Ghosts In A Desert World - Review

Matthew Tait is one of those Australian speculative and horror fiction personalities that has always intrigued me. He's a smart guy, and his views and opinions of what is going on in Australasian literature are worth noting. I was pleased to pick up a copy of his freshly released collection of short stories Ghosts In A Desert World

It's currently free on Amazon, but they tend to only allow you a free give away for 5 days at a time. The collection is worth acquiring, even if you do end up paying for it.

There are names that get tossed about when one is reviewing horror writers. Matheson is a good example, I've been compared to the late master myself. Tait does have some of the classic gore elements of Matheson present and very correct, but he also has that wonderful element usually found in the short stories of Joe R. Lansdale.

Remember when Lansdale wrote really fucked up fiction? His collection BY BIZARRE HANDS remains one of my favourite short story collections. The comparisons between Tait and Lansdale come when you experience the dread that both manage to so easily create. Tait's stories put us in a world that could be just around the corner for any of us. The country road, the small town, the invevitable outcome of too much popular culture, and a complete disregard for the sanctity of human life.

If I have one gripe with the collection it is that it is too Americanised. There are stories set in Australia, but they have American protagonists. The ones set in familiar locations of the USA are fine, but I wonder if they were written for an American market, which is disappointing as there is a good market for Australian horror of quality.

Tait loves gore, there's nothing here that focuses on suspense or only superanatural elements. It's visceral, every fleck of blood, every carefully orchestrated slash of a throat, or a wrist or a disembowling (which seems to be a personal favourite of the author) is well choreographed and adds to the intensity of the story. Not two characters are the same in this collection. The only common ground they share is folks from various walks of life finding themselves in situations that they didn't plan on, facing foes so unspeakably fucked up that you understand them thinking that this is some nightmare they have to wake up from.

Final verdict, a good gore filled collection of strong horror stories. The writing is competent and imaginative. The stories deliver and the blood just drips from every page.

Read it. You shouldn't be disappointed.

Who's driving this thing?!

I love that moment when you are on the edge of your seat, totally engrossed in an action packed story. You have no idea what is going to happen next.How is the hero going to get out of this impossible situation?

... And the only thing you can do is keep typing to find out.

An afternoon with Sergio

I've mentioned a lot on Facebook lately that Sergio Leone's The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly is one of my favourite films of all time. It is certainly my favourite Western. I ticked an item off the Bucket List today, I saw this film on the big screen. What impressed me most was the audience, the place was packed. A range of ages too. Younger and older generations were equally represented. We saw the extended version, which has most of the extra footage in it. This was only missing one minor scene and the movie ran to well over 2 hours.

The Wikipedia entry for this film reveals a lot of interesting trivia.

The audience was great, they laughed in delight at the moments they should have laughed in delight at, they oohed and aahed at the right moments too. Being in The Embassy theatre, owned by Sir Peter Jackson and site of the premiere's of the Lord Of The Rings movies and The Hobbit in November, made this a special treat.  Really pleased I saw this movie, and I'll be keeping an eye out for future retro-showings of other great movies (they did the full Back To The Future trilogy the other week!)

My Inner Teenage Girl Is Screaming

My inner teenage girl is screaming. Not my usual inner teenage girl screaming because she has just awoken, tied up in my basement next to my knife collection. No this is my other inner teenage girl. The one who read and actually enjoyed Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games.

I found myself pawing at the Kindle app on  my phone, trying to turn non-existent virtual pages. What do you mean it ends there? It can't end there!! What about Gale? What about Peeta? What happens next!? What will Katniss do???!!!

I feel like I have been infected with some insidious disease. A slow creeping malediction has cursed me. I picked the book at random from the 2500 titles on my Kindle app and found the use of present-tense less irritating than I thought I would after a few pages.

By the time I was two chapters into it I couldn't put it down. This is so clearly written for young teenage girls, I kept on thinking if anyone finds out I'm reading this I'm never going to be able to show my face at any masculine venue ever again. My inner teen-age girl agrees. Except she says "evah" and "ZOMG! I'd just die if anyone found out!"

Writing a blog post about it is probably not the best course of manly reputation saving action then.

But I need to write about it. I need to analyse why this book gripped me so much. Mostly I think I need to justify my own secret delight in the story and perhaps accept that I have a girl teeny-bopper in my mental wardrobe of voices in my head.

