Daniel James's Blog: The Grumpy Introvert

It’s been a while since I posted anything, but that doesn’t mean I dropped dead or went off the grid, or did anything exciting, to be honest. But damn! I find it hard to stay motivated with posts and social media.

So, today I have a second horror/suspense short story (<6k). It is about a character struggling with depression, that prevalent human trait which speaks loudest when we are at our most vulnerable: the moment we wake or try to fall asleep. It’s an insidious and poisonous little voice that seeks to undermine our ability to overcome our obstacles, whatever their size. Well, the protagonist of this story is in for a hard time…maybe he’ll find the tools and grit required to beat back his black dog. *I would like to mention that this story was edited by Joseph Sale, a wonderful author who you can learn more about from the link below:

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This post’s title also mentions some exciting news, which there is, but as a proud, card-carrying pessimist–which is an exhausting hobby to pursue–I don’t celebrate until I have something cast-iron to celebrate. Anyway, here it goes: Laurie Blum Guest of the Re-naissance Agency contacted me recently about taking The Ferryman’s Toll (Hourglass #2) to the Frankfurt Book Fair in October. I am equal parts thrilled and subdued (see above), which is a funny feeling to have. Due to this I have temporarily unpublished Ferryman while it is being re-edited. Depending on whether or not a publisher picks it up at Frankfurt, the new and improved version will be available again at some point in the not-too-distant future; somewhere between several months to a year or so, but definitely before hover boards.

Fingers crossed. In the meantime, the first Hourglass is still available on Amazon. No pressure, just putting it out there.

On a related note, Hourglass #3 is currently being edited by the former Editor-in-Chief of Abaddon Books and Solaris Books (subsidiaries of Rebellion Publishing), courtesy of Laurie; so I know it’s in good hands and that I’ll get solid feedback to really fine-tune it.

On a related note, I have also temporarily unpublished Fable, because having been recently introduced to good editors via Laurie, I have realised just how inadequate my former editors have been (for example, Paul Witcover, a great author and pro-editor, has already helped me improve Ferryman tremendously; learn more about Paul at this link: http://www.sff.net/people/stilskin/ ), and I want the best possible version of Fable out there on the market, since I have such a soft spot for this weird, dark and violent high-school fantasy/horror.

Okay then, all caught up. And so, I promised a story of horror and suspense, and it would be a cheap ruse to sucker people in only to get an eyeful of Hourglass news and nothing more, so without further ado…Black Hands Inertia.

1

For the ten thousandth morning in a row, Ryan Dixon woke up, switched his alarm off, and felt nothing. For the ten thousandth morning in a row, two soot black hands appeared from empty space over his bed and set to violently smothering his face into the pillow. Ryan couldn’t breathe. His struggles were feeble against the brutal force of the pressing hands, the black fingers gripping his hair to keep their purchase, ensuring the only thing he inhaled was his own stale sweat. It was an old, tiresome routine, and with the desperate thrashings of an animal trapped in merciless jaws, he heaved himself off the couch into the gloomy, uninviting living room, losing a clump of his hair to locked fingers. His physical conditioning had improved if nothing else had. He got up and ran, not looking back. He had taken to habitually sleeping in a tracksuit and running shoes, anticipating misery’s greeting upon every waking, and snatching a bottle of water from the hallway table, he was out the front door, barely pausing to lock it behind him. Taking off down the rainy street, he didn’t look back, and he didn’t pace himself, launching himself past neighbours’ houses like a frightened missile.

Just keep going, he told himself. A frantic rhythm to match his slamming heart.

Just keep going.

Ryan used to hate exercise. Hated it as a boy. Hated it in P.E. class. Always hated it. And it wasn’t until his late twenties that he had discovered its value, its curative properties, limited as they were for his ailment. Soles pounding the pavement, he rounded the street corner onto the main avenue, feeling the black presence truly losing its grip now. Not just the hands, but that poisonous little pip which sat in the seat of his mind each morning.

No sense in stopping now though. It could very easily catch-up to him. He had to make sure he put some serious distance between them. Earn that rush, that exhilarating burn of sweet pain which scoured all traces of its presence like acid. Without slowing, he took a deep gulp of water, swilled it, and spat it onto the glistening paving stones. The rain invigorated him. He thought of nature and green spaces, fresh water and clean air, a slow-paced, purposeful life.

His pumping arms and legs couldn’t lead him there in permanence, but they could at least pay a passing visit.

He was heading for the dog park half a mile away. Not a bad place, he’d learned, but small. A neat greenish sanctuary in a dreary industrial town.

Once there, Ryan would try to keep his spirits up. Endorphins were the key. They were the miracle treatment to stave off the monster that sat waiting over his sleeping body each morning.

2

Ryan’s strong arms juddered like gale-whipped pennants as he gritted his way through one final excruciating pull-up. He dropped down from the monkey bars, resting his palms on his head, feeling his rain and sweat-soaked hair as he walked circles on the wet concrete, huffing through his nose. Anytime his brain attempted to bolt down a rabbit hole of thought, he’d suck in another great breath and shove the thought out of his head like he was performing another physical rep. Thinking would only increase his chances of finding problems.

Bliss slowly pooled in his head. Serenity. Nothing but him, his thudding heart, and the gentle birdsong. The park was lonely at this early hour. From the top of the hill, he stared across the open fields, bordered by a thick defence of trees, beyond which the grey city stirred.

He lowered his hands and picked a piece of rusting green paint from his callused palm, courtesy of the climbing frame. He had done it. He had found his centre. His oasis. That calm little island nestled away somewhere inside the loud, neurotic geography of his head.

Inhaling the sweet scent of damp grass, he watched the hazy grey sky showering the night’s funk and muck off the city.

Taking a sip of water, he checked his phone on reflex. No messages. No calls. Only a world’s indifference. However, his eye did linger on the background image. A stock photo of Route 66. A route he had never travelled, but had often wondered on. The open road. Freedom. From his life, maybe, but from himself…?

He put his phone away. The loneliness would keep. The endorphin rush keeping him buoyant. It would be safe to return home for now. It was his day off work today, and Ryan was a creature of habit. Habits were good. Habits were safe. Habits maintained the illusion of calm and inertia.

3

After his shower, Ryan skipped his otherwise routine breakfast of oatmeal and blueberries, wanting to get back out of the house as quickly as possible. He felt a burning need to keep on riding this train of momentum for as long as he could.

He had become a regular in a pleasant little cafe called Lavigne’s in Aigburth. The area always seemed possessed of a pleasant calm, with lots of trees and fragrant foliage and a general air of contemplative quiet. The coffee was nice, the freshly prepared food was always great, and Ryan was often able to get a table by the window where he could watch people amble by, walking their dogs or waiting on a bus; even with the light rain slowly becoming a deluge, such activities seldom changed. And Lavigne himself—or Georges—an expat from France, was on a first name basis with near enough every customer who walked through his door, quick to engage them in easy conversation with his melodious accent, which Ryan believed only heightened the coarseness of his own Scouse dialect.

Ryan finished his roast beef sandwich with a hint of glumness. The meal hit the spot, but with the food gone, he knew he would soon need to head off to find another distraction. Wiping his hands on a serviette, he glanced at the empty plate, wishing he hadn’t declined Georges’ offer of chips, which were made in-house, still wrapped in their crinkly skin, and thick enough to choke a seagull. But he had passed on them out of a recently developed reflex, conscious of their calorie content.

Since overcoming his first crippling bout of dark spells, Ryan surprised nobody more than himself when he started exercising. Being the manager of a chain sports shop, he realised the irony of being overweight and embarrassingly out of shape. And so in a dire need to find something to hold onto, he took advantage of an employee discount for a local gym. Getting into fitness so late into his twenties had him feeling silly at first: Heaven forbid he make some sort of scene at the gym by collapsing under a barbell or skidding off a treadmill. But after that first session, he felt more invigorated than he had in a long, long time. And of course, it wasn’t too late a stage in the game to start exercising. Far from it. He was still young, and had noticed men who must be in their sixties putting him to shame. Yes, he had youth; sadly, he knew that compared to many people, it was wasted on him, for Ryan was great at one thing in particular, and that was standing still. A wallflower forced to watch his petals wilt and die off one by one until he faded into yellowing wisp.

But he had lost sixteen pounds of booze and fast-food weight since starting the training regimen, and toned the rest into a finely tuned machine of physical functionality. Really, fitness was the only thing he had any control over, and on more than one occasion he had haunted himself with thoughts of what would happen when he got older and started to gradually lose everything he had gained, or if he got sick. No, not if. When. Sickness was like experience, the older you got, the more you acquired.

Actually, there was something else Ryan had always been good at besides posing as a tree: he was precocious in his gloom, having first picked up his trail of dark spells as a young boy not even ten years old. Over the years he had delved into various moments of his past, searching for possible answers to the root cause of his melancholy, but it was about as useful as spelunking deep into the darkest veins of the earth without a torchlight. In hindsight, he had never experienced any key moments of tragedy which could have wounded him. And throughout his youth, it always seemed more of a sense of encroaching despair, like black oil slowly seeping under a door, rather than a sudden violent gaping ache.

And whether it was an unconscious sense of survival or just the swift and bright energy of a playful childhood, he had always found a way to soak up the oil leaking under the door.

He used to have fortifications.

Time and poor, meek decisions had removed those battlements one by one, so that when he hit twenty-nine he was left unguarded. Forced to watch that viscous sludge as it gathered and seeped, he felt those cold black hands seize him fully by the throat for the very first time.

Georges veered into view, a kitchen towel slung perpetually over his shoulder, keen to hear how the food was but already knowing it was great. Ryan had cleared the plate of every crumb and shred of salad.

‘I needed that, thanks.’

‘My pleasure,’ Georges said, and then like a chummy conspirator, ‘maybe next time try some chips too.’

Ryan raised his coffee to his lips, smirking at how Georges was constantly trying to offload his chips onto customers, and wondered why he hadn’t opened a chippy instead of a cafe.

Georges whisked the plate away, off into the small kitchen full of chatter.

That’s when Ryan saw the form standing underneath the bus shelter. Vague, but definitely there. It couldn’t fool him. The heavy rain was rendering the plastic partition into a downpour of squiggling worms, but Ryan still saw the dark shape slowly pressing its face against the plastic. Watching him. Reminding him. Knowing he could never escape it for long. It didn’t need to find him in his cold, empty house, and he couldn’t outrun it forever. It could find him anywhere. All it needed was an opening. A lull in his mood.

