So, I wrote my very first speech too...

Riddle me this:

I am me, and only one, trying hard to get things done.

But, open up the space to many, and time there is; more than plenty.

Coincidentally the answer to this riddle just happens to be why we’re all gathered here today?

 Teamwork!

The slogans, we’ve heard them all:

None of us is as smart as all of us.

Sticks in a bundle are unbreakable.

A boat doesn’t go forward if each one is rowing their own way.

And, a personal favourite:

When he took the time to help the man up the mountain, lo, he scaled it himself.

There has to be some truth to these corny cringe-worthy clichés, because building a team involves more than just putting the ‘right people’ together.

We are here today.

We are all the ‘right people’.

We have the experience, the qualifications, the talent… but what is missing is an equal commitment in working together for the good of [Our Company]; for [our department], for each other, for our clients and the individuals and families we help.

This is what teams do.

This is what we will do, from now on.

Teamwork is important. It promotes productivity, strengthens bonds between employees and builds self-esteem.

It harbors trust, openness and self-disclosure, support, respect, individual responsibility and accountability.

Bad team members are easy to spot.

They are manipulative, they are gossips, they complain about everything and everyone. These bad teammates play the ‘blame game’ and look for reasons to exclude people. Simply, they lack empathy.

Sounds like a schoolyard doesn’t it?

But us (our team), as adults and teammates, need to weed this behaviour from of our mortuary.

We need to master the skills of clear and effective communication; of expressing feelings in an open, non-threatening way, of listening carefully, and sensing how others feel based on non-verbal communication.

We need to be able to initiate conversations if we sense tensions brewing, and reflect on interactions of the group while encouraging the same.

Sounds easy, yeah?

We need to build positive relationships with one another.

We need to promote ourselves because we do great work!

We need to take responsibility for our own actions, good or bad, and we need to right any mistakes.

Ask questions!

Know when to listen.

Use words like ‘us’ and ‘we’, not ‘I’ and ‘me’.

We don’t need to like each other. It would be nice, but a harmonious relationship is not essential for great teamwork.

What matters is the professional behaviour we use.

Unspoken assumptions and issues can be very destructive to productive group functioning.

We have a great teamwork simile displayed in nature:

Geese flying in their unmistakeable ‘V’ formation have a 71 percent greater flying range than a bird on its own. This is due to the uplift created as they flap their wings.

If a bird falls out of formation, it suddenly feels the drag and resistance of trying to do it alone. And if a goose gets sick or falls out of formation, two other birds follow it down to lend help and protection.

Like geese, we share a common direction: our [department].

We can get where we are going faster and easier on the thrust of one another.

We will stay in formation with teammates who are headed the same way.

And we will stand together… until the end, as a team.

Gévaudan Rhymes

Gévaudan Rhymes is a fantasy/horror television series (1 hour episodes) similar to Being Human, American Horror Story etc. This pilot episode will revolve around the blossoming friendships of our three main characters, and debunking werewolf fiction from fact. It is aimed at an older teen/young adult audience and will be based more on werewolf legend than pure fantasy.

The main setting of series one is at university where our characters are studying anthropology, but this will only be the setting that unites the characters; the lessons will not feature unless they have direct relevance to an episode.

The narration is a study of human nature, with everyone having some side of their personality they are ashamed of, and want to hide from society. At the start, this is shown with Kal (werewolf) and, gender nonconformist, Blue. Throughout the series this flaw will be evident in everyone who features; including Tuesday and her ego, somewhat more sinister than the werewolves.

Kal is an introverted, socially awkward guy, displayed by stuttering, mumbling, limited eye contact, and at times, rambling. There is a subdued attraction he has towards Blue. He shows empathy towards the werewolf/killer. He thinks he understands him, as does Blue. This is their first instance of attraction.

Blue is sceptical, and almost asexual because of his gender dysphoria, but mutually curious towards Kal. Blue is very quiet and distrusting of new people and his personality grows with the developing story.

