A butchers Dozen

It's been a good few months but here is(at last) a new entry.

I have a new project that I am working on that will the biggest yet concerning my writting,thanks to the places I have had my stories published I now feel that I can move up to publishing something of my own.

Lulu is pretty much a God send of ideas and makes it possible for me to create my own publication and this one will be a collection of 13 short stories by me.
Called A Butchers Dozen(a fantastic title thought of by my wife) it will consist of all my own work on a myraid of subject matter but all of them being in the genre of horror.

I thought it was about time I did something a little ambitious and seeing as I am not quite ready to write something of novel stature a collection of short horror feels like just the ticket.
This will be a big task still as many of the stories are yet to be written,yet I do have lot's of notes upon quite a few of the tales in advance. I am going to be looking through ALL my notes from years of idea collecting to see if anything can be used in my book or to see if anything from the past can spark a new inovation.

Laying in bed trying to get to sleep certainly helps you formulate new ideas and that's exactly how I hit upon the this venture I just hope all 13 stories are of good standard(at the least).
I will keep all you readers updated via my blog and will post samples/teasers as time goes by just to give you a taster as to what some of the stories will be like.

Keep well and warm,

James :)

The perspective you have on the world and that unique slant you place on reality is usually held in place by some fleeting/trivial concepts.
Of course your education and upbringing build the foundation but in your personal quest to decipher the vagaries we will clutch unto even the most strangest thing as long as it keeps us from harm.

My nan when she was alive was a bastion of love and safety for me and my brothers and sister. She always had time for us and allowed us to be just what we wanted to be....children.
Christmas was the best time to go and visit her because of how festive things felt you would go to my nans and sense the familiar things. The smell of a paraffin heater that only the elderly would use because they were so damn dangerous. The smell of cooking sausages from the kitchen.
The scent of warmth and comfort too a signature that hugs your instincts so affectionately that you can never properly describe it in a way that can translate.
One bok my nan used to show us all the time around the advent of chirstmas was Raymond Briggs's Father Christmas.
It contained barley any dialogue but was full of care,love and delicately held dreams the book was magic itself. My nan always used to make me giggle when she pointed out one illustrated frame where Father Christmas was sitting on the toilet.
Along with The Snowman book that Briggs's always wrote I learned to hold the hand of Briggs's because he along with my nan were proof that the world was actually nice,harmless and ultimately loving.
Magic was always key in Briggs's books the fact that it can happen and also come about in such a glorious and friendly manner made me smile.
Time passed and I grew little by little and eventually started to doubt the fact that father Christmas actually exsisted. When I was nine I figured out that he was nothing more than a myth.
The thing was that it didn't really cause me much heart break Christmas was always about having my family around me even at such a young age. Father Christmas was fun but he wasn't what it was all about.
I continued to enjoy my nan showing me the Raymond Briggs's Christmas book as much as I ever did however I was now ten and started to become interested in the other side of life.
That's when I first saw the video trailer for Raymond Briggs's When The Wind Blows and after that a exploration into the horror of reality was embarked upon.
The trialer itself looked homorus even if it wasn't filled with festive cheer.
I did notice a faint edge of darkness in the promotional clip but couldn't quite put my finger on what it was.
However since my mum and sister were in the room at the same time they saw it and were interested in seeing if it was anything like the T.V animation The Snowman.




Well soon enough it ended up in our small local video shop and it was grabbed off the shelf we were all curious to see what it was about.
I think my mum knew it was about a war of some type but had no idea on what it actually portrayed.



So we all watched and what started out as a jolly little animation about a dotty little couple(James and Hilda) who had retired to the country for the gentle breeze and embrace of nature.
However this couple armed only with past experience from world war 2 and a blind trust in the government caring at all for their people. Had to deal with the onslaught of a full scale nuclear war.
It turned into something deathly black,diseased,irradiated and brutal. I saw Raymond briggs tear down all the false havens I held as a child and replace them with a bellowing,towering,seething mushroom cloud.
There were rats in the toilet bowl instead of a jolly father Christmas delevering presents.
Radiation sickness as opposed to the hic-cup of too much sherry,bleak death on the horizon instead of snow to create a magical snowman from.
It felt as if this is what the world was really all about and this is what people really wanted to do to each other using armies and missiles.