Ryan needed a distraction.

4

Having left Lavigne’s, Ryan blew past the bus shelter, not daring to acknowledge the presence waiting within. Speed-walking back to his car, he slid in and quickly found himself taking random lefts and rights up and down residential streets as though he was searching for a missing person, and in a way, that wasn’t far from the truth. Maybe there was a version of him out there in the world or the universe which had been capable of taking command of his life, of having the hunger for success, or at least for the pleasurable things. Deep down he knew he would never find that particular shadow of himself. No, not that one. Only the depressor which was back on the hunt.

He put miles between them, having no destination in mind. He had already drove past the lush estates of Otterspool Promenade, and had left the tourist-packed docks bordering the city centre before even realising he was on a set course for Waterloo.

Ryan felt a twinge somewhere inside himself, and after an uncomfortable few seconds, he understood it was a question; one quiet and morbidly curious. He had asked himself the same question many times over these last barren years, but then, same as now, he couldn’t bring himself to answer it.

Do I want to die?

On reflex, his eyes flicked to the rear view mirror, dreading the sight of his tenebrous doppelgänger waiting in his backseat. The seat was empty.

Still…did he? Did he want to die?

It wouldn’t be without its upsides.

To finally know peace. To be free of the dark entity always tailing him the way a mugger tails a drunk. No more nights where he lay in bed thinking of how he was too far adrift to change anything in his life. Life had passed him by, but somehow, without having the sense to understand how at the time, it was he who had allowed it to happen. Over and over. Again and again. Being offered choices to do something worthwhile, to make something of himself or belong to something, only for him to be wait and wallow in a quagmire of self-doubt.

And he wasn’t getting any younger. Opportunities are the purview of the young. Mid-thirties might not be heart attack territory just yet, especially with the physical condition he was now keeping himself in, but he was swiftly approaching the final exit to make something of himself, or be forever blighted by insignificance.

But what could he do?

His foot pressed down a little harder on the accelerator, the windshield wipers batting crazed arcs against the downpour.

He couldn’t go back to university as a mature student. God, the embarrassment. Surrounded by young twenty-somethings with heads full of ambition, groins full of eagerness, and tongues loaded with quiet, biting remarks about the old guy in the lecture theatre.

No chance in hell. He’d already been to uni, bought the t-shirt, and collected nothing but loan repayments and a degree long past its use-by-date. A 2:1 in ecology, and zero post-grad follow-up, unlike his classmates. Was it too late to make a career with that? He suspected it was. The field would be saturated with graduates younger than him, with minds still fresh with knowledge.

He flicked his right turn signal, changing lanes, hearing the hiss of his tyres smoothly scrubbing the tarmac.

Could he earn a trade? He always thought it would be handy to be an electrician, or a carpenter. Not a plumber though, because whilst he had nothing but admiration for them, he knew he couldn’t stomach having to deal with the refuse of a thousand bowels.

But again, no. Placements were limited, and the courses would no doubt be looking for younger lads and lasses in their teens and twenties.

Something plummeted in his chest, all the way down into that bottomless pit of despair. He knew he’d left it too late.

And it wasn’t only an exciting or worthwhile career he’d failed to seize. It was a family.

The worst part was, he never actually wanted one. Ever. And was frankly baffled by how everyone he had ever known either wanted one or had one, something which only exacerbated his own feelings of alienation and abandonment. It made him feel faulty. Like a dud, tossed onto the small pile of society’s defective breeders. Why was he born this way? Why couldn’t he be impassioned to pursue what all those other people did? The regular folk.

He gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles straining.

Why did he seem to lack this vital component of life? The charge to succeed and be something greater?

He was a lifelong drifter. A caterpillar which would never grow its wings.

It was safe to say the endorphins and the upbeat mood had evaporated into a grey viscosity. He was vulnerable again.

As expected, Ryan felt the dark presence in the back seat. No speed or distance could ever beat it. Not when it emanated from within. He anticipated its cold fingers, rough and cold as slate, encircling the back of his neck. But they didn’t. It sat there, still as a dummy, the weak afternoon light forming a rainy penumbra about its head. It wasn’t attacking him because it knew, it knew Ryan was already slipping, already sinking into the black. Its mere presence was enough to spur him on to destruction.

The flyover was thirty yards away, and still being hammered by the rain. Lanes slick. Ryan hadn’t checked the tread on his tyres in a good while. Maybe they were still safe and legal. Maybe they weren’t.

He wondered if forty miles per hour would be enough to put his car through the concrete abutment, or would he crash its nose upwards like an orca leaping from the deep blue, upwards and over the side. He didn’t think he would land on any cars below the flyover. If he timed it right, his car might impact onto the large roundabout below. But then, maybe not, it was difficult to tell. He didn’t want to hurt anybody else.

Either way, there was no guarantee flying off the overpass would kill him. A fresh nightmare of a thought swam up like a tadpole to meet him: him, locked in a hospital bed, paralysed below the neck. Locked in his own useless body. A meat locker.

There had to be a better way.

He could feel the itch of the dark figure staring at the back of his head, his neck. Surely his unwanted passenger would help him find a better way out.

5

Ryan left his car abandoned on a busy side street off of South Road in Waterloo. It was on double yellows, and he knew he’d be getting either ticketed or clamped, but what did it matter?

His shadow had followed him down the road, through umbrellas and ungainly marchers seeking shelter in cafes and high street stores. Ryan walked up the slight incline towards the train station, sensing his pursuer keeping the wary pace of a patient wolf stalking wounded but still dangerous prey. Ryan crossed the road with barely a glance, weighing up the odds of dying from a passing car or bus.

Now a train…?

That would certainly do the trick. The station was right there. All it would take would be one little step off the platform. People do it all the time. Ryan thought about how many of them had been plagued by their own dark intruders, circling loan sharks coming to collect on life’s potential, lent out at conception: potential ultimately squandered, but carrying a very high interest.

Leaving the busy train station behind him, Ryan felt a dark surge run up his spine, a new jolt of melancholia. His dread’s patience was waning. It was becoming belligerent, tired of the silly routines, and now fully craved his death.

Ryan had a sudden urge to sprint as fast as he could. To not stop until his legs fell out from under him, leaving him crawling across the pavement like a drunk tossed from a pub. The endorphins would blot out his shadow, temporarily.

Temporarily.

That was the problem. He was tired of the struggle. Tired of every new day and its unshakable misery.

So he didn’t run, or drop and start doing push-ups in the street like a crazy person. Instead, he walked into the nearest pub. His shadow didn’t seem to object. Being a part of him, it would know what he knew, which meant it was fully aware of the double-edged sword which was alcohol.

Ryan would feel good, perhaps even great after the first few. But it never took long for the ale to reveal itself to be the conman that it was, leaving him with nothing but empty promises of happiness and fulfilment. Once in that head state, he would be more susceptible to the shadow’s final act.

The first pint did little to diminish the dark presence, which sat and watched him from across the table. Even without a face, that smooth black surface seemed to quietly seethe, all hunger and impatience. Ryan fought to ignore it, staring out the window at the small beer garden, a forgotten pint glass sloshing with a little beer and a lot of rain. The pub was pretty quiet, with only a few small gatherings of drinkers spaced out about the place.

The second pint had him feeling a slight boost. Even though he knew it was bullshit, it gave him the energy to begin the lie.

Just keep drinking. You’ll know when to stop: when the rollercoaster’s about to drop and barrel down towards the mouth of anger and depression. A few more pints, and maybe you’ll keep it at bay this time. Break this dark spell. Make some changes with your life. Find a hobby. Do something new.

Ryan smiled bleakly at the pint glass, feeling that walking void hovering on his every thought and move. A few more big gulps, and the thing was now starting to fade from his view.

Buying the third pint, he threw a few pound into the tip glass, and felt like he was starting to walk on air. Having cut booze from his life, it surprised him how little it now took to get a buzz. Reaching his table, he noticed how the seat opposite was now completely empty. The darkness, perhaps the one constant friend he had left, had departed. It almost made him chuckle, realising how depression itself might be the only thing which could give him purpose. Isn’t that what all of this dreary shit was? The getting into shape, the abstaining from booze, the mundane but dependable routines, the fighting back of an outright existential horror, was that not purpose?

If it was, it wasn’t enough. Ryan downed the pint, and wanted to feel the rain on his face.

6

The beach was a dreary sight, sand rain-swollen and turned the colour of fudge. The turbid surf rolling in and back out like it was all one big monotonous chore. And the silver-grey horizon only promised more rain until it drowned the whole world.

Ryan had the place to himself. At least that was something.

He didn’t know how long he stood on the dark tide-line, soaked to the bone, but he did know how light he felt. It was almost as if he had glimpsed a scrap of optimism, plucking a piece of shining gold from the tightly packed sand. He had read somewhere that that’s how suicide felt to some people near the end, those lost and wounded souls who just wanted to step off the carousel. No more waking up to choking hands, rough, seizing, dragging them down into the gloaming depths. The freedom of oblivion from troubles unconquerable, and the sheer endless dread of worrying about tomorrow.

Peace.

Before he knew it, he was walking towards the approaching surf, the foamy mass racing in to greet him. It swept over his trainers, soaking his socks, then his shins, knees. He was wading into the cold water, feeling it take ownership of him with its frigid weight. He wasn’t scared. Instead, he only waded harder into the water until it was up to his chest, robbing him of his breath. With a teeth-chattering gasp, he threw himself under the water into swirling darkness, and swam further out. The beers’ merriment and bravado left him quickly, leaving him alone in the roiling darkness.

No, not alone.

Something grabbed his ankle, and he didn’t need to strain his eyesight against the silty water to see what it was. His shadow was pulling him down, determined to assist him in his end. The dark hands were strong, this he knew intimately, feeling the phantom chokings of too many mornings. He allowed it to drag him down like undertow, seeing all the opportunities he’d botched or passed on drift through his thoughts like flotsam and jetsam.  He was about to expel the last of his breath, when something glowed like stoked coal in his darkening mind. If he was this prepared to end it all, why not take one final chance before writing his epilogue? He had a good chunk of money saved from all of his years spent doing nothing. Why not take that road trip down Route 66 he’d often mused on? Buy a one-way plane ticket, and if he still feels so utterly devoid of anything but ennui and sorrow, he could kick the bucket with a bottle of something strong as the sun sank into the Pacific.

