Project Luna: 1947. My collaboration with the infinitely talented Jim Boswell.

Look at that cover!

88 pages of retro pulpy science fiction goodness. Out from Markosia in 2012. Here’s to hoping those Mayan bastards were wrong!

I’ve got a story called Concerning Tavia in the latest issue of Rudy Rucker’s mighty webzine FLURB.

It was rejected  by an editor once for being “too romantic.” Which was not something I ever expected anyone to say about a story of mine.

And if that hasn’t put you off then click here to read.

New story from Bruce Sterling too!

I recently submitted a short story to the science journal Nature. It would have been my fifth story to appear in the magazine (my fourth will be appearing in the Futures section of an upcoming issue). I knew the story was a little odd and that acceptance for publication was a long shot, and, indeed, it wasn’t to be. But I did enjoy and appreciate the response from editor Henry Gee.

Dear Martin - I loved ‘Immune System Response’ and agree with every word of it. Unfortunately it’s less a story than a cry of inchoate rage, so probably isn’t for Futures. I like cries of inchoate rage, though, and look forward to seeing it on your blog.
H

A more diligent and assiduous writer would no doubt rework the story, make it better, make the inchoate choate, and try to sell it to another magazine. But it’s been a long, grey, dreary summer and I honestly haven’t got the energy for any of that. So, here you go.

Immune System Response

By Martin Hayes

It began in London at 9.42am during an Agony Aunt segment on a mid-morning television call-in show. A worried mother had just phoned in to ask for advice about her sixteen-year-old daughter who wanted a breast enlargement operation for her next birthday – all the girl’s heroes from magazines and tv seemed to have had one. There was a stirring in the audience, subtle at first, murmurings, people shifting uneasily in their seats. Call it a rush of blood to the head, or just the unexpected realisation of how utterly deplorable and bereft of hope their culture, their society, had become – suddenly a large section of the audience stood up en masse and began to forcibly rip their seats from the floor. Muscles strained and eyeballs bulged as the plastic seats were torn from their steel brackets. The concrete steps crumbled as rawlbolts were ripped out. The audience then hurled the seats at the presenters and guests, killing one and injuring three. By 10.10am there were reports on the news channels calling it an outbreak of mass hysteria and/or a possible terrorist attack.

The next recorded incident took place at 10.33am at a race track in Wilthsire. Three presenters from a popular motoring show were racing their wackily inappropriate cars around the loop when a crowd of approximately 350 people broke down the chain link fence that surrounded the property and crowded onto the tarmac. The wacky presenters had no choice but to stop their cars. They were dragged from their vehicles, bound and gagged, tarred and feathered, gutted and garrotted, and left to rot like the dogs they were on the waste ground in the middle of the track. Before he was gagged, the biggest one cried and pleaded with the crowd that he wasn’t really like that, that it had all been just an act, he did actually recycle and he was worried about the environment, he just said that he wasn’t for money and the applause of idiots. The smallest one, a coward in his heart, had tried to bargain with the crowd – if they would only let him go, he would help them to kill and torture the other two. The medium sized one just looked resigned to his fate. He seemed grateful, if anything.

Just after midday a fifty-two year old man whose daughter was missing, a presumed victim of a serial rapist and killer, was door-stepped by a reporter from a low-end tabloid. She asked the grieving father how he felt and if there was any comment he would like to make and she looked utterly surprised when he punched her in the face. Neighbours, cheering, spilled from their doorways as she fell into the flowerbed that separated the driveway from the crazy paving path. Seven of them clambered over walls and hedges and they carried the reporter to the end of the street where they threw her into a skip. They bludgeoned her to death with stray pieces of building waste before burying her under a large mound of household detritus.

At 2.14pm in London, an ex-glamour model was proudly signing copies of a novel which she had not written. The bookstore’s large front window shattered as she was shot in the throat by a forty year old man with a hunting rifle from a rooftop across the street.

At just before 3pm the über-bland presenter of a popular televised singing contest was accosted by a group of pensioners who set about kicking and punching him. A helicopter news crew caught the altercation on camera as the enraged septuagenarians were heard to shout, “Who is this charmless man? Why is he always in our living room?”

At 3.34pm, just as a press conference began in the PR suite of a league-winning football team, a reporter slowly began rocking back and forth with his head in his hands. He took a deep breath and knelt down; unable to listen to anymore dull-witted, borderline-incomprehensible witterings, he untied his right shoe and leapt across the table where he began to batter the overpaid and undereducated player’s large potato-shaped head in. A feral look of instinctive fear flashed across the simian faces of the other players. They tried to work out what was happening but their brains could not hold onto the thought for long enough to fathom it out, so full were they of petty racism, misogyny and greed.

