Things that go bump in the night

What’s this? A blog post? Madness, I know. Sorry for the lengthy hiatus, I’ve been busy either having fun or working and simply haven’t had the time to blog at all. The ironic thing is that in that last month or so we’ve had the brutal lynching of Gaddafi, cabinet ministers inviting friends along to confidential meetings and the European economy teetering on the brink of collapse because of massive debt accumulated by Greece. All in all, plenty to talk about if I’d managed to find the time. Unfortunately I didn’t find the time, although the Greek crisis is still happening, so I might say something about that next week. For now, I’m not really sure what to say about it.

While global politics is fun and all, last week was Halloween, and that is far more fun! I’ve always had a somewhat strained relationship with horror as a genre; while I really quite enjoy being scared by films, stories and even videogames, I’ve always found that many things simply do not scare me that much. I find that often the genre falls a little flat because the sole purpose of it is to unnerve the viewer/reader/player, rather than actually tell a story of any kind. The best horror almost always has an engaging story behind it that you can appreciate without having to have been especially scared by the rest of the stuff going on.

The reason I bring this up is that last weekend I watched two horror movies, firstly the original Wickerman (not the crap one with Nicholas Cage) and secondly, Antichrist, which might well be the scariest movie I have ever seen. I mentioned a few months ago that I watched Insidious and had been pretty effectively unsettled by it. Antichrist was by far worse. I think there are some fairly obvious reason why Antichrist was so terrifying, but also some far more subtle ones that are perhaps more telling.

I’ve long been a fan of Pseudopod, a weekly horror podcast that I’ve mentioned on this blog before. However I’ve never actually found the stories I listen to there scary per se. They’re often interesting, offer a fascinating insight into the human condition and take a revealing look at the darker side of culture and humanity, but they’re not necessarily all that scary. In fact, I often find that I’m more scared by the flash fiction stories that by the longer ones, possibly because they are far more punchy and to the point. I think that main issue is that the stories are purely in audio form. Horror tends to be very visual. I find it is images or scenes that most get into my head and affect me, so purely written or oral stories tend not to stick in my head and really get to me in the same way. I have to imagine the scenes, rather than seeing them, which makes it less effective. Shorter stories work better, perhaps, because I have less time to rationalise my perception of the scenes described. In fact, the most effective story I’ve heard on Pseudopod comes from Episode 203; Flash on the Borderlands IV, the third story in that episode, ‘Is this a Horror Story?’ is incredibly simply, conceptually, and probably more effective because of it.

I think the main reason why I tend not to get all that scared by horror in general, in any media, is that, for the most part, horror is simply not done all that well; having said that, it must be admitted that horror is very hard to do well. It is all too easy to overplay things like shock-horror, where things jump out and surprise you, which is not so much horror as simple shock, or gore horror, where the screen is filled the blood and gore and explicit depictions of visceral mutilation, which is not so much horror as faintly disgusting. There is nothing wrong with either of these things per se, but they must be used with extreme caution and in small doses. Indeed, Antichrist uses both shock and gore horror to great effect, because it’s used sparingly.

Two of the most effective scenes in Antichrist are the ones in which the female lead first breaks her husband’s penis with a wooden block and later cuts her own clitoris off. More graphic, you will not find. The thing that makes these scenes most effective, leaving aside the sheer horribleness of the acts themselves, is that these are the only two visceral scenes in the movie. There is scary, unpleasant and fairly graphic imagery elsewhere, but in terms of gore, that’s it. They stand out as by far the most visually unpleasant scene in the movie. The placement of these scenes is also very important. They occur at the beginning and the end of the third act; the dramatic climax of the film where all the threads running through the story come to a head. The gore in this case is very carefully designed to highlight the most dramatically significant scenes in the movie. This can be starkly contrasted with movies like Saw, in which gore is such a common, almost constant feature, that is loses all effect. We become dulled to the effects of gore because it happens all the time. Nothing stands out as important because there’s simply too much of it.

The scene of genital mutilation were not, however, the ones that stayed with me and have, in some senses, been haunting me all week. They were horrific at the time, but they soon fade. The thing about horror that makes it so scary is that it is often so close to reality. Even the great monsters of Gothic Horror are frighteningly human. Vampires, zombies, werewolves, Frankenstein’s monster, Mr Hyde and the like are all humans plus, or humans minus. The best horror does not happen in far-away fantasy worlds, or far-away places, disassociated in place and time from us, it happens in our back garden, just to the left of our world, in place that is haunting because it is so familiar and yet ever so slightly off. Antichrist takes place in just such a place; a place familiar enough that we can believe it, but different enough that it terrifies us.

The most haunting scenes in antichrist, then, are the subtle ones. The ones that you barely notice. Throughout the last third of the movie or so, it is slowly revealed that the female protagonist was already going insane, long before the events shown. The way this is revealed is particularly frightening, because it is so subtle. The male protagonist points out to his wife that their child’s shoes are on the wrong way round in a picture. She dismisses it as a slip of the mind that day. The next scene is the husband flipping through a collection of photos from the same album. In every one, the child’s shoes are on the wrong way round. Compared with genital mutilation, it may not appear to be much, but it’s a sequence that has stuck with me all week. It’s so subtle, so easy to miss – indeed the photos are shown to the viewer earlier in the film and there’s no way you could pick up on it – and yet such a terrifying thing when you explore the implications, both for the child and for the mental constitution of the mother.

I always find it interesting to watch people’s reactions to horror. Of course, there’s the covering of eyes, the squirms and noises of disgust; all the things you might expect. What you don’t always expect is the laughter. There is an odd link between horror and comedy, namely that it is very difficult to understand why we react in the way we do to each of them. Sure, there are some concepts that are funny or horrifying; we can understand why a joke is funny on some level, just as we can understand why a scene or concept is horrifying on some level. However so much of both are about delivery. A concept could be funny, or horrifying, but delivered so badly that it stops being funny or horrifying, indeed, sometimes it goes from being horrifying to being funny. I mentioned at the start of this blog that I also watched the original Wickerman, I’ve not really mentioned it because Antichrist is a much more effective example. However I mention it now because of the hilariously awful remake from 2006, which has been characterised by many as an unintentional comedy because it’s just done that badly that it is actually funny.

Comedy and horror, laughter and revulsion are gut reactions. We laugh before we’re realised why, we recoil in fright before we realise it’s scary. It’s impossible to rationalise comedy and horror because they both appeal to something that goes beyond our rationality and touches something purely instinctive. For horror, in particular, this can be scary in itself. No matter how much we rationalise something, it does not lose its effect because horror is, in itself, irrational. It’s an instinctive reaction to that which frightens us. This is part of what makes horror so difficult to pull off; you have to understand something that is completely irrational and work out a way to touch that nerve. It’s very hard to create something that will not only reach into the depths of people’s consciousness and terrify them once, but will do it again and again every time they think about it.

Type Triggers 2

You may remember that a month or so ago, I posted a number of flash pieces that I’d written for Type Trigger. Well, since then, I’ve written a number of other pieces. Given that I have nothing else to blog about this week, I thought I’d bring them to you. I don’t plan on making this a monthly thing, or even particularly regular, given that you can read them on the Type Trigger website, but it’s useful filler when there’s nothing else on.

So, without further ado, flash in 300 words of fewer:

Ashes to Ashes

Ashes to ashes, falling like snow. Drifting, dancing in the wind to settle atop more ash, piling up, inches deep, never melting, never disappearing, burying the earth in dull grey, choking the rest of the life out of a dead world.

The world has been burning for days now; fires raging in the heart of every city, smoke and ash being pumped into the sky, forming the blackest of skies, blotting out the sun. The sky is black, but for the red glow of the fires on the horizon.

Since the sun was taken, it's become cold. The ash could be snow; it feels like ice when it lands on bare flesh. But there's no moisture, no sustenance. The fires are the only source of heat, now. Raging furnaces, burning all that we gathered about ourselves; all the tools of our survival, all the engineers of comfort, burning bright and hot. Surrogate suns, warming our faces.

We, we sad few, we band of survivors, gather, wrapped in all that we own, our hands outstretched to the bonfires, seeking their warmth. There's hunger in our gaunt faces, thirst on our cracking lips, but we dare not leave the sanctuary of the raging infernos. We dare not venture out into the cold and the dark in search of the living. Nothing can live long in the barren, ash-covered hellscape we've painted for ourselves.