With a sudden paroxysm of sheer need, Ryan kicked his legs, and felt those dark hands continue to pull at him with a frustrated fury. He kicked, and kicked, and clawed up for the surface, practically feeling his cold-sapped muscles groan against the weight of his clothing.

His darker Self released his shoes, and with one single mighty stroke, darted up to meet him. Its empty, featureless face floated in front of his like some chilling marine alien considering taking a bite out of his cheek or nose, or maybe his lips. Ryan’s lungs were on fire, and as his eyes bulged in longing for the surface, he hoped those dark hands wouldn’t gird his throat, wrenching the last dregs of air from him. With a few more desperate kicks, he realised he’d left the shadow floating below him, and with one final glance down before breaking the foam ceiling, he saw it fade away, pulling itself deeper and further into the stirred cloak of sediment.

The first breath was so deep and vital it practically scraped Ryan’s throat raw. He fought his way to shore like a capsized sailor renouncing the sea, and lay face-down in the cold sand, nose skewed against the grain, breathing in ragged breaths. Tears poured, lost and anonymous in the torrents. He didn’t know how long he lay there, but at some point the rain finally stopped. He rolled over, glancing about in shame and horror at what he had just attempted. With some small relief, he saw that he still had the beach to himself, with no witnesses. But how long before a dog walker or somebody thankful for the rain’s passing decided to go for a ramble along the coastline? He had to get out of here. Get back to his car. He had to book a plane ticket, and get away, chase down this glimmer of hope.

Inertia could be lethal.

7

Ryan’s arm was catching a nice tan on the door of his rental car. The Arizona air was a warm devil’s breath, wafting through the open windows, and the road ahead seemed to go on forever. The late afternoon traffic was flowing smoothly and sparse. Ryan felt at peace.

After the beach incident, he had spoken to his regional manager, explaining a need to take some time off from work for personal reasons, carefully omitting the suicide attempt. Carl was a decent guy, and since Ryan had been nothing short of a model employee since he first started in the stock room ten years ago, he told him to take the month off rather than Ryan’s initial request of two weeks. Ryan suspected he hadn’t been hiding his depression as well as he thought, judging from the solicitous look Carl had given him that morning. Ryan left graciously, promising Carl he’d let off some steam and enjoy himself whilst on his big trip.

Nothing but 2000-plus miles of open road, big cities, and new experiences.

Ryan felt like a balloon breezing through a cloudless blue sky as he overtook the big rig, feeling the air whip against his face.

The past three weeks had gone by so quickly, and were unlike any he had experienced in five years going on eternity. Waking up in motels, feeling nothing more than a minor disconcertion instead of those throttling fingers the colour of fresh tar at midnight. To wake in such a way was essentially euphoric, and he’d set off each morning for a day’s worth of idling tourism, completely untethered from the complications of his old desolate life back home.

But…

A little past ten this morning, he had felt something bump about in his mind for the first time in weeks. A tentative clawing, like a short, chewed fingernail itching against wood. He had switched to decaf, finished his unhealthy breakfast, and jumped back behind the wheel to take his mind off of it, dead set on a slight detour off of Route 66 to visit the Grand Canyon. He wanted to see it for the same reason most people did: to personally witness the majesty of such a colossal monument to humanity’s insignificance. The vast beauty which spanned epochs was something which humbled the most immodest of souls. But as the morning turned to late afternoon, and the miles crawled by on the odometer, a part of Ryan started to wonder if there was another reason he wanted to see that great big hole in the Earth.

Had he been hearing that finger nail scratching for longer than he had first realised? In those nocturnal stretches which left his sleeping body vulnerable, was something seeping under his door?

He overtook a few more cars, his foot subconsciously pressing down onto the accelerator a little harder, and as he changed lanes he heard a great angry honk. He waved an apologetic hand, and as his eyes cut to the rear view to glimpse the annoyed driver, he saw the black figment in the middle of his backseat, sitting patiently. One finger scratching at the leather of his seat.

His eyes cut back to the road ahead, filled with urgency and denial. He was feeling good! Wasn’t he? Why now? He knew why, of course, because these feelings of liberation and happiness would soon be coming to an end. He’d be back home. Back to reality. But this time he’d have a lot less money in his savings account. And no other pipedream to muse on.

Buoyancy never lasted forever. And his tormentor would be back soon enough to pull him under. To choke him upon a new morning’s confusion. To wrap its clamping fingers about his heart until some coroner declared him another victim of stress.

Ryan glanced in the rear view, finding nothing but cream-coloured upholstery; even the irate tailgater had disappeared into a filling station.

Ryan sought inspiration to guide him from darkness, but then, he thought about simply speeding his rental right into that enormous gorge.

He let the miles breeze by, knowing he still had some time to decide. He got onto the less congested Desert View Drive as the sky turned bloody and bruised, and kept to the speed limit along the expansive paved road which skirted the canyon. Knots of people blurred past, parked along various overlooks in astonishment at the panoramic views, smiling for photographs and talking happily amongst themselves. Families. Friends. Lovers. Ryan checked the backseat. His one true companion was back again.

He edged down on the accelerator, just a little, just testing.

The snaking route was nothing short of marvellous, and Ryan wondered glumly whether he would ever see such beauty again? The presence behind him seemed to adjust its position. Following a few bends in the road, he noticed that he was approaching another lookout: Grandview Point.

He still had time.

Time to turn things around. Find a purpose. Find something to stave off the darkness once and for all!

He thought about the dreary routines, and the people he could never connect with on a deeper level, and living a life which was little more than an exercise in running down the clock.

He turned north onto the mile-long stretch leading straight up to the lookout point. There were still a lot of tourists grouped about, coming and going, and some giving him strange looks: was he even allowed to drive along this section of road? Ryan wasn’t sure, because he wasn’t paying much attention to anything besides his passenger and its smothering gloom.

The speedometer purred, the needle rising gently.

Ryan saw ample vantage points along the road where he could potentially sail his car off the side without hurting anybody else.

Was this is it?

Was this what he really wanted?

To end it on his own terms, a spectacular finish to a bland life?

The car was gradually gaining more speed, the engine governed by Ryan’s bleak verve, working up to the deed. A few passers-by called out to him, but it was all incomprehensible. The dark passenger was sitting beside him now, goading him with a faceless stare.

Ryan felt his heart banging away. He was basting in a nervous sweat now.

Should he be scared if he really wanted this? He wasn’t this scared at the beach.

The speedometer kept rising.

He thought of his future, and saw nothing.

But was that a bad thing? Was it nothing, or was it a chance to do something? An opportunity waiting to be seized.

The passenger was becoming twitchy.

The needle rose. The engine roared. The nose of the car was angling towards a clear path of free-falling destruction. He took a hot, shallow breath, feeling drunk on the view he was careening towards.

Nothingness or opportunity? It was for him to decide.

He still had time to change his life’s course. He put his foot down hard on the pedal.

He still had time to fix it.

He still had time to fix it.

He still had time to fix it.

He still had…

Daniel James is an author of speculative (and sometimes dark and weird) fiction from Liverpool, England.
He is the recipient of two Kirkus Star reviews for his character-driven, action-packed urban fantasy novels Hourglass and The Ferryman’s Toll. Hourglass was also voted one of their Best 100 Indie novels of 2021.

First posted 16/05/2022 at the awesome Kendall Reviews. http://kendallreviews.com/book-review-cabinet-of-curiosities-guillermo-del-toro/

Pan’s Labyrinth, Cronos, Devil’s Backbone, Hellboy. What do they all have in common besides being visual works of art, treading the fine line between nightmarish fairytale and astounding beauty? They were all made by visionary director Guillermo del Toro. And of course these are only a few of the horrific, fantastical, but always emotive and humane movies in his stunning oeuvre.

In Cabinet of Curiosities: My Notebooks, Collections, and Other Obsessions, GDT provides us with an embarrassment of riches regarding his fascinating and vastly imaginative inner-workings, showcasing his numerous densely packed notebooks which have been his creative touchstones and reference points throughout his entire cinematic career. These notebooks are bursting with ideas both realised, abandoned or otherwise transplanted from one movie to another.

With each notebook page being graffitied with copious illustrations of possible creature designs, arcane symbols or anything else which was slowly gestating in his mind during the creative process, including scrawled questions the writer/director asked himself during the developmental stages of his various productions, which are very enlightening; particularly when he’s clearly hopping back and forth from one project to the next due to a combination of his prolific nature and various studio deadlines.

We are also treated to occasional storyboard breakdowns and various concept designs from GDT’s collaborating production designers, which are a welcome addition.

On top of these wonderful glimpses into his notebooks, CoC also provides interview questions conducted by the book’s contributor, Marc Scott Zicree, which help us delve into various aspects of GDT’s personal life, upbringing, and multitudinous influences. Enhancing these Q&A sessions, are anecdotes from actors, artists, authors and directors such as Ron Perlman (Hellboy himself!), Mike Mignola (Hellboy’s creator!), Neil Gaiman, and James Cameron, respectively, who all know the man himself, and provide behind-the-scenes stories of their friendships, histories, or even just amusing asides about GDT’s idiosyncrasies.

GDT even provides a guided tour of his famous Bleak House via photography and his own written descriptions, detailing the two-house shrine/museum to his staggering collection of artwork, sculptures, busts, books, comics and paintings on all things horror, fantasy, and weirdly speculative across the mediums of cinema, literature, and art. It looks like an amazing place to get lost in, and also boasts various rooms for his creative outlets, be they writing or illustrating.

And of course, GDT’s autobiographical accounts of his early days are illuminating, taking you through his precociously creative childhood to budding movie-maker, plus his continual (and admirable!) mule-stubborn struggles to keep studio suits and hacks from diluting, and even poisoning his artistic integrity e.g. Cronos may have got his foot on the first rung of the ladder, but only after experiencing a set-back involving a dull-minded studio producer first telling him that it essentially sucked and nobody would like it! And then there was the continuous head-butting over Mimic, his first US movie, which would have been so much better if he had been left to his own devices.

Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed this hefty compendium which chronicles his career from Cronos up until Pacific Rim. I loved the boundless enthusiasm with which GDT talks about everything from his creative drive to life in general, which he does in a very down-to-earth manner, peppered with humour, humility, and philosophical nuggets on his creative beliefs and the oft-recurring themes which run through his movies.