Tuesday is confident, bordering arrogant, vain, and you wonder why she is hanging out with these misfits. She can’t have Kal, so he’s all she wants, but she also wants to belittle him for refusing her. She is flirty, judgemental and jealous.

Dialogue in this section is mainly the characters learning about themselves and each other. I think I succeeded with showing the characters personalities, but not enough with Blue. Blue’s personality is too big to fit into a small section as he has many facets yet to explore. At the moment everyone is being overridden by Tuesday, who is the more outspoken one of the group.

GÉVAUDAN RHYMES © 2014

Episode 1: As the Wolfsbane Blooms

 START EXCERPT:

2.  EXT. UNIVERSITY GROUNDS. DAY                         

Androgynous BLUE sits against a River Red gum, as TUESDAY approaches, dropping the Advertiser beside him.

TUESDAY

Did you see this?

BLUE

(picking up the paper)

Local Werewolf Killer Strikes Again! A werewolf, seriously? What next, Dracula Rises?

He throws the paper back down and picks up the remainder of his lunch.

TUESDAY

(sitting down)

You know all the killings have occurred on a full moon—

BLUE

Coincidence.

TUESDAY

—And, all the victims have said to be mauled by something “resembling a large canine”.

Tuesday air quotes with long, slender fingers, topped with beautifully maintained hot pink nails. She raises her eyebrows, encouraging belief.

BLUE

You’ve been doing your research, I see.

TUESDAY

Alas, no. Subject’s taken. I just find it incredibly interesting that Kal would be following that train of thought. Did you hear, he’s proposing this guy is an actual werewolf, not just replicating the killings in a “wolfish” manner?

Tuesday swoons, collapsing down across Blue’s lap.

TUESDAY (CONT’D)

I think it’s sexy; the ultimate expression of power over another person.

BLUE

By eating them? I’m sure.

Blue yawns, his sight shifting to a young morose guy, KAL, wandering in their direction, oblivious to the attention.

Tuesday rises, and growls, noticing her prey.

TUESDAY

Gosh, that boy is awfully tasty.

Blue giggles and only then does Kal’s attention shift to the couple. He attempts a half smile which does nothing to lighten his brooding demeanour. He’s looking at Blue as he approaches – his grey eyes sheen unnaturally silver, like an animal caught in headlights.

BLUE

(rising to his feet)

Hey Kal.

Kal nods in response, shifting his gaze to his shoes.

KAL

Hi Blue.

TUESDAY

We were just talking about cannibalism…

(standing)

And speaking of, Kal, how’s your thesis coming along?

KAL

C-Cannibalism?

TUESDAY

I heard your character description of that murderer suggested something more mythological, say, a werewolf?

KAL

Werewolves cease being human once they’ve changed, so cannibalism is hardly fitting.

TUESDAY

Ahh, but you don’t doubt he may indeed be a werewolf?

KAL

This guy is real. He struck again last night, as you saw.

He nods towards the discarded paper.

TUESDAY

(grinning)

So it’s a ‘him’?

KAL

My character profiling suggests it’s a man, yes.

Kal is speaking to Tuesday, but his grey eyes flick over to Blue. He too is studying Kal curiously. Catching one another out, they both grin awkwardly.

TUESDAY

You know, Vore is a completely valid fetish. Perhaps this guy wanted to step it up from imaginary role playing.

KAL

(back at Tuesday)

V-Vore?

TUESDAY

It’s a sexual fetish where a person fantasizes about eating people, or watching people being eaten… I studied sexual fetishes first year. I can hardly believe that you’re not including this as a possibility though.

KAL

I—I guess I never thought of it like that— I don’t think it’s a sexual thing. I think he’s struggling with something inside himself that he has no control over, like, fighting a society that says it’s wrong to be who he is. It’s, well, I think I know what that would be like, if I was him, if… um, if you know what I mean…

BLUE

The wolf part is irrelevant.

KAL

(smiling at Blue)

Exactly.

Tuesday watches the two carefully, her eyes narrow.

TUESDAY

You want to join us for lunch?

