The Very Best Of The Light Programme

The Albion Radiophonic Corporation is, reasonably, proud to present the Best of The Light Programme 1898. When we say "Best of" we mean "most tolerated" and by "most tolerated" we mean "received the least complaints".   If you've not listened yet to any episodes of the ARC Light Programme then this is a great place to start, or at the very least it's "a" place to start.  You could, naturally enough, start with the first episode and work your way up, but hey, we're not ones for expecting anyone to act in a conventional way.  Heaven forbid.

Now this particular compilation from the first season contains a letter from Mrs. Twomble, folk songs collated by Dame Dilemna-Spaniels, Lady Boudicca & Lord Hercules of Cheam doing something or other and Mayor Flange of Treacle Dripping.  Quite how we managed to attract such and eclectic bunch of contributors is anyone's guess. 

All the music has been specially composed by Charlotte Savigar and the New Albion Synthetic Orchestra.  Apparently the style is what one might refer to as "steampunk" whatever that is.

To contact the team who put the show together send a SAE to letters@talesofnewalbion.com

Otherwise click here for The Very Best Of Tales Of New Albion

Tales Of New Albion - 2nd Edition

Many moons ago I woke up with a fully formed Steampunk story in my head.  It seemed a good idea to write it down and after my good friend Ben Henderson booked me to read it out at one of his Convivial events I did so.  Well one thing led to another and before I knew it I'd finished a collection of 10 Steampunk short stories and published my first book on Amazon.  This featured artwork by Frog Morris which was splendid, but in other ways it wasn't quite right.  For a start there were no page numbers, no index and no foreword.  Also, there was more than the odd typo that really needed correcting.  Well due to another of my Tales Of New Albion side-projects I re-read all 10 stories for my podcast, which helped me correct most of the problems.  I also was greatly assisted by John "Jags" Smith who also read through the entire manuscript and added comments.

So the stories were there now, but I still wanted more.  I got Frog to tweak his artwork and create a new chapter divider.  I also got the aforementioned Ben Henderson to submit a brand spanking new foreword.  I even managed to figure out how to create page numbers!

And so the 2nd Edition of Tales Of New Albion came into being and you can be a proud owner at any point.  Just follow this link and order your copy now.

Or see you at the Red Cape Publishing Book Fayre (8th June - Brighton Unitarian Church) where you can inspect the product closely and get your copy signed.  Oh and did I mention there is an album of original music by Charlotte Savigar also available?  Well it is.

Tales Of New Albion - Halloween Special

I've always been a big admirer of The Simpsons and had been looking for an excuse to shamelessly steal their format for my Podcast.  The opportunity finally came along in August of last year.  I'd been looking for other writers to contribute items such as the "Thought For The Day" section or other parts of the show, and mentioned this to Peter Gardiner - a prolific writer that I'd worked with in the Brighton Theatre of the Air group.  His style is very Black Mirror / Tales of the Unexpected and he likes to dabble in dark sci-fi and off-beat humour - as can be heard in his own series of podcasts - Whisper Through The Static - for 2Bit Productions.  If you would like to hear my voice on his productions then check out Unmoored and Late To The Party - see if you can spot me. 

Anyway, he seemed a perfect fit for a contribution and I was excited to receive a whole story to feature on the show.  Reading through it soon became clear that it fell more towards the Horror genre than my usual adventure Steampunk style, but that got me thinking.  It was time for a The Simpsons style "Halloween Special"!

These shows are amongst my favourites as then tend to be a collection of short sketches where all the usual rules (such as they are) are thrown out the window.  Absolutely anything is possible as long as it has a scary payoff and this let my mind run free and come up with something a little more frightening than usual.

So have a listen and see what you think.  You don't really need to know anything else about the podcast or Tales Of New Albion as this episode is very much a stand alone episode.  However, you might want to listen to the start of the previous few episodes to see what the "Listeners Telephone In" section is usually all about, or not.

Whatever you do, I hope you enjoy Peter's story, which will also feature in one of his podcasts soon.  And don't go having nightmares...


...although you can if want:

Hear the Tales Of New Albion Halloween Special

Judge Dredd - The Itch

I've always been a big 2000AD fan, in particular Rogue Trooper and Judge Dredd.  The audience at the recent Alan Reed gigs might have seen me sporting a Judge Dredd t-shirt.  In an effort to get back into writing fiction, I recently entered a competition to write a Dark Judges themed short story.  It didn't get anywhere, so here it is for general consumption.  All characters are obviously copyright to 2000AD and their publishers, it's just a bit of a fan story... enjoy.


--------------------------------


It started as an itch.  Right at the back of her skull, but somehow under the skin not on it: inside her head.  Just enough of a nagging doubt, an aching thought.  Just enough to keep her awake the last two nights wondering what it meant.  So she sits with her legs up on an adjacent chair, Lawgiver and helmet on the console beside her.  It’s 0300 – Psi-division control room is deserted apart from this one figure plugged into the PSU feeds flicking through the surveillance cams – an eerie light flickering across her face.  Now green, now orange, now red; casting weird almost ghoul-like shadows over the vacant chairs and blank screens around her.

Anderson was a Psi-judge and to a Psi-judge itches meant something.  Something scratching away at her, awakening, trying to get her attention perhaps?
She continued to flick through the cams, not knowing what she was looking for, not really sure why she was looking.  The pedways and over-passes were mostly quiet, well as quiet as Mega-City One ever was.  A light, dirty rain was splashing off every worn zipstrip, every pockmarked flyover.  The weather kept the perps indoors, the juves in their beds; just the loons out tonight - that kinda night. 
‘You’re here somewhere,’ she mouthed, her finger still tapping the button to switch cameras.  ‘Whatever you are.’  She reached one gloved hand round to gently rub the back of her neck under locks of long blonde hair, still grimy from a day of riding the Boomways.  It was more like a dull ache now; rubbing didn’t seem to be helping, so she gave up and tapped her finger faster.  Blocks flicked by, some she knew and some she didn’t, just hoping that something, anything stood out.  And then it did, by not sticking out at all. 