So, we wait for the fuel to finally run out, wait for our society to finally burn up and die. We are the final survivors of a society that has collapsed in on itself and dragged the whole world with it. Soon we will join the rest of those who fell into the inferno. Soon the last flame will die.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, fade to black.

Crack open the…

Crack open the world and see its insides. 

See the vicious, savage beauty. See the beast upon which we walk. 

See the lion chase down the antelope, the old, the sick, the slow antelope. The vulnerable one. It sinks its claws deep into the animal's flesh and pulls it down. Hear the scream of the prey as it sees its life about to end. Hear the scream cut short and the sharp teeth sink into the soft neck. See the fountain of blood. Smell the acrid stench of it. See the life flee from the antelope's eyes. See the lion feast. 

Over hundreds of years, see the Strangler Fig germinate high in the rainforest canopy. See the root run down the trunk of a tree and into the ground. Root after root. See the roots grow and swell, watch the bark of the tree disappear underneath the mass of roots. See the tree suffocate. See it die. See it rot away, leaving a hollow lattice of roots. 

See the bulldozers and the men with chainsaws. Carving the forest away. See the animals flee from the destruction. See the concrete and the bricks. See the builders throw up a dozen identical houses and make another identical suburban neighbourhood. 

Crack open the world and see its insides. See that the world is cruel and heartless and destructive. See that the fittest survive, and the weak and the small die. 

Crack open the world and see the rotten core. The world that doesn't care, the beast upon which we walk, and ask is it really worth saving?

Favourite Thing

Jenny was Sarah's favourite thing. You could tell because she had one eye missing, her right foot had been chewed and sucked beyond recognition and she was splitting at the seams, allowing the white, fluffy stuffing to spill out. Her mother had kept telling Sarah to get rid of it and let her get her a new one, but Sarah would have none of it. You could not simple replace Jenny. Jenny was special, Jenny was unique. Jenny was Sarah's favourite thing in the whole world.

So when her mother had told Sarah she was only allowed to take one thing with her, because they were in a hurry and had to leave, she had not even had to think before scooping Jenny from her bed. 

She'd followed her mother outside. All the loud noises had been scary, but her mother had held her close and told her to be very brave, for her and for Jenny. Sarah was not about to let either down, so she tried to breath deep and stop herself from crying. She hugged Jenny very close. 

Her mother had looked at her, right in the eyes. There was a funny look in her mother's eyes. A scared look, but also a determined look. Sarah did not understand how her mother could ever be scared. She had told Sarah that she was going into the house, but that she would be back very soon. she had told her to stay where she was and be brave for her. 

She hugged her, kissed her and said goodbye. Sarah thought she'd seen a tear in her mother's eyes, but thought she must be mistaken because her mother never cried. 

Now Sarah was waiting for her mother, hugging Jenny tight. Trying not to be scared, for either of them.

For the Taking

My soul was for the taking. And the Devil didn't want it. That was his first mistake. 

His second mistake was letting me walk out of Hell alive. 

His third mistake was letting me back in again. 

In his defence, I was his man down to my toenails. I was an evil man. One of the worst. The kind of evil man who makes murderers look like reasonable blokes. 

You would not have liked me at all. 

So when Satan decided to send the best servant he'd had in a long time back to continue fighting the bad fight, you can understand where he was coming from. 

The problem was that one does not simply walk out of the Underworld. Especially having got there through the legitimate paths. No songs for the ferryman, or wrestling with three-headed dogs. All legit. As you can imagine, God doesn't want anyone coming back from that. So Satan turned me into a ghost and sent me back. 

The problem with being a ghost is that you can't touch anything. I never had been one for jumping out of closets and scaring little girls. But let's not go into what I had been into. 

It was a bit like always going to brothels, then being told you had to go to a strip club instead. So used to doing whatever you liked, then suddenly, all you can do is look. 

I'd never really been doing Satan's work anyway, not consciously. That had never been my motivation. So I walked back into Hell, which isn't difficult when you belong there, and decided that I'd have a lot more fun doing Satan's job. 

So now I sit on the throne, torture the dead and use the devil as a foot stool. 

Not bad for a dead man.

Not the one

The man was tall. The tallest of the lot. She'd said he was tall. He wasn't fat, but he wasn't thin either, but then none of them were. One was a little heavier set than the others, one looked a little skinnier, a couple were a little chubby. He had a couple of day's worth of stubble that she didn't recognise, but clean-shaven could be fixed. 

His hair was the right colour, but it was short and very neat. The sort of neat that came after a haircut. She'd described the man as having long hair, nearly down to his shoulders. Straight and lightish brown. A couple of the others had hair that length, or longer. Long hair could be fixed as well. 

His eyes were icy blue. Just like she'd said. Looking into them sent a chill down her spine. She couldn't work out whether that was because of how they were, or just because of the memories that came with looking into those eyes. She'd had a good hard look that night. Eye colour could not be fixed, especially when you had those eyes. He was the one. 

She looked into those eyes again. Looked over the man that, in another time, another place, she might find quite attractive. What he'd done to her made it very hard for her to consider him like that. 

"He's not the one," she lied to the policeman. "I don't think so, anyway." 

A look of surprise, puzzlement and thanks flashed across the man's eyes. His face didn't change, only his eyes. He was good. Maybe he was used to this. 

She wasn't sure why she lied for him. He was the one who raped her. He should be going to prison. 

Then again, he was the father of her child.

Where it hurts

"You should just kick him where it hurts," Sarah said. She was always full of helpful suggestions. 

"How would that help?" I asked, suppressing a smile. 

"Well, he broke your heart, so you should break his dick in return," Sarah explained. "It's only fair, I mean you think with your heart and he thinks with his dick, call it justice." 

"I'm not sure that's justice, plus, I still don't see how this is going to solve the problem," I said, throwing myself melodramatically back into the sofa. 

"What problem? He cheated on you, for almost as long as you were dating. There's nothing to solve, just forget that asshole and move on. Kicking him in the dick is a great way of beginning that process." 

I had to admit, she made a convincing case. I sighed. 

"Oh god," Sarah said, looking at me in disgust. "You're not still in love with him, are you?" 

"I don't know-" I began, but Sarah cut me off. 

"He cheated on you, for a year. How can you even stand to think about him anymore? How can you even consider loving him?" She was standing now, shouting at me, her brown hair shaking in anger. 

"I can't help how I feel. I can't choose whether I love him or not. It's not something you have any control over," I protested.

"Of course you do. He's a lying, cheating, deceitful bastard who deserves to be kicked in the junk. Hard," she was still shouting. 

"How the hell would you know?" It was my turn to shout. "You've never had a real boyfriend, you've never really loved anyone, so don't go lecturing me about love." 

Her expression turned in an instant from anger to sorrow. 

I realised I’d hit her right where it hurts.

My Top Ten Writers

Given that last week was really rather serious, and next will be even more so (just look at the date). I thought I’d take some time out to present the successor to my list of top ten novels I wrote last May. While most of these writers write novels, I’ve not limited myself to novelist; there are writers here better known for non-fiction, or screen writing, and some that I know better from their short stories. So without further ado, my top ten writers in no particular order:

• Robert Jordan – Author of the epic-in-every-sense Wheel of Time Series. While the series does begin to drag towards the end and pacing becomes more and more inconsistent, the world building and characters remain absolutely incredible. Jordan put so much thought and work into creating a world that is even more detailed and varied than even Tolkien managed. He draws from so many different cultures and traditions around the world and blends them into his own unique world that is fascinating to explore. Into that world he inserts some fantastic, strong and still dangerously flawed characters. I’ve not yet read any of the additions to the series by Brandon Sanderson after Jordan’s death in 2007, but I look forward to seeing how he ends the series

• Tom Holland – While Tom Holland does actually write some fiction, I have only read his non-fiction. He is a superb narrative historian who makes the subjects he writes about both accessible to everyone and really thought-provoking. I don’t always agree with what he has to say, but it always gets me thinking, which is what good history should do. In addition, disagreeing with him helped me in my Oxford Interview, so I have to thank him for that!