And so it went for eleven more days, all across the globe, and it did not stop until every awful one of them was gone - the uninformed but opinionated, the toadying, the racists and the dumbers down, the selfish, the self-entitled, the utterly untalented, the greedy and the mawkish and the proudly ignorant. If you feed people a diet of shit washed down with piss, they’ll develop a taste for it, they’ll want nothing more. If you nourish them with beauty and sincerity, with genuine emotion and truth, they’ll soon strive to emulate those qualities.

It was as if the species had suddenly realised that it would never advance, never progress, if this infection was not combated. And rather than let it fester, nature deemed it better to cut out the putrid meat and cauterize the wound. The entire species had undergone a planet-wide immune system response against a virulent and insidious contagion.

And on the morning of the thirteenth day, the world was a slightly better place.

The end

© Martin Hayes 2011

_

This is the bio, which would have followed the story . . .

Martin Hayes hates your stinking culture. Kirby is King. Ditko rules, OK? Bring back Bagpuss. And Children of the Stones. Ted Chippington spoke the truth. Ballard for Dead President. Machen for Mayor.

Someday, Somewhere - short story in an upcoming issue of Nature.

Staring Into The Eye Of A Blackbird, You Can See The Things He Likes And The Things He Doesn’t - six pager in a currently beyond top secret and therefore unnameable anthology comic.

I’ve got a new story called Get It Down in issue six of Innsmouth Free Press. Glad to see this story finally creep into the daylight. The first editor I sent it to passed on it while stating that it was “frankly, mad.”

Which is fair enough really.

Click here to download the full issue as a PDF. Very nice cover by Jason Juta.

I changed the blog header a little while ago. My friend and cohort Roy Huteson Stewart very kindly let me use a cropped image from his superb artwork for our forthcoming Aleister Crowley graphic novel, Crowley: Wandering the Waste.

Page 43 to be exact. Roy’s pages are things of rare beauty and insight.

Issue five of Innsmouth Free Press was released a couple of days ago. It includes my pulpy Lovecraftian story Beneath The Cold Black Sea.

Really nice cover by M.S. Corley.

You can grab the pdf or read online here.

My short story Me Am Petri appears in this week’s issue of Nature.

Sold another story to Nature yesterday.

Me Am Petri should appear in a couple of months or so, I reckon.

Got my comp copies of Supernatural Tales issue 17 last week. Includes my short story, 13 Nassau Street.

Looks great. Very nice cover by Stephen J. Clarke. Lots of good stories in there too.

Available here.

Roy Huteson Stewart’s pages are starting to come in thick and fast as he works on Crowley: Wandering The Waste, our collaboration for Insomnia. Here’s a couple of unlettered panels from the prologue…

I’m really enjoying working with Roy, he’s bringing plenty of strange and brilliant ideas to the project that I would never have thought of.  Can’t really ask for much more than that.  He’s also doing a great job capturing the frailty of Crowley in old age.

I don’t know who took the above photographs, possibly Kenneth Grant (one of them does appear in Remembering Aleister Crowley, Grant’s very interesting memoir of his friendship with AC).  Taken in the garden at Netherwood, Hastings. Probably in or around 1945, which would make Crowley approximately 70 years old.

The book is looking like it will end up containing about 90 pages of actual comic, plus 30 or so pages of notes at the back. There may be a gallery at the back too, showing other artists interpretations of AC.

Out towards the end of the year, with any luck.

My short story An Open Letter To Any Impressionable Young School Leavers Who Are Considering Joining The Space Corps appears in this week’s issue of Nature.

Unlettered. Top notch work as always from Jim Boswell, who has made me promise not to write any more crowd scenes.

You can read my story In The Beginning There Was The Machine in the latest issue of Flurb, edited and published by the mighty Rudy Rucker.

Plenty of other good stuff in there too.  And all for free!

I signed contracts with Insomnia Publications last week to write an original graphic novel based on the life of Aleister Crowley. This has meant I’ve had to crawl around the attic like some kind of giant, malformed silverfish to gather up all my old Crowley books.

Here’s a few for some light bedtime reading…

It will be done in a similar style to Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell’s  magnificent From Hell - as much as possible based on historical fact but with some fictionalised elements to provide a framework for the story and to really make it sing. Crowley wasn’t averse to fictionalising his own life anyway, so I’m sure he wouldn’t mind too much.

Crowley - Wandering The Waste will be published under Insomnia’s Vigil line of historical graphic novels, probably in 2010.

Not sure yet as to who the artist will be.