KAL

N-No, I can’t. I have a lot of work to get through. I have a stack of texts by my bed I haven’t looked at yet.

TUESDAY

(elbows him playfully)

I’d like to see that!

KAL

(to Tuesday)

Yeah. Okay, see you.

(to Blue)

Bye Blue.

Blue waves briefly at him and smiles. Kal wanders off as awkwardly as he had approached. Tuesday sighs and looks at Blue.

TUESDAY

Damn. Must be gay.

BLUE

(raising his eyebrows)

A guy who doesn’t find you the 'be all and end all' certainly must be gay. Jeez Tuesday, for someone who studies human beings for a living, you really have no idea do you?

He snatches his bag up and moves off.

END EXCERPT.

HAPLESS JORGE AND THE MILK INCIDENT

08.04.2014

No milk. Staring into the empty cavity of my fridge, barren contents stare back, mocking me. An overturned jug of cream with its monochromatic bloodstain, laughed aloud, pitying my predicament more than its own lingering death. Fat, green, gherkin fingers jiggled in their juices, the gag not lost inside the sealed jar, nor on the box of pizza; the few surviving slices of a drunken Saturday night, crisp on the outside and curling through the middle.

I slammed the door, shutting out the mockery. Of course this was the sort of morning with no milk because it was exactly the sort of morning I needed the damn milk. I needed it like I needed breath; cool, delicious thickness soothing a night of too much cigar smoke and straight whiskey, pacification of the lingering hallucinations still stabbing the edges of my sanity.

I sank onto the kitchen counter; cold, gripping skin with prickly goose bumps. The shock welcoming and real, so very real, unlike muffled giggles exuding from the refrigerator. The milk had run off. I couldn’t be bothered going out to collect more. Not now, I was too involved here.

Punching on the kettle, I glared, challenging, as the red light flickered before stabilising. I grabbed a mug; brown stain of coffee thick around the inside. A quick splash of water would rectify. Rusty, blood smelling syrup spewed from pipes. Walls around me rattled. I gagged, growling at the faucet. Slapping the spout away, I slammed mug on bench. Coffee stain and rust-rinse be damned! I fished for a spoon in the drawer, to be answered only by forks and knives; steel reflecting misery and self-loathing. Not a spoon in sight.

‘Damn you milk!’ I cursed the heavens. The kettle hissed a response, steam rushing the spout, refusing to disconnect the boil. Of course! I flicked it off, half expecting resistance, or electric shock. I snatched up the jar of coffee. Spoon be damned too! I erupted into hysterical laughter, as I unscrewed the lid and poured black gold straight into the cup. Granules disintegrated in rusty muck at the bottom, expanding to thick brown puddles. More granules gushed over the rim, pursuing freedom. Sugar joined coffee; a pair that complemented best when hot and milky, measured precisely, one spoon and two. Not today. Boiled water liquidised ingredients, uniting lost loves, entwining dissolved succulence forever. Forever for them was not long at all.

I hauled the fridge door open. A gasp cut short as occupants beheld my wrath: top lip curled, nose turned up exposing a murderous canine, eyes narrowed and readying for revenge. I cackled maniacally, gathering the cream. Rogue globules jumped free but entrapped remnants were too late. Thick blobs plopped unwittingly into black coffee, melting in pools of curdled liquid. Black and white mingled into the perfect salvation of a morning near ruined.

Retrieving a knife, I stirred the coffee. No longer lamenting absconded milk, but praising my problem solving brilliance. Basking in the genius of me, I guzzled my masterpiece, caffeine slamming my senses with electric buzz, hurling my brain from the veil of hangover and delirium. A moment of surprise for a new development… Gummy chunks of chewy coffee rolled over my tongue before acrid taste became horrendously clear. Misfortune backed by a burst of amusement from within the fridge. Hilarious.  

An exercise in description.

