Dr. Dume ~ The Doctor is In

I am beset by a bout of winter indolence. There are many things to do but I can't find the energy. The Dume genome is part reptile so sluggishness in the cold is not unusual and it gets worse as we get older. Something must be done. Caligula will, in a few years, still be a young Dume able to cope with the cold and I will be ever more torpid every winter. That is a dangerous situation.

One thing that gave me a warm feeling was a note from the editor who is reading 'Jessica's Trap'. A most complimentary note - it seems I don't have to look forward to a huge rewrite. So far. That might be because of my inbuilt pedantry. The second book 'Samuel's Girl', is almost ready to send out too apart from one problem.

I changed word processors part way through that one. The old files had inverted commas that looked like two little straight lines. The new program produced inverted commas that were curly, the more traditional filled-in 6 and 9 shapes. That was easily fixed with search-and-replace so they now all look the same. The program finished by telling me how many replacements it had made. It was an odd number.

Somewhere in that book is a missing quotation mark. I can't send the book anywhere until I find it.

All part of the joys of pedantry.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 08:11 PM | Permalink

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I was busy filling in the holes in the walls when Death showed up.

"I heard shots," he said.

"He missed me. Not by much, but he had an unfair advantage. My assistant gave him an atomic blaster to play with." I finished adding the jagged surface to match the rest of the wall and wiped my trowel clean.

"Atomic blaster?" Death's skull tilted. "Assistant?"

"It's a long story." I led the way into the kitchen and put the kettle on. "I found a new assistant in the swamp. Well, really, the Ferals found him and chased him here. He's clever, but not too communicative and has no understanding of infant-rearing. Caligula is only just over a year old. Far too young to be playing with advanced weaponry. He should be practicing his crossbow and working his way up gradually."

"Quite so." Death leaned his scythe against the wall and settled into a chair. "Where did you get hold of an atomic blaster?"

"Click made it. He's good with his hands. I have confiscated it and given Click a sound beating."

Death took a small computer from his robes and tapped the screen.

"You use computers?" I put a jar of kitten blood on the table. It's good to have something cute to brighten the place up, and I find a dash in my tea staves off the cold weather.

"I didn't like it at first, but it beats carrying around those books. Six billion names occupies an awful lot of paper. This thing is so light I hardly know it's there." He shook his head. "That's odd."

"What?" I filled the teapot and brought it to the table.

"He's not in here. No record of anyone called Click and no record of anyone else living here. Just you, your wife, your son and your father."

"I don't think my father counts as 'living' here."

Death clacked his teeth. "Until he's collected, he's registered as living here. I know it makes no sense but I don't make the rules. Any sign of your father lately, I wonder?" He might have smiled. It's hard to tell.

"He hasn't manifested for some time." I poured tea. Milk, sugar, rat poison, kitten blood and stirring fingers were all present and correct. "You can't just write him off, then?"

"No. There's only one way to get your name out of this--this--" he waved the little computer "--this thing here, and that's by scythe. The odd thing is, your new assistant isn't in here at all. I think I'd better take a look at him, if that's all right with you."

"No problem." I went to the door of the kitchen and made a series of clicking noises.

"What have you employed, Dume? Some kind of dolphin?"

"No. Well, he's the right colour, but he doesn't have any fins. All he can do is click, and it's all he responds to. I have no idea what I'm saying to him but I generally click and point and he gets the idea." I returned to the table and poured another cup of tea for Click. "I had wondered if he might be one of those illegal immigrants I keep hearing about. Perhaps that's why he's not on your list?"

"Makes no difference where anyone moves to. My list updates itself. There's no escape. No, if he's not in there, he never was and that could have all sorts of awkward consequences. If there's one who hasn't been registered, then how many more might there be? I have to get him on the list before anyone in the office finds out or I'll be in trouble with the boss." He shook the computer. "This would never have happened with my old books."

"What does that thing run on? Solar power?" I sipped at my tea and wondered if I could persuade him to let me look at that little machine. An accidental delete could work wonders.

"Solar? Hardly. I don't go out in the sun, Dume. I don't tan, you know, and it makes me brittle. No, this runs on soul power. It's very economical and environmentally friendly and it finds a use for some of the more, ah, useless souls. The lawyers and the politically correct did get all vocal about it, so I told them the louder the spirit, the more juice for the computer. They haven't said a word since."

Click appeared in the doorway and did his inquisitive click sound. I waved him in and pointed to the empty chair with the cup of tea in front of it. He skirted the table, watching Death all the way, took a seat and extended his proboscis from his tiny mouth into the tea.

Death faced me. "I think I know why he's not in my list, Dume. What you have here is an alien."

"Legal or illegal?"

