns. Kids grinning in anticipation of a weekend of sugar highs and parents dreading sleepless nights.
It wasn't just the kids, either. Sitting across from him was a man already garbed in costume. This one was genuinely creepy though, at least. The skeleton-print onesie was standard, and he wore a roughed-up black leather jacket, but the carved-turnip-effect mask was startlingly realistic. It looked old, too, like a rough hemp sack pulled tight over a bowling ball. The mouth was moulded open in a sinister leering expression, and the eyes were blank sockets, and betrayed no trace of hidden slits through which the wearer might see.
Come to think of it, the man's posture and general countenance were at odds with his surroundings. He seemed to be genuinely in the spirit of the macabre. Whereas most of their fellow commuters were slouching in their seats or hanging off the overhead grips, this ghoulish individual was sitting up straight, hands clasped in front of him, and was staring around the carriage with impish glee. He would attempt to make eye contact with those around him, but his gaze was universally avoided. The old Italian gentleman next to him coughed and returned to his paper. A young fashionista in winter furs sneered and turned up her nose. A mother of two frowned and shooed her brood behind their pram, lest his grim countenance fuel their dreams that night.
So caught up had he been in observing the young reveller that David forgot to look away himself when his gawp was returned. Turnip-head, clearly delighted, smiled a broad smile that turned up the corners of his mouth. His mouth? No, that couldn't be right. He looked down and pulled an old brass timepiece, which was on a chain attached to a button hole on his jacket, out of his pocket and checked it, before looking back at David and nodding, still grinning that rubbery grin.
“This is Grand Central Terminal” chimed the recorded announcement, snapping David out of his stupor. The train sprang to life as its occupants scurried towards the doors. He shook his head and grabbed his briefcase before standing up to join them. The man in costume was nowhere to be seen.
Grand Central was packed, as usual. David elbowed his way to the barriers and presented his ticket to the slot. The machine took the ticket, pondered it for a few seconds, then spat it back out. He tried again. No joy. The crowd behind him was jostling with impatience. Flustered, David tried one more time. At the third round of rejection beeps, he started to become angry. He banged on the metal casing and was rewarded with a shockwave up his arm and a tight feeling that shot across his chest.
Before David could catch his breath, the man behind him reached around and slotted his own ticket into the machine with infinitely greater success, before giving David a hefty shove between the shoulder blades which carried both of them through. It was a rough measure, but it did the trick.
The walk up the main staircase to the street was harder than normal. He grabbed onto the hand railing for support, but could barely feel it in his hand. That guy must have hit a nerve or something, and David laughed at how weak he felt all of a sudden. Looking up to the top of the stairway he was surprised to see Turnip-head looking right at him.
He nodded again. The next moment David was tumbling backwards, and then it all went black.
When he came to it was getting dark, and moreover, it was cold. Very cold. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling and came to the realisation that he had been left exactly where he had fallen. Brilliant.
"This is probably the most boring part of my job. The waiting.”
At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, David sat up too quickly, and winced. The back of his skull hurt. He raised his hand to touch it.
“I wouldn't if I were you.”
The way David had landed meant he was now facing into the deserted station. The voice came from behind him. Turning, he was greeted with a familiar figure. Even in the darkness he could make out the skeleton print of Turnip-head's onesie, glowing faintly.
“Take it easy for a moment. You're probably still in shock.” he said.
“Look, thanks for waiting around. Looks like you're the onl'y one who did.”
He laughed. “Didn't have a lot of choice really!”
David stood up and dusted himself off. His clothes seemed to be in fairly good shape, despite the fall, but his head felt light and his limbs were numb.
“I suppose I should go to the hospital.”
Turnip-head laughed again. “You people crack me up sometimes. Come on, we should be going.” He turned and set off up the stairs.
David only caught up to him outside the building. He was waiting in the deep shadow cast by the statue of Hermes that watched over East 42nd Street.
“I'm not quite sure what...going where?”
By way of answer Turnip-head nodded towards the Park Avenue Bridge. “Watch out for the hounds. They bite,” he added.