As good as Raymond Briggs made this feature some part of me never really forgave him for doing this because it felt as if I had a chunk of happiness ripped out of me.
One strange fact that really is a teeth kicker in the second animation of Raymond Briggs's Father Christmas our jolly xmas hero goes on holiday to Scotland.
In the background of the pub is James from when the wind blows whom perished in the agonising aftermath of nuclear fallout.

In my mind that ties it in directly with the whole Raymond Briggs's Christmas universe(as in the Snowman animation the same Father Christmas met the snowman) so all of those little dreams have been slain.


As a little side not Briggs later made another animation called grandpa about a girl who would go on wonderful adventures with her grandad...at the very end the grandad dies.
We see the girl cry and then the whole picture ends......:(

A new chiller.

I have just finished a new short chiller that was design to be finished for christmas but it got a bit delayed with another story I was writing. I hope to send this to a horror antholigy book that is being published however I may have missed the deadline.

So tell me what you think and don't be shy in being honest.

hank you

James
;)

PITH
by
James Stanger

Mrs. Daisy Peddler rolled out pastry on the flour-dusted work surface. She smiled at the idea of baking sugary treats for the many grasping hands and rose-red cheeks of her children. She and Mr. Francis Peddler had four children in all. Joseph, Nigel, Sandy, and little baby Gemma who would see in her first Christmas.

She hummed a floaty, fanciful tune to herself as she made flattening strokes across the pastry. The house was so warm and delightful. Everything glowed with a sweet, tender joy: the sparkle of the electric lights about the Christmas tree, the metallic red and blue of the decorations hanging from the ceiling.

She paused from her baking for a second and picked up the card, slightly damp from condensation, that perched on the kitchen windowsill. The children had made this for her. On the front was a picture of a joyous Father Christmas with a sack full of presents pushing himself into a chimney. Their eldest, Joseph, drew it with uncanny skill for a ten-year-old boy. Poor little Nigel and Sandy couldn’t colour within the lines.

She chuckled. What it lacked in artistic skill, it made up for in love and delight, especially with little Gemma’s thumbprint on the front in green and red. The whole card was just marvellous. She opened it up and inside it read: “To Mummy, we love you very much and can’t wait until Father Christmas comes, love Joseph, Nigel, Sandy and our little Gemma.”

She let a tiny tear of joy roll from her eye and held the card close to her bosom. She looked up at the clock. It was nearly 8pm and her darling husband would be home soon from shopping for a week of Christmas. He told her he wanted to be with her and the children because this was his favourite time of the year and he couldn’t wait to start it.

Daisy left the kitchen after washing her hands and went to the living room to make a drink for her husband and herself. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw his small red car pull up outside the house. The snow flurried against the window, making the margarine yellow of the street light blur and speckle. She thought Francis would be pleased to be home out of that and doze in front of the fire, holding her tight with affection.

Francis stepped out of the cosy cocoon of his vehicle and into the swirling blizzard of Christmas Eve night. He slammed the door behind him and walked over to the boot of his red Fiesta crunching the snow with his workmen’s boots. Dressed in a thick grey duffle coat, he could have been mistaken for Paddington Bear, for both held life with an optimistic hand and greeted all who crossed their path.

He opened the boot to remove bags of gifts for the day ahead, filled to the brim with toys, games and sweets for the children, plastic bags of magic to lovingly cast upon his most treasured little ones and give them the joys he never had.

The final bag held his wife’s present. It was a topaz brooch in the form of a dragonfly. Edged in silver and with two perfect ruby gem eyes, he remembered how it sparkled with such life and warmth way back in mid-March, the moment Daisy first fell in love with it.

He struggled to close the boot with the sheer weight and volume of the bags of presents he carried. He still managed it and stifled a giggle at his predicament. Stepping awkwardly down the path he finally reached his front door. With no free hands, he was reduced to pushing the bell with his nose. He smiled at what he must have looked like.

No sooner had he pressed it, than Daisy opened the door, beaming a radiant smile upon him. “Oh love, would you look at yourself. Let your heart spend your money again.” She smiled.

“Well, that’s the way it should be.”

She hurried him in, helping him unload whilst he shut the front door. “You look exhausted, poor thing. Fancy a drink?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t say no.” He wandered into the living room where the children were all crouching around the television watching the Grinch stealing Christmas. He waited for them to notice him. They were glued to the set. He slumped down in his favourite armchair, coughed, and they didn’t even stir.

