{"id":5749,"date":"2019-05-09T11:05:45","date_gmt":"2019-05-09T11:05:45","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/?p=5749"},"modified":"2019-05-09T11:05:45","modified_gmt":"2019-05-09T11:05:45","slug":"alas-alack-alarums-and-all-new-stories","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/alas-alack-alarums-and-all-new-stories\/","title":{"rendered":"Alas, Alack, Alarums And All New Stories"},"content":{"rendered":"

Today, quick extracts from a raft of new greydog<\/em> stories coming out this year -this site has been far too quiet recently. We blame Mr John Linwood Grant, who has been neglecting his duties in favour of writing and editing stuff. Pure selfishness. Where are the tales of lurchers leaping and other riters riting? Or even artists arting?<\/p>\n

We\u2019d better provide a catch-up. In our last episode, Nurse Imelda had discovered that Brett\u2019s half-brother, Dirk, had cut through the brake cables of all three orthopaedic surgeons, and made it look like the work of Imelda\u2019s twin sister Maureen, whose affair with the hospital administrator Susan had caused so many arguments among the junior X-Ray staff\u2026<\/p>\n

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No, all right. It\u2019s just been work. Endless deleting of apostrophes in other people\u2019s stories, and adding them to greydog<\/em>\u2019s own. Boring, you say – how are the little donkeys? Well, Django<\/strong> and Chilli<\/strong> are happy but older. This means that Django is slightly stiff after he\u2019s been laid in the same odd position for ages, and Chilli can\u2019t be arsed to go out if she doesn\u2019t like the look of the weather. Walks are regular, but a touch slower (which suits ancient greydog<\/em>, if not Herself, the much fitter Editor-in-Chief).<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
ghost dog reads ghost stuff<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

When not lurching, there has been writing. Lots of writing. The much expanded edition of JLG\u2019s collection A Persistence of Geraniums<\/em>, is now available in print (an e-format is under construction). This includes additional stories, a brand new cover created by the award-winning artist Alan M Clark<\/strong> and an additional interior illustration by Yves Tourigny<\/strong>, as well as Paul Boswell<\/strong>\u2019s original interiors. Tales of murder, madness and the supernatural \u2013 and sometimes all three.<\/p>\n

\u201cGrant brings to mind P.G.Wodehouse gone hopelessly mad and hiding in a cupboard with a long sharp knife. Oh, and by the by, have you met Edwin Dry? No? Then you\u2019ve not yet encountered one of the most ghastly characters in modern strange fiction.\u201d<\/em> Matthew M Bartlett<\/strong>, author of Creeping Waves<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cA series of supernatural tales distinguished both by their elegance and by their wit.\u201d<\/em> John Langan<\/strong>, author of The Fisherman<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat stands out throughout is John Linwood Grant’s skill of description and humour. With a minimum of words he makes these characters alive. A passing mention of one item of clothing or a small but telling personality trait and somehow their essence is captured. Tales with dark edges and at times a dark humour to match.\u201d<\/em> Jackie Taylor<\/strong>, Folk Horror Revival<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\ngeraniums on amazon uk<\/a><\/p>\n

geraniums on amazon us<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nThe Chromatic Cour<\/em>t anthology is also out now, edited by Pete Rawlik<\/strong> and including my novelette \u2018Songs of the Burning Men\u2019, a dark story of ochre fire and the Flanders trenches of the Great War.<\/p>\n

the chromatic court on amazon<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

THINGS TO COME<\/h1>\n

So, here\u2019s a taste of eight John Linwood Grant short stories and novelettes which should be coming soonish \u2013 details will follow, whether wanted or not. Hopefully the next greydogtales<\/em> post will be about someone else…<\/p>\n