"Well... " Death sat back and regarded Click. "Neither, really. I don't mean 'alien' as in 'foreign', although I suppose he's as foreign as it's possible to get. No, this thing is from another planet. Not human. Out of my jurisdiction. Not my responsibility." He sighed and reached for his tea. "That's a relief. I thought my records were messed up. Have you any idea how long it would take to audit them all?"

"Quite some time, I'd say. What do I do with him now? I can't have officials appearing at my door every five minutes. My freezer space is limited and I really don't need any more black suits or sunglasses."

Death added a splash of kitten blood to his cup. "I'm glad I'm not Cat Death. He has to pick up every one of his souls nine times. Dog Death's job is much easier. All he has to do is whistle and shout 'Here boy' and they come running. Then again, his rubber bone doesn't look as good as my scythe. There's also his nasty habit of drooling whenever he sees me, which is disquieting. Sorry, what were you saying?"

"What do I do with Click? Can he be taught to communicate or should I let the Ferals have him?"

"Best not let the Ferals have him. If he dies here, his people's Death will muscle in on my territory again. It's happened before and every time, I have to argue territorial matters with him. damn, that Death is tedious and pompous. No, better you keep him until his people come for him. He won't be noticed here. The village has odder looking characters and much more repellent ones too."

"Yes, but he can't speak Village. They can be a bit wary of strangers. Truth be told, they're a bit wary even of me."

Death sipped at his tea and shuddered at the kitten blood hit. "I can fix that." He put down his cup and stood. Click's eyes widened, no mean feat with eyes like his, and he clung to his chair as Death approached. Death placed one bony hand on Click's head, there was a blue flash and Click slumped onto the table. Death resumed his seat.

"I'm not surprised the villagers are wary of you, Dume," he said. "You do experiment on them and eat a few, after all."

"Only once in a while." I tried to assume the Professor's haughty look and failed. "Usually there are enough visitors to keep the freezers filled and they are healthier than the villagers anyway."

Death raised his hands. "I'm not judging you. I appreciate the business."

Click groaned. This took me by surprise because normally even his expressions of pain come out as clicks. He sat up, blinked, moved his mouth and looked confused.

"He can't click any more." Death leaned on the table and faced Click. "It's one or the other, I'm afraid."

"Click...hear...you." Click jumped at the sound of his voice. So did I. It sounded like a rusty flute. "Click speak Earth."

Death turned to me. "It's a bit pidgin now but he'll improve with practice. You know the best part?"

I shook my head.

"When he dies, his people's Death won't be able to communicate with him." Death took out his computer again and checked it, then roared with laughter. "He's on my list. He's mine now." Death ran one phalange over his teeth and stroked it in the air. "Yes! One up on Grey Death! The miserable git." He stood, picked up his scythe and pointed the tip at Click. "You are a honorary human, Click. When the time comes I have a place for you. You won't ever be used as soul power because while you're around, that snooty swine will have to concede that I win. I have one of his and with the human half-assed attempts at space travel, it'll be a long time before he gets a chance at one of mine."

Click and I looked at each other and simultaneously said "Um..."

Death coughed and shook his robes into place. "Sorry. Got a bit overexcited there. Anyway, best dash. Souls to collect, you know." He strode to the wall and vanished through it.

There followed a long silence, eventually broken by Click.

"What just happen?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Now that you can understand me though, understand this. Caligula is dangerous. He can't help it, it's genetic. Never give him weapons. Okay?"

"Caligula your child. He not hurt you."

I produced the deepest sigh of my sighing career to date. "You have much to learn about Dume life, my friend."

At least now, thanks to the rivalry between our respective Deaths, he is capable of learning.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 03:24 AM | Permalink

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The Professor called in at 3 am this morning, while I was spending money. Neither of these things is normal.

I had been ordering some cards and bookmarks advertising Jessica's Trap. The more you buy, the lower the individual cost, so my wallet was in turmoil and my credit card in pain. I plan to trickle them out at first then drop a load of them everywhere just before the book escapes - I mean, is published. I should have put a disclaimer concerning bad dreams and brain damage in the front of it, although it's funnier to put it at the end.

So there I was, consoling my credit card, when the doorbell pealed. I considered turning on the outside light and letting the Ferals deal with this visitor but I had been spending already, and lights cost money. It wouldn't have worked anyway. The Ferals are scared of the Professor, as are the ghosts. I'm not quite sure why, although he does have a sort of seething fury that's permanently just below the surface (and sometimes above it).

I opened the door. "Yes?"

"Whisky, yes." He barged in and headed straight for the living room. Honestly, he is more difficult to deal with than either Death or Red Stan at times. No wonder the supernatural is terrified of him. I expect Death will have to work up the courage to visit him when the time comes. Rather than starting with an imperious 'It is Time', I envisage Death opening with ''Er... excuse me, are you busy?'.

He will be. He always is.