I don't know if this is standard YA teen fiction. I haven't read any Twilight.  I do read a lot of the Reasoning With Vampires blog. Which analyses just how god-awful Stephanie Meyer's writing is, and how her overly contrived story is probably making an entire generation of girls stupider. Even my inner teen-age girl is making gagging noises.

The key thing for me about Collins' book is that Katniss is the everygirl. She doesn't think she is pretty, or smart, or desirable. She is in a desperate situation and is adorably immature about boys and adult relationships. Of course she is smart, and pretty and desirable and she's also a damned good provider for her family. Her casual relationship with Gale is sweet. It's nice to see teenagers not focused on sex and true love and shit. Of course that they aren't thinking about sex all the time is what reminds me that this is a work of fiction.

Katniss (as we all know) takes the place of her younger sister Prim as the tribute for the Hunger Games. An annual facist celebration of victory over the rebellious and a chance to watch some young un's engage in some good old fashioned orienteering, wilderness survival and all the good Scouts outdoorsy activities promoted in books like Enid Blyton's Five series. The only difference is that while there are plenty of lashings (threatened at least) and other punishments are handed out like licks from Timmy there sure as hell isn't any gingerbeer.

What we do have is a grim and bloody headcount. People die in this book. They die badly and often. It's not just in the arena, that vast semi-VR wilderness where the tributes hunt each other to death. Death is a constant companion in Katniss' life outside the arena. She lives close to starvation. People die in the coal mines. People die of injury and and disease and malnutrition. She comments that the elderly are admired - for they have endured so much longer than anyone normally does.

This story is action packed. Katniss has great skills, the famous archery talent (which has of course lead to a spike in interest in the sport for kids). But hey the samet thing happened with the Lord of the Rings trilogy was released. It's good to get kids interested in an outdoor sport.

The action and tension are grim. The romance is a sub-plot and is meant to be another way of winning the games by guile rather than strength. Of course we have lots of conflict to muddy this but over all Collin's keeps it very safe by restricting it to kissing and fully clothed sleeping bag sharing cos it's damned cold. If I had a 14 year old daughter, I'd let her go camping alone with Peeta. I might not even feel it necessary to stab him in the thigh first.

Collin's doesn't bother with silly details like how does stuff happen. She has deus-ex-machina coming out of her cūlus. But that's okay. We don't care that things drop out of the sky, or that the entire environment can be manipulated in anyway shape or form. The focus is on the characters. The basic hunt and the way the experience changes Katniss. That's the heart of the story. She's a really great character.

The pretty dresses, the kissing and the rest of the story aren't bad either.

Prometheus – The Review Warning! Does contain SPOILERS!

By all accounts (particularly the Making Of Blade Runner documentary) Ridley Scott is a real prick to work with. He is a pedantic perfectionist who works people to their limit and accepts no compromise.  As an audience we see the ultimate illusion created by this true visionary. Alien was the finest science fiction film since 2001: A Space Odyssey and by returning to the Universe that is truly his alone, Scott has created a new masterpiece with Prometheus.

From the mind-bending opening scene which screamed, “This film is unlike anything you have seen before in the Aliens Universe” to the colour motif (that has been a key element of all 4 previous Alien films) Prometheus is a masterwork of film making.

Yes it is an Alien prequel. But it is so much more. This is a film with so many layers. It speaks to those of a spiritual bent and to the cynical atheist like myself equally. It engenders a sense of true wonder at the Universe and its infinite possibilities.

At another level the film confirms two facts.

1.       Noomi Rapace is a fantastic actor and a worthy successor to Sigourney Weaver.

2.       Charlize Theron has the finest arse in Christiandom.

SPOILERS BELOW….

The discovery of the final starmap and the journey to LV-223 were mercifully brief,  and the scene with the briefing was copied directly from Alien Vs Predator. Guy Pearce playing the old man was an odd choice, surely they could have just got an old actor? It stood out in his speech that while David was “The son he never had” clearly Vickers was his daughter.