“Shall we tell Father Christmas not to bother coming over this year, Mum?” Success! Three wide-eyed, open-mouthed children turned their heads towards their father, snapping to attention. “Daddy!” Joseph yelled. All the children ran towards their father cuddling with admiration. He beamed contentedly. All the trading and effort in the shops was worth it if it made his little ones happy.

Daisy came into the living room with a large glass of whiskey and placed it in his hand. “Okay now, I let you stay up to see Daddy. Time for you lot to go to bed.”

“But Grinch, Mummy.” Sandy pleaded.

“Look you want Father Christmas to come to you, don’t you?”

“Yes!!”

“Then hop it to bed, sweetie.”

Along with her brothers, she ran up the stairs, giggling. Daisy snuggled up with her husband and laughed. “You tired, baby?” she said

“You bet. I am going to have this drink and go to bed myself soon.” She slowly kissed him, pleased that her beloved husband was back and ready for a wonderful Christmas. She left the living room and picked up the presents from the hallway. “I suppose I am wrapping again this year?” she said.

“Well, you’re best at it.” came the reply.

Daisy spent the evening neatly wrapping presents for the children’s stockings. Francis lazed in front of the television watching Christmas specials and eating his favourite seasonal treat.

Satsumas!

One after another he peeled and ate them, devoured them indiscriminately until something caught his eye. It was a piece of pith from the satsuma he was tearing open. It looked much like a spider’s web. Francis stared at it, perplexed. He was glad he didn’t eat any of that orange because he found that it was plagued with blue-green mold.

The pith came off the inside crown of the fruit. It seemed almost claw shaped as if it were grasping for something greedily. “Take a look at this.” He held out the strange piece of white material for his wife to see.

“What the devil is that, darling? Looks like a crow’s foot.”

“It’s from the moldy orange, honey. Pretty funny, isn’t it?”

“Well, don’t put it in here! It’s all nice and tidy. Throw it away.”

Francis grinned, watching his wife make her journey to bed. He snuck into the kitchen and hid the pith on the shelf. She wouldn’t know. He then looked at his last task before bed: delivering the presents to his children. He couldn’t wait.

The pith lay still on the kitchen shelf; damp, pale and stringy it was concealed in darkness, alone and cold. It flinched after several minutes, a frail twitch, but still the movement was all of its own accord.

Then another twitch, this time stronger and more purposeful: something had awoken inside the flaky white strips. One of the shorter torn stalks started to move, a pained action, but one of powerful instinct. The stalk started to stretch.

It grew ever so slowly at first, but with each passing moment the growth increased and before too long the shortest piece of pith became the longest. For some unearthly reason this set into action a chilling metamorphosis from the fulcrum: each piece of stalk started to grow.

They thickened and stretched, sprawled and reached. Soon the pith was twice the size of its original form. Wild, pale tendrils filled the space it occupied, its resting area now too small to hold its subject.

So, with purpose, it wrapped its advancing limbs around the shelf, covering it in matted shoots of new growth and coiling around a small potted plant, initially wrapping its soft arms around it, but eventually crushing the plant with some freshly developed strength. In the centre of the spawning tumour a tiny mouth was forming; it developed rudimentary lips and inside tiny grey bumps were shaping.

Before long, some of the spirals of growth were tearing pieces of the plant off and feeding them into the hungry mouth. The new teeth crunched and gnawed at the fresh nourishment and a newly developed throat swelled. The chewed plant matter slid down into a sticky bump of white webbing where the growth digested its meal.

The greed of the mouth demanded more flesh and an increasing number of limbs stripped and tore at the defenceless plant to fill the growth’s swelling belly. The surging lust for existence motioned the terrifying abomination to expand and mutate further. It had now devoured the small pot plant beside it leaving only a brick-red pot full of moist soil.

The organism had transformed into a heaving mass of squirming tentacles. It was now about the size of a small child and yet still it grew.

The kitchen shelves, refrigerator and much of the surrounding work surface were covered in a thick, mushy pulp, a targeted webbing of pulsing white veins. One tendril had started to elongate and wind to the cold tiled floor. It looked different to the others; thick and muscular, with what looked like thin streamlined arteries coursing through the length.

Deep orange in hue, the whole limb crept its way across the floor, up the cupboard and into the sink, which was full of dishwater. It sank its tip into the discoloured water and upon contact, started to absorb the liquid, pumping it into the middle of the thriving white heap.

The focus of the malformation had not only a well-developed jaw, but two slit eyes were appearing, blazing yellow. There were two nasal cavities also, shaped like deep slashes; the monster took its first full breath of air.

