Tuesday, 7 December 2010

+++The 12 Deaths of Christmas Blog Tour+++

                               

                                  
On the first day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
A corpse hanging from a pear tree. 

On the second day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me
Two werewolves howling
And a corpse hanging from a 
pear tree. 


We all have something to sing about this Christmas - yes, it's the 12 Deaths of Christmas blog tour.  This has been a fantastic opportunity to ask some searching questions to some of the UK's finest horror genre writers. These feature some of my favourite authors - they continue to prove their worthy talent. So have a merry knees up as we post (each day) a new verse of the merry Jig. Could this be the new 2010 Christmas no.1? 

In less then 150 words how would you describe yourself, as a character, to be portrayed within one of your books? 

“The fat writer’s corpse was a banquet of mince and jelly, teeth marks gnawed into the few bones that remained. It was spread over the table like breakfast, the skull a breadbasket littered with grey crumbs, the ribs a toast rack in which only meagre crusts were still propped, the intestines unpicked and unravelled as if by a fastidious hand, some fussy eater. Moans rose up from the figures who crowded around it, their contentment unquestionable. Those who had feasted here today had feasted well. Even the appetites of the dead could be sated.”
A reclusive writer with clichéd hermit-like habits, and as many cats as will fit in the house, who spends most of her time hunched up over a keyboard, griping at anyone who interrupts her work. An eccentric oddball of a person who drinks too much Red Bull, and probably spends too much time in a make-believe world with make-believe people.
I have a Hitchcock-style cameo role in Crawlers. Look for "A big, bespectacled, balding man dressed in black" on page 35: I think 150 words is about as long as I last before they get me!

“The last thing Dave saw, as he opened the fridge to reach for the last of the beers hiding at the back behind the bowl of half-eaten shepherd’s pie, was the reflection in the window of a mouth. It was as wide as he was tall, laced with teeth, and at its very pit, where a throat should’ve been, was a spinning vortex of broken bodies, limbs and flesh. He reached for the beer. Then died. Horribly.”

Steve looked out across the snow-covered street and imagined the Christmas shoppers scattering in panic as they spotted the creatures coming down the street towards them. Bags rammed full of gifts were abandoned, instantly forgotten as the people fled in panic, their screams penetrating the glass window through which the writer observed them. The author smiled as a man fell to the ground. He watched as the shopper struggled to get up again, his feet unable to gain any purchase on the slippery ground. The man looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening in horror. The white snow was quickly turned a sinister red. Steve sipped his coffee, and wondered if he should order another. Things were working out 
nicely today.

The stark desk-light shone off the shining dome of Sarwat’s head. His dark brows furrowed with confusion as he rested his slim, long fingers over the keyboard. The entire posture was one of slumped despair, head low and back bent as though the words trapped inside him were weighing him down. If only they could be released! Gloomy shadows clustered at his shoulders. He glanced back towards the window, to stare at the black, spindly branches trying to claw their way in. The trees creaked, black, malevolent spirits that cackled at him, patient, yet eager, for that moment when the window would open and all the spites that had tormented him for so long would finally overwhelm him.Sarwat turned back to the empty page, as white as a shroud.

I’m too dull to be in one of my books! But it’s true that Jake Harker inWitchfinder has many of my childhood traits – he loves horror comics and writing. However, Jake’s much braver than me, and I’m not sure I’d like to share his destiny…
An old curmudgeon who lives in a run-down shack on the edge of a haunted marsh. Always grumbling and griping about people bothering him but secretly likes company and comes alive when talking to others. Can pick up a fair lick of speed when running and shows stamina but actually stays calm under fire and proves loyal when the dark things come lurching around the corner. Oh, loves a cup of tea or a beer, hates the cold.

I would like to thank our leader Sarwat, for arranging the blog tour, and all the time and effort he has put in to enable this to take place.
Next stop on the blog tour is  - Narratively Speaking 
      


                                                                    























































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