David was a masterpiece of character and acting. Evesdropping on the sleeper’s dreams and watching Peter O’Toole in Lawrence of Arabia and styling himself in the same way was fantastic. Fassbender never dropped out of character. Even when he was rescuing Shaw and Holloway during the storm and they were flailing around and being blown by the wind – he was ramrod straight. He moved like a dancer and you never stopped being aware that he was in fact an artificial.

The industrial strength living conditions and grim realities of space-travel were again present. People puking after waking up from coldsleep, the body and mind being in shock.

The initial exploration of LV-223 which is of course NOT the same planet that Ripley and the Nostromo crew landed on (LV-426) heightened that sense of colour motif. The use of white in this film (representing purity, sterility and in some cultures, death) was subtle and profound (Alien of course had green/black, Aliens was electric blue, Alien 3 was red/orange and Alien4 was copper/rust).

The links to Alien are detailed and exact. The action unfolds in a fascinating way. The opening scene with the Engineer (or Space Jockey) sacrificing himself to create all life on earth was a totally different spin on things. This alternate use of the purification weapons of mass destruction (the goo that evolves into Aliens through successive generations when exposed to host genetic material) was a profound statement about technology.

Charlize Theron and Noomi Rapace carried this film, Michael Fossbender stole every scene he was in and Idris Alba was just rough enough to get Damaris’ heart racing.

The rest were there solely to be killed and ramp up the action. The death of Fifield and Millburn were almost darkly humorous.

“Get it off me!”

“I’m not touching that!”

“TOUCH IT! TOUCH IT!”

The unnamed crew and Ford the Irish medic were just there to be killed. The use of flamethrowers in decontamination spoke to me a lot about our primordial fears of the unknown. If we don’t understand it, we kill it. Kill it with fire!

Of course David was bound by his programming and the lunatic egomania of Weyland. A touching moment was when Shaw asked what he would do when Weyland died, and David said he would finally be free.

The Engineers created the Aliens. Clearly they were a programmed evolution through successive generations when combined with suitable biological genetic material. We saw this in Alien3 when the initial host was a dog – so the alien had a different shape to it. The multi-generational aspects of their evolution were fascinating to watch, Worms to big worms, to squid like creature to giant face-hugger to Engineer based Alien.

I did rage a bit against the final scene – surely the Engineer should have been back on his crashed ship and had the alien burst out of his chest. But this was NOT LV-426 so that scene happened on a different world. Another weapons outbreak… another disaster from those who thought they had the power over life and death. Once I clicked to that it made a lot more sense.

The most powerful moment in the film for me came when Shaw declared she was not going home. I literally gasped. Of course! You have access to that kind of technology, why go back? She chose to believe and that drove her onwards into the unknown which is really the ultimate purpose of faith.

Fuck You Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury, you bastard. You were supposed to live forever. You alone would keep writing long after the rest of us were mouldering bones and withered flesh. You were the shining star. The celestial furnace of creativity that could never be extinguished. You were the one who lit the way for so many genres and other great writers. You defined and re-defined the many genres of Speculative Fiction. You broke through literary market barriers like a rioting mob.

You will always be the Shakespeare of the 20^th Century science-fiction writers. Like Shakespeare your ideas ranged from the quirky to the inspirational. You had the same English words as the rest of us, but what you did with them. The way you linked them together. You wrote poetic prose. I have on occasion stopped and re-read a single line of yours and marvelled at how perfect, how utterly perfect your command of words really was.

The characters you created stepped off the page and said, “This is my life story.” Every one so believable and utterly unforgettable. So today Mr Bradbury I will remember you and will read your immortal stories again.

I know we will teach our grandchildren to love fiction and the power of imagination. “Look!” we will say. “There was once a man, a great man. He made the world a better place by writing stories that were unlike any other. He is gone but the stories remain. Read them and know him as we knew him.”

You were the wild and childlike prophet of a thousand possible futures. You lived and lived and lived. And now you are dead.

There will never be another human being like you and there will never be another story by you. So fuck you Ray Bradbury.

“Recreate the world in your own image and make it better for your having been here.”

- Ray Bradbury, speech at Brown University (1995)

Editors As A Species

  Yes, editors are human. We have families, day jobs, hobbies, and our own writing, editing, submitting and re-writing to get on with.

We did however take on the job of reviewing submissions for (in my case) anthologies and production scripts. So we don't complain. We do however read some of the most god-awful literature ever excreted from the backsides of some barely literate apes.