There was a howl from above them. A pack of feral dogs, some pacing hungrily, some hanging their forepaws over the edge, hovered on the overpass. They looked ragged and emaciated; David didn't doubt that they would.
“They like to try it on with transients whilst they're kind of fresh,” he said, grinning.
Turnip-head slung his arm around David's shoulder and started walking him in the direction he had indicated. As they passed out of the building's shadow and into the direct moonlight, the mysterious stranger's ghoulish features came into stark focus. Up-close he could see all of the minute details; the rough texture, the cracks in the skin, all of the wiry little hairs. David was confused. This looked like no mask he had ever come across before.
Seeing his surprise, Turnip-head gestured back to the grand clock above the station entrance. “Ultima Forsan my friend. Every hour wounds, the last kills.”
“Look, I really should be going...my wife...”
“You don't have a wife David.”
This man was becoming more unsettling by the second. The way his mouth moved like the mask was alive. He shook free of the stranger's bony limb.
“I'm not going anywhere with you 'til you tell me your name!”
Turnip head sighed, slackened his shoulders, then quick as a flash grabbed David violently by the throat. Caught off-guard, he began gasping for air. He tried to wrench free, but his assailant's grip was like a vice. He started to feel faint, his vision turning hazy from lack of oxygen.
“Calm down David.”
But he couldn't. In struggling to focus he missed the other hand arcing across to bring a stinging slap to his cheek.
“Calm down!”
Stunned, David stopped struggling. His vision snapped back to normal almost instantaneously and he blinked. He was fine. Turnip-head let go.
“Stop being stubborn. I'm afraid you don't have a choice. You've nowhere else to go.”
They were interrupted by a growl from behind him. He looked down to see one of the hounds half way through tearing a lump of flesh from his calf, trouser fabric and all. With the same speed with which he had attacked David, Turnip-head aimed a kick at the mutt. It connected with a disgusting mushy sound, causing the dog to yelp mawkishly and back off to where the rest of its pack was lurking.
“What did I tell you about watching the dogs?”
David could only stare at the gaping wound in his leg and wonder why his brain wasn't registering what should have been agony.
“Oh, it's not that bad. I've seen worse. And you haven't seen the back of your head.”
Reflexively, David reached up to touch it, but his fingers still refused to register any feeling. His hands came away covered in a disgusting crimson mush that caused him to retch.
“I did warn you not to do that.”
“Look, I really need to go to a hospital!” he pleaded.
“No, David, you don't. You're a little beyond their sphere of expertise right now.”
“Who are you? How do you know my name for that matter?”
“Would it help if I waved my scythe and pointed a skeletal finger at you? You're dead, David. I thought you would have realised that by now. Loss of feeling? Gaping skull fracture? Mysterious lack of need for oxygen? I'm just here to make sure you don't get lost.”
David felt weak.
“H-how?”
“It was a close call. It started off as a heart-attack, but you rather stylishly pipped it to the post with a good old-fashioned brain hemorrhage. It was quite spectacular really.”
“Why didn't anyone move my body?”
“Oh, they did. You're probably in one of those cold storage lockers by now. This,” he gestured to David's body “is is a mental manifestation of your physical memory. Still damn tasty to the doggies though. Then again, they're not fussy. Come on, it's not so bad.”
“You can talk! You're not dead – are you?”
“Well I never died, if that's what you mean. I've never had a life though. Never tasted a fresh strawberry; run through a field of corn; made love. You think you've had it so bad?”
“I'm sorry; I didn't know.”
Turnip-head stared at him blankly for a moment, then cracked his customary grin. “Naaah, I'm just pulling your leg. This is the best job in the world, especially on Halloween. I get to shit you fleshies up all day and you don't have a clue who I am.” He pulled a face. “Boo! Come on sour chops, let's get you where you need to go.”
Something I wrote for an assignment this week. It was meant to be horror, and maybe it still is, but it seems to me to be more like fantasy.
But I digress. Enjoy!