He was halfway through a bottle of the Ardbeg before I could get a word out of him. When I did, it made little sense.

"Damn ghost won't speak to me!"

I thought about asking where I could get such a ghost since the ones here normally won't shut up. The only time I get peace is when the Professor visits or Death does a house-clearance.

"So," I said, "which ghost is this?"

"He won't tell me. He can speak, he can appear, he has been in the place for ages but he will not stand still for a photograph and he won't answer me. Tonight he didn't show up at all. How am I supposed to investigate the supernatural when it keeps running away?"

For a moment, I considered pointing out the obvious. All those things normally considered scary run away when the Professor is around. He has never even been troubled by the Rarely-Glimpsed Slimy Swamp Thing, and that has taken on whole parades of villagers and won. However, the Professor doesn't know about the ghosts here, nor about the, shall we say, unusual fauna of the swamp and it's best it stays that way. I don't want him filling my castle with cameras and all his other gadgets. He might even try to move in.

Instead I merely inquired as to the location of the recalcitrant spectre.

"In my laboratory. In my own laboratory. I don't have to go out in the cold, I don't have to transport anything anywhere. No need to worry about batteries. Everything can run on the mains. It should have been the easiest investigation ever." He scowled so hard I swear the painting of my grandfather winced.

"It must be frustrating," I ventured.

"Frustrating isn't the word for it."  He took a gulp of whisky.

"Isn't it?" I was pretty sure it was the word for it, but then he was the one who had the experience. He didn't look to be in the mood for a debate on vocabulary so I left him to brood while I put my credit card on life-support and double-checked the padlock on my wallet. He eventually fell asleep in the chair, as he normally does when he's overdone both the rage and the whisky. I draped a blanket over him and left him there.

He must have woken and gone home before dawn, because some of the ghosts had started moaning again just before the sun came up.

It must be tough being a ghost. Death is after them, Red Stan is always looking for recruits, and then there's the Professor.

I hope, when my time comes, Death finds me first.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 03:42 AM | Permalink

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One week to Caligula's birthday and I haven't thought what to get him yet. All this book business has taken my mind off everyday things. Senga has a birthday too but I've forgotten when it is. It's not October, I'm sure. Fairly sure. I'll have to try some exploratory questioning or search her diary for the line 'He forgot again'. I hope she's specified what I'd forgotten because that line might appear more than once.

Caligula's birthday is my first priority. I could get him another puppy, but it took ages to clean up after the last one. There were bits everywhere. Maybe something reptilian? He might manage to bond with a lizard. A fishing game? No, he'd find other uses for the hooks. A Junior Rogue Scientist kit might be good although he's maybe a little young yet for dabbling with the forces of nature. Well, he has to learn sometime and he'll have been here a whole year. I don't know. I've racked my brains on their shiny new display rack but that hasn't helped. I don't know why people suggest it. They do look nice though, ranked in order of size.

I'm going to have to think hard on this and avoid distractions. Oh, look, The Horror Zine has a new issue online.

There was something important I had to do. I'm sure it'll come back to me. After I've read a few stories.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:49 PM | Permalink

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It was bound to happen. I mentioned the word 'contract' and within hours, Red Stan appeared in the fireplace. As always, he banged his head on the mantelpiece on the way out. The horn-chips he's leaving are starting to look unsightly.

If I hadn't messed up that Christmas invocation he wouldn't be able to come and go so freely. Well, it can't be helped. I nodded to the flameproof chair I bought to save on furniture costs and asked him what was on his mind.

"Your fireplace." He ran his fingers over his horns. "I don't want to blunt these. I've just had them sharpened."

"Perhaps a different means of entry would be appropriate? I have a front door."

Stan's lip curled. "It's cold and wet out there. Not my cup of tea, you know. Speaking of cups of tea..." He raised his eyebrows.

I rose from my seat. "Well, okay. I can't entertain you for long, you know. I have this contract to deal with."

Senga was once again occupied with stitching her wounds after playing with Caligula. I've told her not to do that. It's never wise for a Dumelet to become too attached to his parents, it could make him grow up strange. Anyway, I brought the kettle from the kitchen along with the tea, milk, sugar, rat poison, blood, powdered goat horn and stirring bones. Then I went back for the cups while Red Stan held the kettle until it boiled. One good thing about his visits, he does save me money on the heating.

With a cup of that traditional British brew each, we settled into our chairs.

"So," I said, "what brings you out on such a cold and wet evening?"

"Contract." Red Stan took a heavy wad of paper from the air and dropped it on the table.

I patted at the smouldering bits until they went out. He really needs to reconsider his methods because paper is a poor choice of medium for a creature who's permanently aflame.

"What's this for?" I squinted at the runes on the paper.

"Contract. I heard you were ready to sign one." Red Stan took a swig of tea. I'm never sure if he drinks it or just inhales the vapour because it boils as soon as he picks up the cup.