She sat up in the chair and flicked back two screens to stare at a long shot picking out a low rise conapt – something had caught her minds-eye, but what?  She rubbed her tired eyelids and tried to re-focus on the steadily flickering image of a dark, rounded building, a few lights showing here and there.  But it all seemed too quiet, too unassuming, too untroubled.  Maybe trying just a bit too hard to be uninteresting.  She squinted at the cam label.
‘Ian Kilmister Block, never heard of ya,’ she muttered, flicking the joystick to zoom in just a little closer.  ‘So why are you bugging the hell out of me?’  The itch flared again, a slight stabbing pain that gnawed at at her brain.  She rubbed her head again. ‘Yeah, yeah, I feel you,’ she acknowledged.
She reached out stiffly and pressed a button on the control panel to call a tech, nothing happened.  She glared at it icily.  ‘Drokk it!’ she thumped it hard with the heel of her hand and it gave a plaintive ‘beep’ and glowed to show it was working now. She drummed her fingers on the console, waiting impatiently for the tech to pick up, what was keeping them?
‘Tech div - Conner here - what can I do you for?’ The voice was crackly but not as grumpy as techs usually were.  Must have caught him on a good night.
‘Conner - Anderson.  Be an angel and call up all the perp stats for Kilmister for the last…’ She thought a second for a suitable period, most blocks called in hundreds if not thousands of crimes an hour, best not go crazy. ’…12 hours?’
‘Sure, I’m on it.  Looking for anything in particular?’ The voice sounded positively perky, she glanced at the console again just to make sure she’d actually pinged the right department.
‘Nope, just a hunch.’  She could hear faint tapping through the speaker as the tech did her bidding.  The tapping stopped and she heard a small intake of breath.
‘Crapola - some hunch.  I’ve never seen this before,’ muttered Conner.
‘What you got?’ Anderson leaned forward so as to hear better.
‘Nothing,’ he breathed.  She could hear frantic typing again, checking his figures no doubt.
‘Say again?’
‘Nothing, nada, zip.  Nothing at all for the last 12 hours.’  The itch dug it’s claws in again but she was already moving, holstering her Lawgiver and grabbed her helmet.  ‘Switching to helmet mic, stay with me Conner.’

Out of the Psi-division, past a slightly dopy looking maintenance crew, boots echoing in the empty corridors.  Hit the ziplift: basement, Lawmaster garages.
‘You still with me Conner?’ she adjusted her helmet, not used to the weight – Psi-judges rarely used them.  She felt her stomach lurch as the lift began its descent.
‘Yeah, I’m here.  Running the records back, last reported crime was 2 days ago, it’s normal before that.’
‘By normal, I guess you mean barely better than chaos?’
‘Exactly.  What drew you to this block again?’
She rubbed the back of her neck once again, ‘Oh, just a itch I had to scratch.’  She reached the Lawmaster garage and strode towards her bike.  ‘Matter of interest, what was the last reported crime?’
‘One mo,’ more typing, barely audible.  ‘Ha, some juve’s cat reported missing.’
‘Missing cat?  Legal pet or illegal?’
‘Doesn’t say.’ Doesn’t matter anyway, thought Anderson, just another bad omen to go with the nagging doubts.  She gunned the Lawmaster into life, the howl of it’s engine filling the spacious garage, kicked it off it’s stand and rode up the ramp out into the grimy, wet Mega-City night.

We are not yet ready!

It was a moonless night, but it made not the slightest jot of difference in the Mega-City, it still glowed gaudily with neon and laser light.  Bars, eateries and pleasure domes stayed open all night plying the citizens with anything they craved.  And they craved just about everything going.  Even on this foul, drizzly night the city still buzzed and throbbed.  Anderson ignored it all, powering her Lawmaster down Judge’s Lanes, pedways, fly-overs.   No one much out tonight though; the rain was at best filthy, at worse highly radioactive.  It tended to put one off a midnight perambulation.  She strained her eyes through the rain and the spray, keeping half an eye on the nav-comp.  Kilmister block was not as far away as she had thought; she was somehow expecting it to be tucked away in some (relatively) quiet backwater sector, whereas in fact it lay almost directly in the centre of the city. 
As the city’s garish attractions flashed past her in a hazy cloud of spray, the itch began to change.  The throb grew tendrils and began to spread across the back of her skull; she had a full-blown headache coming on. 
 ‘Just what I need,’ she cursed to herself, ‘can this night get any more wretched?’  The nav-comp flashed her to pull off the Boomway, she leant the motorbike over and eased onto the offramp, and lo, her night got worse.  This Skedway had all its lights out; traffic seemed to be giving it a miss too.  She considered calling city-maintenance and giving them a piece of her mind, but they were probably all tucked up in their sweet little bunks.  She flicked her headlights onto full and ploughed on. 
Suddenly a dark figure lurched out of the gloom towards her.  Spitting oaths she felt herself start to lose the back wheel of the Lawmaster, scumy, oil saturated spray cascading in plumes all around her. She gunned the engine and the wheel squealed in protest on the nu-asphalt surface but somehow just managing to find some grip.  The bike levelled and she brought it to a juddering halt, killed the engine and dismounted into a firing crouch - Lawgiver already in her hand.   She glared back through the sleet to see her would be assailant.  But all she saw was a prone figure writhing in the puddles, a bottle of something, no doubt highly dodgy, in a faker-paper bag.  It was wailing something barely understandable, ‘They’re back, they’re back.’  Just some drunk stumbling around in the gloom, probably a futsie who just can’t bear it all sober any more.
‘Drokking frightened the life out of me,’ she growled to herself.  The relentless rain and now hammering headache were beginning to really get on her pectorals.  ‘I’ve really not got the mind space for this right now.’  She re-holstered her pistol and slung a drenched leg back over the bike seat.  She hit the start button and the engine fired and then spluttered rudely into silence.
‘What now, for grud’s sake!’ she tried to fire it up again, but this time nothing.  Warning lights lit up all over the rain-splattered dash.   ‘Exactly what I needed,’ she muttered with exasperation as she dismounted, turning back to the drunk who was by now delicately trying to regain his feet.
‘This is all your fault,’ she spat at him, as he continued his unsteady progress back to his feet. 
‘They’re back,’ he gurgled without making a lot of sense.
‘Scarper creep!’ she retorted and then turned and began to stomp along the Skedway towards the block, now just about visible in the gloom a couple of klicks away.  ‘Guess I’m walking then.  Control can you hear me?’ nothing but static from her helmet.  ‘Control?!’  Again nothing.  ‘Oh just perfect, a little bit of rain and everything goes to pieces, you wouldn’t think this was the 22nd Century’.  She realised that complaining was not really going to get her anywhere in hurry so she wiped her visor and began the soggy trek to Kilmister block.