______
David hated Halloween. Not even on the subway could he escape it: the tacky rubber bats; the garish plastic jack-o-lanterns. Kids grinning in anticipation of a weekend of sugar highs and parents dreading sleepless nights.
It wasn't just the kids, either. Sitting across from him was a man already garbed in costume. This one was genuinely creepy though, at least. The skeleton-print onesie was standard, and he wore a roughed-up black leather jacket, but the carved-turnip-effect mask was startlingly realistic. It looked old, too, like a rough hemp sack pulled tight over a bowling ball. The mouth was moulded open in a sinister leering expression, and the eyes were blank sockets, and betrayed no trace of hidden slits through which the wearer might see.
Come to think of it, the man's posture and general countenance were at odds with his surroundings. He seemed to be genuinely in the spirit of the macabre. Whereas most of their fellow commuters were slouching in their seats or hanging off the overhead grips, this ghoulish individual was sitting up straight, hands clasped in front of him, and was staring around the carriage with impish glee. He would attempt to make eye contact with those around him, but his gaze was universally avoided. The old Italian gentleman next to him coughed and returned to his paper. A young fashionista in winter furs sneered and turned up her nose. A mother of two frowned and shooed her brood behind their pram, lest his grim countenance fuel their dreams that night.
So caught up had he been in observing the young reveller that David forgot to look away himself when his gawp was returned. Turnip-head, clearly delighted, smiled a broad smile that turned up the corners of his mouth. His mouth? No, that couldn't be right. He looked down and pulled an old brass timepiece, which was on a chain attached to a button hole on his jacket, out of his pocket and checked it, before looking back at David and nodding, still grinning that rubbery grin.
“This is Grand Central Terminal” chimed the recorded announcement, snapping David out of his stupor. The train sprang to life as its occupants scurried towards the doors. He shook his head and grabbed his briefcase before standing up to join them. The man in costume was nowhere to be seen.
Grand Central was packed, as usual. David elbowed his way to the barriers and presented his ticket to the slot. The machine took the ticket, pondered it for a few seconds, then spat it back out. He tried again. No joy. The crowd behind him was jostling with impatience. Flustered, David tried one more time. At the third round of rejection beeps, he started to become angry. He banged on the metal casing and was rewarded with a shockwave up his arm and a tight feeling that shot across his chest.
Before David could catch his breath, the man behind him reached around and slotted his own ticket into the machine with infinitely greater success, before giving David a hefty shove between the shoulder blades which carried both of them through. It was a rough measure, but it did the trick.
The walk up the main staircase to the street was harder than normal. He grabbed onto the hand railing for support, but could barely feel it in his hand. That guy must have hit a nerve or something, and David laughed at how weak he felt all of a sudden. Looking up to the top of the stairway he was surprised to see Turnip-head looking right at him.
He nodded again. The next moment David was tumbling backwards, and then it all went black.
*
When he came to it was getting dark, and moreover, it was cold. Very cold. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling and came to the realisation that he had been left exactly where he had fallen. Brilliant.
"This is probably the most boring part of my job. The waiting.”
At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, David sat up too quickly, and winced. The back of his skull hurt. He raised his hand to touch it.
“I wouldn't if I were you.”
The way David had landed meant he was now facing into the deserted station. The voice came from behind him. Turning, he was greeted with a familiar figure. Even in the darkness he could make out the skeleton print of Turnip-head's onesie, glowing faintly.
“Take it easy for a moment. You're probably still in shock.” he said.
“Look, thanks for waiting around. Looks like you're the onl'y one who did.”
He laughed. “Didn't have a lot of choice really!”
David stood up and dusted himself off. His clothes seemed to be in fairly good shape, despite the fall, but his head felt light and his limbs were numb.
“I suppose I should go to the hospital.”
Turnip-head laughed again. “You people crack me up sometimes. Come on, we should be going.” He turned and set off up the stairs.
David only caught up to him outside the building. He was waiting in the deep shadow cast by the statue of Hermes that watched over East 42nd Street.
“I'm not quite sure what...going where?”