"Yes, but not that one." I showed him the contract for Jessica's Trap. "This is the contract I'm signing."

"You call that a contract?" Red Stan laughed. "It's so- so small. Barely three pages long. Now this - " he indicated the pile of paper he'd brought, "This is a proper contract. Written by a whole team of lawyers. I have access to quite a lot of lawyers, you know."

"Pretty much all of them, I'm sure." I eyed the contract he had placed on the table. "So, what's in yours?"

"Whatever you want. Fame, fortune, a place at a top school for your child, women, booze, long life, anything." He leaned forward. "I can even arrange to get your books published."

"Well. Sounds very nice." I sipped at my tea. "Fame, I don't want. It means being recognised on the street and I have enough problems with that in the village as it is. Fortune, I have, courtesy of the hoarding nature of the Dume family. There is no point in giving more money to me because I won't spend it anyway. Caligula has already been thrown out of nursery for eating the class hamster so I'll be teaching him at home, and I have one woman already. Why would I want another one? Just having one around is proving to be hard work and terribly expensive."

"Ah..."

"The booze is no problem, the pub has plenty of that and I don't drink much of it anyway. Long life, well, the only way to guarantee long life for Senga and myself would be to kill Caligula and I'm not going to agree to that. So I'm afraid your contract offers nothing I want."

Red Stan's flames receded. "It's not possible. There must be something you want, surely?"

I sat in silence for a while and realised I really hadn't thought about it. I have Dume Towers, I have my laboratory, I have dungeons, chains, skeletons, evil possessed toys, an invisibility suit (which I still haven't found), one of those tables that rises up to the ceiling in thunderstorms, everything. I even have a wife and child. Not the prettiest, granted, but certainly the most deranged. What else could I want? Indeed, what else would I have time to deal with?

"No," I said. "Nothing."

Steam rose from Red Stan's eyes. "It can't be. Everyone wants something. Nobody ever turned this contract down before. Well, apart from one fellow about two thousand years ago, but then I found out his Dad owned everything anyway." He wiped his eyes. "Sorry, I'm not supposed to get emotional. It doesn't give a very professional impression."

"Don't worry about it. Nobody will know." Not until Death's next visit, anyway.

"There is one thing you missed. Getting your books published. I can arrange that, you know." His fire returned.

He looked so much more cheerful it seemed a shame to spoil it for him, but I held up the small contract and explained what it was for.

"So you see, I have already managed that part on my own."

A scowl spread over his face. "What kind of world is it when people start doing things for themselves? If this keeps up I'll be out of a job." He lifted his contract and glared at it while it dissolved into smoke.

"I'm certain it's not widespread. The village is full of people who can't be bothered running their own lives. There'll be plenty of call for your services for some time yet, I'm sure." I would have patted his shoulder reassuringly but I didn't have my asbestos gloves handy. Instead I moved to refill his cup.

"No more for me. Have to be going." His flames turned an angry purple for a moment. "I have contracts to sign and others to call in. I can't waste time here." He headed for the fireplace.

"Watch out for the - " I winced at the crack of horn on granite. Then he was gone in a cloud of expletives, some of which would have embarrassed a Feral.

I returned to my contract - the real world one. It's with Damnation Press. Hmm.

I'd better check this very carefully indeed. Red Stan can be a tricky one.

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:09 PM | Permalink

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A very strange man appeared at my door today. He said he was from the Water Board. I have read about this waterboard. it sounds very unpleasant indeed and not a hobby I plan to take up at all.

His proposal involved piping water into the castle, and me paying him to do it.

I was, naturally, perplexed by this. Why would anyone want their home full of water? Furthermore, why would anyone want to pay for it? It would make quite a mess, I think. It's possible he had confused me with a trout, although his experience of fish must have been limited because none of my oddities include fins.

His smile was too wide and too white to be trusted. 'Everyone needs water,' he said.

'Well, yes,' I said, 'but I live in a swamp. In Scotland. Water is not hard to come by. It drops out of the sky most days.'

'Ah,' he said, 'but we sell treated water. It's very nice. You should try it.'

The village homeopath, Avogadro McNothing, sells treated water. It tastes the same as the stuff that drops out of the sky. This is not surprising because that's where he gets his water too. I pointed this out and the Waterboard man laughed. A rattle followed by a wheeze. It sounded like Caligula shaking a puppy to death.

I wondered, aloud, why anyone would pay for water.

'We control all British water.' he said. 

'Really? Could you perhaps arrange to drop rather less of it around here? I have water tanks on the roof but they've been full for a long time and I have enough to be going on with, thank you.'

'Oh, we don't control the rain. It only belongs to us when it hits the ground.'