• Tim Pratt – Tim Pratt also writes novels, but I don’t know him from those either. I know and love Pratt’s short stories, many of which have been podcasted on Escape Artists (in fact he is one of the few authors to achieve the Escape Artists Trifecta of having stories published at Escape Pod, Pod Castle and Pseudopod). He writes some of the strangest and most thought-provoking stories at Escape Artists, which is saying a lot. Some highlights include Terrible Ones and Unexpected Outcomes.

• JRR Tolkien – What can one say about the father of modern epic fantasy? I’m not going to pretend that Lord of the Rings is perfect, it’s not, but the precedent he set, the debt that modern fantasy owes him, in incalculable. Lord of the Rings might be somewhat limited in scope, it might be very much a product of it’s time, it might not be brilliantly paced, or terribly accessible, but it is very good story set in a wonderfully detailed and well thought-out world. Fantasy fiction would not be where it is today without his work.

• Christopher Nolan – I’ve spoken before a number of times about how incredible films like Inception, The Dark Knight and The Prestige are, and you can add Memento and Batman Begins to that list as well. Nolan is the best writer and director is Hollywood at the moment (despite not winning an Oscar). I cannot wait for his next Batman movie, or whatever else he chooses to make next. His stories are dark, complex and thought provoking. He knows exactly what makes a good character and what makes a good story and executes it brilliantly.

• Terry Pratchett – The Discworld is possibly one of the most incredibly, ridiculous and brilliant fantasy worlds ever created. Pratchett knows how stories work and explores that brilliantly. His exploration of human nature, language, fiction and the world in general is always wonderfully witty, impossibly clever and thought-provoking at the same time.

• David Gemmell – Gemmell is one of the best historical, heroic fantasy writers I’ve ever read. He stands himself apart from most historical fiction writers who tend to just retell events of history with a few of their own characters worked into the gaps, by actually rewriting history in his fiction. He takes an interesting period and uses that as a jumping-off point to tell his own story. His work with the Troy myth is fantastic, because it does not tell a story anything like the one that Homer tells, but instead tries to recreate a historical possibility that explains the mythology, without simple copying it.

• Stephen Moffat – Moffat is best known for his work on Dr Who, which is brilliant, but he also co-wrote Sherlock, a modern re-imagining of Sherlock Holmes, and wrote Jykyll, a modern re-imagining of Robert Louis Stephenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jykll and Mr Hyde, both of which were brilliant. As well as producing the previous and current series of Dr Who, Moffat wrote some of the best episodes from back when Russell T. Davis was producing, like The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances, Blink, and Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead. Moffat is superb at creating truly creepy and original monsters, like the Angels and the Empty Child, as well as some really fantastic characters. He tells wonderful stories that are both dark and clever.

• Terry Goodkind – More epic fantasy. Author of the Sword of Truth Series, which remains one of my favourite series of all time. It is heavily influenced by Ayn Rand’s Objectivist philosophy, which really influences the series. Unfortunately, Rand’s tendency to present two extremes with no middle ground also comes through, making things a little unambiguous. However Goodkind is also a fantastic plotter and creates some fantastic characters that really draw you in. The world-building is not on a level with Tolkien or Jordan, but that’s not the idea, the focus is on the characters and the plot, both of which are fantastic. Goodkind is also fantastic at pacing, so neither the books, nor the series as a whole drag. In fact, the books race brilliantly to a conclusion, making them very difficult to put down as each story draws to an end.

• Robert Harris – Robert Harris is a fantastic historical Fiction/thriller writer. His stories are always really well researched and well thought out. They tend to fall into many of the traps that thrillers typically do, but that’s ok, because they’re always very engaging and well written. His historical works, like Pompeii and Imperium are probably his best work, mostly because of how painstakingly well researched, and hence realistic they are. He really draws you into the historical setting, which is very important for a Historical Fiction writer.

Type Triggers

Ok, so recently I’ve been doing some writing for a website called Type Triggers. The site publishes four, four words of fewer, ‘triggers’ for flash fiction, poems, musing, whatever you want to write, every day. You write it in under 300 words, and then publish it on the site for everyone and anyone to read. Awesome.

So far I’ve written 5 flash pieces that I thought I’d share with you. If you like them, feel free to head over to Type Triggers and read more of what I’ll be writing in the future, along with all the other wonderful writer who write there. You could even contribute your own piece.

Anyway, here are my contributions thus far, the Triggers are the titles. Enjoy.

Stubble

He needed to shave.

He rubbed is coarse, sand-paper chin and grimaced. As his hand passed over his mouth, his smelled the acrid smell of whiskey on his breath. His exposed armpit allowed the stench of his body odor to flood his nostrils.

He needed to shave. He needed to do a lot of things, but inertia was just easier. It was hard to get exciting about shaving.

He stared into the eyes of a stranger in the bathroom mirror. Haggard eyes with tired, black circles around them. He grimaced at himself - at what he had become - and dark stubble shifted across the contours of his face.

Trembling hands reached for the cold razor. It heavy in his hand; a weighty, solid object. It felt good. He caressed the 'on' button with his thumb, feeling the shape of it, daring himself to press it, to feel the switch give in to the pressure of his action.

He stared at it. His savior, his redeemer. He hated it. He hated the idea of action, the idea of standing up to be shot down, again.

He looked back at himself in the mirror and realised that he hated what he saw even more.

The buzzing of the razor echoed around the bathroom like an angry wasp.

He needed to shave. He needed to do a lot of things.

Too Much Coffee

Daniel charged down the stairs, into the living room, over the sofa, around the tv (somehow not tripping over the web of wires connecting it to the wall), back out of the living room, into the kitchen, under the table, past the oven, out the back door, over the cat (who looked absolutely terrified), through my tulips, around, through, over and under the climbing frame, around the house, in the front door, back up the stairs and leaped onto his bed.

I knew it was only a matter of time before he got bored of mashing his face into the pillow and decided to try to continue his training for the Olympic around-my-house dash.

That was the day I discovered that, for a four year old, any amount of coffee was too much coffee.

Heading South

It was roadtrip time.

Every year we did this. When school broke up for the holidays and the rains arrived, we headed south. South. To where the summer is. My old man had a beach house on the Sunshine Coast. Beautiful. It would be barbies on the beach, surfing, playing cricket and drinking stubbies all summer long.

Before, it had always been mum, dad, me and maybe a few mates. But dad couldn't get time off this year because of the economy, so they'd said I could go without them. Brilliant. Just me and a couple of mates. Heading south. Away from the rains and the stinking heat.

We loaded our gear onto the back of my Ute and set off down the Pacific Highway. Roadtrip. Heading South. The first big storm of The Wet saw us off. That's what we call it up here; The Wet. 'Bandenyirrin' as the abbos call it. We had to learn about all that shit at school.

It was a great summer. Mum and Dad came down for a week around Christmas, but apart from that, it was just the three of us. Drinking, surfing, rooting the sheilas who wanted some summer love. Best summer of my life.

Until a week or so until we had to go home. Lochie came into the house one day, still dripping wet from the surf.

"Turn on the TV, mate," he said, "fucking Cyclone's hit up north. Destroyed half of Cairns!"

I turned on the shitty old TV and saw the pictures. Wind and rain smashing my home town to pieces. The swell had swept through the centre of town. The whole place was underwater.

I tried ringing mum and dad, but I couldn't get hold of them.

There was nothing I could do. I'd headed south.

In the Aftermath

In the aftermath of the apocalypse, I knew that just two things were true. That you were alive, and that I had to find you. I don't know how I knew you were alive, it was just inconceivable that you were not. Despite all the thousand and one inconceivable things that had happened to the world, despite all the things I did not know, that no-one knew, I knew you were alive and that I had to find you.

So I did. Well, I tried. I found my old camping pack from the ruins of my house and salvaged as much food and water as I could find. And I set off towards your house. I had to force myself not to run, not to try to sprint every step of the 100 miles.

I knew the way pretty well; I'd driven it a hundred times. It felt odd, walking down roads that I'd driven along only days before. It happens in a flash, A to B in minutes. I can get to the Motorway in quarter of an hour from my house. It took me most of the day to walk there.

I slept in the burnt out husks of cars, trying to ignore the stench of burnt, rotting flesh. I tried to ration food and water, but soon, I was thirsty. I tried doing some of the Bear Grylls stuff, but nothing works as well in real life as it does on the TV.