My only real grievance is that the book concludes with a brief (sadly, too brief) glimpse into his numerous aborted projects, from Meat Market to At the Mountains of Madness; plus, I incorrectly assumed one of these projects might have detailed his screenplay for the Justice League Dark movie, which he would have nailed, but then that would also require a complete lack of studio interference which would never happen! Nevertheless, I would have loved to have been given a more detailed breakdown of the plots, characters and ideas of these movies; alas, perhaps the concise summaries of these projects is precisely due to their stalled productions, or the auteur’s fear of disclosing too much should he one day get to see their fruition. We can only hope, because Meat Market sounds very intriguing.

Highly recommended for any GDT fan, or anybody who has an interest in making horror/dark fantasy movies, for that matter.

Daniel James is an author of speculative (and sometimes dark and weird) fiction from Liverpool, England.
He is the recipient of two Kirkus Star reviews for his character-driven, action-packed urban fantasy novels Hourglass and The Ferryman’s Toll. Hourglass was also voted one of their Best 100 Indie novels of 2021.

I was supposed to upload one chapter of Heathens each day following my previous post which included the novel’s prologue, see below!

Alas, I was busier than expected. But during those few days I did come to one conclusion, and that was how ugly the prose looks when pasted onto this page: weird spacing, odd line breaks etc. So I decided to just attach a Word doc with not just chapter 1, but also chapter 2, and as a bonus, I added the prologue again so it doesn’t look so shoddy.

heathens-ch.-1-2-1Download

So if your looking for a dark and grim fantasy horror pitting an ailing modern day druid clan against subterranean horrors beneath the streets of Liverpool, why not give it a look. And I’ll endeavour to keep uploading a new chapter a day.

Thanks for reading!

Daniel James is an author of speculative (and sometimes dark and weird) fiction from Liverpool, England.
He is the recipient of two Kirkus Star reviews for his character-driven, action-packed urban fantasy novels Hourglass and The Ferryman’s Toll. Hourglass was also voted one of their Best 100 Indie novels of 2021.

“Yeah, well, for all you know, they can fly.” — Valentine McKee

The 90’s. The dawn of Culture Beat’s Mr. Vain, but also CGI, a lot of which hasn’t aged too well – unlike Mr. Vain which is as infectious as ever. As for the CGI, a lot of it was great at the time, and even if some now resembles a cut scene from a PlayStation 1 game, they were used in a number of bloody fun horror films. Ones which I watched over and over again, inevitably imposing a certain frenetically paced frisson and snappy dialogue which I still look for today in horror films. Genre and plot aside, if I have to choose between a slow burning atmosphere of dread or a scalpel sharp slice of entertaining mayhem, I’m going for the latter.

All but two of the following seven horror films fit neatly into that gory B-Movie niche; as for the other two, I just think they’re awesome.

Here we go…

The Faculty (1998) From the opening minute which motors along to The Kids Aren’t Alright by The Offspring, I was hooked. The fact that what follows is a classic tale of a rag-tag bunch of high school clique bait forced together to quell a bunch of hydrophilic squiddy parasites from taking over their teachers, their parents, their town, and eventually the world, meant that I was instantly infatuated with it. Yes, this in very much in Body Snatchers territory, but with an alt rock soundtrack; Jesus, it even pains me to say it that Creed (gulp) do a solid cover of Alice Cooper’s Eighteen. Much like Elijah Wood’s character Casey, I was also that “geeky Stephen King kid” at the time of the film’s release, and an avid Offspring fan (side note I wish that band had stopped after the 90’s!) so I was practically mainlining adrenaline and frothing at the mouth at the idea of a lowly nerd saving the day. Now throw in a heap of other good character actors including Famke Janssen, Robert Patrick and Josh Hartnett, memorable dialogue, an exciting finale with a damn fine monster with slick CGI (for the time), and a lean pace that moves as fast as a squid can swim, and this was an instant favourite of mine.The Relic (1997) Another a heavy dose of CGI carnage, this was a blast back in the day. After an anthropologist immerses himself with a South American tribe, he unwittingly invites something awful into his body, and it isn’t dysentery. And when our poor academic manages to ship himself back to Chicago, his beast-mode transformation has him slaughtering staff at the museum in which he worked, and chowing down on human hypothalamus’s, forcing homicide detective D’Agosta (Tom Sizemore) and top resident anthropologist Dr Margo Green (Penelope Ann Miller) to investigate. The bodies and the mystery escalate nicely, leading up to a gala event going into lockdown with a packed body count in attendance, leaving the intrepid dick and anthropologist to track down and stop the creature before the entire guest list become hors d’oeuvres.

H2O (1998) At the time, this was the only Halloween sequel (post Halloween 2, because Halloween 3: Season of the Witch, is it’s own beast entirely) that mattered. Don’t get me wrong, I really like Halloween 4, not so much 5 and 6, but this was the first entry which disregarded all that messy sequel business involving Laurie’s adopted daughter, and the Druidic cult of Thorn, and it worked brilliantly. Jaime Lee Curtis returns as Laurie Strode, having adopted a new identity as a high school English teacher, not to mention a drinking habit and chronic PTSD following her ordeal in the first 2 movies. And equally cool, Myers was once more back to being truly creepy, always slipping just out of sight, hiding in shadows, and popping out just in time to do something horrible. Full of tense moments like the waste disposal scene and being trapped between a locked door and a flimsy gate (you’ll get it when you see it), this film ratcheted up the tension to a gripping finale, all capped off with an absolute perfect conclusion…until Halloween 8 came along and shat all over it. Still, a very strong case could be argued for this being a better sequel than the current trilogy by Teems, McBride and Green, which I do enjoy by the way.

The Frighteners (1996) Easily my favourite of Peter Jackson’s movies, this comedic horror is an absolute gem, and stars Michael J. Fox as Frank Bannister, a former architect turned necromantic conman, “cleansing” the homes of clients of his ghost buddies/partners in crime. It seems to be going well for the wily Mr Fox, until he stumbles onto the horrifying realisation that the malevolent spirit of a former notorious serial killer Johnny Bartlett (Jake Busey is suitably nutso and having a blast) is back, continuing his body count. Fox and his two spectral cronies/only friends, set out to try and stop Bartlett’s rampage, with an unhinged FBI agent (Re-Animator’s Jeffrey Combs) pestering them at every step. Even with some now pretty dire CGI, this is just a really story with some excellent gags.

Deep Rising (1998) John Finnegan (Treat Williams) is a shady nautical smuggler, whose latest score is to foolishly transport some very sketchy and heavily armed hijackers (including Djimon Hounsou, Jason Flemyng, Wes Studi and Cliff Curtis) to a luxury cruise liner out in the Pacific Ocean. Unfortunately for all involved, a giant Kraken-esque monstrosity decides it wants inside the nice vessel, particularly for all the morsels panicking and shitting themselves within. So it’s up to Williams and Famke Janssen’s feisty jewel thief to survive the thugs, the monster, the flooding ship, and find a way to escape. Like an aquatic Aliens with its tongue firmly in its cheek, this is big, dumb and full of fun. Stephen Sommers later went on to make the enjoyable The Mummy (1999) with Brendan Fraser, so that will help you gauge the vibe of this adventure; sadly he was also involved with those Mummy sequels, but he did manage to find some redemption with Odd Thomas (2013), the adaptation of the Dean Koontz book starring the awesome and sadly departed Anton Yelchin.

In the Mouth of Madness (1994) This was John Carpenter’s swan song as the John Carpenter, the legend who dominated genre filmmaking. Sadly after this, he went on a bit of a slide creatively, but as last hurrah’s go, this is pretty great. John Trent (Sam Neill) is the insurance investigator sent to an eerie bucolic town in search of Sutter Cane (Jürgen Prochnow), a titan of literary horror who has mysteriously vanished somewhere within. Accompanied by Cane’s editor Linda Styles (Fright Night 2’s Julie Carmen), Trent slowly unravels the supernatural mystery, peeling back the rotten layers of Cane’s town, and gradually descending into (yup, you guessed it) madness, as the author’s Lovecraftian nightmare begins to leak from the pages of his new manuscript to consume his legions of fans, and the world at large.

Tremors (1990) If you don’t like this film, you have earned my contempt, not that that means much. This classic B-movie stars Kevin Bacon and Fred Ward as Valentine and Earl respectively, two blue collar handymen with ideas of getting out of the dull desert town of Perfection, Nevada. They should have left earlier, as on their way out, they discover the corpse of a resident who seemingly climbed a telephone pole and stayed there until death. Very strange. But not as strange as the huge subterranean creatures burrowing through town hungry for locals. Gory, exciting, and funny as hell, with great chemistry between the three leads, rounded out by seismologist Rhonda Lebeck (Finn Carter), this is what all creature features should aspire to be.

I would have included Guillermo del Toro’s Mimic (1997) in this list, as I did enjoy that when I was a kid, and the premise is still brilliant, but knowing now how Dimension Films and Miramax fucked him and his vision so much that he briefly lost his depth perception, I’m choosing not to. Thankfully, GDT has moved onto bigger and better things, but maybe not as big as they deserve to be; still sucks that he didn’t get to finish his Hellboy trilogy.

Whilst we’re in the spirit of monsters and violence, I’ve decided to add the opening chapter to my bleak, body-horror meets druidic revenge fantasy, Heathens. I wrote it with Clive Barker and John Carpenter in mind, trying to mix the former’s lyrical depictions of terror, violence and even beauty, with the latter’s expertise in taut, larger than life thrillers.

The book is available on Kindle and KU at Amazon, but as always, I’m more interested in finding new readers than money.

So if you decide to read on, and get a taste for it, please note I’ll be uploading a new chapter each day (please excuse the formatting, the novel isn’t actually formatted in this funky way), comprising the whole story. And if you enjoy it, please feel free to reach out on this blog or Twitter, even if its just to tell me I suck. Cheers.

Prologue

The shotgun lay heavy in Keith Fletcher’s hands, his blood soaking into the wool of his gloves. Or maybe it was somebody else’s blood. There’d been enough of it shed down here in these cold, dark tunnels. A lot of blood, and a lot of screams.

He had led them all to a slaughter.

He stumbled on, half-blinded by the blood leaking into his eyes, pooling in his ashen beard like coppery syrup. The scratches on his scalp were deep, flaps of flesh hanging like a grotesque toupee. Keith popped open the double barrel of his shotgun and shook out the empty shells, his shaky fingers searching for new double-aught buckshot. Would it save him? He tried not to think about it, tried not to think about seeing the sun again, of breathing fresh air to cleanse the damp miasma of piled corpses and animal stink, the aroma of a feeding den thick enough to chew like cud. He didn’t care about his own survival, all he wanted was for Mary to make her escape. Just thinking the name of his beloved was like a vice across his chest.