The oxygen was the catalyst for a substantial physical change. After the initial intake of breath the face pushed forward and up, stretching like molten plastic. It rose like a hot stick of gum and whilst rising, twisted and contorted itself a head.

It was a rough oval shape, jagged on the edges; below a muscular neck formed streak-white like bacon rind. Broad heavy shoulders surfaced from the rapidly changing pile of pith, sap ooze became pectoral-like muscles, the gloopy ivory sludge also making an abdomen.

On either side of the formation the twisting stringy tentacles started to combine and mix to create a pair of extremely ill formed arms. The thing looked down with its new head and witnessed the genesis of two monster legs.

It waited for a while because its skin needed to harden and form an impenetrable shell. Crusty and thorny, it needed protection from harm. Along with this, groups of razor-sharp talons developed over the entire surface of both forearms.

“I’ve filled the kids’ stockings.” Francis smiled gleefully at his wife. They were now alone, wrapped in the loving glow of their bedroom.

“Then come to bed, silly.”

She flung the duvet aside to welcome him into her warm and adoring arms. Everything seemed so perfect, wonderfully peaceful and comforting. Francis climbed into bed and wrapped himself around Daisy.

“You should have seen the children, fast asleep and so sweet. Little Gemma was so beautiful in her new cot. I could have stood and watched them forever.”

Daisy sighed, looking deep into the eyes of her husband. Love blossomed in her spirit and body. She kissed him softly on the lips.

“You’d better turn the lamp off now, darling. We are going to need all our strength tomorrow.”

Francis winked and giggled, turning around to switch off the small bedside lamp. They both lay in each other’s arms; blissfully ignoring the winter storm outside and ever so gently fell asleep.

By now the monster was walking. The hunched humanoid moved slowly across the kitchen floor: it needed sustenance.

Nothing in the kitchen appealed to its foul tastes. It was not fresh enough, not alive. The monster craved living tissue. Its aching footsteps created a dry, hollow noise as it scuttled towards the stairs.

Its hands, malformed and claw like, tightened with anticipation as it slowly began its creeping ascent up the stairs. It cast a sharp broken shadow upon the white wall, much like a foreboding mountain range, steep ridges and peaks only an insane climber would dare challenge.

A wheezing, parched sound emitted from the monster’s fearsome mouth. Its breath was shallow and brittle. It lumbered quietly up the stairs, arms slouched either side of its husk like frame, its face grim and unforgiving.

It stood motionless on the darkened landing. It could hear the soft breathing of the children coming from the large bedroom at the far end of the passage. It grinned. The door in front of it held deeper breathing sounds created by heavy and less vulnerable people.

The monster quietly snarled.

Later, it thought. The promise of flesh far softer and less resistant tempted it towards the door of the children’s’ bedroom.

Daisy started from her sleep and opened one eye.

“Sweetheart! Did you hear something?” She tried to alert her husband. The reply was doused in lethargy. “It was like a ‘grrrrrrrring’ noise,” she said.

“You’re half asleep and hearing things, darling. Go back to sleep.”

Daisy wondered for a second, and then thought it best to shut her eyes again. Dream sometimes melded with reality.

The monster cast its ragged shape over the children’s’ door, looming oppressively, a projection of evil. It reached out an arm and nudged the door. It inched slowly open and stopped. The monster nudged it again until the door was completely wide open. It grinned again. Its bracken mouth couldn’t wait for the taste of food. It saw all the small, pale living things tucked up in their beds like tightly wrapped food parcels.

As it turned its head to survey the room something aroused its delight: a small pretty baby dozing happily in its cot. The monster moved forwards gently and with measured steps it approached the baby’s cot and let its gruesome head peer in.

Its slot eyes looked deeply at the baby’s closed eyelids as it pressed its own forehead onto the baby’s skull.

Nigel had heard someone creep into the bedroom. His heart pumped with excitement and just as he was about to turn his head to look, he realised. “It’s Father Christmas! Mummy said if I wanted presents from him I had to close my eyes and be a good boy.” He smiled and turned back to sleep, wondering what delights the morning would bring.

“Oh God. Already?” Francis said. He was awoken by the squeals and yelling of his children.

“Have they started already? What time is it?” Daisy asked. Francis pushed back the digital alarm clock and fell back onto the bed. 3:30am.