\n

THE YUGGOTH CLUB<\/h3>\n

No one talked about the Yuggoth Club. The club was tolerated as it didn\u2019t get in anyone\u2019s way or annoy the care home manager. Or cost anything. The Seaview Rest Home had a list of approved hobbies, which included crochet, knitting, and gin rummy. A book club wasn\u2019t on the list.
\nIt didn\u2019t help that the group read little but works by H P Lovecraft, a name which the manager of the home regularly confused with pornographic movies from the seventies. \u201cAt their age,\u201d she would mutter, before returning to her office to see which residents had the most ambiguous wills.
\nThere were only three permanent members, and even they used the word \u2018permanent\u2019 with caution these days. There had been four of them up until a month ago, when Janet Fowles choked on a chicken nugget and had to be rushed up to Scarborough Hospital.
\nJanet, seventy eight years old, was not expected back, but the remaining members continued to meet twice a week in the old day room, a dumping ground with a cracked ceiling and one window blind hanging at a peculiar angle. All around lay a clutter of boxed incontinence pads, unfinished knitting and dead bees. They had comfy chairs which were no longer comfortable, and an orthopaedic seat which Marigold rather liked, despite the protruding bolts. \u201cFrankenstein\u2019s chair,\u201d she would say repeatedly, and was ignored by all…<\/p>\n

\n

THOSE WHO STAY<\/h3>\n

The Langton Hotel is nowhere. Outdated and forgotten by most, it stands alone on a headland well away from the main roads, and its ornate, many-eyed face is set towards the North Sea, which does not care. There are no nearby services or delights for the tourists, no long sweet-sanded beaches, and the cliffs are stark, uninviting.<\/p>\n

Even the bird-watchers avoid us. All we have here are gulls, grey-backed horrors which eye children and small dogs with the yellow gleam of hunger. They tear binoculars from people\u2019s hands, stabbing at the leather straps with their beaks, and more appealing birds won\u2019t come within the range of their patrols. The gulls have known the hotel for many generations, and it knows them, from the first fall of the egg out of an oily cloaca to the last flap of ragged wings.
\nThus it was that the two women who appeared with the storms of autumn were unexpected. We hadn\u2019t seen any new arrivals since Benedito, who was now our doorman, waiter and general factotum, came to us, at least a year ago…<\/p>\n

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\n

ELK BOYS<\/h3>\n

Abbot\u2019s Elk, when we arrived, was much as the gazeteer said – small and unimportant. I\u2019d read up on it before I caught the train. It\u2019s only oddity was the name, which had apparently been Abbot\u2019s Encester until the seventeen eighties, when a number of carvings had been unearthed whilst a well was being dug. A few were crude stone figures \u2013 Neolithic \u2013 but some were carved from antlers and bone, and according to the book I had, rather fine examples. The Elk part had gradually replaced the Encester, the result of over-imaginative Victorian collectors. Those digging vicars have a lot to answer for.
\nEmilia was at the bar in the Grey Horse, which was old in a tired rather than historic way. When she saw me, she abandoned her gin and tonic to rush over and hug me.
\n\u201cI have fragile ribs,\u201d I said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.
\n\u201cLet me get you a drink, Justin.\u201d
\nI wanted to confirm the driver\u2019s suspicions and have a campari, but I hated the stuff, so I paid him off and agreed to sample the wine list. The Puglian red turned out to be a surprise, in that they had it, and that it was drinkable. I\u2019d expected the usual half-empty bottle of overpriced Nuits-Saint-Georges behind the pumps, so symbolic of the seventies.
\n\u201cI think,\u201d I said as we settled down in one corner of the room, \u201cThat you had better explain what this is all about.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

MARJORIE LEARNS TO FLY<\/h3>\n

The kitchen is so quiet now, with Kenneth and the others gone. So orderly. I play my fingers across the rack of spice jars, over the slight unevenness of the plastered walls, no longer marred by the clutter of calendars, photographs, and notes about the current contents of the freezer. Everything is as it should be, where it should be.
\nI think I shall make a cup of tea.
\nWarm the pot; switch off the kettle just before the water boils. Don\u2019t want to drive all the oxygen out. Loose tea, never teabags. Oolong, woody but slightly sweet. Let it sit for seven or eight minutes, and then pour.
\nI add a dash of milk \u2013 not too much – and sip. Perfect.
\nThis is how Marjorie likes it. She deserves this. She has plans, wonderful plans, and I am so very pleased to have her back\u2026<\/p>\n