Tired, thirsty, stinking like death and sweat, I arrived at the ruins of your house. The one-and-a-bit walls and not even half a roof.

In the aftermath of the apocalypse, I know that just two things are true. That you are dead, and that I still have to find you.

So Vain

He was just so vain, my ex, so arrogant.

I remember when I first met him. He waltzed into the room, expecting all eyes to turn to him. He talked to me as though I already thought he was a god. There was a twinkle in his eyes that I'm sure meant he knew that I had already fallen head of heels in love with him. The thing is that he was right.

He used to spend more time getting ready to go out that I did. He'd stand in front of the mirror, prodding and pulling at his already perfect hair. That's all he seemed to care about; his own appearance. Sure he said 'you look lovely, tonight.' in that deep, sexy voice of his, but it always sounded like he was looking at a mirror.

Honestly, that whole time we were dating, I don't think he ever really saw me as anything more than something to make him look good; a pretty face on his arm, a nice young girl for him to tow along so that he could look complete.

Then he ended it. I wasn't needed anymore, surplus to requirement, thanks for coming, we've upgraded to a better model, we appreciate you wasting your time for us, don't let the door hit your ass on the way out, you gullible little slut as if you let yourself believe that vain piece of shit ever actually liked you you were kidding yourself this whole time and you know it men like that don't need girls like us they only need themselves the vain little fucks

God, how I miss him.

Becoming Ares

This is another of those character sketches I did about the Gladiator I wrote about a couple of weeks ago. The next couple of weekend might be a bit like this, I’m incredibly busy at the moment, so I may not have time to write anything too long, of at all. I hope you enjoy this though. Let me know what you think.

The doors swung open and Anitecus stepped out into the arena of death. The crowd screamed, chanted and booed. He walked slowly out into the middle of the arena, out of the shadow cast over a third of the fighting area by the high walls. He looked around, taking in the crowd. Although he had been fighting for just over two years now, the buzz the crowd gave him was the same.

His heart raced, his senses sharpened, he could feel the blood pumping though his veins, he could feel the air around him, he could smell the city, the sweat from all the unwashed bodies, the tang of blood, the smell of garlic from the food being sold in the stands. He felt alive. He looked up to the heavens and smiled under his helmet. He felt like no one could defeat him. He revelled in the glory of the arena, he was worshiped by some, loathed by others, but he was respected by all; he was one of the best, and they all knew it.

He did not know who, or what he was facing. It did not matter to Anicetus. He knew that he could face and beat whatever the event organisers threw at him. He had gained a reputation in the past two years and when you had a reputation; people took it as a challenge to try to beat you. He had faced exotic animals, multiple enemies, men on horseback and had beaten them all. With each victory the crowd had grown to love him or, for those who had lost money betting against him, hate him. Now he stood, awaiting the next challenge.

Un-oiled hinges squealed and the door opened. A dull rumbling, punctuated with more squealing emerged from the open door. Anicetus spun on his heels just brought his shield up to deflect the arrow the skimmed off the leather and buried itself in the sand. The evasive action took him wildly off balance and he fell backwards, rolling over his shield. A mass of wood, metal and flesh powered past him. He sprang to his feet and brought his shield up in time to deflect the next arrow over his head and into the stand behind him, killing a spectator. The crowd fell silent, before erupting, even louder than before. The contest had begun.

The vicious blades on the wheels glinted in the sun as the chariot turned and began to circle the arena, horses pulling in tandem, straining as they powered around the edge of the circle of sand. The next arrow imbedded itself in his shield as Anicetus turned, watching the chariot over the corner of his shield. Arrows continued to fly towards him, some deflecting off his shield, others flying harmlessly past his head.

The chariot turned and began gathering speed, the horses powering towards him, pulling the mass of wood. Anicetus threw himself to the side and rolled over his shield, and arrow deflected off his iron cuirass and flew over the top of the stadium. Standing, he spun quickly, trying to find the chariot again, the beating hooves and rumble of the chariot wheels reverberated around the arena, almost drowned out by the excited roar of the crowd. He felt a jolt as another arrow thudded into his shield. He spun again, following the chariot at it raced around the arena again.

The chariot turned again and charged towards him. Again he dived out of the way, arrows zipping all around him. Again and again the process repeated, the chariot circled round him, occasionally turning to charge, firing arrows at him all the time. The crowd cheered and roared with every turn, getting more and more excited with every near miss. The more he dodged and dived in his heavy armour and ungainly shield, the slower he became and the closer the razor sharp scythes came to cutting his back to ribbons, or slicing his limbs off, the closer the arrows came to piercing his armour and finding his flesh. The crowd, sensing his exhaustion, rose in anticipation. Some bayed for his blood, others encouraged him, but all Anicetus heard was a load roar drowning out the rumble of the chariot.

On the next turn the chariot thundered straight for him again, but this time Anitecus sprinted as fast as the fatigue and heavy armour would allow him at the charging platform of death. The crowd fell silent as the gladiator charged at the huge and deadly chariot. With the straining mass of muscles, bone and wood almost upon him, he dived forward and to the right, jamming the wicker bound shield into the spinning blade and used the leverage to swing round to the back of the chariot. Ignoring the pain that ripped his arm apart, he reversed his sword and plunged it between the neck and collar bone of the archer, putting it deep into his rib cage, puncturing his heart, ensuring that Hades would take him.

His momentum flung him off the back of the chariot and onto the sandy floor, carrying the dead body of the archer with him. There was a rattle as the bow skittered to the floor a few meters away from Aniticus. As he tried to pick himself up, pain stabbed up his left arm. He saw blood soaking the sand and knew it was his. He could feel that his hard had been ripped to shreds by the scythes of the chariot. He shoved the pain to the back of his mind and focused on the chariot again.

It wheeled round, heading towards him. Anicetus dived out of the way, crying at the pain that jolted up his arm as he landed on it. He gritted his teeth and ignored it. Fumbling on the ground, his hand clasped the shaft of the bow that he had landed on. The pain burned in his arm and he lifted the bow and grabbed an arrow from the floor. Putting it to the bow, he lifted his eyes to the chariot. Blood, sand and sweat made his vision blur, but he blinked them away, ignoring the way his eyes stung like a thousand bees were all stinging his eyeballs at once.

The chariot wheeled round again, charging him, looking to finish off the injured warrior who was crouching in the sand. He pulled the bowstring back to his cheek, blocked out the noise of the crowd, blocked out the pain in his arm, blocked out all distractions. He had to be able to shoot under any pressure; this was that pressure. In his mind there was only him and the target. He took a deep breath and loosed, the arrow flew true, the horse screamed as the arrow pierced its windpipe, its legs fell from beneath it and the whole chariot exploded into a thousand pieces of wood and metal. The charioteer was hurled forward in the destructive collision of forces and landed head first in the sand a foot in front of Anitecus. The force of the impact snapped his neck. Splinters flew like arrows towards Anitecus, who only just brought his shield up in time to protect himself, he screamed in pain as they thudded into the open wound in his arm.

Trying to ignore the agonising pain, Anitecus stood and walked to the centre of the arena, now half bathed in light, half darkened by shadow. He stood on the edge of that shadow. The crowed roared in adoration. He lifted his sword in appreciation and let out his own roar. The pain in his arm was nothing, the stinging in his eyes didn’t matter, the exhaustion in his legs was a sign that he was alive.

Anitecus’ shadow fell so that it looked as though a giant warrior stood on the top of the arena, watching the games. He stood on the cusp between light and dark, between day and night, between life and death. He decided who would live and die in the arena; he was the god of battle. He was Ares.

Entering the Arena

This is a bit of a character sketch for a gladiator who I first envisioned a number of years ago. I really like the character and would love to return to him at some point. He's very fun to write. I have some other stuff I've written about him that I might touch up and put up here.

Anicetus sat on the bench, head in hands; he could hear the roar of the crowd above him, the never-ending buzz, rising and falling as the duel raged. It drowned out all noise as he sat, waiting for his turn to enter that theatre of death. He had sat all afternoon as, one by one, the men and women he had trained with for six years walked out of the door and the end of the long, undecorated and ill-lit room and up the ramp to dance with death for the first time. He did not know how many had lived and how many had died in that fierce pit in which one either gained fame and adoration, or a passage down to the dead. He was the last. The last battle of the afternoon, the climax of the day’s bloody entertainment would be his to fight.