“That’s far too early. We’re going to have to go and tell them to pack it in.” Daisy and Francis both put on their dressing gowns and wearily traipsed towards the children’s’ room.

The noise was growing louder as they went and something was odd. The screams seemed slightly hysterical and maybe even frightened. Then Francis thought he heard something like a munching sound. And what about little Gemma? How come she wasn’t crying? Surely she wasn’t still asleep amongst all this din?

Daisy pushed the door open.

Her breath left her. Gemma’s soft cot was splattered with blood. Joseph’s body was split in half, sliced open by something fierce and heavy. Sandy, screaming, wanted to be with Mummy, but was too afraid. Nigel sobbed and whined, hiding under his duvet. Yet nothing seemed to bother the monster as it set about devouring what was left alive.

Francis gasped in horror: watching the monster chewing down on baby Gemma’s skull, eating its contents.

'Cor lummy it's been a while.

So is Jack Frost twisting pretty patterns on your window can you feel the chill and brr of winter well I can abit but then it is cold(obvious-sentence-man joins the Just-ice leauge :P)

Finaly I have my computer up and running thanks to my lovely partner :) so it's important I write another entery into the blog even if it's as freqent as Hialys comet.
The last month and a hlf has been a massive turn around in my life I have met the woman of my dreams,moved out of my parents place into hers/ours,relocatted to a place by the sea*Brighton* and finaly got what I always wanted.
I didn't see it comming nor did I expect things to turn out the way they have...but they did and I am thanking the heavens for the blessings I have recived.

I hope all my readers are doing fantastic and are looking foward to Xmas or whichever festival you are celebrating for this time of yeah.
I am going to my parents for a great christmas but it will be noisy and it will be that time of year when you wished batteries did not exsist.
Silas if you are reading I want to send out a personal Merry Christmas to you and to say sorry I haven't been around as of late but I have now finaly set up and we can contact each other more :).
My writing is doing well I need to finish off a few things and I am also writing a Christmas horror tale that with a little luck will be avaible in audio form via the B.H.F(georgy doing the vocals).
For now that's is the update just wanted everyone to know how amazing my partner is and how much I am looking foward to the bright future we shall have...I am so very happy right now and I hope you guys/gals get the same feelings in your lives as I do.

Bye for a bit

James :)

Progress it seems...

Okay first off I am still reviewing the B.H.F horror book but rather than review each tale as I read them I am going to read them all then review them shouldn't be long now :)

That's that done so unto the next bits.

it feels as if progress is being made in my life I mean I still have a crumby job but that isn't really to difficult to change and the way I see it I will have a pretty dull place of work for as long as my writing is part-time.
If I manage to get a little cash from writing it would be brilliant and I am not expecting anything other than personal satisfaction out of writing I mean getting paid elephant sized bags of cash for writing isn't easy.
I am more than happy to be a not to rich writer because I know I would be happier that way than working somewhere with no spare time making okay money but having no time for what brings me joy.

Anyway that's not the real progress in my life what is would be the person who I have recently met her name is Georgy and he comes into my life like a beautifuly combined angel and devil partnership:)
It was totaly unexpected I was just trudging through the leaves of life looking up to see if I could find the sun behind the clouds and their she was arms encasing me in love.
I can feel a clear focus falling over my eyes and new swagger in my step I am growing a little more each day inside with the most lovely warm feelings.
People are capable of powering up others with the ease of an arrow through velvet and Georgys love passed into me with such guile and sublimity I don't think I knew I was hooked until I was. I got someone and that hasn't been something I could say in a long while and I aim to keep it.

All the cold places where I go seem to now thaw the frost without the bite it used to love to numb my heart with is...no more. I have someone to accompany me on the many battles that await me in life...or should I us.


I would also like to mention to my friend Silas that I am sorry about his friends departure but all I will say is that he is stronger in spirit form than anyone can ever be in physical.
He will excel wherever he is now because he is weak no more and I bet right now is delighted with the things he is discovering about...well everything.

Keep warm and well my dear friend.