We don't get paid for this. In fact the last anthology I edited I personally put up the US$350 to pay our writers $25 for each successful submission. The publisher wasn't able to pay anything but I wanted quality stories, and I got them.

We don't get paid. We instead get to pore over the full range of experience and ability in the written word. We get stories that are so disparate from the guidelines we wonder if the submitter made a mistake and sent us the wrong file. We get stories in foreign languages, in unopenable file formats, in stupid fonts, in weird colours. We get stories that are incomprehensible, lacking in any form of grammar, spell or punctuation checking. We get piles and piles of complete turkey-droppings. And then...

...We find something that takes our breath away. A story we simply have to have. The story you read and it sticks with you. The story you wish you had written. The story that makes you wonder, what the hell am I doing? If there are writers out there who are this good, I may as well just pack up my pencil and go fishing instead.

Those are the ones that make it a joy to write an acceptance letter. Those are the ones that make all the soul-destroying, "please don't take it personally, but your story isn't what we are looking for", sanitised responses, when all you really want to do is email them saying, "Are you kidding me? Please never submit anything to anyone ever again, in case by some bizarre accident it accidentally gets published and the collective IQ of the world drops sharply as a result."

So like every other writer, editors go through the pangs of rejection and the joys of acceptance. There is nothing like putting together a publication of stories that are your favourites. Giving money to people for writing is the greatest feeling in the world. Their gratitude is genuine and the lessons we can provide to those who aren't there yet are sincere.

Spare a thought for the editors. That we respond at all is indication enough that not only are we human, we still have some faith in literate humanity left.

cheers
Paul

PS: I write reports for the government all day. At night I write and edit short stories, novels, audio-plays, screen-plays and the occassional offensive limerick.

Old Stories: The Tower

I've been trawling through some old files and finding old stories. This one is from 2009 or earlier. Never published of course.

The Tower by Paul Mannering

The architect and reason for the tower were lost to the sea in aeons past.  Only the stones remained. Each block of black basalt curved slightly, just enough to cling to its brethren and encompass the tiniest angle of curvature in the round edifice.  The tower stood tall and phallic on the barren black cliffs above a storm grey sea and waited.

 Tomlay and Adelsa left the tower in dull morning light cast by the ancient red sun. The tide had receded uncovering the rich mudflats and the shellfish that they harvested.  Today they called each other Tomlay and Adelsa, yesterday each had created different names for the other.  One was male and the other female, and after smashing the hard calcite husks of their meal, they slurped and gnashed their teeth against the pale slime flesh nestled within.

The emptiness of their bellies satiated, Tomlay grunted at Adelsa and pushed up against her buttocks, his genitals swelling.  Adelsa, today bearing the complimentary female parts refused him and Tomlay pushed harder, grunting with increased ferocity.  The female scampered away and climbed the sea-worn stones of the cliff, pausing, crouched on a narrow ledge to throw small stones at the furious male below.

With a dismissive gesture, Tomlay turned away from her and loped off down the beach.  Hunched over, his flat pale hands slapped the hard-packed wet sand every few strides and he collected and discarded anything that caught his eye without pausing in his rush.

Adelsa’s hoots faded into the hiss and moan of the surf.  Tomlay scampered over the horizon, if Adelsa would refuse him today, then he would seek solace elsewhere.

The sun was midway between the grey sea and the highest point of the sky when Tomlay reached the next bay.  The tide was returning, sweeping back in a long pulsing flood to cover the mud and sand, refreshing the shellfish beds and maintaining the smooth palate of the long beach. Tomlay splashed through the edge of the surf until the salt stung his eyes and his translucent eyelids flexed shut and turned his view into a muted sepia shade.

Turning away from the water, he scuttled on long boned legs, up and over the dunes as barren as the tower cliffs, to the border of the marshlands beyond.  The marsh did not interest Tomlay or Adelsa, they had never found reason to penetrate its humid, rustling depths.  Passing along the soft-earthed strip of land between sand and bog Tomlay felt his lust swell anew.

At the further end of the second bay, a peninsula rose.  Twin to the rock under the tower, this outcrop made a pedestal for a statue, vast and unknowable, the smooth stone rose to a dizzying height in the air and bore a pleasing feminine shape like that which Adelsa wore today and Tomlay might wear tomorrow if Adelsa tired of it.

