[Primal Scream]

Tactfully put beneath a cut so people don’t have to read if they’re not up for a bit of a rant.

Frankenstein – With Just A HINT of W40K Silliness…

Over at the Black Library Bolthole, one of the regulars has set a challenge.  To take a literary classic and put a W40K or WHF twist on it.  I couldn’t resist.  Neither could I resist the opportunity to write something  just a little more lighthearted than usual, either.  So here’s the first part of my W40K re-working of Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’…

Exciting Stuff

Fun things are going on in my life at the moment.  Like… really fun.  And exciting.  And even a little bit mind-blowing.  I have to keep going back to an email from someone to read it again and again because part of me still can’t quite believe it. 

Watch this space.

Posted back my first completed proof-read manuscript this week: enjoyed the experience thoroughly and the story was pretty good to boot, so double whammy of entertainment for me there! 

Just… have so much to tell you and sort of can’t.  So… like I said.  Watch this space.  Or look the other way, I’m not the boss of you.

For Posterity

I’m clearing out my external hard drive and found this, which I wrote not long after my mother’s death in 2000.

Remembrance

That isn’t you.

I stand here, looking down at you, lying peacefully in a state of eternal rest, your eyes forever closed against a world that has been so good to you, I know a moment’s anger.  I have tasted this emotion many times in the past few days.  Too many times.

That isn’t you.

The anger passes over into grief at the loss of you.

The grief returns to all shades of anger at the unfairness of it all.

Finally, the anger dissolves into resignation and reluctant acceptance.

I look at you again.

That isn’t you.

The face is wrong, the whole… being is wrong. What you were is no longer there and I do not know why.

This room is small, but careful decoration means that the oppressiveness of the situation and the unmistakable scent of preserved death is lessened. A lone candle burns brightly on the wall under a framed print of a verse which brings hot tears to my eyes.

 ‘All is Well’, it reassures me, calmly.  ‘All is Well’.

I look at you again.

That isn’t you.

I speak to you like I always have. Tell you how I will miss you, that I know life has to go on without you and that I will finally make you proud of me.

Placing the photographs of me, Stephen and Dad into your cold, lifeless hand, I feel the first true grief at the situation. When I lay down the photograph of your first and only grandchild, the grief becomes all pervading, threatening, a thing of fear.

I look at you again, and finally understand that there is nothing to fear. That you will never truly leave as long as I keep your memory alive.

Speaking my final farewell to you, I turn to leave the room and catch sight of myself in the reflection of the glass frame.

And I realise.

That’s you.

Blogtastic!

Well, seeing as the rest of this evening has gone the way of the dodo, I may as well procrastinate a little more and write something in here.

I had great plans for tonight.  GREAT plans, I’m telling you.  I have a manuscript to proofread that has to be back on Friday, I have a short story to tidy up and I have a synopsis to spruce up.  I have a million and one things to do and the whole darned thing was derailed with a phone call.

Then another one, connected to the first.

Then a third, connected to the first two.

And then, just when you thought it was safe to put the phone down, a fourth, neatly tying all the others up.

These phone calls were all LRP related and it all got a bit increasingly silly.  I love my hobby, really I do, but there are times when the whole soap opera drama element of it leaves me wondering why I bother.  (Then Kayleigh rings and everything is marvellous again).

Harmless? I'll show you harmless.

Once that was all cleared up, I though ‘great!  Now I can get on with all the above!‘  Only then a friend of ours decided to randomly turn up on the doorstep.  I sat down with the manuscript at 6.15pm.  I’m only now getting round to doing it at 9.30pm.  Seriously, Whisky, Tango, Foxtrot?

Aside: The Powerpuff Girls appears to be on.  I think I most closely relate to Buttercup.  She’s the tough talkin’ one who’s a bit squishy at heart.  Hence… the picture.

So yeah, this evening’s gone completely to pot, but all is not lost!  I can get a LOT done in two hours.