Not yet! Not yet! We need more time!

Anderson walked on towards the brooding block, her boots splashing through the streams of water cascading off the pedway.  Not far out she stopped, realising the block looked exactly as it had in the PSU feed.  Precisely the same lights still on, but not a soul visible anywhere.  Deserted, yet trying to look like it was occupied, trying to draw no attention to itself.  She glanced up the nearest (non-functioning) lighting pole half expecting to see the PSU’s cam right above her the view was so familiar.  There was no cam, but there was something tied to the pole flapping in the hammering rain.  Out of curiosity she reached up a hand and turned it to get a better look.   It seemed to be a little figure of a man made of plastic sticks and tie-wraps, hanging like some sort of amulet on the post.
‘What evil spirits are you here to ward off exactly?’ she mused and even as she did a shiver went down her spine.  Just the cold, she thought, nothing more.  Time to get out of the rain.  She released the figure and strode on.

Finally Ian Kilmister block loomed up in front of her, nearly half a klick high and glistening in the wet.  She drew her Lawgiver again and did a quick 360 as she walked out onto the broadway that surrounded the tower, straining her eyes to see out into the gloom.  With a sickening sense of realisation it struck her then, that there was no light for two klicks in all directions around her.  Beyond that the city glowed malevolently, utterly oblivious to this brooding black hole in its very heart.  She felt very alone, just her and whoever was in the sinister edifice before her.  Moving more swiftly now, holding her pistol in the ready position, she approached the main glass doors to the lobby.  They slid open obligingly and she stepped into a large lobby and finally out of the rain.
‘Control, you back with me yet?’ she enquired of her helmet mic, more in hope than expectation and sure enough no answer came.  ‘Suit yourself.’  She slid the helmet off and propped it on the concierge desk, still lit up with glowing comp-screens.  She shook her head, partly to shake the rain out of her unruly cascade of blonde hair and partly to try to shake out the fog in her mind.  But the headache had her in its clutches, grinding now like a migraine on mega-steroids.
‘What are you hiding?’ she called out, moving forward cautiously across the cheap nu-nylon carpeted floor towards the bank of elevators.  The question had been intended for the building, but uttering it she suddenly felt as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes.  The itch, the throb, the drokking mother of all headaches, it wasn’t trying to tell her something; it was trying to hide something.  Someone, or something was in her mind, blocking her memories, preventing her from realising what was right in front of her.
‘So I know you!’ she muttered semi-triumphantly, as a lift door slid open in front of her.  ‘Well I’m coming ready or not.’ She stepped into the lift and hit the only floor number that made any sense – thirteen.

Not ready!  But come anyway Anderssson.