He was last because he was the best. Everyone in the school knew that he was the greatest fighter to do battle today. His strength, speed and skill were unmatched. He was expected to become a gladiatorial legend, one of the greatest fighters ever to walk the sands of the arena, hallowed in blood. Today was the day that he would graduate from the sadistic school that he had hated and grown to love since the age of twelve. He had been trained and prepared for the arena and today was the day that he entered it and became a gladiator; became a man in the eyes of the trainers he hated and respected. It did not matter who he fought, so long has he spilled the blood of another in the sand he would complete his education. He would be baptized in the blood of another, or another would be baptized in his blood.

His heart was pumping; he could feel his body shaking. He breathed deep as fear and excitement battled for dominance. He stared at the dull, stone wall of his cell, anticipation made the battle raging above him last forever. The cries of the crowed still filled his ears. He fingered the coarse horsehair plume on the large iron helmet that sat next to him. Beside it was a short sword, flat and straight along one edge, but undulating along the razor sharp edge. It had been laboriously sharpened until it could cut through flesh and slice through armour. Leaning on the bench beside him was a large shield, made of interwoven wicker and covered with hard leather.
 An extra large cheer went up above him as another warrior fell in battle. His heart beat doubled; he knew he was the next to enter the dance. He rose to his full height and drew in a deep breath. Bending, he grabbed the leather belt buckle, on which his sword was sheathed, and fastened it around his waist. He donned his all encompassing helmet, the great iron mass covered his ears and cheeks, stretching down to protect his neck. The helmet caused illusions in his hearing, creating a sound much like that of the sea washing up on the shore, reminding him of home. He could no longer hear the crowd. He picked up the large shield, slung it over his shoulder and put his arms through the loops in the middle.

He walked slowly to the end of the room, his heavy breathing extenuated by the confining helmet. The sound of the sea battled with the roar of the crowd. He turned and looked up the ramp at the sun beating down at him. He had not seen the sun all afternoon. He paused, blinked a couple of times, and started walking slowly up the ramp, emerging from the underworld beneath the Area onto the living sand of the theatre in which he would give his first performance, and maybe his last. He walked into light and life and the possibility of glory, or the end of life and a return to that gloomy underworld for all eternity.

The crowd drowned out the sound of the sea now that he was out into the open. The cheer as the newest piece of fresh meat emerged from below was deafening even from within the iron cage of the helmet. He looked around the stands; the crowd was enormous, the entire stadium was full, they were all cheering and chanting and screaming. Hungry wolves, waiting to see blood spilled for the last time in the day. Drunk on the blood they had already seen and the beer that had flowed like water all day. The sun ducked behind the stand as he walked across the arena and he was bathed in the darkness of the shadows. The sand itself was awash with blood from the day’s entertainment. The sand soaked it up and thirsted for more.

The arena was empty but for a lone giant, standing in the middle of the sea of sand. He stood, bathed as Anicetus was, in shadow. He was naked from the waste up and wore no helmet; his greasy blond hair framed an ugly face. In his enormous hands he held a huge hammer, blunt and dangerous in the hands of one so huge.

The two stared at each other; cold blue eyes met cold blue eyes, unblinking and unemotional. They measured each other up, two lions readying to fight, challenging the other to make a move. The crowd screamed and bayed for blood, but the two warriors merely stood and stared at each other, unmoved. Sweat trickled down Anicetus’ face. Despite the fact that they stood in the shade the arena was still oven-like. All day the sun had beaten down and the sand was hot under his feet.

A steward approached them and explained the rules that they already knew. This was one of those battles where there were no rules; the winner would take the glory, the loser would die. The steward called for them to begin and raced from the arena. Anitecus ripped his sword from his hip and brought his shield up. The crowd rose in anticipation. He rose onto the balls of his feet and his muscled tensed. He watched his opponent over the rounded shoulder of his shield, his sword rested alongside its re-curved edge. His opponent did not change his stance, nor did he avert his gaze.

They circled one another, waiting for an opportunity to strike. The noise of the crown only grew more intense. He shut it from his mind and focused on his opponent, who watched him intently, dragging the hammer behind him, creating a circle in the sand around the two fighters. Sweat continued to trickle down his face and down his arms. He could see sweat covering his opponent’s face too.

Suddenly the giant charged at him, hefting the hammer and readying himself for a swing. Anitecus charged his opponent and raised his shield to block the hammer blow. At the last second his opponent shifted his swing, deftly handling the huge weapon. Anicetus only just managed to bring his shield down to block the blow, but the power of it sent him hurtling through the air.

Anitecus rolled as he hit the floor and brought his shield up just in time to deflect the next powerful hammer blow. This time it caught him full on in the centre of the shield. His vision exploded and he screamed in pain as the bones in his arm shattered. He cried in pain and flecks of fiery white pain danced in his eyes. He recovered he composure in time to roll away from the next blow, but pain shot up his arm and stunned him as he rolled onto the broken arm.

Scrambling to his feet, he readied to defend the next onslaught. Exhaustion and pain addled him and sweat made his eyes sting. Rage filled the giant’s eyes as he stomped towards him, preparing for another attack. He lifted the hammer up high and swung down with almighty power. Anitecus danced backwards then leaped up, onto the back of his opponent’s weapon which was half buried in the sand and used if for leverage. He reversed his sword in midair and plunged it down in-between the shoulder and collarbone to the left of the giant’s neck. The keen blade sliced down into the fleshy space inside the ribcage and pierced the man’s heart. The crowd erupted over the sound of the sea in his ears.

Anitecus landed in the sand behind the falling giant, who had gone to his knees, the life draining from him. With one step he cleared the small gulf between them and retrieved the sword still embedded in his heart. Blood fountained out of the wound, soaking his face with the blood of his dying opponent. The giant fell face down in the sand, all life gone from him; his lifeblood spilled onto the sand. It soaked into the sand as though the area were consuming it, gorging on the blood.

Anitecus smiled. Looking around at the cheering crowds he could no longer hear the sea in his ear. He unbuckled his helmet and threw it into the sand. For the first time he heard the crowd at full volume. It was deafening. He raised his sword into the air and forgot the pain in his shield arm. His roar was drowned out by the crowd as they acknowledged their new hero. He had killed for the first time; he had graduated. He had entered the arena; he had become a gladiator. 

Top ten novels

I’m a massive fan of fiction, so I’ve wanted to do some top tens centred on novels and writers for some time. I haven’t because, while I love reading, I tend not to read as much as I should and I tend to only really read a select few authors. A lot of the stuff I love is epic fantasy. The kind of epic fantasy that had dozens of novels in one series. But I decided to bite the bullet and do a top ten of my favourite novels. You will notice that almost all of them are fantasy, which tells you a lot about my tastes. Again, in no particular order.

• Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand – for those that don’t know, Atlas Shrugged is an 11,000 word tomb by Ayn Rand, which expounds her objectivist philosophy with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. I read it in about 10 days. The thing at about Atlas Shrugged is that the protagonists are really interesting and the plot is great. Rand is also really good writer. The novel does a great job drawing you in. It is a little black and white, which is disappointing and the philosophy is very unambiguous. Rand does not really make us thing about her philosophy, nor does she present it in a way that is terribly balanced. It is a piece of objectivism propaganda more than anything else. Fortunately objectivism has something of a soft spot in my heart, even if modern proponents can be a little frustrating.

• 1984, by George Orwell – Need I really say anything? I love dystopias, I especially love them when they deal with an over-protective state. 1984 is great. The plot is incredible, the characters are interesting, the setting is just brilliant and it’s written in such an understated and subtle way.

• The Eye of the World, by Robert Jordan – aaaaaaand we’ve reached the epic fantasy. Jordan is probably the first epic fantasy writer I ever got into and his Wheel of Time (WoT) series remains one of my favourite series ever. The world building in WoT is brilliant; very organic, very well thought out, referencing all kinds of different mythologies and cultures without just copying them. The Eye of the World is the first in the series, so it retains a special place in my heart, although in reality it’s really very hard to choose between the first half dozen books or so. The Eye of the World establishes all the major characters brilliantly and really makes the reader connect with them. It also begins the world building, always giving away just as much as we need to know to understand the action without giving away too much. It definitely leaves us wanting to read more about both the characters and the world in which they live.