\n

THE WITCH OF PENDER<\/h3>\n

(Audio version)<\/h3>\n

\u201cA long night coming,\u201d said the Dark Man. He stood easy on the edge of a field, red earth between his toes as he sucked on a piece of sugarcane.
\nMamma Lucy didn\u2019t hold much with visions. And as visions went, this wasn\u2019t greatly encouraging her. She didn\u2019t recognize the place her left eye was seeing. A great field spread across the valley bottom, and that field was sown with fingers, knuckle-end in the deep soil. Most were black fingers, waving without a breeze, though here and there a white one grew. Some had cracked, hard-worked nails, and some had none at all. Near to where she stood, one finger had died where it was planted; a crow was tearing strips of rancid flesh from the small, pale bones.
\n\u201cHow long?\u201d
\nThe Dark Man pushed back his straw hat.
\n\u201cLong as a mule kicks; long as cane is sweet.\u201d
\nShe reached across the floor of the lean-to shack and took up the largest candle, her grip marking the soft wax.
\n\u201cDon\u2019t you game me now, boy,\u201d she said, a husky rattle in her throat. \u201cThis ain\u2019t New Orleans, and I ain\u2019t one of your mamaloi, Sant-eria ladies, liftin\u2019 their skirts when you come callin\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
mamma lucy, by yves tourigny<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
\n

STRANGE PERFUMES OF A POLAR SUN<\/h3>\n

Now that the old water tank has gone, I have the whole attic space across two houses. Until the landlord who owns next door manages to sell it \u2013 or finds out that I\u2019ve knocked through. I don\u2019t expect either for a while. The housing market\u2019s quite depressed, and these Victorian places need a lot of work.
\nThe latest peaks have been difficult. I use Lovecraft\u2019s book, of course, along with maps which I\u2019ve annotated, and the satellite photos that Misha sends me. It\u2019s getting more dangerous for her, she says. They\u2019re talking about vetting the staff at the UN Antarctic Survey data-stream centre again, after someone leaked blurred footage of D732, the higher of the two most north-westerly mountains. UNAS is obsessed with secrecy.
\nOnce I had downloaded Misha\u2019s better definition photos of D732, I could see that there is surprisingly little erosion; the almost perfect clusters of stonework on the south face are astonishing, like cubes of sugars embedded near the tip of one of those old conical sugar-loaves. I used pumice stone to model the peak – I like the rough feel of pumice, the scrape against my skin. A hardened hacksaw blade and a set of files gave me reasonable results.
\nSo that\u2019s most of the north-west sector done. I think the Four are pleased…<\/p>\n

\n

RECORDS OF THE DEAD<\/h3>\n

Another fruitless morning.
\nIn the afternoon, while my aunt sleeps, I go through the mail from the clipping agencies. An obituary covers the death of a man who once met the director Emile Casson, in California. That would be in nineteen twenty one, during Casson\u2019s abortive attempt to get into the West Coast industry. I already have that documented. The Frenchman\u2019s peripheral involvement in the communist movement, and his virtual blacklisting during the Red Scare, put paid to any plans. He came back to New York after three days.
\nThe last envelope is from the Burgess Agency. It contains a photograph, and a handwritten note.
\n‘Mrs Westercott, this may interest you.’
\nThe photograph shows a group of men in black suits, and a wreath of lilies in the background. A funeral, or a wake. I turn it over, and see names scrawled in pale ink. Teddy Fleming, Joseph Karowski, Manny Goldschein, and a couple I can\u2019t read.
\nJoseph Karowski.
\nOh my God.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