The lift slid smoothly to a halt and Anderson stepped out onto more tacky plastic carpet on the long 13th floor of Kilmister block. The corridors were lit in eerie low light ahead and to both left and right, but starkly empty.  Nothing moved, her footsteps echoed damply on the floor - she was still dripping wet. 
‘Where are you then?’ she stepped forward, wondering which way to go next.  A movement dead ahead, she crouched and aimed, her finger trembling on the Lawgiver trigger.  A few metres away from her, walking as calmly as you like across the floor was a black cat.  She froze as the cat stopped midway and turned its head towards her.  Its eyes were dark and hollow: there were no eyeballs in the sockets.  It hissed at her viciously and as it did a foul stench of decay filled her nostrils and with alarm she realised that the headache had now shifted to a numbing pain down her back and into her arms, she was barely able to move.
A door creaked open next to the cat with an ominous grinding noise and the animal turned and darted into the apartment, in its place a long dark shadow stretched across the corridor as a figure moved towards the door.
‘Andersssson!’  The stench of rotting flesh was overpowering now, she couldn’t understand why she’d not noticed before.  But the headache was gone and her mind began to clear even as her body refused to move.  The wraith moved out of the door into the corridor, the black helmet with it’s dull metal grille, the sickly, bloody teeth, the decaying flesh: putrid and vile.
‘Have you missssed me, Anderssson?’ it hissed and the sound of its voice rattled down her spine.  Behind in the doorway she could make out more shapes following.
‘Judge Death!’ she had to force the words out, as she was unable to move without considerable effort.  Behind her the lift began to work again, more ghouls coming no doubt – surrounded.
‘You came too sssoon, our plansss are not yet ready!’ Howled the apparition gliding towards her as behind it a couple of decaying bodies stumbled blindly into the corridor.
‘My brothersss and sssissters have not yet been able to join me,’ his voice hammered inside her head like shrapnel grenade exploding.  ‘No matter, Anderssson, your body will be a ssuitable receptacle for one of them.’  He floated closer his hideous, clawed hand reaching out towards her heart. 
‘Drokk it all, I knew I should have just stayed in bed and taken a synthi-aspirin,’ she spat, mostly to herself.  She braced her inert body as best she could, all the awful memories of her first possession by the foul beast flooding back.
Without warning the doors of the lift slid open behind her and a hail of white-hot incendiary bullets flashed past her head and tore through the decaying body of the dark judge.  Flames ignited in its clothing and sparks showered in all directions as shells hit the corridor walls and detonated.  Without ceremony a rough hand grabbed her collar and hauled her backwards into the elevator capsule, dumping her on the floor.  Gazing up she found herself looking at a Lawgiver rapid-firing into the corridor, flame spitting from it’s muzzle, hot metal shell cases clattering down onto her and the floor.  She followed the firing arm back as another ungodly howl came from were the bullets were aimed: the crumpled blue uniform, the dented judge badge, the grizzled face and, well, that chin.
‘Judge Dredd,’ she burbled, finding that movement was slowly coming back to her body.  He ignored her and fired another burst whilst the elevator doors slid shut barely preventing a great fireball engulfing them.  At this moment the lift pinged and started moving downwards in an almost comical fashion given the bloody mayhem they had just witness.  ‘What brings you out this way?’
Judge Dredd shrugged, his Lawgiver still held ready, smoke wisping out from the barrel.
‘Just a hunch, y’know.  An itch I had to scratch,’ he growled checking her over quickly for injuries.  ‘How’s your night going?’  With that the whole lift shook violently and a great scream reverberated menacingly all around them;
‘ANDERSSSSON!!’
The lift light shattered and darkness engulfed them, but just as it did the doors hissed open and Dredd hauled her out into the light of lobby and onto her feet, dragging her towards his Lawmaster still revving in the middle of the lobby where he had abandoned it.
‘Oh, I’ve had better.’ 
They mounted Dredd’s Lawmaster and with a great arc of burnt rubber and smoke he swung it around and gunned it full-throttle at the plate glass doors, smashing straight through them and skidding barely in control into the teeming, ice-cold mega-city rain.
‘Control we have a major on-going incident, Ian Kilmister Block, all available units attend!’
‘What is the nature of the incident Dredd?’ replied the nonplussed controller as Dredd accelerated up onto the saturated Pedway through sheets of filthy standing water.
‘They’re back Control,’ he hissed.  ‘They’re back.’

Doctor What?

I realise I may be straying into controversial territory here, but I’ve been wondering recently about how much writer’s should be influenced by the consumers of their stories.  Let’s call them fans.  The reason for this musing has been the recent changes to characters in popular culture, for example Dr Who changing sex, Hermione Granger changing skin colour and, perhaps closer to my own heart, a myriad of revisions to the Star Wars universe caused by removing the creator from the creative process.  Not to mention various reboots, restylings and general appropriation of other loved stories and characters (I could mention Battlestar Galactica, Sherlock Holmes, Poirot but the list is considerable).

There have been howls of protest about all these things, but as both a fan and an author I can see it from both sides.  Certainly complaints that switching a alien character with two hearts that can regenerate at will from male to female is emasculating seems very wide of the mark.  After all there have been twelve white male doctors and one white female doctor so far, so even some sort of basic equality seems a lifetime away.  Other arguments that this is not really part of what is possible in this (entirely fictional) universe also don't work for me.  After all in the case of Dr Who there is certainly a precedent in the changing of the Master to Missy in 2014 (and presumably lots of other years throughout the whole of history), which I don't remember sparking so much rage, although I'm not really a huge Dr Who fan so perhaps I missed it.

The Hermione Granger (non) issue is even less of a worry to me, after all, as J K Rowling correctly pointed out, she never specified skin colour in the books and people do tend to project their own ideas on to things.  I often wonder whether people imagine all the characters in my own stories to be white, when I also don't specify this.  If I was ever lucky enough to have my books converted into some visual medium, I would be happy for actors of any origin to play any of the roles.  It matters not to me, but rather I would be more interested in the characteristics of how they were played rather than simply how they look.

And I suppose this is the answer to my musing, which is how good is the creative product, rather then the choices about ethnicity, height, weight, facial hair, gender etc... So is the new Dr Who any good?  There are arguments either way on this, but I have to admit I've watched every episode and, although perhaps I don't think it's hit the heights of some previous iterations (I actually really liked Paul McGann's interpretation, anything with K-9 and the original Dalek films) but I think I enjoyed them.  So even though the jury is still out it's a tentative thumbs up from me.  But then maybe I'm weird, I also liked John Malkovich's take on Poirot and the Battlestar Galactica re-boot.

Bottom line for me is that really it's the creator, writer or author's prerogative to do what they like with their characters and stories.  As much as fans may feel they know the fictional world that's been created, they all have their own ideas (and therefor prejudices). Everyone's synapses fire in different ways and only the writer's synapses can be right.  For better or worse.

In the meantime I would suggest that we all remember fiction is made-up, and just try and enjoy the ride.  If something isn't for you, then there is plenty of other stuff out there to enjoy.  Or you could write you own.  Did I mention that I have some stories you could try?  Go on, have a listen, and tell me how I should have done it.

Conversation With An Imp

It was dusk as I wandered drowsily and stiff with the fatigues of the day out into my garden, a bag of mealworms clutched in my hand to feed my local hedgehogs. There was a simple science to doing this. Your common or garden Hedgehog’s diet overlaps with both birds and cats, so choosing something that cats are not too fond of is ideal. Mealworms fit this bill perfectly, however the local birds will happy eat those, so you have to wait to put them out until it is late enough to prevent the birds swooping and nabbing the lot. Hedgehogs are nocturnal, so you never see them in daylight unless they are unwell. Right now the warm evening light was a hazy shade of light orange, evocative and dreamlike.