Fortunately, having tanks on the roof means the rain doesn't hit the ground. I suppose that means it's still mine. The stuff that comes through the roof, however...

'You'd better come inside.' I said. 'There's some water that belongs to you on the floors of several downstairs rooms. It would be nice if you'd take it away.'

 He looked confused. That white smile blurred with the shaking of his head. I led him inside and showed him the leak in Caligula's room without, naturally, going in myself.

The leak is still here, the water is still here, and so is he.

In spirit, at least. I hope Death calls again soon. It's time for a cleanup. This one is really far too noisy.

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 03:19 AM | Permalink

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The publisher I sent the book to hasn't responded yet. This could be a good thing or a bad thing. I can't interfere in the process for some time yet because you have to allow a publisher three months at least. It's not a speedy business, this writing.

While waiting, I have perused my collection of old short stories. those that have been published and are now offline. It's not really worth trying to sell them again - short stories earn little or nothing first time out, and it's much harder to sell second rights on them. Not really worth the effort.

So what to do with them? I thought I might put up a collection on Lulu. It'll cost me nothing and even if it doesn't sell, it's a handy backup for all those stories. Rather than have them only as bits on a disk, they could be tied together in one small book.

This naturally excludes any that are in real print. There's no point competing with myself by reprinting stories I've already had printed elsewhere.

I don't expect the anthology to be a blockbuster, I don't expect it to start the cash rolling. I don't even expect it to sell. It's just a useful way to store those old stories so I don't lose them.

For the real-publisher work, I'll need to learn a little about marketing. There will be mistakes at first. Well, let's be honest. There will be spectacular blunders at first. I'd rather not apply those blunders to any book that manages to get real-published.

So I'll use that anthology to practice on. 

When I have at least some idea of what I'm doing, then a collection of the horror articles for AlienSkin could be the next Lulu project.

It's either that, or let them rot on a hard drive forever.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 09:14 PM | Permalink

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My offspring did this. Isn't it delightful? Such a romantic subject. It's definitely going on the wall.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:25 AM | Permalink

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Death visited Dume Towers tonight. He certainly picks his times. I'm far too busy to entertain guests.

There's an article brewing for the next Alienskin issue and I have a book to review before little Caligula eats it. Senga is in one of her moods, something to do with a suggestion I made concerning her mother, a sewing kit and a rabid dog. Honestly, the woman can't take a joke. Little Caligula has left teeth marks in most of the furniture and Underbed Monster has run off again. Not a good time to visit. Not good at all.

Well, he had come a long way so I had to bite my lip and let him in (Not my own lip, you understand. I have a jar of candied lips in case of such eventualities). I say 'let him in' but there's not really much of an option. He goes where he pleases, and only knocks at my door out of politeness.

Death had a purpose. He had come to see Caligula.

"I hope you're not planning to take him," I said. "I don't want to have to go to the trouble of making another one. It's all very messy and complicated and involves some unpleasantness."

"Take him? Why would I do that?" Death clacked his teeth at me. "I'm still hunting down the last of those wedding guests and I have several of your ancestors on my backlog list.  Your new one isn't ready. I just came to see him."

"Oh. A social call." 

"Aren't they always?" Death scratched between his eye-sockets with the tip of his scythe. "Your family are the most elusive I've ever had to deal with. I get the call to say one of you has died and by the time I get here, they're not home."

"We're an active family," I said. "No time to hang around." I showed him to Caligula's room and slid back the peephole cover on the door. Last time I did that, the little tyke shoved a six inch nail through it so this time I used some caution. Once I had established he was in his cot, I opened the door and let Death in.

Death paused on the threshold. "You don't think I'll scare him, do you? I mean, all the dark clothes and the bones and the scythe. Kids get a bit upset about those things."

I grinned. "He's a Dume. He scares me most of the time. Just don't let him get hold of that scythe."

Death drew eyebrows on his skull, rubbed them out and drew them on again, a little higher up. We went into the room quietly.

Little Caligula was fast asleep, gnawing on a rib. Death and I watched him for a while then left in silence. Once I had closed the door I allowed myself to breathe again. It's not often a visit to Caligula's room passes without incident.

"He looks dangerous," said Death. "Excellent. I'm sure he'll put a lot of business my way in the future. How about you?"

"He's not old enough to make a serious attempt on me yet. Don't get your hopes up."

"I mean, any stray spirits around as a result of your experiments? I could do a quick clean-up for you if you like." 

"There might be a few. Help yourself." The place is crawling with them but most have learned to hide whenever Death visits. They hide when the Professor visits too. Only the recent ones ever get caught and as they are the noisiest, it's good to let Death have a quick sweep of the place once in a while. He disappeared along the corridor, scythe in one hand and soul bag in the other. I returned to my study.

Death appeared shortly afterwards, his soul bag bulging and squirming. 