By way of answer Turnip-head nodded towards the Park Avenue Bridge. “Watch out for the hounds. They bite,” he added.
There was a howl from above them. A pack of feral dogs, some pacing hungrily, some hanging their forepaws over the edge, hovered on the overpass. They looked ragged and emaciated; David didn't doubt that they would.
“They like to try it on with transients whilst they're kind of fresh,” he said, grinning.
Turnip-head slung his arm around David's shoulder and started walking him in the direction he had indicated. As they passed out of the building's shadow and into the direct moonlight, the mysterious stranger's ghoulish features came into stark focus. Up-close he could see all of the minute details; the rough texture, the cracks in the skin, all of the wiry little hairs. David was confused. This looked like no mask he had ever come across before.
Seeing his surprise, Turnip-head gestured back to the grand clock above the station entrance. “Ultima Forsan my friend. Every hour wounds, the last kills.”
“Look, I really should be going...my wife...”
“You don't have a wife David.”
This man was becoming more unsettling by the second. The way his mouth moved like the mask was alive. He shook free of the stranger's bony limb.
“I'm not going anywhere with you 'til you tell me your name!”
Turnip head sighed, slackened his shoulders, then quick as a flash grabbed David violently by the throat. Caught off-guard, he began gasping for air. He tried to wrench free, but his assailant's grip was like a vice. He started to feel faint, his vision turning hazy from lack of oxygen.
“Calm down David.”
But he couldn't. In struggling to focus he missed the other hand arcing across to bring a stinging slap to his cheek.
“Calm down!”
Stunned, David stopped struggling. His vision snapped back to normal almost instantaneously and he blinked. He was fine. Turnip-head let go.
“Stop being stubborn. I'm afraid you don't have a choice. You've nowhere else to go.”
They were interrupted by a growl from behind him. He looked down to see one of the hounds half way through tearing a lump of flesh from his calf, trouser fabric and all. With the same speed with which he had attacked David, Turnip-head aimed a kick at the mutt. It connected with a disgusting mushy sound, causing the dog to yelp mawkishly and back off to where the rest of its pack was lurking.
“What did I tell you about watching the dogs?”
David could only stare at the gaping wound in his leg and wonder why his brain wasn't registering what should have been agony.
“Oh, it's not that bad. I've seen worse. And you haven't seen the back of your head.”
Reflexively, David reached up to touch it, but his fingers still refused to register any feeling. His hands came away covered in a disgusting crimson mush that caused him to retch.
“I did warn you not to do that.”
“Look, I really need to go to a hospital!” he pleaded.
“No, David, you don't. You're a little beyond their sphere of expertise right now.”
“Who are you? How do you know my name for that matter?”
“Would it help if I waved my scythe and pointed a skeletal finger at you? You're dead, David. I thought you would have realised that by now. Loss of feeling? Gaping skull fracture? Mysterious lack of need for oxygen? I'm just here to make sure you don't get lost.”
David felt weak.
“H-how?”
“It was a close call. It started off as a heart-attack, but you rather stylishly pipped it to the post with a good old-fashioned brain hemorrhage. It was quite spectacular really.”
“Why didn't anyone move my body?”
“Oh, they did. You're probably in one of those cold storage lockers by now. This,” he gestured to David's body “is is a mental manifestation of your physical memory. Still damn tasty to the doggies though. Then again, they're not fussy. Come on, it's not so bad.”
“You can talk! You're not dead – are you?”
“Well I never died, if that's what you mean. I've never had a life though. Never tasted a fresh strawberry; run through a field of corn; made love. You think you've had it so bad?”
“I'm sorry; I didn't know.”
Turnip-head stared at him blankly for a moment, then cracked his customary grin. “Naaah, I'm just pulling your leg. This is the best job in the world, especially on Halloween. I get to shit you fleshies up all day and you don't have a clue who I am.” He pulled a face. “Boo! Come on sour chops, let's get you where you need to go.”