Warm wind on your face:

Your eyes dry instantly, like eye caps for the dead, shredding eyelids as you blink. The stifling northerly washes around your face like the pungent breath of a dragon. Your skin is elastic, pliable, as it flaps around your skull, a harsh distortion of your beauty. Moist lips are transformed into a parched wasteland the tongue cannot soothe. A crosswind fills your withered mouth, expanding cheeks to a balloon, exposing teeth and gums like an ecstatic, lipless grotesque. The air, heavy and thick as it struggles down your trachea, cooking bronchi and lung alike.

The shape and colours of a specific tree:

Hollow, withered, skeletal arms stretch out, searching for a saviour, the moisture sapped from dead boughs centuries ago. Long ashen husks, branches waiting to disintegrate into dust at the slightest lick of wind, snare as you pass; rasping tentacles twisting through hair. Ghostly winds howl through crooked limb. Borne into the looming black shadow of the emaciated forest God, the comfort of life slowly drains. A shudder creeps through your spine, death lingering.

The sound of walking through mud in gumboots:

Viscous darkness engulfs your leg to the ridge of your boot as muddy globs spew over the brim, delving into the dry warmth of your sock. The squelching vacuum opposes your pull as you struggle the next step. The sucking slurp of the vast, moist entity has you ensnared a moment too long, heaving your body into nauseous vertigo. A sudden squelch of release throws you forward, slopping free.

                                                                                                              

A street gutter during a heavy downpour:

The surge rushes through concrete channel, water spluttering over the confines and spewing out onto pavement. Destruction drives it towards its destination, obliterating all life in its wake. The once crystalline effluent collects battered trophies: a plastic container, its straw barely intact, a bold yellow ‘M’ tumbling about, drowning again; a tattered green wrapper, torn and eroded by a turbulent voyage. Leaves that float like ships rush ahead, a constant deluge bombarding the procession, sinking the unfortunate with fat droplets. The drain, a vast toothless mouth, ever open, ever hungry, awaits its smorgasbord as the rain thunders down, conveying wreckage.

On Questioning Style, and whether I mimic an Idol.

Glitter Girl

 25.03.2014

Inside were shadows and darkness; the wait . . . as maddening as the whispers in the wind. To pass time he examined the hands responsible for altering their game. They were large with long fingers, scarred, nails torn and dirty, smeared with blood and filth. 

Your father’s hands. 

He clenched them, as if the truth could be denied. He was different, he had to be.

The front door yawned open, spilling light towards Daniel that felt like creeping darkness. Fear paralysed him as his father stumbled in. He had no way of knowing how much he’d drunk already, but it became obvious. 'Where’s your mother?' he barked.

A malevolent voice spoke through his. 'Out whoring, like you told her,' it said.

His father grumbled, but not angrily because he had, on numerous occasions, told her to do exactly that. 'And you, what the fuck . . . What’s that fuckin’ stink?' His father stumbled forward, intent on investigating the source, but he hovered, hand clutching the edge of the table next to where his son sat.

'I . . . think a rat died in the bathroom,' Daniel stammered, standing to intercept him. 'It’s all right, I got rid of it.'

His father looked him up and down before he sneered and stumbled into the lounge room. He collapsed in front of the TV to catch up on the local news. 

And that left Daniel to prepare for the remainder of their game. 

He retreated to his mother’s room. She was staring up at him as he passed. 'It is true mother,' he said, ‘We should do something about that smell. It’s not healthy.' He turned to the dresser, rifling through the assortment of treasures before him. He found her perfume, Obsession, and sprayed himself, feeling the trigger of lust stir his groin. He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing away the other. 

NO!!!

The eyes that glared at him from the mirror were dark; long black eyelashes painted thick with mascara and smeared in kohl, as if the all light in the room had been absorbed into their depths. Hollow insides all prettied up. Utterly insane. Daniel scowled at the pallid creature reflected before him. Behind him, strewn over the bed and littering the floor, were the remnants of his mother’s closet. They had been in here all morning searching the vast array of clothing for something special. The clothes he wore fell lifelessly around his chest and hips making him appear waifish and childlike, flat chested and not the slightest bit appealing. 

