Submissions 2nd December 2013

Bugger! D'ya remember The Great Escape, I wonder if the BBC will relent and give it a Xmas airing this year? My favourite part is Steve McQueen's bid for freedom on a stolen German motorcycle that conveniently changes from a wartime BMW lump, into a nimble 500cc Triumph when stunt antics are called for, ah the magic of cinema. Unfortuantly Stevie didn't even get past the perimeter goons this time, being waylayed on the first read. Hilts is the character's name if you're trying to recall, he's the one every school kid identifies with, even though if we were honest, we've actually got more in common with the hapless Flying Officer Ives, who was played by the same actor who portrayed the interloper Shuey McPhee, he who deposed Mr. Lovejoy as head chef at The Crossroads Motel.

I think I might've emulated Ives's doomed assault on the barbed wire in full view of the guard, I submitted something I knew had no real chance but I thought its brevity might get it front of an editor's peepers, no such luck. It wasn't a completely fruitless experience, this was my first go with this outlet, an on-line sf journal, and it's been a while since I've done anything like this. They had a pretty organised submission process, probably the best I've encountered and they were very prompt with the rejection. No clues on the reaction to the story, unless you read something  into the inclusion of a link to the submission guidelines. On a positive note, there was no instruction to delay further submissions, although that could simply be because they've closed that process until the new year.

I've crossed 'em off my list of prospects for moment because although I did do some research into what they were publishing, I was relying on older material. All the new stuff has moved into The Chintz Light Zone,  my nick name for Mills & Boon dressed up as sf. Not that I don't appreciate romantic fiction or even produce it occasionally it's just that this particular genre drift caught me out, I think that's a forgiveable error, who'd expect the intergalactic robot crew to turn to things like: "...my heart raced as I found he was kissing me..."?

Poe, Rathbone, The Bells

Go straight to awesome, do not pass go, do not collect countless acquired expectations: That's the card Edgar Allan Poe drew from the community chest when he sat down to Literary Monopoly. Poe's talents were exercised during a time when his native literary establishment was exhibiting a stifling and torpid parochial self satisfaction (ring a bell, anyone?). So he decided to distance himself from it and focus his attention on the popular press, pretty much as Dickens did in London except that the Dickens was working in a much less clearly delineated literary environment.

I suppose you've heard of The Raven? Poe's most celebrated work of poetic verse, a work that is reviled in equal measure to that celebration. I assume I've left little doubt on which side of the fence of that divide I'm planted on. The Raven is quite a difficult piece to do justice to, I occasionally wonder how many fans of Poe, spend countless frustrating hours reciting it. Difficult as it is, there's one that's much harder, Poe's The Bells probably exemplifies Poe's preoccupation with iteration and refrain, some aspects that make it so challenging. I suppose it's this kind of demand that Poe fearlessly throws down the gauntlet for, that is one of the things make him so special. It's not that the average reader can't make a passable attempt at it, it doesn't have The Raven's vicarious intricacies, it's just the disparity between that on the page, and that which comes out of you mouth represents a gaping chasm. Fortunately the talents of one particular orator of renown were exercised on this verse and committed to vinyl quite a while ago. I'm referring to Basil Rathbone, who's readings of Poe's work are probably the best available, according to my estimation. Even more fortunately some kind person has uploaded a Youtube flick of that recording.

Submissions

If you're a jotter of meagre accomplishment like me, you'll be familiar with the soul crushing experience of submissions. Unfortuantly when you're the only one with the insight to recognise you're a gifted creative genius, the process tends to be something you find yourself avoiding with increasing consistency. One of the problems for me is the wide variation in submission guidelines circulated by prospective publishers, being somewhat disorganised, it's something of a problem to keep the drafts in their pigeon holes. This time I got round the problem by submitting to a publisher who wouldn't except simultaneous submissions, which is something you want to avoid really since turnaround times seem to draw out forever. At least this publisher promises a prompt rejection notice, which is something that mitigates that problem, most of 'em don't even bother with that.