Saturday, 13 February 2010
The End of the Beginning
______
Even when I first started writing Hell's Own, nigh on sixteen months ago now, I already knew that I'd keep going with it, to whatever end, even if I kept writing without hope of anyone ever drawing it.
It's been a learning experience and a half. I've never written anything more than 3000 words, and even then, that was only once. Writing at length is hard, but so much more rewarding. I, and many others around me, can't wait for me to finish it, but as it is, chapter two is rolling steadily along.
In the meantime, Corban, my illustrator, has been doing his level best to interpret my crazy ramblings and turn them into awesome artwork. It's been hard sometimes to picture the final result from the roughs he's given me, but he's been patient, and we've now moved into the realms of finalising the artwork for chapter one.
By way of a demonstration, he's started with page seven. I got it this morning, and I had to share it with you. It's stunning.
______
______
How beautiful is that? It was nowhere near my favourite page from the roughs, so I'm incredibly excited for what's coming, in particular pages eight, sixteen to eighteen, and twenty-four through twenty-six.
I'm sure I'll post some more in the not-too-distant future. For now, enjoy.
Even when I first started writing Hell's Own, nigh on sixteen months ago now, I already knew that I'd keep going with it, to whatever end, even if I kept writing without hope of anyone ever drawing it.
It's been a learning experience and a half. I've never written anything more than 3000 words, and even then, that was only once. Writing at length is hard, but so much more rewarding. I, and many others around me, can't wait for me to finish it, but as it is, chapter two is rolling steadily along.
In the meantime, Corban, my illustrator, has been doing his level best to interpret my crazy ramblings and turn them into awesome artwork. It's been hard sometimes to picture the final result from the roughs he's given me, but he's been patient, and we've now moved into the realms of finalising the artwork for chapter one.
By way of a demonstration, he's started with page seven. I got it this morning, and I had to share it with you. It's stunning.
______
______How beautiful is that? It was nowhere near my favourite page from the roughs, so I'm incredibly excited for what's coming, in particular pages eight, sixteen to eighteen, and twenty-four through twenty-six.
I'm sure I'll post some more in the not-too-distant future. For now, enjoy.
Thursday, 4 February 2010
Review: We Are The Ocean - Cutting Our Teeth
Coming to a new band is, for me, like trying a completely new dish. If I really want to give it a fair go, each mouthful has to be savoured and contemplated carefully. Otherwise it's like disregarding it simply because it contains something horrible like, say, liver. When it comes to a band like We Are The Ocean, merely glancing at the titles of the songs on Cutting Our Teeth, their debut album, might cause me to be hasty in categorising them as my musical equivalent of liver.Let's get one thing straight though. We Are The Ocean have a market, and they know how to deliver what that market craves. This Essex five piece are all clean-cut, well dressed and good looking. Teenage girls must love 'em, and I admire them for that – I know I am probably none of those things.
It's easy to see why album opener 'Look Alive' is the first single. It's catchy; the main hook being the easy-to-remember choral lyrics, handled by rhythm guitarist Liam Cromby, and is an anthem for disaffected teenagers if ever I heard one. But it's main vocalist Dan Brown, in my opinion the stronger of the two, who yelps out his lines with enthusiastic vigour and really holds my attention. My only real criticism is his range – most of his vocals are monotonal, which detracts somewhat from the heavier sections of We Are The Ocean's material, which is a shame, because I feel that's where they have missed their calling. The opening to '(I'll Grab You by the) Neck of the Woods' is perfect post-hardcore, but unfortunately these moments are few and far between.
For me though, their biggest failing is in the lyrics themselves. Maybe I'm just a little far beyond the angst of my teenage years but most, if not all of the ten tracks on offer here are woefully self-indulgent and offer little hope. Clichés run rife like kids in a candy shop (and even force all originality from my similies), and the numerous rhymes they've come up with are just weak, for lack of a better word. In a genre awash with this type of anthemic emo punk, I just don't think they're anything special.