His hairless body glowing with exertion Tomlay bounded up the rocks, leaping and grunting he sprang and clung until he reached the top.  Here he rested, idly stroking himself as he crouched and breathed the salty air. Squinting up at the statue Tomlay considered every curve and niche.  Not wanting to waste his climax, he released his grip upon himself and hooting in delight scuttled forward to leap upon the naked toe of the figure. From there he scampered up the smooth incline of the massive carved foot and laid his hands on the cool stone of the giant ankle.

Adelsa grew bored with crouching on her ledge.  She knew where Tomlay was going, having been there herself many times. Straightening, she finished climbing to the top of the cliff and with her back to the tower; she flexed and twisted her body, catching the warmth of the morning sun on the waxen flesh of her breasts and thighs.

Tomlay became one with the embodiment of female essence.  He entered her; this vast repository for all that was female, merging his own flesh with that of the dark stone.  In the warmth of her womb, he was zygote.  Fertilized egg dividing and conscious of all existence, the seething turmoil of a billion-billion generations of DNA twisted around him.  Filtered light glowed sanguine and comforting; he remembered conception and birth throughout time.  This was the culmination of life, only the genetic memory remained. Tomlay ejaculated and cried out, his emissions floating in the warm space that both surrounded and engulfed him.

Returning to the tower Adelsa felt the shuddering connection that Tomlay made with the female, encased in the up-thrust structure. With a moaning cry to the burning sun her own form broke down and joined with his in the union of genetic replication. Together they disseminated in to the component units of genes and the chemical codex of life. 

Through out the day and the night they would gestate. In the following dawn two new forms would emerge, craft names for themselves and bask under the pale light of the red sun and experience the success of life.

The Fabulous Furry Freakout

There are some events in life that people dream about, a celebrity sighting, a zombie apocalypse, losing their virginity, baking the perfect souffle. The most intriguing moment is when one of these WHOA! moments happens and you miss it.

I'm a member of a particularly active Facebook group called "Moody's Survivors" It's a fan-club for David Moody (author of the Autumn and Hater series). I've worked with David before on some audio projects (including scripting and directing an audio drama adaptation of his Autumn novel). A really nice guy, with great fans. Like most groups it's also a good forum to share your own work. I posted a link to the blog post about the Meow Cafe reading that I got ejected from. I think I linked to it on this group a few days ago. I linked to it in several places.

Someone mentioned in passing today that there was an absolute shit-storm went down on the Survivors list - over my post. What I have been told (and I have no way of verifying this, except it came from a source I trust) there were over 200 comments - which were a massive fight over this post and the story it related to. Some women were calling those who were defending me "pedophiles" and saying the story was "child pornography" and saying we should "all be arrested"

I'm not sure why they didn't just message me, or leave a comment on the blog post expressing their opinion. It's nice to know that in my absence (all this happened while I was offline) some fellow horror fans and writers defended me.

The only thing that concerns me, is that it's a story that people don't understand. I hope it's not because I'm a bad writer. I hope it's just because they have their own perceptions and fears.

So here is my analysis of the story.

It was written in response to a request. The requestor sent me this:

 Fun fact. Serial killers often keep the bodies of their victims, stashing them in the freezer or fridge, or burying them in shallow graves, or under the house, so that they can check in on them, care for them, and observe their deterioration. It's as if they nurture them like children, or lovers.

I was interested in that concept. The idea of someone who is completely devoid of normal human empathy and understanding being nurturing towards their victims.

So I started writing. There is nothing about a psychopath that is restrained. They generally don't react emotively or in normal ways (unless it's a learned response). So you have this first-person view story about a guy who has a clearly warped and monstrous view of the world.

It is evident in his language, his attitude and his behaviour. It's not justified, or presented in a way that is meant to glorify the behaviour. It is just presented. Uncensored, un-edited and in your face. You aren't meant to get off on it.You as a reader are meant to be disturbed by it. I know I was disturbed by it, and I wrote the damn thing.

The key element of the story that those who freak out over it seem to miss, is that the supporting cast are all dead. There is a reason that Theresa's eyeball popped out and fell in the popcorn. She's dead. The entire supporting cast isn't real. The voices he hears, the stories his alter-ego "Walter" tells him, it's all in his head. 