But first… to set the laptop aside and NOT fall to the lure of those dratted Facebook apps…

The Devil You Know: Mike Carey [A Book Review]

I’ve decided I need to write  more book reviews.  In fact, any book reviews.  I’m already about twelve books in this year and I haven’t bothered reviewing any of them.  This isn’t because I haven’t enjoyed them, it’s because I’m just a lazy arse.

So, here’s my first review.

The Devil You Know: A Felix Castor Novel – Mike Carey

(£7.99, Orbit)

OK, so I’m slow on the uptake.

I’m very familiar with the Other Works [tm] of Mr. Carey, X-Men/Ultimate Fantastic Four legend that he is. I’d been meaning to get around to his Felix Castor series ages ago, but what with the Horus Heresy getting in the way, and then that bloomin’ Kyme man and his Salamanders… then Chris Wraight and his accursed Iron Company – it didn’t look as though I’d ever get to it.

It probably hadn’t helped that I’d completely forgotten the series, either.

In fact, I don’t even remember now what it was that sparked my memory and convinced me to buy the first book in the series when I was recently wasting money I haven’t got on DVDs I don’t really need at Amazon. Whatever it was that jogged my failing, senile memory, I’m glad it did the job.

Because this book is good. Let me throw the blurb out there.

Felix Castor is a freelance exorcist, and London is his stamping ground. At a time when the supernatural world is in upheaval and spilling over into the mundane reality of the living, his skills have never been more in demand. A good exorcist can charge what he likes – and enjoy a hell of a life-style – but there’s a risk: sooner or later he’s going to take on a spirit that’s too strong for him. After a year spent in ‘retirement’ Castor is reluctantly drawn back to the life he rejected and accepts a seemingly simple exorcism case – just to pay the bills, you understand. Trouble is, the more he discovers about the ghost haunting the archive, the more things don’t add up. What should have been a perfectly straightforward exorcism is rapidly turning into the Who Can Kill Castor First Show, with demons, were-beings and ghosts all keen to claim the big prize. But that’s OK; Castor knows how to deal with the dead. It’s the living who piss him off…

‘Right then,’ thinks I. ‘So far, so Dresden Files rip-off.’ For those of you unfamiliar with the extraordinarily fantastic works of Jim Butcher and the eponymous Harry Dresden, might I further suggest these as books worthy of your time and effort?

But no. There’s nothing of the secret underground supernatural of Dresden in Felix Castor’s world. Carey paints a pretty grim picture of an alternate reality London, where the dead rise and go about their daily business alongside the living. Not all is harmonious, of course, and men like Felix Castor and another London-based exorcist, Gabriel ‘Gabe’ McLennan are needed to quell the unquiet dead from time to time.

Felix Castor – ‘Fix’ to ‘those who can bear me’ – realises that he can’t exist forever on the goodwill of his landlady (and friend) alone and that he needs work to pay the mounting bills and his back-rent. How fortuitous for our hero then, that he receives a call from the curator of a document archive. A man who is looking for someone to rid the archive of a ghost who has been seen and who is displaying somewhat violent tendencies. Initially, Castor is not enamoured of either the job or the people at the archive, but he agrees to take the job.

Carey twists and turns the tale in a vast variety of ways, pulling you down one path and then throwing up a brick wall dead end. He’s a master of manipulation: leaving you thinking ‘I know exactly what’s going on here’, and then completely shattering the conclusions you have drawn.

The first half of the book I found reasonably paced, if a little slow. It wasn’t a page turner, certainly, but it was well-written, evocative of London and with a very sympathetic protagonist. The supporting cast were well-drawn and the story bimbled along nicely.

Then I hit the halfway spot. I hit the halfway spot at about 8.30 this morning and I finished the book about 50 minutes later. The speed of the story picked up momentum and hauled me along with it. It was fabulous. It twisted and turned like a… twisty, turny thing (apologies to Blackadder).