One thing I can say though, is that at least writers don't have put up with quite the same anguish as illustrators. There's something about the visual arts that draws out the very worst of things like professional envy and petty sniping and that's main reason I kicked that world into the bin, I just couldn't hack the aerosols that permeate the air, so to speak. This latest effort is going to fail, I'm sure of that but it's like buying lottery tickets. You know there's no realistic chance of success but there's just a moment, maybe less than a second, when you're assurance that you'll win is absolute and that's the best feeling in the world, a feeling that, when confident your fortitude can sustain you, you'll bare the soul crushing gladly for.

Another angel

Goodbye Symphony (sniff), go and make someone an expensive Xmas present

You remember those Airfix kits you never got to round to making up when you where a kid? Well after a certain amount of digging, I found the one I could never bring myself to sully with blobby polystyrene cement streaks and runny paint. Alas more mundane considerations preoccupy me these days, like eating and funding hot water, so it's goodbye to, Symphony, Destiny or maybe even that mysterious Harmony, go and make one of the last minute bidding runs that always manage to rob me of that bargain.

Come to think of it, wasn't Rhapsody, the redhead?

Update:
No bidders oh well, don't mind Rhapsody, with you by my side that tin of spam will seem like ambrosia served amid the scented environs of Mt. Olympus.

Plenty more fish...

Notes
Grey Mullet: One of a number of related species whose reputation as a poor table fish is so legendary, its flesh is commonly considered to be inedible by anyone not on the brink of starvation.

Flounder: In English parlance, a flat fish whose resemblance to Plaice is occasionally the subject of consternation to those who discover their error, when they find the repast they anticipated with such relish tastes of mud. One of a number of species sold under the label Lemon Sole by undiscriminating fish mongers.

Shad: A migratory fish.

Plenty more fish...

Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Were the words borne from the mouth of my dad
If fate frustrate your ardent endeavour
It turns out apt to compare a favour
It's apt it seems to compare the favour
Afforded by a grim fourteen stone beast
To that of an estuarine Mullet feast

Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Were the words borne from the mouth of my dad
If fate frustrate your ardent endeavour
It turns out to be apt to compare the
Comfort offered by some grim mare or beast
Comfort afforded through some obese beast
Comfort offered by some Medusaesque beast
To that got through estuarine Mullet feast

Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
That's the ticket my lad


That Ire that crawls through your soul like an eel
The remorse in your mind you'd rather not feel
When you have cause to revisit the scene
Of the delight and the senses serene
that you felt when you finally found her
Only to find yourself chewing a Flounder


Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
Smile she'll grab your gonad


When solitude burns and failures accrue
That Girl on the bus or school friend you knew
Then comes the time that you probably should
Ask would it not be likely you could
Dig for the strength to renew your pursuit
When she confesses she might be hirsute


Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
Say it once more I'll go mad


It's odd to admire a girl for her fins
I find I now look for scales on their shins
I should dream of a Marylin Monroe
But no I find that it's Cod and their roe
Amphibians next, newt toad and a frog
Can you drop this Ichthyian analogue?


Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
Mmm, wouldn't say no to a Shad.

Interesting find for Captain Scarlet fans

I had thought of knocking up a couple of 3d models from the Gerry Anderson puppet series. A quick inspection through the search pages thrown out by search engines threw up some quite interesting material. One was an illustrator's blog that I've since subscribed to and another is this rather good looking paper model of an Angel Interceptor that I though might be of interest.



If you're interested in having a go at this model it's available free for download on the creators web site, here. Thanks to Garry Pilsworth for granting permission to feature his excellent model here.

To kill a pig

Oh dear this is unfortunate, challenged to write a verse around a title, I came out with this. It's unfortunate because I'm late for supper and I've only got bacon in the fridge.


To kill a pig, practice is to let blood
Or smite head with hammer, take careful aim
With a single blow it should pith the brain
Be swift and they wont even hear that thud
Mmm that succulent tender flesh so beloved
By epicure who might move to disdain
Some lesser creature you killed in vain
Though not a cow relieved from chewing cud
In scalding brine steeped to depiliate
And filed in row upon a sharp hook hung
Run through their heels as they desanguinate
While restless iron blades eviscerate
Clear trunks of offal, heads of lolling tongue
It's meat the public does appreciate