• Troy: Lord of the Silver Bow, by David Gemmell – Heroic Fantasy this time. I’m a huge fan of Greek Mythology, in particular the Troy myth. I was somewhat put off by the fact that this is a historical take on the myth, rather than staying true to the real story. I soon warmed to this, however, as Gemmell makes the story his own. It’s a very interesting take on a well know story and characters, set in a very interesting and well researched historical possibility. The other two books are just as good, although the writing does fall off, especially in the last book (although this is mostly because Gemmell’s wife, Stella, takes up the writing duties following David Gemmell’s death, and she’s not quite as polished)

• Faith of the Fallen, by Terry Goodkind – Back to epic fantasy. Goodkind’s Sword of Truth (SoT) series is like WoT in that I got into it in my early teens and it has been something I have continued to enjoy ever since. We find smatterings of Randian Objectivism throughout the series, culminating in the sixth book, Faith of the Fallen, which is my personal favourite. It deals with the main character striving for individual success and acclaim while trapped in a communist dystopia. It’s a much more subtle take on the philosophy than Atlas Shrugged, although it’s still fairly blunt. The series is very well written and the characters are just awesome. The emphasis is more on characters and plots than of world building, in contrast to WoT.

• The Golden Compass, by Phillip Pullman – I didn’t actually read this until after seeing the film Northern Lights, because I wanted to know what had actually happened in the film, which was hard without reading the book. The Golden Compass is actually really interesting and well written. The plot and characters are brilliant. I was not so happy about the later books in the trilogy, the last in particular just got silly, with some really bad plot holes and Deus Ex Machina.

• Lord of the Rings, by JRR Tolkien – how could I leave out the father of modern epic fantasy? I know it was later split into three, but the original Lord of the Rings (LotR) was all one big book. While the writing can get a little highbrow at times and Tolkien takes some shortcuts with the action scenes, the plot and characters are simply incredible. The world is also really well put together and the writing hints at something much bigger without getting bogged down.

• Dracula, by Bram Stoker – ahhh, a nice bit of gothic horror. The epistolary format of Dracula wears a little thin after a while, but even so it’s a really good example of how to do it. The horror itself is subtle and interesting, with the details of Dracula and his powers drip fed. It lost some of the effect when I already knew most of it, but that’s not Stoker’s fault. The super-natural element of Dracula was maintained really well – how he became who he was is never really explained, which makes him that much more mystical.

• Confessor, by Terry Goodkind – The last book in the SoT series. It really finishes the whole thing in a suitably epic and well thought out way. The plot revisits some of the plot devices from the very first book and wraps the whole thing up in a mind boggling way. I wanted to put two of Goodkind’s novels into this list to illustrate just how much of an impact he has had on my life as both a reader and a writer, as well as the influence he has had on my personal philosophy.

• Lord of Chaos, by Robert Jordan – likewise Jordan really solidified my love of fantasy. I’ve recently reread the first eight book of the series and will reread the others with an eye to finally finishing the series when the final novel comes out in 2012. The series took a bit of a dip after Lord of Chaos, which is the sixth of the series. It maintains the great pace of the earlier book (which some later ones fail to) and has a really outstanding plot. The characters introduced in the first book just keep on developing all the way through the series in a way that is very organic and natural.

So that’s my top ten novels. As I said, I’m a fan of fantasy, epic fantasy in particular. I might tackle authors next time I get round to doing one of these.

Thor

There are many things that I like in fiction, but two of the things I like most are modern retellings of old myths, legends, fairy tales and stories, and Superheroes. It is hardly surprising, then, that Thor was always going to strike a chord with me. There’s something about figures from ancient mythology re-imagined as superheroes that just sounds awesome. That’s not to say that Thor is actually that good. I mean it’s not bad, but it could have been so much better.

The thing about superhero stories in particular, the thing that draws me to them, is that they are character studies. The superhero is at the centre of the story and his/her development is what drives the plot. This is how I like my stories – character focused and character driven. It’s what makes me such a fan of Christopher Nolan films. It’s why I said The Green Hornet was not a Superhero film.

I said back then to wait for Thor if you want a superhero film. I was not wrong. Thor is, indeed, a very character focused film, with Thor’s development driving the plot. It’s not a character arc typical of superhero films; it involves a fall-from/return-to-grace more typical of heroic fantasy, but then, the mythology which underlies the story makes that inevitable. You see, most superhero stories start with an origin story and the character coming to terms with his new super-ness, Batman Begins a perfect example of this. Thor, on the other hand, does not need to explain how Thor became Thor because he always has been, he’s a God; it’s just what he does.

Instead the film tells the story of an arrogant hero who is banished from his homeland and stripped of his power for doing something monumentally stupid. During his banishment, the hero comes to realise his faults and becomes a better person, returning home to save the day from the consequences of the thing he did to get banished in the first place and regaining his rightful place as a hero to his people. Now, this is all a fairly typical character arc that does not present anything new. I’m sure we could all think of some story that employs essentially the same framework. Assassin’s Creed does it, for example.

Where Assassin’s Creed differs, however, is that Altair does not simply return to becoming a run-of-the-mill Assassin by the end of the story; we do not simply return to the status quo. Thor ends exactly as it begins. Thor is the prince of Asgard, heir to Odin’s throne. The only difference is that he is ready to become king. Unfortunately the Mythology of Asgard means that Thor will never become king. He will continue to wield Mjollnir in the name of Odin until Ragnarök. Of course this mythology is not set in stone – it’s a reimagining, remember, if they wanted, the writers could have had Odin die and Thor take up his throne, but that’s not what happened, so the ending ends up being rather unsatisfactory. Nothing monumental has changed in Thor’s life; things are not vastly different from how they were at the start. If the evens of the film had never happened, life would only be very slightly different for most people.

The only person for whom life has changes is Jane, the woman who Thor fell in love with in his short visit to earth. The problem is that we’re never really made to care about her. She gets some pretty rushed and unconvincing characterisation, which never really fleshes her character out enough for her to really matter. As a result, the romance between her and Thor is equally unconvincing, especially when we consider that they only really knew each other for a very short amount of time.

The disappointing thing is that, although Jane and the rest of the people on earth are fairly poorly characterised, everyone on Asgard is really well characterised. All the way down to the Heimdall, the gatekeeper. The focus of the film is clearly Asgard and the politics going on there. This is a problem, because the focus really should be on Thor, given that the film is all about him. It makes the development of the character seem to play second fiddle to the other things in the story. All the shadow-play between Loki and the Frost Giants, the conflict of Volstagg, Hogun, Fandral and Frigga between obedience to their king and support for Thor is very interesting, but it was overplayed in comparison to the really rather uninspiring scenes on earth. Thor really didn’t seem to go through very much personal torture or great soul searching to resolve his eternal conflict, nor did he and Jane really have enough screen time together to really make their love anything more than a typically tacked-on Hollywood romance.

Thor, then, suffers primarily from a misdirection of focus. It is a character driven story in which the character is not the focus of the story, making it difficult to really find him convincing. It spreads itself too thinly over ground that is perfectly good. While the character arc is fairly typical, there is no reason why that should make it inherently bad. In fact it would be a perfectly good basis upon which to build a very interesting story.

Where Thor does triumph, however, is the setting. Credit should probably go more to the original creators of the story at Marvel, rather than the makers of this adaptation, but to be fair to the latter, they do a fantastic job of portraying the universe in which Thor is set without falling into the obvious trap of simply telling us. Through the film we find out about Asgard and how it links with the world we live in a very natural way. There is some narration near the beginning, but this is only to set a bit of back-story in place and actually works because it’s supposed to be Odin telling his sons all about the war between the Asgardians and the Frost Giants.

Likewise the aesthetic is fantastic. Sci-Fi and Fantasy are combined really well to make it seem very believable and natural. Asgard feels simultaneously like the citadel of a highly advanced civilisation and the home of a bunch of Norse Gods. The film very much feels like a mixture between Fantasy and Sci-Fi, between science and magic.

Indeed the way in which Thor and Jane approach things is very interesting. Jane is striving to find the scientific explanation for the way in which Thor and co are able to travel between worlds and looks at everything from a rigidly scientific perspective. By contrast, Thor explains things very much in terms of magic and mythology. His explanation of the way the worlds are linked in terms of a tree, a motif from Norse Mythology is a typical example of this. It’s an interesting contrast, but in some ways a missed opportunity as it wasn’t really explored terribly well.