There is a reason that "Walter" made a hole in Lucy's stomach. It's because she's mummified. I have no idea how old she is. The only "little girl" referred to was a fantasy of "Walters" where he talks about leading little girls away from crowds. "Lucy" might have been in her mid-twenties for all I know. She is referred to as "the youngest" because someone has to be.

So people read it in response to the blog post. Some more people got offended. Accusations of various types were reportedly thrown about. I don't really care. I'm disappointed that people missed the key structure of the story, which if you do understand it, doesn't make it any less disturbing, but does give it the correct context.

If you want to read child-pornography, try those other best-selling works of fiction, the bible, the talamud and the koran.

And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, Avenge the children of Israel of the Midianites ... And they warred against the Midianites, as the LORD commanded Moses; and they slew all the males ... And the children of Israel took all the women of Midian captives, and their little ones ... And Moses was wroth with the officers ... And Moses said unto them, Have ye saved all the women alive? ... Now therefore kill every male among the little ones, and kill every woman that hath known man by lying with him. But all the women children, that have not known a man by lying with him, keep alive for yourselves. Numbers 31:1-18

 How shall we do for wives for them that remain, seeing we have sworn by the LORD that we will not give them of our daughters to wives? ... And the congregation sent thither twelve thousand men of the valiantest, and commanded them, saying, Go and smite the inhabitants of Jabeshgilead with the edge of the sword, with the women and the children. And this is the thing that ye shall do, Ye shall utterly destroy every male, and every woman that hath lain by man. And they found among the inhabitants of Jabeshgilead four hundred young virgins, that had known no man by lying with any male: and they brought them unto the camp to Shiloh. Judges 21:7-11


 "A child is betrothed by intercourse if she is 3 years and one day old" ~ The Talamud

Surah al-Talaaq 65:4: If a woman does not menstruate, either because she is very young or old and past menopause, then her ‘iddah is three months, because Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning): “And those of your women as have passed the age of monthly courses, for them the ‘Iddah (prescribed period), if you have doubt (about their periods), is three months; and for those who have no courses (i.e. they are still immature) their ‘Iddah (prescribed period) is three months likewise. [Basically an underage girl can be used for sex according to Islam]

Meow is a Pussy

It's easy to forget that not everyone has had the same experiences. Been to the same dark places and had the Abyss look back into them long and deep.

I went to Meow tonight. My friend Jason's band ANTLERGRAM were headlining a night of 3 bands. They wanted me to read some short stories in between sets/bands.

It was shaping up to be a good night. Some great musicians did their thing. I read a story, Pet Shop Boy which was well received. The crowd were relaxed, mature and I thought I'd try them on something a bit more fucked up. Okay a lot more fucked up. 

I read them the story that starts with this:

Fun fact. Serial killers often keep the bodies of their victims, stashing them in the freezer or fridge, or burying them in shallow graves, or under the house, so that they can check in on them, care for them, and observe their deterioration. It's as if they nurture them like children, or lovers.

It is not a long story. Under 1500 words. I got about half-way through it (to the "hole like a bellybutton" line). People were freaking out. Someone started screaming NO! NO! STOP! Then the owner of the place switched my mic off. He was completely freaked. It was him that was screaming. The audience was more stunned, shocked and bemused.

The irony is that this story was written in response to a request by Jason, who had invited me to read at this gig. So I left the stage. Leaving Jason and his band to soothe the ruffled feathers by saying, "I guess we found the limit."

I stayed, listened to their music (Antlergram are really good). Then I left. 

It's not their fault. It was a strong reminder that my creativity is shaped by my experiences. I'm influenced by some stuff that most people fortunately don't get to experience. I have no real interest in harming anyone. I just find it calming to direct my own inner shitstorm into extremes. The lesson learned is that we all have to keep our masks on at all times.

"Victims, aren't we all." ~ The Crow.

 
The story is below. You don't have to read it. But if you do, try not to freak the fuck out.

Fun fact. Serial killers often keep the bodies of their victims, stashing them in the freezer or fridge, or burying them in shallow graves, or under the house, so that they can check in on them, care for them, and observe their deterioration. It's as if they nurture them like children, or lovers.