When the story finished, I was genuinely disappointed that I hadn’t bought the next book in the cycle: ‘Vicious Circle’. I intend to rectify this when I go into town this afternoon. I’m looking forward to seeing how a particular relationship formed in this book pans out…

‘The Devil You Know’ isn’t anything original as such. It’s a noir-esque detective story with gritty humour thrown in, but Carey, a man used to writing for the visual medium of graphic novels, paints pictures remarkably well. It has its flaws, of course: a lot of his humour and subtle sarcasm is extraordinarily British and I think it would be missed by a lot of people. Some of the pop-culture references he makes might also go unnoticed by those not native to the UK – but it makes a refreshing change to be able to physically insert yourself in the locations he mentions. Euston Station, Petticoat Lane, Cheapside…

Carey takes Felix Castor on one hell of a trip in this story and I’m glad I was there to accompany him.

I recommend this book highly.

Thought For the Day [W40K Short]

Thought for the Day

++ Final systems check complete.
Full functionality confirmed.
Loading…
Loading…
Loading…
Life support systems at optimal functionality. Subject in acceptable state for withdrawal from hibernation.
All systems synchronised. Start up routine Theta 15 intiated.
All is in working order.
Preliminary start-up systems activated, Orientation Programme running.
Thought for the Day: Death is the servant of the righteous.++

Welcome on-line, Brother Octavius.

The voice was without expression; disinterested, monotone and austere and it took a while to permeate through his fuzzy consciousness. Confused, last-gasp memories swam briefly to the surface and tried to break through, but Octavius submerged them again. He was not yet ready to process the vast amount of information coming at him.

Welcome on-line, Brother Octavius.

++ Initialising aural enhancements. ++

Things got a little louder.

Welcome on-line, Brother Octavius.

The voice repeated its greeting and Octavius turned his attention towards it. With a flip of his head, he brought up reams of data. It was a gesture he had always made with his helmet to bring the systems up and was very much an affectation. An affectation that worked, however. He scanned the lines of information in quiet contemplation, only partially recognising that there was a lot more information here than he was used to.

Welcome on-line, Brother Octavius. Respond, please. Orientation Programme Delta-Epsilon-Gamma 987 on line. Respond, please, Brother Octavius.

‘Thank you,’ he replied, automatically, thinking rather than speaking the words. He read down the information before him in quiet contemplation.

‘Orientation programme?’ he queried.

In-built by the designers to aid you with familiarisation of your new environment, Brother Octavius. When orientation is complete, programme will be erased.

His new environment?

A memory fought against his bastion-like self control and bobbed to the surface, floating there like a corpse, face-down in the lake of his recall. He mentally reached out to it to turn it up the right way.

Physical system test commence. Stand up, Brother Octavius.

Absently, without even thinking about it, Octavius obeyed the dispassionate little voice in his consciousness and got up. Almost immediately the last synaptic connection still stubbornly refusing to engage was made as he realised that he was no longer a powerful, eight-foot tall Space Marine.

He was something better. Something bigger. Something even more graced by the Emperor’s favour.

Physical systems check out with no errors. Slight adjustment to servo in right arm required.

++ Servo adjustment initialising. Adjust dampers.++

How do you feel?

‘I am a Dreadnought.’ Wonder mixed with pride and awe coloured Octavius’s mechanically-enhanced voice. ‘How are Dreadnoughts supposed to feel?’

I do not know, Brother Octavius. How do you feel? Turn your head to the left, please. Thank you. Now to the right.

++ Processing visual input. All optical systems are functioning correctly.++

How do you feel, Brother Octavius?

‘I am a Dreadnought.’ Octavius spoke the words aloud this time and the echo of his voice filled the hangar where he was presently situated. He reached out one mechanical arm and crossed it upon his breast in a passable parody of his Chapter’s war salute. ‘I am the Emperor’s blade. I serve Him even beyond death. Above all others, I am honoured.’

Response is acceptable. What do you remember, Brother Octavius?

What did he remember? The Dreadnought now known as Brother Octavius turned his head slightly. The hiss of hydraulics accompanied the movement. The vast shape before him that served now as his arm loomed in front of him, huge and deformed and humming with so much contained power that he could feel it coursing through his –

Veins?

Did he have any now?

What was he, exactly?

For the remainder of his service to the Emperor and to his Chapter, Octavius would be suspended in a bio-tank that kept what remained of his organic, physical self. The tank was connected by cables and wires and other mysteries of the Mechanicum to the neural sensors that powered the Dreadnought.