With a small start I realised that standing at the bottom of my lawn in the little hollow near the bush where the fox liked to snooze was a curious looking child, or perhaps a midget as its face was noticeably older looking that its size would imply. Not dissimilar to how the infant Jesus is often portrayed with oddly mature features. It was about four feet tall and dressed plainly in white or very pale blue, its curiously androgynous features were friendly and it had a pleasant, calming smile as though it was delighted to see me. Nevertheless it chilled me rigid and a shiver pierced me through. It raised a hand slightly in a manner perhaps intended to relax me.
‘Please do not be afraid, we will not harm you.’ It spoke in a curiously adult voice, neither distinctly male nor female sounding, but sympathetic and mild. Not for the last time I was inclined to believe it. ‘Can I help you?’ I asked, trying to be calm although my throat was very dry and the words did not come without gruffness attached.
‘No,’ replied the imp with the merest of shrugs. ‘Perhaps we help you.’ It was a statement rather than a question. I swallowed and shook my head slightly to see if that helped in any way. The light continued its lazy drift through the oranges towards burnt ochre. I found myself curious that it had said “we”.
‘How many of you are there?’ I rasped dryly, flicking my eyes around nervously to see if there was more of its kind lurking nearby.
‘Difficult to say,’ it replied in a tone that seemed to imply that it would be hard to explain, rather than it being uncertain on the numbers. It was still slightly creepy though; if it had intoned, “We are legion” in the voice of the devil, I would have been no more perturbed.
‘Are you from round here?’ the question sounded daft even as I formed it.
‘Difficult to say,’ it intoned soothingly again, ‘we have been here before.’
Something felt very strange suddenly, perhaps it was the light. It was darker, but still eerily lit in ruddy tones creeping towards crimson. The clothing of the creature, for I dared not consider it human now, seemed more brilliantly white than before. This brought something to mind and without really considering it I blurted,
‘Are you an angel?’ The creature grinned broadly at this as though amused by the thought, however it shook its head subtly in a way that did not imply anything other than a simple denial.
‘No,’ it replied kindly. However it pre-empted further questions with an expanded explanation this time. ‘What we are is difficult to say. We can tell you what you are.’ The weighting on these words gave me the distinct impression that it didn’t mean me personally, but something much wider, more encompassing. I gulped but could not muster any words at this point as I was distinctly freaking right out (without any difficulty). ‘You are Selfish.’ It continued, still with a simple disarming smile and happy tone to its voice as though discussing a much-cherished pet. Fair enough, I thought but again could not muster any words at this point. The benevolent imp continued to smile pleasantly and its eyebrows lifted just a millimetre or two as if wondering if I had further questions. I did not know what to think. Somehow my lips found shapes and air left my heaving lungs.
‘Why are you here?’ I seemed to have asked, although I was not sure if I had actually spoken out loud. I was suddenly aware of my heart hammering somewhere amongst the veins in my neck.
‘To visit you,’ stated the imp, but again it seemed to imply that the visit was not to me personally. ‘To study and see if we can change.’ I gulped hard, not really following what it was saying. ‘Your planet will continue to revolve,’ it added, but my brain was now spinning sufficiently all on its own. A shudder of dizziness washed over me and wondered if I might faint. ‘We have been here before,’ it repeated, ‘we were selfish.’ This last addendum seemed to suggest that the selfish could overcome their inwardly greedy ways. Why was it speaking to me though, on this warm, sleepy evening that now ebbed inexorably into night? ‘To not be selfish, you must do something that does not benefit yourself,’ spoke the smiling face as though it had read my thoughts, could it read my thoughts? Was it even real?
‘How?’ I croaked in my pitchy head voice.
‘You feed the hedgehogs,’ it replied soothingly in a way that was neither fully instruction nor fully statement.
‘Feed the hedgehogs,’ I mouthed parrot fashion. I could not fathom the implications of the sentence. ‘Literally or metaphorically?’ I worded, astonished at my sudden evolution into some sort of philosophy professor.
‘It is difficult to say, but you should know.’ My head felt clamped now, the whole unreality of this discourse was clanging like a bell in my ears. ‘Hedgehogs are not aware that they are endangered.’ There was a rustling sound from the bushes and a snuffling that did not dissipate. I held still, I knew that hedgehogs have poor eyesight, but would depart pronto if they heard me move. ‘Life is fragile,’ said a gentle voice from somewhere.
‘Life is lumpy,’ I replied, there was the slightest of slight chuckles.
‘This will be hard for you to recall, you do not believe’.
‘You mean no one will believe me, or I will not remember?’ I do not know if I thought this or spoke it acoustically, since neither my garden nor my inner monologue has an echo. 

The sky was dark now, the soft amber glow from the garden lights was the only faint illumination. I could hear the hedgehogs snuffling in the shrubbery and found some residual energy to quietly move and place their food on the ground in the usual spots. I felt like something profound had happened, but I could not tell if it had really taken place or I had imagined it. I was not sure what the difference would be. Sometimes I am awoken suddenly at night by the sound of my doorbell, but no one is at the door; it felt like that.
 ‘I wonder if the hedgehogs will survive our selfishness?’ It was night, and I was talking to myself.

Tales Of New Albion - it's here!

So after three and a half years of writing (not constantly mind, just every now and then) about a dozen live readings and two exhausting days of proof-reading (I didn't do a very good job) - my first book is actually available for all to buy and read.  It's a collection of ten Steampunk short stories that may, or may not, be connected in some way - and you can get it as both a Kindle download or a mighty 221 page paperback (with big print and a cover illustration by Frog Morris).  I'll do some "thank you"s below, but without further ado here are the links you need:

Buy Now On Amazon (please, please leave me a review!)

Tales Of New Albion Website (for joining the mailing list to hear about readings and follow-up publications).

It's been quite an emotional journey in some ways and none of this would have happened without the following wonderful people, in no particular order:

Carolyn Whitlock - who shared her writing with me and encouraged me to get back to using my imagination with her own sci-fi stories and ideas.