He dared a glimpse over his shoulder. The darkness ruled in this section of the old tunnel, but he knew it was still on his trail, making a sport of its wounded and terrified prey. Patting down his coat pockets, his bloody gloves made an urgent drumbeat as he double- and then triple-checked the deep pouches. He was out of shells. The shotgun would be a pretty decent club in some circumstances, but this wasn’t it. He drew his hand axe out from under his coat, apt for limb removal. Keith knew he might as well be empty-handed.

There were too many of them down here.

They had blundered right into a nest of the things. He tortured himself with possibilities: how close had they been to the Sheltons’ home? If they had made it there, could they have accomplished what centuries of their forebears had strived and failed to do? To clip the Shelton bloodline, retrieve the Drest Stones, and end all of this.

Dammit O’Hara. She wasn’t to blame, but he needed to curse at something in his pained anguish. It always was a risk relying on her clairvoyant ability, her visions often obscured by dark forces.

Panting, sweating, his scalp a furnace of pain, Keith tried not to think about what had just happened to them. But even half-blinded by darkness and his own dripping blood, he couldn’t shake loose the image of what he witnessed back there. Such a sight didn’t require eyes, it lived forever in the mind, lurking between the dark spaces between more pleasant thoughts, waiting to slink out in the middle of the night when you were at your weakest. The scene had been of a vast high-ceilinged chamber of time-worn brick and mortar, calling to mind a silo or the bottom of a giant well, lit by small mountain-pass arrangements of candles, each stick resembling a melting rib broken and protruding upright from its bony cage. And the remains. Human and rodent, but mainly the former, in all stages of decay across the black rainbow of mortality and decomposition.

Fifteen minutes prior, Keith had watched the twisted things alight, pluck, gouge and rake out the eyes and guts of the twenty-some raiding party — his clan — their screams and pleas overlapping like a blood-gurgling brook. Some were eviscerated up amongst the high iron perches around the walls of that gloomy coop, others were taken apart right there on the filthy stone floor, thrashing limbs kicking and slapping amidst the piles of old bones and corpses of more recent kills. Keith hadn’t seen Mary amongst this number though, or else he would have made his last stand right there with her, charged straight into that abattoir blasting and swinging until they plucked his life and soul from his body. He had unloaded both barrels into the long pick-axe beaked head of the tall creature which had tried to ambush him from behind. The bone and dirt-crusted feathers of its long flat skull erupted easily enough, but they had numbers and a killer’s grace. The thing died headless, but not before a slashing talon had opened Keith’s scalp like tissue paper. With the blood pouring into his eyes, he had stumbled over a rotting femur, fiercely wiped his vision clear and scrabbled back to his feet, blind again, hearing the pecking and tearing, the whimpering of pain too severe to be processed. The living morsels of food seemed to understand that their exhausted calls for mercy had become nothing more than involuntary spasms of tongue, teeth and lips. Some of them, men and women Keith had known for decades and cared for deeply, seemed to know their miseries in split flesh were almost done, and occupied some distant plane of consciousness.

Calling out Mary’s name, he had staggered out of that feeding vault, literal blind luck guiding him into one of the off-shoot tunnels flowing deep beneath the many acres of park and farmland. He never heard her voice, no matter how hard he screamed her name.

The honking noise came again, bouncing off the cold, wet brick arcades to scrape his nerves. It was the chilling call of his pursuer, the malformed raptor-man coming to end him here in darkness and futility.

A quiet traitor lived in Keith’s head, conspiring with his heart and soul to simply cease his escape attempt and get this over with, calmly arguing its case: he was wounded, lost, outmatched, and worst of all, Mary could still be alive down here. She’s gone, a second, nasty little voice chimed in. They’re all gone. You were the wise one, the leader, and you led them all to a worthless death. No! Anger flared up inside him like a struck match stick, there’s still hope.

He stumbled on tiredly for a few more paces, his barely visible boots kicking a few chunks of broken brick and tiles, the inhaled dust invisible in the darkness. He wanted to scream a futile challenge at the thing behind him, hoping the aggressive roar might give it pause. He knew it wouldn’t though. These beasts didn’t give a damn about their food shouting and cursing. After a few more steps he noticed slivers of weak light luring him on, shining through cracks in the ceiling brick, just enough to tease help and salvation. It wasn’t sunlight filtering through the high ceiling though. It was the weak and milky electric glow from the tunnel above.

The honking call came again, so loud it made Keith flinch. It had covered the distance with frightening speed, a predator’s swiftness. A heavy rustling noise owned the space behind Keith as shadow-stolen wings, black as midnight oil, engulfed the wide tunnel, the tall and skinny frightener gliding over the rubble-dotted floor to seize him.

Keith wasn’t able to lash out with his old Celtic axe. A white-hot slash of pain raced across his back, the long pelican-like beak tearing through labour-built muscle, a trench two inches deep. Gasping, Keith stumbled helplessly, his gloved hands still holding tight to his axe and the club of his shotgun, but the agony thwarted any comeback, and all he accomplished was a deep inhalation of dust and grit which coated his tongue with the taste of too many lost generations.

A pointless, taunting image of Mary being similarly butchered elsewhere in these unchartered caverns bobbed weakly in the dark sludge of his dying brain. The image might have been scolding him, telling him that it was a mistake for his kind, the lineage of this old town’s first settlers — the sect of Merseyside Druids — to have once more raised arms against the Shelton family. Wrong for them to have marched down here into this cold subterranean hell to try and slay them on their turf. The horror continued cutting him up, pecking and chipping away at his spine as his legs went cold and insensate.

He lied to himself as his blood pooled all about him, sweet beautiful fictions of Mary getting out of here and laying down her axe, of going into hiding where the Sheltons couldn’t locate her. He sprinkled some extra gold dust across this fantasy, imagining how it might have been if they had both done that: living as a simple man and wife, young and vital. A man and wife, and their new born child, a vessel for hope of new beginnings, far removed from clan warfare. His body had grown numb to all sensation but the regret burned in his cowed soul.

The huge beak clamped around Keith’s exposed spine, but he couldn’t feel it. The last thing he was aware of was a fleeting sense of motion in the pit of his blood-drunk stomach as he was dragged upwards through a dark vertical shaft hidden deep in the earth.

Deeper than any sane man would want to go.

Deep enough for a mass burial of secrets and bodies.

Chapter 1 will be available tomorrow. Thank you for reading.

Daniel James is an author of speculative (and sometimes dark and weird) fiction from Liverpool, England.
He is the recipient of two Kirkus Star reviews for his character-driven, action-packed urban fantasy novels Hourglass and The Ferryman’s Toll. Hourglass was also voted one of their Best 100 Indie novels of 2021.

Since I started writing, my action scenes have been complimented on enough times for me to assume I’m doing something right. Now whilst I’ve dabbled in other genres like neo noir thrillers and horror, each of which require a more toned down and tense style of action, its my Hourglass series which has garnered the most compliments for their flashy spectacle and set pieces, and therefore I thought I’d give a quick rundown of my simple writing process for creating big, bold action sequences for any fantasy/action writers out there who perhaps don’t enjoy constructing action scenes. If this is you, I hope this helps. But bear in mind, I am merely a humble DIY author (for proof, check out the t-shirt I designed below!), so if my advice is no good to you, maybe there’s a Writing Action Scenes for Dummies book on the market.

When it comes to writing action, I believe the author should approach its construction like a movie director/storyboard artist. No matter how much you might have to alter your action scenes during their development, you should always have a number of memorable and exciting vignettes which stay with you, and capture the frisson and kinesis that first inspired you to pen that particular scene, whether it’s a captivating setting, a spirited character moment, or maybe just a kick-ass scrap. But you should be visualising it like it’s a movie, as this will not only help inform you of the surroundings, and where the scene is heading from beat to beat, but it can often throw up new ideas, allowing you to get lost in the moment and improvise.

So let’s break it down to its bare essentials.

Setting. It doesn’t matter if you have a scene where a tough as boots maverick cop has a knock down drag out with a gangster; a noble knight slaying a malevolent evil incarnate; or mercs hunting down or being hunted by teeth-gnashing horrors, you need a memorable playground. Now whilst your story will tend to dictate the available settings (you can’t have that aforementioned maverick cop having a shootout on Mars just because you suddenly feel like it!), you should choose potential settings whilst you’re still in the early process of drafting your plot, that way you will already have a rough idea of the action set-pieces which will be sprinkled throughout the story as you go. Another thing to consider when choosing settings, is the potential use of the environment, which will give you options to jazz up the scene: bathroom brawl? Use the sink. Super powered dockyard fight? Bring a crane crashing down. The environment can produce pivotal focal points to drive the scene forwards, as well as creating more hazardous drama for your characters.What if you have an important character moment, one that shapes them into the person they’ll become? It doesn’t have to be a self-belief one-man army type moment. It could be them witnessing something terrible in battle, or maybe shifting allegiances. Whatever it is, this should be previously considered during the early drafts of your manuscript, but when it comes down to actually writing it, think about the most exciting/interesting way this character moment can occur during the conflict. Consider the character’s situation and, again, their environment. Let the bare bones of the idea play out in your head against the environmental backdrop, and try to live it with the character, and think, what would be the best way for them to reach this pivotal point in the fight. Maybe it is a case of them reaching their full potential, in which case, what plays best in your head and works thematically to your story? Are they surrounded by the bodies of loved ones? Is it just them coming face to face with their adversary? Are they perhaps playing coy, pretending to help a fellow ally into a “safe place” so they can kill/rob/maim/capture them?Sometimes an action scene demands to be written so loudly, that the plot can be re-worked to include it. By no means should one be forced into your story at the detriment of the story’s structure, no matter how cool it is, because the story and the characters must ALWAYS come first. But if you come up with a really cool idea that you think you can successfully transplant it into your story, then give it a shot. As one reader/writer who enjoys the explosive pay off after some nice slow burn character work, I really appreciate it when the action is worth the wait. If you’re penning an urban fantasy/action/thriller, you should balance out the dark and whimsy with the impact of visceral set-pieces.What about the level of detail? Do you need to spell out every single little movement and interaction? No, of course not. Admittedly, I do go for detail, but like most things, practice and experience will help teach you the level of detail needed to keep the energy and verve up without bogging it all down. If I’m writing a mano-a-mano showdown, I will embellish the detail, showcasing the action to really give a personal feel for the struggle which has been building throughout the book. But If I’m writing a scene where a character must bust their way through a few dozen enemies, I’ll try to be more economical. Again, save the more detailed exchanges of fists, bullets or supernatural shenanigans for key opponents, but the rent-a-goons can be put down in a nice, and hopefully lyrical, sentence or two. AND DON’T FORGET, you can throw some of that sweet environmental destruction in the mix to take out lesser enemies for added dynamics. Multiple perspectives in one large battle. Now this can be daunting sometimes. What if you have set the ball rolling on your grand adventure, the plot breakdown looks tight and compelling on the page, and all your characters have meat on the bones, BUT, when it comes to delivering an epic finale (or any action scene, really) you don’t even know where to begin. Or where to END! Have you bitten off more than you can chew with all those multiple characters engaging in skirmishes orbiting the main protagonist’s conflict? Maybe. And if you have, don’t force it. Because action for action’s sake isn’t good. So it might be best to keep it more linear if you’re really struggling with action scenes. But if you can do it, and the only thing holding you back is that pain in the arse living inside your head and shitting on you, saying it’s too much work, then tell that arsehole to zip it, and give it a go. How? Well, you plot a big action scene in the same way you plot a whole story: beginning, middle, end. No trick there. So think of each character’s starting point at the beginning of the battle, their motive, and obviously, their climax. If you know these three key points in each of the characters roles in the battle, it will offer you as much leeway as your imagination demands, providing they are each moving towards the next key part of their battle. I have included a very basic breakdown of this process for the climax at the end of the first Hourglass book. There’s a lot going on, so I’ve stripped it right down to spare you any extraneous plot details. Alas, if you are planning on reading it at some point, there are still some SPOILERS in this example.