Anthony Clarke is Sick (review)

This is the first tale of the B.H.F Horror Stories book and sets the pace with an uneasy chill.
Anthony Clarke wakes up feeling unwell and his feeling are communicate to the reader from the off set creating a sense of mucas filled unhealthy.
Making the reader feel whatever ailment this man has with the use of common themes that play around things we have all had blocked nose,bad head and incessant weakness.
The tale quickly establishes the condition of the main character without over explaining and moving swiftly into advancing the story with natural pleasing pace.
As Anthony moves around his flat you also get the sense that the place hasn't been the most active of homes in quite a while almost as if Anthony has been in his slumber for more than a night.
Infact if it wasn't for the writer later explaining how often the main character did go to work I would be inclined to think that he had been in his house for some considerable time. Festering in his bed and struck down with some powerfully virus. This does however work well when we come to the climax of story of which I shall explain later.
Anthony Clarke then muses about his life a little allowing the reader a small glimpse into his history and how boredom and the numbness of being one of many has seemed initially enter his life and later almost consume him.
The nihilism of an office is cleary communicated in Anthonys thoughts it his clear that the man not only doesn't want to work in his office but feels it is detriment to his very existence.

After the short self reflection Anthony summons the the will to call into work however he is not calling in sick instead he wishes to play a prank.
The writer tells us how Anthony strives to spark life into his work place with simple gestures however when Anthony does get a reaction it is usually one of distain that he does not wish to encounter again.
As a joke our lead character calls his deparment and demands to talk to Anthony Clarke(himself of course).
At first the call is met with a little confusion as the girl at the desk (Debbie) doesn't seem to know if there is such a person in the company.
However then there is a short silence and then a young voice and this is where the chill kicks in. Anthony recognises the voice infact it is too familiar for comfort he recognises at his own from when he was younger.
His mind then tracks back to when he first startd the job and recalls that he received a call very much like this on the same day from a person demanding the same thing.

The disturbing fact causes our lead man to place the phone down and we are left to wonder what exactly are the consqences of this.
To me it appears that the writer has left things open maybe Anthony has called into a parallel universe or it could be that he has gone insane due to the numbness of his life.
There are a few possibilities but the way I read it is that Anthony Clarke has acutely ceased to be he has died possibly in his sleep and of the virus that he supposedly "awoke" from.
Somehow the dead ghost of Anthony called his younger self somehow breaking all barriers of time and physics with the untamed rules of the supernatural.
Of course this is just my interpretation of the events in the tale however what I do know is that the ending is far more than it seems and presents far more chilling question than we care to ask.


Review by:

James Stanger

It's all worth it.....

Yes that's right all the doubts and worry coupled with fear of faliure it's all worth going through when you manage to produce something that is someway towards worthy.
To have my story included in the this book makes me feel on top of the world because I am amoungst writers of great talent who know what ideas are and what makes for a chilling yarn.

Not only does this make me feel like I have made a personal break through but it begs me to write more as I feel that there is a solid reason to carry on with writing.
Not only this but I have had some great things said about my tale too which I never even thought could be said about it.
Aside from my input which I have spoken about a lot already there are some superb writers in this short story collection and I will write a review of each tale as I read them and put the review up on this blog so you can get a taste for what treats are in store for you if you wish to pick up a copy of it(and you will be satisfied if you do so).

However because I am feeling self-indulgent this once and also due to the fact this my blog I just wanted to add a couple of things some important British Horror freinds of mine have said to me about what I wrote:

Chris(Tsar of the British Horror Forum and talented writer)

And James' story... well. I'm so happy that people are enjoying it. When I read it I thought it had a strange kind of power all of its own - there's an anger there which really leaps off the page, and ideas which get under your skin. I think I'm right in saying it was his first attempt at a short story too - perhaps it'll be James who beats us all to the punch and gets a publishing deal?

Darrel Buxton(The true source of British hororr fil information EVER and talented writier)

Just read 'Beggar's Banquet' this evening, having saved it til last, and found it to be a really creepy, squalid little piece of modern horror. I'd go so far as to say that it's also the most 'British' story in the whole collection - despite echoes of Jeffrey Dahmer, you set the city scene so well, and encapsulate the world of the homeless with such accuracy, that it's somehow difficult to imagine this tale taking place in a foreign setting. The lives of the shabby unfortunates at the centre of the tale work as a microcosm of a much greater social problem (the expansion of the story for the final paragraphs therefore working perfectly). I could virtually feel my feet sticking to the carpet in Calvin's flat, and the insect population of the place almost take on a weird character all of their own. Very daring of you to incorporate a flashback in the middle too! (Mart's frantic, half-remembered recollection of his abusive father).

I know you'll take it as a compliment if I say this would have made a really great episode of the 'Urban Gothic' t.v. show.

Okay you all must be board with my self-promoting by now so I will make up for it in the next couple of days by showing you how good the other tales are :)