Joshua likes to watch television and we often have to remind him that there are chores to be done before we can watch American Idol.

‘Those dishes won’t wash themselves young man,’ Nancy scolds.

We all chip in and the get the job done, then we make popcorn and drink sodas and laugh at the ugly little fucks screeching their sinful songs. Walter tells us about how he raped a girl that looked like that one when he was living in Memphis. I get hard

hearing him talk about how she screamed, the fear in her eyes and the way she begged him not to hurt her. Lucy says she knows Walter is lying, because he could never hurt a girl. He just wants to be friends. Walter is a friendly guy, he has big hands and they are perfect for holding a little girl’s hand. Holding it and leading her away from the crowds that are every where these days, especially on American Idol. We turn the sound off when the crowd screams because the noise upsets Theresa. She sits with my knees pressed against the sides of her head, keeping out the noise and once I pressed too hard, and her head broke and one of her eyeballs fell into the popcorn.

Of course I apologised and cleaned her up. I found a ping-pong ball in the basement, in a box with my old ping-pong set. One of the bats still has Mrs Henderson’s cat’s blood on it. I painted the ping-pong ball with Lucy’s nail polish, the blue one that makes her eyes pop. It wouldn’t fit in Theresa’s eye hole, so I cut the back off it and got the front bit in there and it looks great. Theresa has pretty eyes

now. I miss the English guy who used to judge American Idol. He wanted to fuck those little cunts. You could see it in his eyes when he told them they were a bunch of useless fucks. We Tivo all our television programs now and fast-forward through the breaks. Walter takes his cock out and plays with himself during the commercials otherwise.

After American Idol we watch movies, Lucy likes war films, if they have been good and the chores are done we sometimes watch our home movies. Theresa likes

the Christmas ones, where Walter has the Christmas lights that don’t work and he gets so fucking pissed off he strips the plastic off the wiring and plugs it into the wall.

Then he tortures the kitten with electric shocks until it shuts up. Theresa claps her hands and cheers, she likes the kitten movies.

After movies it’s time for bed, I tuck Lucy in first, she’s the youngest, and doesn’t like to sleep without a night light. I tell myself it’s naughty, but I sometimes, accidentally slide a hand up her nightie and touch her cunt. It has a hole in it that my fingers fit into. Once Walter came in and stuck his cock into her tiny hole, and his big fucking thing came right out her stomach. Just punched right through her and left a second hole, like a belly button. Now if I need to, I just fuck that hole. Cos’ it’s not fucking her cunt-parts so it’s not a sin.

Joshua next, He sleeps in the chair in my room. I put the knife in his hand and when I wake up in the night I can see it glinting in the moonlight and I know he will keep me safe. If Joshua is holding the knife then cunts aren’t getting cut.

Theresa wants me to touch her. She’s such a fucking slut. When it is time for bed she puts on her cheerleader uniform and dances with me. Walter would fuck her if I let him. He would fuck her ass and her face. He would punch holes in her with his cock until she was ugly again. I hold her gently and listen to her tell me she loves me.

I tell her that I love her too and can’t fuck her because then she would be a dirty slut and full of sin and Walter would break her perfect skin. I hear her crying when I slip out of the basement, whispering, “Nighty-night.”

Nancy doesn’t sleep. Her face throws shadows along the wall that nag and scold. I switch off the light and it shuts her up. The stretched skin of her face goes dark like disappointment and she’s just a lamp shade until morning.

Walter, he hates bed time. Says things to me like ‘We’re creatures of the fucking night man! We should be out there fucking cunts and making connections.’ Walter is big on connections. He wanted to connect with people by selling Amway. I don’t even understand half the shit he said when he showed up at my door. I invited him in because I could see the worms writhing on his tie. Big green, hairy fucking amoebas. After I shut him up by cutting his throat I looked up ties online. I found out that it’s called Paisley. Fucking amoeba fashion.

I burned the tie but it still haunts me. I’m glad Joshua is in my room at night. Holding the knife in case the green amoebas come slithering.

Now the house is silent, all my friends are resting, even Theresa has stopped crying. I lie in bed, alert to the creak of floor boards and listening to the slow breathing of Walter, Joshua, Theresa and Lucy as they sleep.