Revolting! It glowered. It wanted the flowing cornflower blue dress with the cute spaghetti straps, but he couldn’t find it.

Daniel turned away from the petite girly boy in the mirror and stared at the clothes in sheer bewilderment. He seized an armful of the pastel flowery pile and pushed them to the floor until the bed was entirely cleared of mess.

She watched silently as he pulled back the comforter, uncovering the rest of her swelling, mottled body. 'Of course.' Daniel smiled, relieved, and it smiled with him. He proceeded to manoeuvre one stiff arm through the strap of the dress. It wouldn’t help him. 

Once she’d been undressed he pulled free of his own clothes, once again becoming transfixed by the naked reflection before him. He didn’t recognize the pale, ragged body, or the flaccid appendage between his legs, they didn’t belong to him. But the hate was all his; every angry mark, every scar, and every wound he’d carved into it.

Pulling the dress over his head, he slid his hands over the blue silk fabric. A wave of warmth, like when his mother’s blood had spilled out of her body and over his, like an orgasm, rose up from the pit of his stomach. The thing in him rejoiced. The dress was perfect, even with the dark staining and jagged holes through the chest, a reminder that beauty was never flawless. He unbound his dark hair and it cascaded around his shoulders, the hard-on marring an otherwise perfect silhouette.

Coming to a console near you...

Shadowed

Unnameable horrors in a superbly creepy survival from first time game developer.

The panic and unrelenting horror we uncovered as we trace the last actions of the Dead Artist is in a league of its own. Shadowed is set as the world is sinking. The apocalypse has been released in the artist’s dying moments. It is only a matter of time before we sink with it, as our transformation into a horrific creature of the deep hastens. Panic intensifies as the crippling cut scenes show our body transforming into one of them: the not-quite-human-fish-creatures with their harsh gurgling voices and jolting awkward movements.

This survival horror role player uses music and sound effects to further terrify us, with its well-chosen moments of silence and disturbing imagery. Shadowed is reminiscent of the Irrational Games first person shooter, Bioshock, set in the dystopian Rapture. Fans of that franchise will be equally impressed with this horrific gem.

We play as Mortimer, the last surviving member of the human race, but things are bleak. We have been infected with what has contaminated the rest of the world. But what was it? How did it come to be? Our journey to find the cure and save the world starts with the only information we have- an exploration of the apartment where it all started, the building swarming with a mass of tentacles. And the information we find hidden in this room sets up the sequence of events leading us through the game. 

Twisted Oliver Productions Manager, Rikki Platinum, warns us:

‘Walk away from the screen at the wrong moment and you will miss vital information. Character exploration of the environment is crucial, if you don’t find the clues, you won’t have a clue’

It is a huge stylistic gamble for the first time game developer. But it works.

Plagued with frightening dreams of razor-toothed mermaids and half-remembered folklore, we must piece together the clues to work out what to do next. The game doesn’t physically leave the building, and this sounds like a bad move, but it doesn’t feel claustrophobic. The story and atmosphere are enough to keep us engrossed, as well as the disturbing memories and dreams that come at random chapters. Large chunks of the building fall away revealing bulbous wet monsters but never linger too long next to the exposed tentacles. This game is not for those wanting an easy Sunday afternoon.

The gameplay doesn’t offer anything you won’t find in other role playing games, but it does intensify psychological horror. This is best played alone, in the dark with a set of good headphones – just have your Mum’s number on speed dial for those really scary moments, which, there are plenty. Don’t say we didn’t warn you!

Publishing Idea - Book Proposal

16.06.2014

Re: Wild Cards (edited by George R. R. Martin).

The 12 initial volumes were originally published by Bantam Books (1987 – 1993), Baen Books published the next three (from 1993 – 1995), then (from 2002 – 2006) ibooks Inc., released two new volumes, and reprinted the first six.

The current publisher (from 2008) is Tor Books (Tom Doherty Associates, LLC), who have released four new books and re-printed several, with a new volume due in September 2014.