As I said earlier, the credit for the setting itself must go to the folks at Marvel, rather than the film makers, but even so, the idea that the Gods of Norse Mythology are actually other-worldly being of great power is simply incredible. The good thing is that Norse Mythology is not simply taken whole and unaltered. It is changed and switched around to fit the purpose of the story. For example Loki’s role is dramatically altered. This is a good thing; to simply take Norse Mythology and plant it into a sci-fi setting would be somewhat lacking in originality. The best reimaginings use the original as a basis and create from that, rather than simple taking from the original without adding to it at all.

Thor is most certainly a triumph of aesthetic and setting. It looks great. The problem is that it focuses too much on the setting of Asgard and everything happening therein to the detriment of the character at the heart of the story. While Thor and his actions ultimately drive the story, the focus seems to be more on what Loki does in his absence. Had the focus been on Thor and his relationship with Jane, the film would have been far, far better. Similarly, the ending should have been somewhat different – something should have changed by the end, rather than the status quo being returned.

Despite all my criticisms, Thor is actually a pretty solid film. It’s worth seeing, especially if you’re a fan of either superheroes or Norse Mythology. There are a number of other superhero films upcoming from Marvel in the next few moths, all leading up to The Avengers in 2012. I think it will be really interesting to see how Marvel knits together a number of different films and characters in a way that has not really been done on the silver screen before. We had a bit of a cross-over in Thor with a mention of Tony Stark. I think it will be great to see a superhero universe developing in film as it has done in comic books and, to a lesser extent, other mediums for a while now.

Incidentally, if you do like modern reimaginings of Norse Mythology, I encourage you to check out a short story on Pod Castle called Wolves ‘till the Wold Goes Down, by Greg van Eekhout. If you like that, then you’ll probably also like his novel based on the same sort of thing, called Norse Code.

Something a little bit nautical

So as you are all well aware, the royal wedding happened yesterday. I didn’t watch it, because I think the very fact that we have a royal family is an abhorrent affront to justice and democracy. Wait, that sounds familiar… bugger, I’ve done this before. Well, this is awkward.

Here’s the prologue to a series of short stories that I want to write about a recurring character.

“Captain! Captain! Over there, on the starboard side! Look! On that island, there’s a person on that island!” Jamie yelled, his bare feet slapping on the wooden deck as he ran towards the captain. “It’s a little girl! We have to save her.”

 “No Jamie, we don’t. Best that we stay away from her,” the Captain replied, punctuating the last word with spite.

 “But, she’s just a little girl, she’ll die out here. That’s barely an island, it just a rock. You can’t leave her there.”

 “I can, cabin boy, and I will. She’s more trouble than she’s worth, that little girl.”

 “How do you know? She’s just a little girl.”

 The captain turned to look at him, a deadly serious expression fixed to his grizzled face. “She’s more that just a little girl, boy. I’ve been sailing for longer than you’ve been alive, trust me, you don’t want to get involved with that girl. The seas are vast and mysterious; they hide secrets and truths that no mere mortal can understand. We are only a tiny spec, travelling in something so vast that we cannot even begin to comprehend it. We are strangers here, travellers, alive only by the grace of the seas. There are things out there that don’t want us to be here and will do all they can to get rid of us. Trust me when I tell you that little girl is one of them. Now get out of my sight and don’t think on her any longer.”

 “Yes, captain,” Jamie said quickly and scampered off again, avoiding the starboard side of the ship. He went down below deck and started on some chores, trying not to think on what the captain had said.

 Not long after, Jim Porter lowered himself down the ladder and sat close to him, fiddling with an old pocket watch. Jim was as old as anyone on board and had been sailing for as long as anyone could remember. There wasn’t a lot about the sea that old Jim didn’t know.

“Don’t let the captain scare you, boy,” he began in a husky voice, “that girl’s not as bad as he makes out.”

 Jamie looked into the ruddy sailor’s face. No matter what expression he wore, Jim always looked ugly. His smile was broken by a rude scar that rose from his chin all the way through his mouth and up through his right eye, dissecting the closed and ugly socked. He had lost most of his teeth as well and half he left ear had been chopped off. “What do you mean?” Jamie asked.

 “That girl doesn’t cause anyone, any harm. She only tells them what harm will befall them. She’s a prophetess, as old as time itself, appearing to sailors and telling them of all the ills that will befall them. Nothing you can do will stop her prophecies from coming true.

 “When I was barely older than you, a ship I was sailing in, The Duchess I think, picked her up once. She was sitting on a rock in the middle of the ocean, just like you saw. We brought her on board, despite the warnings from some of the older crew members. She didn’t say a word, so we assumed that she spoke another language, or was dumb or something. Even so, we fed her and gave her something to drink and she seemed content enough. Some of the men, though, looked into her eyes and swore they saw hatred dancing in them. That night, she came to Bill Jameson, a new sailor, just like I was at the time and spoke to him in riddles. I was sitting right next to him and I remember her words like it was yesterday.

 “‘Homeward bound, William?’ she whispered. He tried to speak, but she cut him off. ‘Your house is a home no longer, brittle, broken by lust and hate. You should never have gone to sea, William Jameson. The flames of hate will consume you, butcher.’ She told him, spite in her voice. Bill just sat there, unable to say a word. She walked away and none of the crew saw her again that night.

 “When we got back to port, Bill went home – he was married, with a little daughter and wanted to see them again more than anything, more than he wanted to get drunk with the rest of the crew. Well, he came back not long after and launched into the rum like no-one else. Didn’t say a word to anyone, just drank till he could barely stand, then he left with a pistol in his hand. Later we found out that he’d gone home to find it empty. A neighbour had told him that his wife had gone off with an old friend of his who’d promised to look out for her for him. Apparently she couldn’t bear to be away from him for so long while he was at sea. So he got blind drunk, took a pistol and hunted them down. Shot them all, his wife, his friend, his own daughter, then put a bullet in his own head, all as the little girl has predicted, if you think about it.”

 “Who is she?” Jamie asked, his chores forgotten.

 “No-one knows for sure. Some say she’s a witch, some say she’s a demon, some say she’s a goddess, some say she’s just a damaged little girl. All I know is that she don’t like sailors much and enjoys telling them that evil is coming their way. Best not to go near her, boy, she’ll only tell you what you don’t wanna hear.”

 “But surely what she says is going to happen whether she says it or not.”

 “True,” Jim paused for a moment, “thing is, poor Bill fretted for the rest of the journey home, wondering what she meant. Some of the older sailors told us all about the girl and Bill was filled with the worse sense of dread over what she meant. That’s why he hurried home so fast. That’s not something you want to be tortured with for any amount of time.”

 “Is that why the captain snapped at me like that?” Jamie asked, the thought occurring to him out of nowhere.

 Old Jim roared with laughter. “Well, boy, you do see some things, don’t you? More that just a slight hand and a turn of speed on you, eh boy? You’ve got something up here that most sailors wish they had,” old Jim tapped his head a couple of times. “You’ll go far on the high seas, boy, I can see that now. You’re right, of course, the captain’s seen that little girl before, years ago. He’d never told anyone what she told him, but he’s been mighty cautious ever since, watching over his shoulder, looking for something to come and be the death of him. Not many of the crew know this, though, it’s no good for sailing if you think your skipper’s got a bloody destiny to look forward to.”

 “Aren’t you afraid of what’ll happen, Jim?”

 Jim shrugged. “whatever happens, happens. I’ve been in plenty of storms and fights, seen plenty of dark destinies envelop ships and crews. I figure if it’s my time to go as well, I might as well go without trying to run from it. I’ve seen too many men run from that little girl’s words to know it never ends well.”

 With that, Jim rose and climbed the ladder back up on deck. Jamie returned to his chores and tried to get the image of that poor little girl sitting helplessly on the rock out of his head.

Obviously the girl is the recurring character. She had an interesting story that I’d love to tell, and there are a lot of other stories about her that I want to tell as well, obviously most of them won’t end particularly well…

The Letter

This is a little bit of flash fiction that I wrote last week (I know, late again, bugger off). It's slightly idiosyncratic and very silly, but it was quite fun to write. It's also a true story... kinda

“What's this?” he exclaimed, holding the envelope aloft, “A letter?” 