Clyde – Beginning: Fearing for the safety of his best friend Kev, Clyde heads to the enemy-owned warehouse to try and help him. He’s trained, but had no field experience. He’s scared. He manages to fight his way to his wounded ghost pal. Unfortunately, Kev sees his chance to accomplish an important mission objective, and leaves Clyde, heading through the closing portal into the dead realm in an attempt to apprehend a valuable individual. Clyde isn’t prepared to let his friend go it alone.

Clyde – Middle: Clyde, having survived his trial by fire, and having helped clear out the last of the dangerous mercenaries, is left feeling angry at Kev’s reckless actions. Clyde is still a civilian, having turned down a position at Hourglass, but now he’s pulled deeper into an official mission in order to help his friend. Following a brief lull in the action, he and his mentor use agency resources to enter the dead lands of Erebus to pull Kev and several other teammates out.

Clyde – End: The stakes have become larger than Clyde could have predicted, and he is now forced into battle on a terrible alien world, against a very powerful enemy who is harbouring the insidious will of a lethal demon. Clyde helps win the bloody conflict – or rather, he accomplishes a very important goal by destroying one of the novel’s key adversaries.

Kev – Beginning: Kev, fresh out of the agency training programme, gets his first mission. He infiltrates the enemy warehouse/staging area with his vet teammates. All is going as well as bloody combat can, until his ghostly body is sniped by an Exorcist (ghost killer) round. Wounded, he accidentally sends a distress call to Clyde.

Kev – Middle: After Clyde arrives, Kev informs Clyde of the mission’s importance, and soldiers on despite the wound. Knowing that an agency target (Konstantin “Gulag” Kozlov) is currently being coerced into stealing profitable souls from Erebus by a wealthy and corrupt enemy, he sees his chance to head over to the other side before the portal closes.

Kev – End: Having fought his way through some deadly competition, Kev catches up to Kozlov in the hellish, otherworldly temple. But it’s too late, and in order to save Kozlov, he must enter the body of the possessed monk, to help expunge the dark and vile corruption of the demon. It’s tooth and nail, but he succeeds.

Technically, both Clyde and Kev’s beginning , middle and end, are to themselves self-contained action sequences which could be further broken down into sections, but the reason I classed each of their beginning, middle and end as one on-going action sequence is because despite their range and scope, I had pre-planned all of their big moments; plus, to me, the whole book was building towards this, so really I do consider it one long war.

On top of this, both Clyde and Kev’s personal battles are intertwined with those of several other characters, including Kozlov, across five locations in total, but when you have clear markers in mind of where each character needs to be at each part of the action scene, then it won’t matter if you’re writing fifteen characters across fifteen locations. Grab a pen and paper, or type it out, and workshop the battle as many times as you need until you’re happy with it. And trust me, once you’ve done that and you know where all the pieces are being moved to, you can relax and start having fun with it.

I don’t know if any of this actually helps, but I hope it does. Remember, no matter how big or small the action scene, remember the character motivations, and to break it all down to the key moments so you don’t get lost in the mayhem. And last but certainly not least, imagine it as a big block-bluster movie scene. If you get excited when visualising it, you’re on the right track.

Thanks for reading.

Daniel James is an author of speculative (and sometimes dark and weird) fiction from Liverpool, England.
He is the recipient of two Kirkus Star reviews for his character-driven, action-packed urban fantasy novels Hourglass and The Ferryman’s Toll. Hourglass was also voted one of their Best 100 Indie novels of 2021.

Revenge. It’s a captivating topic which underpins much of humanity’s existence, and storytellers throughout the ages have spun yarns of every conceivable fashion on the subject, from cautionary tales, to morality plays, to more base-level fixes of violent gratification. And as a species, we can’t get enough of this diverse and tragic genre.

And so in honour of The Northman’s cinema release, I thought I’d throw together a short list of 7 of my personal favourite revenge flicks. For the record (and without SPOILERS!), I went to see The Northman for the always great Alexander Skarsgard, but enjoyed the whole movie. Unflinching and grim, it’s very much a vehicle for Skarsgard’s physical and glowering intensity as he moves with a single-minded purpose to avenge his slain father and rescue his mother from the clutches of his uncle. But being a Robert Eggers film, it isn’t simply an exercise in empty testosterone spraying violence, because truthfully, the blood spilling action, whilst good, is quite sparse. Making the film a more patient character study of Skarsgard’s exiled prince, quietly simmering away and carefully plotting his revenge; and the film’s clear themes of the consequences resultant from killing in order to protect your loved ones, and how violence only begets more violence in our complicated and tribal world, ensure that the story doesn’t play out in a simplified exercise of macho bravado. But for the record, I’m totally cool for macho bravado when it’s done well. No snobbery here!

And so, in no particular order, my kill list:

A Bittersweet Life by Kim Jee-woon (2005) is a brilliant South Korean neo-noir gangster story focusing on a very bad-ass piece of mob boss muscle, Sun-woo (Lee Byung-hun…cool AF), a calm stoic type whose one moment of mercy finds him on the wrong side of his boss, and being disciplined in a very stringent manner e.g. a shallow grave. Too bad his associates didn’t dig deeper. Feeling his loyalty shunned, and now on a revenge mission, Sun-woo is remarkably endearing throughout, softening his arse-kicking enforcer role with a degree of naivete which inspires some serious kicked-dog vibes sympathy. Sharp looking and swift moving, this has all the suits, knives and punches to be expected from a South Korean crime film.

Super (2010). James Gunn’s pitch-black comedy is a movie I just don’t ever get bored of. Rainn Wilson plays Frank/The Crimson Bolt, a social odd duck whose interior problems are only exacerbated when Kevin Bacon sizzles into his life as the sleazy but shallowly charming pimp/drug dealer/scum bucket, Jacques, seducing Frank’s recovering drug-addict wife Sarah (Liv Tyler) away. Losing his last handful of marbles, Frank becomes a local “superhero”, doling out wrench-heavy justice, but really, all he wants is to save Sarah and to crisp some Bacon.

RoboCop (1987) The one. The only. A lot of absolute shite has been carried out in Alex Murphy’s name, including a dog shit remake, two garbage sequels and a TV show, but Verhoeven’s original movie is an absolute classic. Whilst an excellent satire of relentless corporate dominance muddying social waters and stirring up all manner of scum and bottom feeders in the process, the crux of the movie is the second-coming of Alex Murphy, a Detroit cop brutalised (like…still, even compared to today’s standards of cinematic/TV violence, BRUTALISED!) and left for dead by a notorious gang of criminals, before being selected to be shoe-horned into one of OCP’s competing law enforcement initiatives, RoboCop. Robo serves the public trust, shoots a rapist in the dick, and punches a grudging former mayor out of the window before overcoming his core programming to regain his humanity, bust a coke warehouse, savagely take down one of cinema’s best rogues galleries, and delivering a pretty nice fuck you to the suits at OCP. In the words of Emil: “I like it!”

John Carpenter’s 1983 adaptation of Stephen King’s Christine remains, in my opinion, one of the best King translations of book to screen – well personally, it is my favourite, otherwise it wouldn’t be on this list. Naturally, a ton of material has been omitted from the great but mammoth novel, and some things have been altered (Arnie doesn’t seem to be possessed by the spirit of former owner George Lebay, but rather, is under Christine’s mechanical mojo; and some death scenes), but the revving engine of the book’s oily black heart remains intact. Full-time high school loser Arnie Cunningham finds hope, obsessive love, and a pair of chrome nuts when he stumbles upon the rusted wreck of Christine, inciting a dramatic but ultimately tragic change that turns him from timid dormouse to a cold, dispassionate, take-no-shit hard case as together they take down his high school tormentors. The cast are great, the set pieces are indelible, and where King has a tendency to ramble on, Carpenter has a gift for economic storytelling which flows smoothly, especially when behind the wheel of a 1958 Plymouth Fury.

Deadpool (2016). Yes, Wade will bust that fourth wall to tell you that his movie is a love story, and a monster movie, and who am I to argue, but Tim Miller also definitely made a revenge story. Not only does Wade get revenge on his cancer by becoming goddamn immortal, he also gets to takedown the sadistic Ajax – not the dish soap as Wade cracks, but the mutant behind the recruitment programme which made him fugly, unkillable, and ruined his relationship to his fiancé Vancessa. Plus, he also gets to win back his one true love. That’s like, three paybacks right there! Also, having been a big fan of Deadpool since Joe Kelly made him interesting all the way back in 1997, it’s nice to see Tim Miller, Rhett Reese, Paul Wernick and Ryan Reynolds get revenge for all of us ‘pool fans by washing out the bad taste left by the previous “Deadpool” incarnation who appeared in the unwatchable shit show that was Wolverine: Origins.