Wild Cards is a science fiction/superhero series set in a shared universe. It tells the alternate history of Earth after an alien virus is released. The virus rewrites human DNA, killing 90% of those who come into contact with it. The remaining 9% mutate into deformed jokers, while 1% become aces with superpowers. Aces that acquire useless/ridiculous powers are deuces, and the unaffected human population are nats (naturals).

These books employ a naturalistic approach to storytelling; characters generally don’t have ‘secret identities’; and, modern pop culture references and celebrities are referenced to give a better sense of the world. Book titles and terms commonly represent card playing expressions.

So, I have developed a cure for the Wild Card virus.

While previous chapters have employed a variety of genres, the Wild Cards Universe has never explored horror. Horror has never been as popular as it is now, so I propose Drawing Dead, my cure for Wild Cards:

A Wild Card ‘cure’ is announced by a mysterious foreigner with a penchant for world domination, while closer to home, a formidable killer stalks the streets of Jokertown.

Backed by multi-million dollar pharmaceutical corporations, mainstream media declares Xenovirus Takis-A, a danger to the ongoing survival of the human race. With increasing force behind their campaign, nats soon force ‘immunisation’ upon the ‘infected’. Celebrity aces are the first easy targets.

Meanwhile, Mica, a deuce rejected by nats and jokers alike, struggles to find belonging. Burned by his former life, he finds solace in the mysterious joker, Talon. But Talon has secrets that will change their world. In his struggle for acceptance, has Mica allowed the biggest monster of all into his bed?

DRAWING DEAD

Based on Wild Cards (edited by George R. R. Martin).

Mica stumbled from the pub into the damp alley, morning still hours away. Above him, a weathered neon sign illuminated random letters for a shop, long since abandoned. He coughed, exchanging stagnant air for the sickly sweet odour of rot, and swiped at fresh blood that trickled down his chin. Even in the poorly lit backstreet he could see silver staining his fingers, and he knew the glitter would be everywhere. Using the back of his sleeve to wipe blood from his fractured nose, he glared at the predicted residual flash.

Pointedly ignoring his sinus ache, he glanced around, suddenly comprehending the danger of this location. He didn’t fear Jokertown, but Wild Card murders had been on a recent rise, and at night, violent gangs prowled unpoliced streets. The darkness slinked in, claustrophobia gripping his chest. Adrenaline replaced his alcohol-fuelled buzz and his stomach clenched. Buildings and streets he’d become familiar with in daylight hours became looming towers hiding nameless dread. Winds caused unlatched doors to creak and bang. Noises in the distance became pursuing footfalls.

His stride lengthened as his mind fought threads of terror through deserted backstreets. Shadows, or shrouded creatures, melted into darkness before his eyes. He stared into the gloom, fearing to blink, his eyes stinging with strain and sweat, his heartbeat in his throat.

The anticipation became too much. Losing all direction in the maze of alleyways, he fled directly into a dead end, and an incarnation of his terror, as if he’d willed it into being. 

Mica stopped dead, staring at the eviscerated carcass before him. The horse’s disembowelled organs and severed head spanned several metres. In any other place, the presence of a horse might seem absurd, but not in Jokertown, where freaks found solace.

Mica blinked, the colour draining from his face. His palms were clammy, and his clothes drenched in cold sweat, giving his whole body an otherworldly shimmer. On the ground, inches from the mutilated head, sat a single three-foot-long horn. It had been hacked from the horse, nay, unicorn, and lay tangled in bloodstained hair. Mica enjoyed horror films. He found the cheesy storylines and excessive blood amusing. Here, now, with the smell of viscera thick in the air, he staggered.  

Since moving into town, he’d familiarised himself with The Jokertown Boys. He’d planned to see them live, curious about their advertised, ‘unique twist’ on gothic rock. Knowing as little as he did about the local rock stars, he still recognised the horn from the lead guitarist, Alec ‘Alicorn’ Harner, who’d donned an impressive spiked blonde mohawk to disguise it.