IRON AND ANTHRACITE<\/h3>\n

With relief or with grumbles, the passengers went to find their places. For most, that meant the last car, a wooden affair with a cracked window and \u2018Coloreds Only\u2019 stenciled on the side. Mamma Lucy hitched herself up and sat with her carpet bag on her knees, opposite the father and daughter. The girl, maybe thirteen, smiled at her; the man nodded.
\n\u201cYou play?\u201d Mamma Lucy tipped her head to the guitar case.
\n\u201cMy daddy showed me how to pick,\u201d said the girl. \u201cHe\u2019s a Piedmont bluesman.\u201d
\n\u201cEtta here\u2019s a fine gee-tar girl. I\u2019m no bluesman, jes\u2019 a working man who can carry a tune.\u201d He hesitated. \u201cBoone Reid\u2019s the name, ma\u2019am.\u201d
\n\u201cMamma Lucy does me well enough, Mr Boone Reid.\u201d
\nHe surveyed the faded floral dress, the moth-eaten carpet bag and the face in front of him. She knew that he was trying to look into her clouded left eye, make out the milk-and-honey strangeness of it, but without staring.
\n\u201cYou from Charlotte?\u201d she asked.
\n\u201cUsed to be, once. Back to see kin, but we\u2019re Virginia people these days.\u201d
\nMamma Lucy settled on the wooden seat, and closed her eyes. As the locomotive grabbed the rails to haul north, she took in the creak of the cars. She heard the guitar case open, and the first hesitant chords; the soft murmur of the young couple and the slow, heavy breath of the big man in the corner.
\nHer back was itching, and she had that feeling. Should have noticed before. Greensboro was a hundred miles along the track, and now she wondered if that was maybe a few miles too many…<\/p>\n

\n
\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

And there’s been a lot of editing work. With the Hell\u2019s Empire<\/em> anthology delivered to the publisher, Ulthar, next urgent job is final touches for Their Coats All Red<\/em>, from 18thWall. We\u2019d decided to include some classic weird stories written in Empire times, to add historical contrast to the anthology, and we agreed those last month. Four less well-known stories which reflect the times, avoiding the more common jingoistic or dubious ones, and a couple at least may be surprises.<\/p>\n

On the Occult Detective Quarterly<\/em> front, we\u2019re just putting together Issue Six, due out early Summer, and planning for issue Seven, due out in Autumn. Plus mending various hangovers from last year\u2019s litany of disasters.<\/p>\n

After that\u2019s delivered, back to work on Sherlock Holmes & The Occult Detectives<\/em> for Belanger Books \u2013 the stories are already coming in. Further along – Room Enough for Fear<\/em>, plans for an anthology of classic haunted room tales, mentioned earlier in the year \u2013 some unmissable standards, of course, but also again some far less well-known inclusions.<\/p>\n

Pity the poor writer\/editor and his foolish ways.<\/p>\n

NEXT TIME: Something completely different. Let\u2019s get this show rolling again…<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Today, quick extracts from a raft of new greydog stories coming out this year -this site has been far too quiet recently. We blame Mr John Linwood Grant, who has been neglecting his duties in favour of writing and editing stuff. Pure selfishness. Where are the tales of lurchers leaping and other riters riting? Or … Continue reading Alas, Alack, Alarums And All New Stories<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"iawp_total_views":4,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5749","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\nAlas, Alack, Alarums And All New Stories - greydogtales<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/alas-alack-alarums-and-all-new-stories\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Alas, Alack, Alarums And All New Stories - greydogtales\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Today, quick extracts from a raft of new greydog stories coming out this year -this site has been far too quiet recently. 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Apart from that, he enjoys growing unusual fruit and reading rejection slips. He is six foot tall, ageing at an alarming rate, and has his own beard.","sameAs":["http:\/\/greydogtales.com"],"url":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/author\/greydogtales\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6sRRV-1uJ","jetpack-related-posts":[{"id":4071,"url":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/fables-disappearances-untethered-tales-gwendolyn-kiste\/","url_meta":{"origin":5749,"position":0},"title":"Fables and Disappearances: The Untethered Tales of Gwendolyn Kiste","author":"greydogtales","date":"May 29, 2017","format":false,"excerpt":"Today, dear listener, we have loss and identity; clarity and hope; the core of writing, style, Angela Carter and some dark, magical stories. 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