Ben Henderson - I'd never heard of Steampunk until I met Ben, the next thing I know I'm dreaming a complete Steampunk short story in my sleep (the first one in the book).  Foolishly he agreed to let me read it at one of his splendid Steampunk Convivials and then I realised I actually had better write something!

Frog Morris and his lovely wife Victoria - for being encouraging friends, keeping me creative and (in Frog's case) doing the wonderful cover illustration.  I owe you so much guys!

Catherine Paver - for actually laughing at my wordplay jokes and encouraging me to keep going.

Darren Gooding - for support at all stages (especially when reading to just one person) and planting the seeds of the final chapter in my head when he said that I should include the homeguard in some way.

Emma King - for so much support and love, more laughter and actually helping me realise I could be an author.

Peter / Otis Manousakos - for taking my writing seriously and actually doing some proof-reading for me, plus loud conversations over coffee that I miss.

Lynda Savigar - my dear mum-in-law, who encouraged me at every turn and chased me up for copies of the stories.  The cats are her fault too!

Maura Sutton, Tom Clements, Brian Hurrell, Rev. Fruitbat, Jude Cowan Montague, Tim Barlow, Chris Simonite, Steve Jones and everyone else who requested copies of the story and gave me encouragement along the way.  Sorry if I've forgotten anyone... do remind me!!

To the Puffin Club for commending one of my stories many years ago. I re-wrote it (for the third time) as episode II of this collection.

Penultimately to all the lovely Steampunk folk who listened, commented, laughed, applauded and maybe even shed a tear during my readings.  You are all lovely.

Finally to my partner, inspiration and muse - Charlie Savigar - without who's relentless encouragement and chiding to write I might well have given up.  I owe you a lot, thank you for being there.

Tales Of New Albion: High Cliffs Tea Rooms

Steampunk Dog enjoying tea

Here is a sneak preview of the third story in my New Albion series.  This time we find out a bit about the back history of Ellen Hall, whilst also getting to explore a bit of the mad, sprawling restaurant complex that is the High Cliffs Tea Rooms.  Enjoy, and if you would like to read the rest then drop me a line.

 ‘Oh flipper-de-jig I am completely lost,’ exspluttered Reggie Peabody to no one in particular since, indeed, no one was paying him the slightest attention.  Somewhere between the overpriced air taxi and the over heated Mongolian Barbeque he had taken a seriously wrong fork in the corridor and was now unlikely to make his dinner reservation. ‘Oh flipper-de-jig,’ he muttered again, turning about face and wondering if retracing his steps to the Polish delicatessen might help in any way.  Mind you the somewhat partially well named High Cliffs Tea Room was, quite frankly, a very easy place to get lost in.  Set over some 20 or so stories on the outside, and much more besides on the inside, of an imposing white cliff at the very end of the homeland it was very much the place to dine. Assuming naturally you had the money, desire and sense of direction required to reach the restaurant of your choice.  ‘This really is too much,’ he sighed, regretting now his decision not to ask for directions at Bellisima Italiana when a kindly maître d’ had offered to assist. ‘They really should have guides or something in this place…’ Barely had these words escaped his lips when a head popped out of a previously hidden serving hatch and asked,

‘Are you in need of assistance sir?’ The voice, and head, belonged to what gave every appearance of being a teenaged girl wearing a rather natty fur trimmed porter’s jacket and matching pillbox hat.  Before Reggie could so much as gather his thoughts the face continued, ‘I am at your service.’  The hatch in question turned out to be merely the top half of a cunningly concealed door, wallpapered in the same peculiar flock design as the rest of the corridor, which now swung fully open to reveal the young lady in her entirety.  The girl sported cropped boyish blonde hair beneath the hat, which rounded off not at all unpleasant, if a little over eager, features including a particularly fine chin.  Smart, but obviously homemade, black trousers and highly polished but clearly second hand shoes, completed the look. ‘Ellen’s the name, Ellen Hall. Are you lost?’ She pointed an accusatory finger, ‘I can certainly help you, oh please do let me…’ This last plaintive exclamation caused Reggie to furrow one eyebrow,

‘Now see here, are you an official guide?’ The girl squirmed slightly and shifted on her heels.

‘Well not official as such, but I know this place better than anyone. Oh do let me help, I’ve even memorised the guidebook.’   She smiled as convincingly as anyone had ever smiled and Reggie felt himself soften to her a little.  To buy a little time before replying he reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his brass pocket watch. Nonchalantly flicking open the cover he glanced askance at the time, the revelation of which caused him to jerk alarmingly upright and turn slightly pale.

‘Do you know Pierre’s?’ he gulped through gritted teeth, barely able to get the words out.

‘Brasserie or bistro,’ chirped Ellen, determined to be of maximum usefulness.

‘Brasserie,’ swallowed Reggie feeling suddenly rather faint.

“Yep, certainly do,’ grinned Ellen, ‘you’re about 10 floors away and on completely the wrong side, but I certainly know it, yes siree, that’s not a problem.  Tell me though, when exactly is your reservation?’

‘Oh dear god,’ inhaled Reggie, ‘ barely twenty minutes’.

With this Ellen’s face lost a little of it’s rosy ebullience also, but without a moment’s hesitation she reached back through the door, grabbed a ragged over-stuffed leather bag, flung it over her shoulder, took his hand and headed off down the corridor with a somewhat bemused Reggie in tow.

‘We’ll talk on the move.’

Tales Of New Albion: Tobias Fitch

The second of the New Albion short stories, concerns the introduction (and perhaps curtain call) of the enigmatic Tobias Fitch.  Mercenary and trouble-shooter, perhaps he has finally met his match in this spooky and haunting tale.  Take a read of the first couple of paragraphs and then take a look here to see how you get get hold of a copy of this story and the others in the series.