He squinted at the eloquent hand, trying to decide from whom it was from. He had a fairly good idea in any case; who else sent him letters these days.

His heart rising in his chest, he swiftly tore the top of the envelope, not bothering with the seal, and tearing the stamp slightly. He cursed under his breath before remembering that stamps were so common and lacking in interesting motifs, that no-one collected them anymore. Still, this one was adorned with tartan, wavering slightly in wind that one had to imagine, a silver silhouette of Her Majesty, the Queen perching on the top corner. It was a shame to see such a quaint little thing bear a tear, no matter how insignificant.

The matter at hand was by no means insignificant, however, so he did not allow his attention to be distracted by the stamp for too long. With hands clumsy in anticipation, he tore the card from its envelope. A smile grew on his face as he regarded the minimalistic black elephant adorning the front cover, its trunk upturned and a huge love heart sprouting from it, as though the elephant forged the thing from its own nose. The motif was all the more charming and sweet for its simplicity.

He hand trembled as he opened the cream coloured card, noting the beautifully smooth but good quality texture of the paper as he did, and was confronted with a veritable wall of text. He had approached such walls before, and thought, now, about the card and accompanying piece of paper, still nestled in his top draw. He took them out to re-read them every so often. It was with great joy, and a little trepidation at the size of it, that he settled down to read the megalith.

His smile grew and grew as he scanned the adoring words. The flowing, elegant script was, in itself, a joy to read, and the words were doubly so. They were exactly as simultaneously coy, self-righteous (not at all in the arrogant, self-centred way people associate with the word) and loving as he had come to expect from her. He read and re-read it several times, savouring the words. In his head, he heard her voice speaking the words to him, and he smiled at the memory of her powerful, but tender, well spoken but not pompous voice, which he had grown to love so. 

Propping the card up on his desk, having cleared a space for it in his paper-riddled mess, he smiled and settled down to his computer. He opened his word processor, his hands resting carefully on the keys, as comfortable as with a pen in his hand (if not more), and settled down…

…to write this story.

Yeah, I know, Valentine's Day was last week, but shush, I've had a busy week.

The Green Hornet/The Tourist

People who tend to become superheroes usually fall into one of three categories; nerds (like Spiderman), dark, gritty individuals who have suffered personal tragedy (like Batman) and aliens from another world (like Superman). It is not often that a frat boy who spends most of his time partying and doing stupid things because they think it’s cool becomes a superhero. Well Seth Rogen seems keen to change this with his portrayal of Britt Reid, a rich frat boy who spends his youth partying and witling away his father’s considerable fortune, before inheriting his wealth and turning vigilante, mostly by accident.

Thus he becomes the Green Hornet, possibly the least capable superhero ever to have donned a mask (well maybe apart from Kick Ass, but that was the whole point). If not for his martial arts expert, coffee making genius, weapons designer and mechanical maestro Chinese sidekick, the Green Hornet would have been dead within a week of starting his new job. Still it’s nice to have a superhero who is most certainly human; without the power to sling webs, or have a utility belt that means he can do anything. Although that does raise the question of what makes him terribly super. A mask does not a superhero make. If anything his sidekick is much more of a superhero, given that he can slow time, but then the film isn’t really about him is it.

As I’m sure you’ve guessed I’m reviewing The Green Hornet today. I know! A film review! Stop the presses! Two film reviews actually, because I’ll find some way of segwaying onto The Tourist once I’m done with the Green Hornet.

The astute reader will have noticed from my previous reviews of films that I really don’t like action films and with that in mind allow me to say that The Green Hornet is a very good action film. There is lots of the fun explosions and car chases and absurd fight scenes, just as you might expect from an action film, however it is actually held together by a decent story and some well rounded, if a little unsophisticated characters. Both of these elements are given enough time to be developed so that they form a competent support for the action.

I’ve said on a number of occasions that there is nothing wrong with a film being more than an hour and a half long. If you needed any proof of this assertion, watch The Green Hornet. Were it only an hour and a half, rather than two hours I would most likely be slamming it as a typical action film in which the plot is simple a very thin window-dressing. As it is I’m giving it a cautiously positive review. The luxury of time allows the film to have all the high energy, very expensive and usually gratuitous action sequences that define the genre, as well as dedicating plenty of time to develop the characters of both the protagonists and the antagonists, and giving the plot enough to meat to carry it all along.

While the protagonist were mostly fairly dull caricatures who were predictable and rather bland (although somewhat amusing), the antagonist stood out for me as a really interesting and well thought out character. I love my villains to have an element of the crazies about them – in turn I really hate villains who are just evil for evil’s sake – and Chudnofsky (played brilliantly by Christoph Waltz) was a fantastic psychopath. In fact I’d love to have seen a lot more attention paid to the villain, because frankly the protagonists got a little dull after a while. I suppose that, as with many superheroes (especially Batman), the villains are often more interesting that the heroes.

Some of you might be wondering why I’ve insisted on calling The Green Hornet an action film, rather than a superhero film. I went into the film expecting and hoping to see a superhero film focusing on the character of the superhero and his attempts to thwart the efforts of some criminal or other. Instead I got a rather fun but not particularly serious action film in which the heroes wore masks. I suppose this is why I was somewhat disappointed with the film. As a big fan of superhero films I was expecting the wrong thing. Superhero films are character studies of the hero in question, usually from their genesis, through their initial errors and to their eventual victory and coming of age as the hero. There were only the vague trappings of this in the Green Hornet; a thin veneer of character development masking a fun, but unsophisticated action film.

If you want a superhero movie than I suggest waiting for Thor to come out, because that looks like it might be a bit better in terms of actually being a superhero film. In the meantime re-watch Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, because that’s how it’s done. If you want an action film then go watch the Green Hornet; it’s exactly how a good action film should be. 2 hours of really good, clean fun that actually works as a film. Do not, however watch The Tourist if you want an action film. Do watch The Tourist is you want a really stylish, slow-boiling, slightly Noir thriller.

Set in Venice, The Tourist follows a woman (Angelina Jolie) following mysterious instructions from a former lover and wanted criminal trying to shake off the police sting operation on her and a gang of Russians lead by the English Gangster from whom he stole several billion pounds so that they can be reunited. Part of this evasion is to try to convince the police that someone else is actually the man they want. That someone else is an American tourist (Jonny Depp), who, inevitably falls in love with the woman. And I’m sure most of you can guess what the big twist was.

Luck Number Slevin this film is not, but I don’t think it was trying to be. The twist is fairly obvious, but the way in which the story is told is a real strong point. I mentioned stylish a while ago and that really is the word. The Tourist is beautifully filmed in a really majestic setting (I really need to go back to Venice some day; my 11 year old self was too young to appreciate it). The story is told so well that it makes up for some of the writing deficiencies.

There are writing deficiencies though. For example it is made pretty obvious that Depp’s character has fallen in love with Jolie’s, so we don’t need to have him say it to no-one in particular. Less is more when it comes to films like this; the more you can show visually, the better. Jonny Depp was an interesting pick for the male Protagonist as well, although I can hardly blame him for trying to associate his name with something other than the train wreck that is the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. His style of acting is not exactly suited to the role and Captain Jack Sparrow did make the odd unwelcome appearance. That being said Jolie does a fantastic job, as she usually does.

There’s really very little else to say about The Tourist. It’s a victory of style over substance. There’s really not much to the film or the characters, but all of that can be overlooked because it’s just executed so well. Usually I’d be criticising the lack of deep characterisation and the somewhat predictable plot, but there’s just enough of both of these for the film to work.

So if you want a strong story with a focus on characters, go watch a Christopher Nolan film, because neither of these films will satisfy your desires. If, however, you fancy the best action film made in recent years, go watch The Green Hornet; it’s a lot of fun. If you’re looking for something a bit more reserved with some fantastic examples of good film making, go see The Tourist.

But if you want to enjoy some really good stories from the comfort of your own home for absolutely free, then you should try listening to some podcasts. You don’t even have to go to the effort of reading these stories because they’re wonderfully narrated to you. If you’re a fan of Sci-fi, Fantasy or Horror stories (or even if you’re not) then check out Escape Pod, Pod Castle and Pseudopod for weekly short story podcasts. You will not regret it.