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Heavy Blog is Bloggy
______
Just a quick bit of news. I'm now writing for the guys over at Heavy Blog is Heavy. A few of my current articles will be appearing over the coming week or so, but check back for new content in the future, if blast-beats and throaty growls are your thing.
Just a quick bit of news. I'm now writing for the guys over at Heavy Blog is Heavy. A few of my current articles will be appearing over the coming week or so, but check back for new content in the future, if blast-beats and throaty growls are your thing.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
Big Brotheridge Is Watching You
______
I recently received the last eight pages of roughs for Hell's Own from my illustrator, Corban. The script isn't totally finalised yet, but this batch got me pretty excited to say the least, so I thought I'd give you a teaser.
This is by far my favourite page art-wise. I can't wait for the final product!
______
I recently received the last eight pages of roughs for Hell's Own from my illustrator, Corban. The script isn't totally finalised yet, but this batch got me pretty excited to say the least, so I thought I'd give you a teaser.
This is by far my favourite page art-wise. I can't wait for the final product!
______
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Sit down, stand up
______
Happy belated holidays to you all! To those who go in for it, I hope your Christmas was good. I received a couple of fantastic graphic novels from various family members, including the brilliant 'Batman: Hush' by favourite of mine Jeph Loeb (The Long Halloween), and a very promising start to Neil Gaiman's Sandman, about which I have heard excellent things.
Of course, 'tis the season of resolutions and promises to one's self. Now as a rule, I don't usually make them, but then again I never have been one to do something just for the sake of it. This year, however, I actually have something worth sticking to.
I've been toying around with the idea of writing stand-up comedy ever since the end of my first year at university. I was attending one of the talks at Middlesex's annual literary festival, being given by one of our alumni, the very funny Russell Kane. If memory serves, he was even on my course. He was relating the story of how he got into doing stand-up, which was nothing more than a dare from a friend. He just got up there and did it.
As I thought about this in the days afterwards, I started to get lofty ideas; why couldn't I do that?
Of course, the stage is about as far from my natural home as you can get. Even now, as someone who's fairly confident in their own skin, I get a lump in my throat whenever I get up to speak in front of my classmates - even if the prospect doesn't scare me in the slightest beforehand.
But you know what? Screw it. I'm doing it. One of my housemates (an actress my trade) is beginning a comedy module this semester, and this is the best chance I'm ever going to get at being involved in something like this. I think I'll regret it if I don't at least give it a go, so it has become my official New Year's resolution.
I've been making notes for a few weeks, but as of a few days ago I've actually started writing up a script. Watch this space: I'll let you know when I have more details.
Happy belated holidays to you all! To those who go in for it, I hope your Christmas was good. I received a couple of fantastic graphic novels from various family members, including the brilliant 'Batman: Hush' by favourite of mine Jeph Loeb (The Long Halloween), and a very promising start to Neil Gaiman's Sandman, about which I have heard excellent things.
Of course, 'tis the season of resolutions and promises to one's self. Now as a rule, I don't usually make them, but then again I never have been one to do something just for the sake of it. This year, however, I actually have something worth sticking to.
I've been toying around with the idea of writing stand-up comedy ever since the end of my first year at university. I was attending one of the talks at Middlesex's annual literary festival, being given by one of our alumni, the very funny Russell Kane. If memory serves, he was even on my course. He was relating the story of how he got into doing stand-up, which was nothing more than a dare from a friend. He just got up there and did it.
As I thought about this in the days afterwards, I started to get lofty ideas; why couldn't I do that?
Of course, the stage is about as far from my natural home as you can get. Even now, as someone who's fairly confident in their own skin, I get a lump in my throat whenever I get up to speak in front of my classmates - even if the prospect doesn't scare me in the slightest beforehand.
But you know what? Screw it. I'm doing it. One of my housemates (an actress my trade) is beginning a comedy module this semester, and this is the best chance I'm ever going to get at being involved in something like this. I think I'll regret it if I don't at least give it a go, so it has become my official New Year's resolution.
I've been making notes for a few weeks, but as of a few days ago I've actually started writing up a script. Watch this space: I'll let you know when I have more details.
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