I nodded at the bag. "Good haul tonight?"

"Excellent. I still haven't caught your father though. Have you seen him recently?"

"No. He hasn't materialised since Caligula was born. He's probably worried about getting killed again."

Death shook his head. "Not even a Dume can do that twice. Anyway, best be off. I have to take this delivery and fill in the paperwork for them."

I would have pried for details, as usual, but I had too much to do. "I'll show you the door."

Death tilted his skull. "I know what a door looks like. Thanks for the offer but I don't have time for sightseeing."  He strode to the wall and then through it.

I returned to my work. The article awaits and it has to be about horror. It also has to be something new. If only I had an idea, if only something would happen to inspire me.

Then Caligula woke up and howled.

"That's it," I thought. "There's nothing more horrific than a child!"

Posted by Dr. Dume at 04:00 AM | Permalink

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I was surprised to be visited by the Professor last night, not least because there's about three feet of snow around the castle and every step risks dislodging immense and very sharp icicles from the trees. I know they are sharp. I sharpened them. They should help keep hungry Ferals away during this cold weather. The Professor made it to the castle okay but then he rang the bell. The icicles above the door missed him by inches.

Well, it seems there has been a new year, which came as a surprise because I had no idea the old one had already worn out. They just don't make years like they used to. When I was younger they lasted far longer, I'm sure. This 'new year' was the reason for the Professor's visit and he assures me that it's traditional to ply all guests with whisky until they can take no more. A new tradition, apparently, and one I suspect he's just invented. He also voiced the somewhat bizarre opinion that attempting to kill visitors with sharpened icicles is antisocial. What else am I supposed to do with all those icicles? If they weren't meant to be used as weapons they wouldn't be shaped like that.

I poured a whisky and asked if he'd like anything in it. He held the glass up to the light, stared at it for a moment and said "Yes. More whisky". This was going to be an expensive visit. Oh well, he doesn't visit often and he's far more entertaining company than the barely literate villagers in the local pub.

"Shouldn't you be out hunting for ghosts?" I asked. 

He took a large gulp of whisky. "In this weather?"

I nodded in sage agreement. "Ah, so the cold weather makes ghostly activity unlikely, you think?"

"Not necessarily."  He turned his back for a moment and strolled across the room, past the drinks cabinet. "It does, however, make ghosthunter activity unlikely. Ghosts are already dead. I am not and I'm in no hurry." He had not visibly paused at the cabinet yet when he returned to his seat his glass was full. I've never managed to work out how he does that.

"You braved the weather to get here though." I poured myself a glass of Chateau Dume AB+ and took a seat facing him.

The Professor raised his glass. "You have whisky. Ghosts don't." His face became serious. "Although you might have hit on something there. I've wondered why ghosts appear mainly on calm still nights when it's warm outside, or in sheltered places like buildings. Maybe it's not the ghosts. Maybe the findings reflect the comfort zones of the people looking for them." He sipped at his whisky. "It's not likely to change, though, unless some seriously masochistic people take up investigating. Electrical storms should increase ghostly activity due to all that energy in the air but it's not a friendly environment for people, nor for equipment."

I considered mentioning that Dume Castle isn't much of a friendly environment and it's packed with ghosts. Some nights you can't move without getting covered in ectoplasm. I kept quiet because he'd have the place filled with cables and all sorts of machinery if he found out. Anyway, the ghosts all seem to disappear whenever he arrives. I wonder if he's related to Death? It was time to change the subject because that line of conversation could get awkward.

"I found a name for Dumelet," I said. "He's now Caligula Dume."

The Professor's face darkened. "You said you wouldn't tell anyone about that revolting middle name of mine."

"Relax, nobody knows. I'll tell everyone he's named after my great-uncle. You and I are the only ones who know he's also named after you."

"Well." He considered this for a moment. "As long as you're sure." He handed me his empty glass. "I think this calls for a drink."

I left the glass on the table and brought the bottle over. He was likely to finish it anyway. I brought my bottle of AB+ too, since this looked like turning into a long drinking session.

Glasses recharged, I resumed the conversation. "What is it about your middle name that you hate so much? I think it's a fine name. There have been several Caligula Dumes in the past. One was Italian, as I recall."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised to find the Roman emperor by that name was a relative of yours. I hate the name because I went through hell at school with it.  Romulus Caligula Crowe. You can imagine what the other kids made of that."

"No. I can't. I never went to school and neither will little Caligula." I allowed myself a little smile at the thought of what he might consider 'school dinner'. "Dume education remains within the castle. It's tradition."

"Homeschool, eh? Probably for the best. Modern education produces too many who spend all their time with CDs and DVDs but can't spell either of them."

"True. The villagers here spend a lot of time and money putting up signs but few of them know what the signs say. They find the butcher and baker shops by smell. They don't find the library at all."