Death Sentence (2007) was James Wan’s bleak and cathartically violent story of Nick Hume (a second rash of Kevin Bacon for this list), a suburban exec whose pleasantly perfect life crumbles when his eldest, and favourite, son is executed by a gang member performing an initiation rite. When the legal system fails Nick, allowing the killer to skate, he is unable to find solace in his grieving wife and younger son, and instead foolishly embarks on a revenge killing of the freed thug, which swiftly provokes the rest of the gang into targeting him and his family. It’s a straight forward film with no real surprises, but the scrappy action sequences are tense and exciting, and the grimy veneer, visceral violence, and calibre of the cast elevate it above many of these more typical revenge films.

The Crow (1994) was adapted from the 1989 comic book, and as a result, it certainly shows. This gothic, rain-saturated power fantasy centres on revenant rock star Eric Draven (Brandon Lee), ferried back from the dead by harbinger crows to seek revenge on the repugnant low lives who slain him and his fiancé. With a trendsetting industrial aesthetic full of leather, washed-out colours, flashing lights and fires, it did a far superior job (IMO, relax) of making a dangerous and dirty Gotham City than Tim Burton did with his guano-spattered Batman efforts back in ‘89 and ‘92. Plus, it has David Patrick Kelly, Ernie Hudson, and Tony Todd as the smooth-talking right-hand man to crime boss Michael Wincott. Oh, and Burn” by The Cure nails the soundtrack.

Honorary mentions that I would have liked to include but don’t want to flog a dead horse, unless I am avenging it:

John Wick

Conan the Barbarian (1982)

Yes, vengeance continues to thrive in entertainment as it does in life.

And if any of you seething maniacs out there are looking for more thrilling tales of vengeance, I wrote a blood-spilling, bullet-spraying neo-noir called Pigs https://www.amazon.com/Pigs-Daniel-James-ebook/dp/B07TTVMNCQ/?_encoding=UTF8&pf_rd_p=d27b498c-b40a-4a36-92cf-b0aafa3ba1ce&pd_rd_wg=mOi8t&pf_rd_r=GVX84RQ1PM3BNXMDT3TG&pd_rd_w=EUT7a&pd_rd_r=d7af05d6-2c30-4252-b786-0acc938e7c44&ref_=ci_mcx_mr_hp_atf_m which you should check out.

Or as always, if you’re in the market for something a little more supernatural, check out Hourglass https://www.amazon.com/HOURGLASS-Daniel-James-ebook/dp/B08JPPF9MW/ref=pd_aw_sbs_sccl_1/133-2402028-8450035?pd_rd_w=QUjuQ&pf_rd_p=bc45384a-cf15-479c-b874-e31c5245d34e&pf_rd_r=DDJ6J5YYATC4S3E6WT41&pd_rd_r=a6e3b616-51b0-45c7-adb2-0a3808727bff&pd_rd_wg=JJwyz&pd_rd_i=B08JPPF9MW&psc=1

Hey, a writer’s gotta plug, plug, plug.

Daniel James is an author of speculative (and sometimes dark and weird) fiction, from Liverpool, England. He is the recipient of two Kirkus Star reviews for his character-driven, action-packed urban fantasy novels Hourglass and The Ferryman’s Toll. Hourglass was also voted one of their Best 100 Indie novels of 2021.

Writing. It is a lonely, frustrating, and often thankless pastime. Sometimes us struggling author types get knocked straight back down five minutes after receiving a brief moment of joy. Yes, it can be a real kick in the Dickens (with the image of a punk giving the finger, I thought I’d clean up the language a little).

For a recent example, there I was, going about my day in work, when I received a review regarding The Ferryman’s Toll (Hourglass #2), from an apparent reader of SF&F, who didn’t think my book fit neatly enough into those genres?! And I’m like, dude! (Quietly, in my head) It’s about paranormal special agents, working for a paranormal agency, battling paranormal threats. The Hourglass universe contains whole kingdoms of the dead, collecting souls, and existing in a dead realm; I’m talking full-blown 80’s heavy metal D&D type vibes here. But because there’s also guns and espionage and even NYC gangsters it doesn’t fit his neat little definition of what constitutes SF&F?

Jiminy Cricket! And only days after receiving a lovely review.

What’s more annoying though, is that this sniper isn’t a lone gunman. I have received some other reviews for both Hourglass books whining that they have too much of a military bent. Says who? I didn’t accidentally put that stuff in it. Most importantly, it certainly doesn’t detract from the monsters and supernatural elements.

Anyway…it’s a writer’s job to write for themselves and the readers who enjoy their work. No one else. But it’s still a punt to the Dickens on occasion. Which is why it’s crucial to find a refuge away from the page or the computer, in order to burn off any frustrations which can lead to burnout or excessive moping. And I’d know, I’m the fucking king at moping. Shit, so much for the “clean” language.

Personally, I enjoy strumming the shiz out of my guitar, playing along to punk tunes. My current favourite play alongs being:

Ramones – I Just Want to Have Something to DoSocial Distortion – Don’t Drag Me DownPennywise – Fuck AuthorityAFI – Ever And A DayU.K. Subs – WarheadOffspring – L.A.P.D.

And err…as a buffer for the excessive angry wrist action,

Bon Jovi -You Give Love A Bad Name

Judge me if you must, but I know deep down everyone likes that tune.

That’s been helping me lately. But if you don’t play any type of instrument, I have compiled a short list of possible alternatives to cope with the stress of writing and perpetual self-doubt, that is in no way ridiculous.

Teasing animals at the zoo. Don’t have a zoo or transport? A neighbour’s pet will work just as well.Order a meal at a restaurant and see how many times you can have it sent back. As a bonus, you might even if coax the chef into a palpitating rage, thereby transferring your own inner unease onto them. It’s the angry, jittery circle of life.Wear a dog costume and bite postmen. Urinating on their bicycles is optional.Take a deep breath. Light some scented candles. Sit cross-legged in the middle of the room, and scream until your neighbour calls the police; if you’ve followed step 1, your neighbour will now have two strikes against you. Bonus!

Disclaimer for any cranks out there: I DO NOT ACTUALLY ENDORSE ANY OF THE PREVIOUS INFORMATION.

But in all seriousness, having a secondary creative outlet does work wonders; especially if you’re like me, and occasionally get so fixated on trying to push through on a story that you become in danger of turning into twisted agoraphobic peering through the curtains at uninvited guests.

On a somewhat lighter note, apparently Booklist Magazine is posting BlueInk Review‘s, err, well, review, of Hourglass in there April issue.

So that’s my piece of good news, now give it five minutes and I’m sure I’ll get half a dozen negative reviews for Hourglass and The Ferryman’s Toll complaining that they didn’t exactly fit the imaginary mould of SF&F.

Sighs…Might as well grab that fucking guitar then.

If you want to see whether my SF&F series Hourglass has too many guns, why not check them out for yourself here:

https://www.amazon.com/HOURGLASS-Daniel-James-ebook/dp/B08JPPF9MW/ref=sr_1_2_sspa?crid=1DZJKAHPC5GRG&keywords=daniel+james+hourglass&qid=1649277429&sprefix=daniel+james%2Caps%2C737&sr=8-2-spons&psc=1&spLa=ZW5jcnlwdGVkUXVhbGlmaWVyPUEyTVZZRVJLTkVDSUNWJmVuY3J5cHRlZElkPUEwMDI0ODcxMVc4WlpPUjZHSkJWTyZlbmNyeXB0ZWRBZElkPUEwNzM2MTY1SjJRTEI0NkNHUk81JndpZGdldE5hbWU9c3BfYXRmJmFjdGlvbj1jbGlja1JlZGlyZWN0JmRvTm90TG9nQ2xpY2s9dHJ1ZQ==

“An exciting and complex tale with memorable characters, standout battle scenes, and riveting worldbuilding.” — Kirkus Reviews

And here:

https://www.amazon.com/FERRYMANS-TOLL-Hourglass-Novel-ebook/dp/B09RKQMQGT/ref=sr_1_3?crid=1DZJKAHPC5GRG&keywords=daniel+james+hourglass&qid=1649277900&sprefix=daniel+james%2Caps%2C737&sr=8-3

“James has mastered the knack of meshing the fast-paced lingo of paramilitary thrillers with the colorful worldbuilding of urban fantasy.” — Kirkus Reviews

Nighty-night.

Daniel James is an author of speculative (and sometimes dark and weird) fiction from Liverpool, England.
He is the recipient of two Kirkus Star reviews for his character-driven, action-packed urban fantasy novels Hourglass and The Ferryman’s Toll. Hourglass was also voted one of their Best 100 Indie novels of 2021.

Illustration by Clive Barker, taken from inside his novel Cabal.

Monsters. We all love them. Humanity has made a growth industry out of the nasties through books, cinema, TV, comic books, video games, toys. Hell, humanity itself is packed full of monsters, but I’m not here to talk about ethics and broken moral compasses, I’m here to talk about the things with claws, fangs, fur and scales. More specifically, I’m here as a writer to talk about my biggest influences when creating monsters for my books. It would be a little naive to narrow my influences down to only two, seeing as how the breadth of great and inspirational mad-minded monster makers are out there tinkering away, but I have done just that, because I’m trying to keep this focused and succinct, people.

Writing is a very visual medium, and so when it comes time for me to create blood-drinkers and gut-rippers, I most often find myself thinking about the chillingly grotesque creations of Clive Barker and Guillermo del Toro, two creatives whose creatures tread the borders of morbid fairytale realms and sheer pants-shitting nightmares. Both of these visionaries are keenly adept at imagining iconic beings whether they’re uniquely distorted humanoids, or completely alien horrors.

The Cenobites are perhaps the definitive Barker creations, invading the cultural zeitgeist far and wide, even being spoofed on Rick & Morty (pouring one out for Mousetrap Nipples), but I’ve always preferred the broader expanse of beasts found in his novel Cabal, lurking underground in the hellish fever dream sanctuary of Meridian. That book had a big impact on me, as did the movie adaptation, Nightbreed (although honestly, I’m not a fan of the movie, but the creature designs are top tier). Also, Cabal, and Nightbreed, not only had some excellently bizarre monsters, they also had one of my all-time favourite slashers in Button Face.