Tearing his eyes from the slaughter, he finally noticed the tall, slender man staring at him. The man clutched a bloodied machete, a weapon that looked enormous in comparison to his slight frame. Mica couldn’t look away, possessed by the man’s soulless eyes. His vision distorted, and white noise filled his head. Cold hands clamped his throat. As they tightened, the white noise amplified, until the only thing Mica could comprehend was the static. It spoke. It told him he must die. It said that all those infected by the Wild Card virus would die. And he would be next. He understood, and it made sense… so he allowed it. 

An Analysis on an Excerpt:

03.03.2014

‘A Georgia Story’ from Wormwood written by Poppy Z. Brite (1994).

Poppy Z. Brite writes to entertain. She takes readers away from ‘safe’ storytelling to the grungy underbelly of social outcasts, weirdos and the ‘freaks’ of society, and her stories, as with these lives, often don’t have happy endings. ‘A Georgia Story’ revolves around one of four main characters as he returns home after a friend’s death drove him from it a few years prior.

Some people can’t ‘be normal’ and these are the characters Brite writes about. We see Sammy’s life through someone who has ‘made it’. I like that Brite gives a voice to these characters. They are far more interesting and she certainly doesn't make them out to be anything they aren't. There is no happy ending.  She writes, ‘Sometime Gene laughed and was human.’ Her characters don’t feel as though they are part of the human race.

This piece is purely emotive. Poppy Z. Brite wants you to be in the character’s place – right there with him, not only seeing what he sees but being in his mind as well, as he reflects on his past. She does it perfectly with her descriptions and character narration.

She takes us from the immense descriptions of what the character is seeing and pulls us, as the character, back to reality with Ben’s character – rather than have him explore the freaks in his own narration in his head. Her dialogue bit with Ben talking to both the main character and to Sammy, she switches effortlessly between. It is easy to follow because of the punctuation and sentence structures. She uses exclamation points and short sentences to talk to the geek – as if he can’t understand anything else, like a child, or an animal.

The main character tells us, ‘I knew that later, before this fresh blood dried, the geek's fingers would find it and use it to create more tracings, new legends to decorate his cage.’ Because he knows this of their past – it’s what Sammy did. But he doesn't say ‘Sammy’. It’s ‘the geek’, because this is who Sammy is now. He compares the make-up Sammy wore, to the gore he's decorated himself with now. You get the feeling of who Sammy was and feeling awful for what he is.

‘Take me with you’, Sammy whispers but there is no hope. He is not saved. There is no ‘feel good’ moment – except maybe for the voice of the story. He has come back to his home town as a tourist. He can leave any time.

When he puts his hand into the cage and says, ‘Sammy reached up to take it, I drew back’, is the point when the main character forgets his friend. It was no longer Sammy and he can move on. That is what he has come back for, an ending of longing for his youth as addressed in the final sentence.

Poppy Z. Brite writes in a mixture of long and short sentences. Her longer sentences are giving descriptions or longer chunks of information and usually followed by short statements to ram in your face, so to speak. This works to transport you to where the narrator is. The carny, Ben, speaks the way he would talk – not in perfect English; ‘Let go that stick, you!’

The introduction for this short story collection is written by Dan Simmons. He describes when he first met Poppy Z. Brite, by chance, while doing a reading and he says, ‘I may have been the only member of the audience not wearing black leather and chains.’ I think to say Brite's target audience is only alternative/goth types is a gross underestimate. Brite writes about characters and subjects that these groups might find more interesting than the general population, but the target audience broadens to young adult – adult, perhaps with a darker attraction, which is why she is so often wrongly categorised as horror.

I chose to analyse this piece because it's one of my favourite short stories by this author, but I could have chosen any of her earlier work.  This one in particular, I love her subject matter, I love the descriptions of the four characters and I relate to the dark, macabre subject matter and how she effortlessly expresses it. As I said, she gives voice to the social outcasts of this world, a voice not heard enough, I voice I relate to, and a voice I think I mimic quite a lot.

My YouTube link for those interested.

https://www.youtube.com/user/thedarkestgray/videos