Our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Senga, bleeding. Caligula had escaped again. I handed the Professor a cattle prod and we went searching. His surprise at the weapon was answered when we found little Caligula, munching his way through some wood panelling in the Wood Room, which is now called the Splinter Room. A little judicious prodding forced him back to his own room which fortunately has a steel door.

With Caligula back in place, the Professor decided it was time to head home. He left, muttering something about considering cryptozoology, and shut the front door a little too hard. The sound of falling icicles resounded through the swamp.

Never mind. It's still cold enough to grow some more.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:13 PM | Permalink

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I had to get out of the house this evening. Dumelet nearly took my eye out with his bottle and Senga is overly protective of him. I told her, there's no need to protect him but every need to defend yourself from him but she refuses to listen.

So I spent the evening at the Throat and Razor. The locals were as quiet as usual, barely a word spoken above a whisper and most of the intelligible ones involved pitchforks and flaming torches. They must be planning another parade. It's been a while.

Several pints of Jock McSquirty's Bowel Purger later, I headed home to find that Dumelet had escaped his cot and eaten everything in the house apart from Senga who had a few bite-sized pieces missing. She was distraught which wasn't so bad, considering that if Dumelet had found her before he found the fridge she'd be joining Father in the dungeons. Somewhat inebriated, I still managed to corrall the miscreant with a sharp pike and a net. He is now back in his cot with added barbed wire and the wire-cutters he fashioned from discarded jawbones have been confiscated.

Senga will require a bit of filler in the holes and a long discussion on the dangers of over-indulging a Dumelet, plus some painkiller in the form of her favourite drink, Broken Glass.

It's not safe to leave these two alone. Senga does not appreciate the risk of being nice to a Dumelet and she might end up spoiling him. That would be terrible.

If the villagers have that parade, I might let her take him out to see it. It would be worth watching.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 04:50 AM | Permalink

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The weather has turned colder. This is a good thing because I'll keep longer and the fridges won't be on so often, which will save some money.

Senga feels differently. She wants to know where the heating system is. There isn't one, apart from the wood fires in selected and cost-effective fireplaces. I don't know what she's so worried about. She has an extra body inside hers so her heat generation must be greater than mine.

Speaking of which, it's nearly time for the Dumelet to emerge. I still don't have a name for him. Only four weeks to go before Senga, my wife and incubator, experiences the delights of childbirth the Dume way. Everything is already sharpened in preparation and the leather restraints have been waxed and tested for strength.

The nursery is another source of disagreement. I covered the walls in blue mould to make it look nice and have a whole set of fingers arranged on a mobile. I even put fresh barbed wire around the cot and threw out the old rusty stuff. I wouldn't want him to hurt himself.

Senga wants the mould replaced with paint - of the same colour - which seems like a total waste of time to me. Besides, paint needs to be cleaned while mould simply grows over any stains. She doesn't like the barbed wire either but I have to insist that stays. I want to know where he is when I'm asleep.

As for the mobile, she wants the fingers replaced with something else. She suggested fish. Is she mad? Those things stink after a few days. The fingers have been carefully steeped in formalin so the stench is bearable even after months. By then he'll have eaten them all anyway. Apparently she doesn't like the way they all point into the cot. Might give him psychological problems, she says. No they won't. They'll get him ready for his first visit to the village. The background tapes of malevolent whispers will help with that too. I am a thoughtful father, as you see.

One thing I have yet to prepare is my own defensive barrier. The Dumelet will start trying to kill me before he can walk, as is traditional. I don't intend to make it too easy for him to win.

I don't want to spoil him, you see.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:23 AM | Permalink

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There's a photo doing the rounds at the moment that is claimed to be of a face in a glacier.

Don't you believe it. That's a photo Senga took when defrosting one of the freezers in the lab.

I really should clean those out more often.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

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Now that we're married, it seems rude to refer to Senga as Senga. Perhaps I should refer to her as 'Wife'. That seems much more polite.

It is difficult to come to terms with having a wife around the place. They are even more unpredictable than single wenches and much more likely to explode with no provocation at all. Wife said to me, when trying on one of those dresses she found in Mother's cabinet (the one with the bustle, a sort of backside enhancement device):

"Does my bum look big in this?"

I tried a conciliatory tone. "My dear, your bum looks big in everything, but it looks especially huge in that dress."

She became violent. I have no idea why. I thought I was being complimentary but women's ears are evidently tuned to other words than those that come out of men's mouths.

So I have a choice. Develop a translation device so that whatever I say, she hears what she wants to hear, or plug her ears with wax while she sleeps. Or I could take the really cheap option and just mumble incoherently. When she says "what did you say?" I can respond with "what should I have said?"

Nobody told me marriage was going to be so difficult. I should have just built an heir instead.