When I was creating the cradle eaters (humanoid sculptures with souls of feral stillborn on leashes) and bodybags (floating leathery sacks piloted by rotting mummies hungry for the flesh and souls of unfortunate mercenaries) for Hourglass, I was certainly trying to channel some of that fucked-up Barker dark fantasy, aiming purely for an adult readership. And when it came to the bigger, bolder, and I suppose, more cinematic creations such as the Eye of Charon and the Hangman for The Ferryman’s Toll, I was leaning into what I imagined might sit well alongside del Toro’s Hellboy adaptations, that being villains who could tread the line between phantasmagorical horror and high-octane spectacle.

Of course, sometimes creating monsters isn’t as easy as trying to conjure up some hell-spawned denizen which might fit snugly alongside your favourite creator’s bestiary. And so if you ever find yourself stuck in a rut, it can help to look to Mother Nature (She. Is. Twisted!), or thinking about particular animals and how they have adapted to their environment through generations of evolution; not that you need to rationalise the realism of your fictional boogeymen mind, it can just be fun to see some of the mortifying physical traits some animals have developed to kill their prey! It can get the creative juices flowing. For instance, I looked to some of the dark matriarch’s poisonous brood to find initial inspiration for the monsters in my novels Fable (a coming of age revenge fantasy) and Heathens (another Barker-induced monster show), and then took them off the beaten path to completely supernatural extremes. And let’s not forget, a pencil and paper are always handy too. Even if you’re not a particularly strong artist, just switching off and letting your hand run away with the pencil can lead you to scribbling something that sets the ball rolling.

Vampires, werewolves, zombies, these are all iconic monsters, and for damn good reasons, as they’ve all been used to incredible effect on many occasions across the smorgasbord of mediums, but I prefer to see them used very sparingly, with the onus being on writers/directors/artists to create something a bit more novel. It isn’t always easy, but when it works it can lead to some fresh new disfigured faces guaranteed to haunt your dreams, and maybe even your waking thoughts. And for me, Barker and del Toro remain a pair of grisly touchstones, inspiring me to humbly try and match horrors and oddities with.

Creating monsters can be fun, and we’re all sickos who love the foul things, whether openly or secretly. Who inspires you?

Sleep tight.

Daniel James is an author of speculative (and sometimes dark and weird) fiction from Liverpool, England.
He is the recipient of two Kirkus Star reviews for his character-driven, action-packed urban fantasy novels Hourglass and The Ferryman’s Toll. Hourglass was also voted one of their Best 100 Indie novels of 2021.

Should the value of art be kept separated from the artist?

For some, answering this can be a thorny path. Not for me though. I’ll happily show my cards and admit that no matter how much of a dirtbag an individual may be, if I enjoy their book, music, movie etc., I have no qualms supporting it. After all, it’s not the art’s fault. Right?

The reason I mention this isn’t because I’m one of those sensational seedy dirtbags you might read about (or am I? Mwha-ha-ha…no, I’m not!) is because of a book I’m currently reading: The Monster Hunters by Larry Correia. I started reading this book because a reviewer compared me, or rather, my Hourglass books, to it, and out of interest, I dived in to check out. First things first, I am really enjoying it. Perhaps there’s a little too much gun porn in it, and I’m talking a full-on Michael Bay military chubbie, but still, it’s a relentlessly swift B-movie of monster mashing and colourful characters. That’s what the book is advertised as, and so I’m not going to complain when I get it in spades. But the aforementioned gun porn thing, I don’t mean there’s lots of guns in it, because I’m fine with that in my entertainment (maybe I’ll do a follow-up blog on this: urban fantasy and guns vs magic), but it’s the author’s glaringly unashamed love of firearms; not just for slaying demons in fictional works, but in real life. There’s no mistaking this, as he does drown a lot of prose and dialogue in sheer high calibre detail.

But you know what, I’m still digging the story.

Anyway, after I was about a quarter of the way through the book, I came across some reviews which had reassessed their rating of this book (and some which had done likewise to several of his books) not because of the book’s/books’ quality, but apparently, Mr Correia is a bit of a crank, and a troll, and something-something causing a stink about the Hugo awards nominees/winners. I’m not going to dredge all of that up, because it’s easy enough to find if you’re curious (look, you already have a phone in your hand), and I don’t want to detract from my point which is, yes, the guy seems to have a raging boner for guns, and The Monster Hunter series is quite openly anti-government.

For the record, I love guns in movies, books, games, because it’s entertainment. In real life, I don’t. Shock horror, the world is a truly, irredeemably fucked-up place, because of people. You should be allowed to protect yourself and your loved ones. That goes without saying. But nobody outside of military service should have access to assault rifles and the like. For people who live in the US, if they need to exercise their right to home protection, then I think they should have access to nothing more dangerous than a handgun. But opinions are like arseholes (fill in the rest – the expression I mean, the arsehole is your own prerogative.)

Mr. Correia will undoubtedly disagree with my opinion, and chances are, I probably wouldn’t want to have a beer with the guy if he is in fact some borderline fruit-bat with an NRA T-shirt and a gun fetish, but whilst I might not share his politics, for me to suddenly pretend that I don’t actually enjoy his book, is some weak bullshit. Own your opinions people. Even to those who might not want to buy his books and support him, that’s fine. But don’t do a 180 and act like you didn’t mean the nice things you previously said about his work.

The artist might have problems. The art, whilst formed from a problematic artist, doesn’t necessarily mean it can hold no merit.

Let’s be honest, there’s a very good chance Michael Jackson did some bad shit. Does that mean I’m not going to tap my foot to Smooth Criminal or Dirty Diana? Of course not.

Everyone has the right to their opinions, obviously, that’s a given. But I think some people need to be a little more honest and pragmatic in expressing and holding them.

Honorary bad guy mentions:

I have been a massive Joss Whedon fan since the first series of Buffy aired. And so it was a blow to learn that the dude I admired creatively is a scumbag. Don’t like the man, but I’m not going to suddenly act like I no longer like Buffy, Angel, Firefly, or frigging Avengers Assemble.On second thoughts, I’ll leave it at that. I’m sure at this rate it won’t be long before all of the heroes and idols we’ve admired are revealed to be conspiracy crackpots, junkies, Bible bashers, thugs, drink drivers, lizard people, spouse beaters, pooch punchers, bullies, rapists, goat-shaggers, murderers, and Scientologists. If you must, hate the artist, but don’t pretend that something which impressed and inspired you, didn’t. Be objective in your criticism, and not just a vocal purveyor of irrational outrage.

Daniel James is an author of speculative (and sometimes dark and weird) fiction from Liverpool, England.
He is the recipient of two Kirkus Star reviews for his character-driven, action-packed urban fantasy novels Hourglass and The Ferryman’s Toll. Hourglass was also voted one of their Best 100 Indie novels of 2021.

Man, trying to market a new book can be a real pain in the expletive. Yes, this post is a public service announcement (the public being any and all readers of SF/F/UF) concerning the recent release of The Ferryman’s Toll a.k.a. Hourglass 2: Half the time, twice the action!

But I am an author ostensibly, and doing insufferable self-promo is all part of the fun. Plus, my last three blogs followed the ridiculous, and pointless misadventure of an alcoholic incontinent private eye, so I’m due this one.

Back to the matter at hand. When it comes to starting up ad campaigns on NetGalley or trying to attract readers on social media and the like, I always struggle to think of authors whose works fit alongside my two Hourglass books.

I’ve had several charming editorial reviews lately which have compared my writing and/or novel content to China Mieville, Ursula Le Guin, Robert E. Howard, Larry Correia and Simon Green, which is all beyond flattering. But whilst I can see where some of these comments are coming from in terms of the series’ tone or language, the ones which try to find common ground regarding story premise never feel quite…right.

My reading is varied, so I don’t claim to be king shit in knowing every author, series, or genre-changing-novel relative to the urban fantasy genre. Of course, I have read a number of works belonging to the genre, some of which I’ve thoroughly enjoyed, but they’ve all felt too different compared to Hourglass. Maybe it’s because so many of them abide to the idea that urban fantasy must be told in first person (of which I have little mileage, unless I really enjoy the writing), or that they all involve the heavy use of lycans, vamps, witches, wizards, and similar archetypes. And that’s all fine and dandy and warlock nose candy. Lots of people love those things, but with the exception of some occasionally vague references to their being mystical powers in the larger Hourglass universe, the first two books steer clear of traditional urban fantasy creatures, making Hourglass feel like a bit of a square peg in a round hole.

“A genre-busting thriller, Hourglass is an occult masterwork of tension and grit.” – Self-Publishing Review

For starters, I intentionally avoided magic users, opting for an alternative blend of paramilitary weaponry and paranormal superpowers, and aiming them at the sort of dark and scary creatures which Clive Barker and Guillermo Del Toro might appreciate.

Focusing on the paramilitary angle, Jonathan Maberry’s Joe Ledger series (despite Ledger’s DMS strictly fighting “scientific” threats) or Larry Correia’s Monster Hunter series seem like apt comparisons, and to an extent I’d agree, but I still think the omniscient narrative style of the Hourglass books separates them in tone. And yet urban fantasy continues to be a common catch-all description for my two books.

“Fans of urban fantasy should jump on this series at its beginning. A fast-paced, richly imagined, gritty tale of modern-day good versus evil.” — Kirkus Reviews (The Ferryman’s Toll)

To this day, I’d say the best comparison is to Brian Lumley’s excellent Necroscope series (back in the ‘80s and ‘90s!), which grew into a fantastic fusion of blood-drenched, military-tinged horror, which eventually grew into cosmic fantasy! Epic! Clearly, that’s a mouthful too.

Maybe I should just stick to speculative fiction. That’s a nice big categorical umbrella which shelters all manner of strange and bizarre literary outcasts, without automatically conjuring fairies and romantic shape-shifters to the minds of anyone who hears the words urban fantasy.

For all I know, there are two dozen individual bodies of work of similar style and tone to Hourglass and Ferryman, and if there is, I’ll hopefully stumble across them one day.

In the mean time, any SF/F readers out there, why not take Hourglass and/or Ferryman for a spin? They’re a fraction of the price of a latte, and took considerably more love and attention. Who knows you might even like it/them. And I’d love to hear if you have any similar reading recommendations.

Peace!

“Conspiratorial and spooky, James doesn’t hold back on creativity or drama, for an innovative blend of paranormal, sci-fi, and fantasy fiction.” Self-Publishing Review (The Ferryman’s Toll)

Daniel James is an author of speculative (and sometimes dark and weird) fiction, from Liverpool, England. His character-driven, action-packed urban fantasy novel, Hourglass, received a Kirkus Star from Kirkus Reviews, and was voted one of their Best 100 Indie novels of 2021.