In a distant part of his mind, he knew that the sheer joy of the knowledge that above all others he had been chosen for this honour would have made him weep. However, he could do such things no longer.

What do you remember, Brother Octavius?

‘Nothing of consequence.’ He had been a Captain, that much he knew – and his name had not been Octavius. He did not remember which company he had commanded. He remembered none of the men under his command. ‘I remember my death.’

Incorrect analysis, Brother Octavius. You are not dead.

No, he wasn’t dead. But on a deep level, he well knew that the man he had once been, the warrior who had once fought with his battle brothers was gone. Did that make him sad?

No. He no longer felt emotion. He finally understood the programme’s initial question. He knew how he felt.

He felt ready.

He turned his attentions to the next question.

‘I remember the injuries that rendered my body beyond the help of the Apothecaries. I remember the battle against the orks.’ He processed and crunched. ‘Query: does the battle continue?’

Answer: affirmative, Brother Octavius. The battle has raged for a solar month since your incapacitation. Are you ready to re-join your men?

‘Yes,’ he said immediately. ‘I am ready, Delta-Epsilon-Gamma 987. All systems are at full functionality. I am ready for deployment.’

Excellent. Deployment will commence in T minus four hours. All systems check.

++ Orientation complete. Programme Delta-Epsilon-Gamma 987 shutting down. ++

Octavius hesitated. He felt that he should say something else, that the situation warranted some kind of human response. But then he remembered that humanity was a long way behind him now.

‘Thought for the day,’ he said. ‘Not even the dead know the end of war.’

The sense of company within his programming had gone, but he was sure he felt the faintest tinge of approval.

‘Deployment in T minus three hours, fifty seven minutes,’ he rumbled.

He was ready.

Dear Mum

Dear Mum

“She was very kind, your mum.”

So said your friend, Denise, nine years ago today after I had to leave the house for a bit. It was weird in there.  Dad was exhausted, my brother had gone home to get some sleep and I was sitting there on the sofa staring at the empty chair where you should have been sitting.  I had to get out for a bit.

“She never had a bad word to say about anybody. She was ever so generous.”

This year has been different.  This year, the pain has been a lot less.  I still miss you, you daft old baggage, of course I do – it just doesn’t sting so much.  It’s no longer bitter anger at a world that took you away from me, it’s now more quiet regret.

Plus, this year has been… interesting.  A lot of things that we used to talk about have sort of started to come to fruition in strange ways.  Faction command, would you believe… I’ve got the proofreading for the Black Library thing going on, I’ve made friends with quite a few people who have influenced me hugely in my writing and it’s all been very cathartic.  The regular monthly game down at the Evillest of Refs place smacks suspiciously of having an almost-social life, and now that Jamie’s joining in too, it’s even better.

Speaking of Jamie, mum, you’ll be proud to know that in his pre-SATs tests, he’s scored an overall 5a, which as I understand it, is as good a score as you can attain at primary level.  He’ll start secondary school in September.  He’ll go places, that boy, I’m telling you.  I know you’d be proud of him, because I am, and as we’ve established on more than one occasion, I’m very much who you were.

“She loved you all very much indeed.”

I don’t remember much about the conversation I had with Denise on the 10th December 2000.  I remember that it helped my aching soul immensely – and those three things have always stuck in my mind as summarising you beautifully.

Kind, generous, loving.

Moving into the tenth year of your absence and you’re still watching over me, making sure me and my family are good and making every attempt to cramp my style wherever possible.

The local radio station played ‘Search For the Hero’ on my request.  This makes them alright in my book, even if nearly all the presenters have now changed their names by deed poll to ‘Vote Joe’ in anticipation of this weekend’s X-Factor final.  Mum, you’d laugh at that one, I know.

So… until next year.