The imposing bulk of Tobias Fitch filled the doorway of the very last coach of the TTCE as it puffed, wheezed and clanked to a halt at Fin Du Monde station.  He hesitated for just a heartbeat or two scanning the near deserted platform, allowing his senses to read any signs of danger before his body was even fully awake.  It had been a long and restless journey, but at least it hadn’t been the route that had caused him a sleepless night.  The TTCE (Tri Transcontinental Express) was a brutally simple idea; three parallel tracks with three state-of-the-art rocket assisted Sky Legend class locomotives harnessed together like a modernist’s team of horses.  Between them they pull a single line of armoured sleeper cars, the power to weight ratio ensuring fast acceleration and constant, seemingly effortless power.  The only drawback being that bends are not exactly on the cards for this particular three-headed iron dragon.  So the TTCE line (the only one there is) ploughs a relentlessly straight triple furrow from one side of the continent to the other, equally disdainful of border, personal property or natural obstacle.  Pretty much how Fitch himself liked to operate.  His only regret on this cold, grey, blustery morning was that the tri-tracked train couldn’t deliver him and his precious cargo squarely into the bustling heart of the old metropolis.

Gratified that platform 13 seemed to hold no immediate threats to his aching body, Fitch wrapped his floor length leather coat around him, and put a booted foot firmly onto the narrow brick strip.  In his left hand he held a somewhat battered, but extremely robust looking attaché case, his grip was firm and he held it close whilst still viewing the vicinity with caution.  The tight hold however, was somewhat superfluous as the case in question was in fact fastened to his wrist by means of a heavy chain and brass handcuff.  So precious, so vital to national security were its contents that he could not allow himself to be separated from it under any circumstances: casual, accidental or violent.  His right hand hovered constantly in the opening of his coat near his hips, where a brace of custom-made, silver-plated pistols hung in quick draw holsters.  The seven-chambered weapons had extricated him from trouble on numerous occasions when opponents had reckoned on only 6 bullets per loading.  The thick leather of his coat hid other secrets too, additional weapons; including assorted throwing knives, grenades, poisons and a smaller automatic pistol; and steel plating over vital organs and arteries.  All of this now conspired with his aching, sleep-deprived limbs, to make the walk from the back of the train to the front of the monster all the more laboured.  Nevertheless Fitch did not regret the slow progress; it gave him time to go meticulously over the final details of his four-day long journey.  Fitch had been tasked, at barely an hours notice, to retrieve the case from a numbered locker at a far flung empire postal depot, secure it to his person, and then make his way by airship, steam-powered paddle steamer and stage coach to the furthest terminus of the TCCE.  He had then carefully selected the very last sleeper cabin in the train for its two-day cross-continental rush.  The final leg of this clandestine adventure was to cross the channel and deliver his cargo to another anonymous safe locker at the King’s Station, where, he was assured, his six figure pay-off awaited him in return.  There were only three methods by which this crossing could be effected from here, a slow and cheap steamer, a more expensive but a little quicker, airship service or, and the selection of this means hinted again at the importance of his mission, an extremely expensive, but very fast, personal ornithopter flight.  According to terse instructions, the crossing was booked and the pilot was waiting at a nearby Aerodrome, Fitch need make no other arrangements bar finding a hansom cab to transport him there.

Home By The Sea (2016 Update)

For those that have been following for a while and also those that are new to the Blog, now that I'm intending to post more regularly, I thought a quick update was in order.

These days I live in a rather lovely spot sandwiched between the English Channel and the South Downs in Hove, not far from Portslade station.  It's a place with great views, lovely walks and lots of inspiration to photograph and write.  I'm still doing music in the duo - Dare To Be Charlie, and occasionally more arty stuff with Daniel Lehan, Paul Wady or Frog Morris.  I'm also writing and performing short stories, usually Steampunk stories set in an alternative version of Britain I call New Albion, but occasional other Sci-Fi stuff too.

If you are interested then please add this Blog to your reading list and check out the various posts.  You can see some of my photography on Instagram and follow me on Twitter or, indeed, Snapchat (@vulcan2015) if such things float your boat.

Otherwise, do leave me a comment or two as we go and let me know anything I should be checking out.

Tales of New Albion

Steampunk Reading - photo: Jeanette Macklin

Greetings! It's been a little while since I last posted a Blog, but rest-assured I've been busy in the meantime.  I've been working away on writing, and performing, a series of Steampunk short stories - entitled Tales of New Albion - which I'm looking to eventually turn into an illustrated book.

Topics covered in the stories so far include, time travel, a giant restaurant complex and strange and mysterious goings on.  All with a little bit of humour thrown in.  I've really enjoyed reading them at various Steampunk events and I'm always looking for more chances to share them, so if you are running a Steampunk themed soiree and would like me to come and read, them please do get in touch.

You can now own a signed copy of my stories for a mere £1 per story (including postage and packing) - there are five titles so far and more coming.  As a bonus each copy of a story bought will count towards a 5% discount off the printed book once it arrives.  In other words if you buy 20 copies of stories you will get the book for free!  A great offer I'm sure you will agree.  I'm hoping that the illustrations for the book will be provided by the wonderful Frog Morris, so it should be most splendid.  You can pay for these stories by either cheque or PayPal - please drop me a line or leave a comment below for more details.

Here are a few comments about the stories that I've received so far:

"I enjoyed all of them immensely and would willingly read more of your writings if you have any?! 

They are all great fun and I found myself speed-reading them as I wanted to find out what was going to happen!" - Brian Hurrell

"It was a great story. Made even better by your superb delivery. I thoroughly enjoyed it." - Steampunkdj.co.uk

So that's the basic information, stand by for more news of readings and also details of some of the stories to whet your appetite - you may already have seem the first one - Futureshock!

Next reading: Steampunk Convivial 30th / 31st July (but more dates to follow)

Photograph by Jeanette Macklin

Surrey Steampunk Convivial IV

So what exactly is Steampunk? Well that’s kind of hard to say, but believe me you’ll know it when you see it. From my limited exposure to it I would describe it as a revisionist alternative future dreamed up from the mind of HG Wells and other authors of the period. Imagine the future as the Victorian eccentrics would have envisioned it. Madcap inventors, fearless explorers, quintessentially English nutters and so forth. In practice it’s a great excuse to dress up, not that we seem to need one. Costumes are lovingly crafted from a combination of theatre costumes, dressing up boxes and antique shops. Top hats must have elegantly worked bronze goggles; cuff-links and watches must be elaborate and needlessly complex. Skirts could be voluminous or airforce sharp depending on your preference, ray guns sit alongside blunderbusses to repel imminent alien invasion. The transport of choice is the propeller-powered airship, or the flying steam train. Are you getting the picture yet?

With all this in mind it was particularly surprising to me to wake up one morning with a fully formed Steampunk short story bubbling up in my mind like some mad professor's laboratory experiment. But what to do with such a volatile thing? Well there seemed to be no other possible course available to me other than to write the darn thing down and then find a suitable Steampunk convention at which to unleash it on a unsuspecting public. But where would one find such a thing?

Step forward the Surrey Steampunk Convivial, brain child of one Ben Henderson (who directed, shot and edited Charlie’s Superbad video and who is pictured centre above) amongst others and now a regular date on the Steampunk calendar. Said event it now bi-annual or is that twice a year? Well whichever is more often, which is the latter, I think. So, missive in hand fresh off the coal-powered steam typewriter, I duly presented myself at the first Convivial of 2015 (on 22nd February) somewhat nervous as to how I might be received. I shouldn’t have worried after all, it wasn’t called a Convivial for nothing, oh deary me no! Barely had I set foot over the threshold when I was engaged in a friendly game of Jenga with complete strangers, complete with an fascinating discussion of the merits of three legged tables of the kind with an additional appendage. This was fairly typical of a wonderful and most excellent day that included some rather marvellous models in the Steampunk museum (pictures above and below), pop-up shops of wonder and bric-a-brac to peruse. Costumes of eccentric invention caught the eye at every turn. I was glad that my story reading was pretty much the first thing on the agenda, allowing me a chance to relax following my performance and enjoy the many splendid wonders on offer. Chief amongst my favourite events of the day were a performance from the ever splendid Dead Victorians (bit of a throwback here, but Paul Tkachenko aka The Maestro from the DVs played bass on my original recording of Lightkeeper), who entertained with some of the rudest and non-PC music hall numbers you could care to hear.

I also particularly enjoyed what is possibly the zenith of eccentricity – Tea Duelling! This turns out to be an archaic ritual basically consisting of dunking biscuits into cups of Earl Grey and attempting to out-wit your opponent by holding your nerve (and your biscuit) and consuming it whole before it crumbles. Yes it is as mad as it sounds. The prize for this worthy pursuit was the Nonsuch ashes (a burnt teabag) – but it was contested all the vigour and rivalry of chess grandmasters going head-to-head. In the end a Baron Munchausen look-a-like won the day, which seemed entirely fitting.

Following this there were other entertaining turns of opera singers, story-tellers and more musicians, and in the end I was sad to depart into the cold Surrey evening. Hopefully this humble description has whetted your appetite for what is fast becoming a national pastime. Perhaps you’d care to attend the next instalment; which is on 22nd and 23rd August. perhaps you’d also like to read my story. Well check out the first chapter here (drop me a line to get a copy of the whole thing) and let me know what you thought of the whole whizzo prang.

TTFN old thing.

Tales of New Albion: Future Shock

[This is the first chapter of a new Steampunk Sci-Fi short story that I will be reading in full at the Surrey Steampunk Convivial IV - at The Royal Oak, New Malden on Sunday 22nd February, 11:30am.]

Little could they have known, as our protagonists were collected two by two in Sir Grenville Lushthorpe’s belching steam coach, the sheer scale of the imminent disaster they were about to inflict upon an unsuspecting metropolis that very night.
First to be embarked were Philby the callow, cheap-suited journalist and Ellen Hall the fearless explorer ravishing in black leather jacket and khaki jodhpurs.
‘Some wheeze eh?’ she remarked leaping aboard, Philby did not reply, brushing his hair sheepishly from his eyes as he clambered after her notebook and pencil clamped in sweaty hands. The charabanc lurched on with an unseemly belch of acrid grey smoke; the city’s streets dimly lit by flickering ochre gas lamps, and an early evening mist settling in every gutter and back alley.
Onwards, onwards to Bankside, where the river was at full swell, foaming angrily at the sides of the embankment. Here they halted again to collect First Lord of the Admiralty Cuthbert and his good lady wife Eliza, in high spirits following a belly-filling luncheon at the Conway Club.
‘Well, well, well,’ he muttered, doffing his hat to Ellen as he squeezed his well-proportioned frame through the ornate door of the iron coach. He nodded, without really looking, at Philby and sat himself in the front most seat. ‘A right escapade and no mistake.’ Eliza was barely seated before the coach jerked on its way to collect the final witnesses of that fateful, fearful night.
Eyebrows were raised (not for the last time) across the motley crew as the last rendezvous turned out to be the ‘Minster itself, as the PM, no less, accompanied only by his Special Branch man (scandalously the scrupulously god-fearing politician had no wife) stood impatiently under the nominated lamppost.
‘What devilry do you think Lushthorpe has in store for us tonight, eh?’ ventured the PM (somewhat nervously) to no one in particular as each acknowledged the other and the final leg of their night’s adventure, some would say misadventure, began. By this time the mists were gathering into fog, but the coach had a good many modern arc lights and the pilot knew his business. Thankfully for the backsides of all in the jalopy the clanking, steaming drive to Sir Lushthorpe’s east end laboratory was made in good time and Cuthbert snored only the once.

Copyright Daren Callow 2015