All my love,
Sarah
x

Splish! ~KA*BOOM~

(Bonus points to anybody who can name the game…)

Been a hectic couple of weeks in Sarah-land.  After some very hectic stuff both at home and work, Dearly Beloved and I decided on a whim to have a rare weekend away together, which we achieved last week.  Was many shades of awesome: we went via Bugman’s at Warhammer World and drank copious amounts of coffee (WAS DRIVING, ‘K?) with some very pleasant company indeed, before battling our way through Derby to Alton Towers ‘Splash Landings’ hotel.

Now THERE was some fun to be had!  Lots of water, lots of idly floating along the Lazy River on a rubber ring, lots of water in my inner ear making me temporarily deaf… I ALWAYS know it’s going to happen, but still do it anyway.  Lots of reading W40K stuff: I finished Mr. Kyme’s delicious ‘Salamander’ and read through a couple of others as well over the course of the weekend.  Am contemplating which one to read next.  Will probably give in to pressure and read ‘Gaunt’s Ghosts’ now.  Although I WANT to read either ‘Cadian Blood’ or ‘Iron Company’.

So that was last weekend.  I came back to work on Monday feeling very chilled out.

Didn’t last long.

They’ve been replacing the windows in our block at the hospital and this has created seven shades of uproar.  No desk, no electric, nowhere to go… I was a homeless little soul wandering the corridors of the University Hospital of North Tees like a shade, taking refuge in any empty desk spaces I could find.

Have office (and electric) back now.  New windows are very nice… but they’re still letting all the cold in, through vents which are apparently ‘closed’.  Freezing, it is.

Also been very busy engaged in a writing project that’s seen me strip back one of my stories and jiggle it around to (hopefully) make it better.  That’s been fun.

And before you know it, weeks have gone past and you’ve still got a billion things to do. 

The Christmas scene is upon us once again.  Nothing planned: Small Son is at his dad’s place this year (only fair: he HAS been with me for the last four years – largely due to ex’s incompetence rather than planning).

(Aside: a friend just sent me this link.  Some people are strange.  Plus, the co-presenter on the local radio breakfast show has changed her name by deed poll to ‘Vote Joe’ for the local chap who’s in that X-Factor rubbish).

Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Christmas.

My birthday 17th, Dearly Beloved’s on the 20th… so many things to celebrate, but there’s something far more important that needs to be handled before any of that can start.

10th December.

On the 10th December, it will be 9 years since my mother died.  The pain of that has lessened as the years have drifted past, but there are still moments when the sting of her loss gets too much to bear.  Now, though – now, I cry about it.  Which whilst it doesn’t sound good, actually is.  I made myself a bit loopy for a while in the first couple of years after she died by ‘coping admirably’.

I miss my mum.  Every day for the past nine years I have thought that at least once a day.  When I want to talk to her, I can’t (not without attracting the odd funny look from people – and I DO talk to her in the car).  What I find hardest to deal with is the fact she never got to see Small Son grow into the awesome little soul that he is today.  She never got to hear him say crazy things like ‘in the old days, it was sunny’, or be delighted to hear that he got 36/40 on his mental maths test today. 

Would she be proud of him?  Hell, yes.

Would she be proud of me?  I really, really hope so.  It’s memories of her and her non-physical presence gently encouraging me to push further than I ever have in some aspects of my life.  It’s memories of her and how well-loved she was by everyone who knew her that drive me to emulate her.

I always believed, after she died, that what made my mum my mum lives on.  It’s in my head, in my heart, in my soul.  Physical mum may be nine years gone, but the mum I knew and loved is still there.  It’s just harder to hug her. 

Ah, this is coming out all maudlin and it’s not meant that way.  I’ll forever be grateful that I got to spend as many years of my life with her as I did.  She was a good old stick.

So… onwards to December and whatever it may bring.

Fire, Ice and Rage [Doctor Who]

I’m in a decidedly better head space now.  Have had something of an emotional roller-coaster this last week or so, for all sorts of reasons, but definitely a bit brighter now.  So instead of whinging, I present to you a Tenth Doctor piece I wrote after the Paul Cornell two-parter ‘Human Nature’/'The Family of Blood’.  I loved those episodes; they were deliciously creepy and along with Steven Moffat’s ‘Blink’ were definitely the highlight of New Series 3 for me.