Ah well, I'll figure it out eventually.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

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I have promised Sergeant Shelsky a photograph of myself. He tried to take one when he visited but his camera melted. I have also broken several in the attempt but I will continue to try. Fortunately he doesn't want one of Senga. Last time anyone tried that, the orbit of Pluto was deflected and an entire entourage of photographers crashed into Jupiter. The whole Shoemaker-Levy Photographic Company was wiped out in that incident.

Photography is not made any easier by the removal of street lighting from the village. I knew it couldn't last. The giant swamp snails were everywhere and the lights attracted other things too. There was a plague of bagpipes for a few nights. Their noisy mating rituals and territorial calls kept everyone awake. It was good news for Hamish McSkirt and his kilt business because he soon built up a whole pile of bagpipe-skins in a range of tartans, but for everyone else it was terrible. I'm not bothered by bagpipes out at Dume Towers because the trapweed gets them. My problem, lately, has been a population explosion of giant carnivorous haggis. Very nasty things, but very tasty if you get them before they get you. They are currently inflating the bank account of Angus McFlatulent, the local haggis-trapper. Every cloud does indeed have a silver lining.

Except the ones over Dume Swamp. They have dark grey linings.

Nobody has yet found a way to profit from the giant swamp snails. I am in talks with some French restaurants so I may yet make something out of all this myself. Enough, perhaps, to buy a camera with a specially reinforced lens.

Or, as a cheaper option, a mask.

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

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The article for AlienSkin is submitted by the skin of the teeth I still have, so I took Senga to the Throat and Razor for tonight's live music event. She enjoyed it but then she's easily pleased. For example, I bought her a new frying pan the other day and she expressed her delight by forming an impression of my face in the base of it. All the fried food now looks like me. What greater flattery can a husband ask? When the bruising subsides, I'll buy her a new iron.

I was less impressed with the Throat and Razor's entertainment. There was a mouth-organ player who sounded like someone on far too many cigarettes and one with a thing called an 'accordion' which looked like a bellows and sounded like a box of angry cats. The guitar player had more fingers than strings but that's not too unusual for twelve-string guitar players in these parts. In his case, I had the impression that his mind was thinking one song but his fingers were playing another.

When Hamish McSquall got up to sing, I hastened Senga to the door. The survival rate for Hamish's singing is not as good as that from Ebola. Those who do survive recount a continuous screech in their ears which never stops but changes tone in the opposite direction to any real music they might hear.

And so we have had a night out as a married couple. I can check that particular chore from my list.

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

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I have, at long last, made the acquaintance of Sergeant Shelsky and found him and his stepfather (apparently so named because he keeps falling off steps) most agreeable company. It was a shame to leave them but the world outside the swamp is far too bright and dry, and the sky a somewhat disturbing blue colour. I can only take such surreal surroundings in small doses. Nonetheless, I hope one day to visit the Sergeant's abode in return, even though he says it's in America which is on the other side of the planet. I picture them all clinging for dear life to the underside of the world and wonder if I still have the strength in these old fingers to join them. One day I will put it to the test.

We visited the desirable residence above but did not approach because there is an immense hole in the ground all round the place. Moats are common features of UK castles but this castle's owner had, I think, turned moat-digging into a pathological fetish. It really doesn't need to be several hundred feet deep. Well, unless they had something much, much larger than the Slimy Swamp Thing to contend with. Rabid brachiosaurs, perhaps, or a deranged diplodocus. That would explain the moat.

We discussed many things and I have heeded the Sergeant's advice on book submission for good reason - he has books in print and I don't. There really is a catch-22 in publishing. Agents want authors with a proven record of publication, while many publishers want authors to work through agents. There is a way around this, in that many publishers will accept non-agented submissions so that might be a good place to start. With a few books placed, an agent will pay more attention to that opening letter. Apparently, including fresh meat products with the submission is not a good idea. Well, live and learn.

The other aspect the Sergeant explained is to write a lot of books. Money per book is small unless you get lucky and the book is taken up by a wood full of holly trees (I think that's what he said) and they make a film of it. I thought people made films but apparently the film industry is run by that holly wood. I learned much in the last 24 hours. The world is a truly bizarre place and I thank my lucky stars I live in the sanity of the swamp.

In return, I was able to explain much of British matters, including the life cycle of the traffic cone and the actual composition of haggis. On reflection, the latter might have been better left unsaid. We discussed stone circles and roundabouts and concluded that places like Stonehenge were early attempts at roundabouts. They fell into disuse because nobody had thought to invent the motor car at that time and because of Roman invasion. Romans built dead straight roads because they had no concept of steering and so would not have been able to deal with roundabouts.

I hope to repay the Sergeant's generosity at some time in the future. If his idea of moving to the UK comes to fruition, that might be sooner rather than later.

It's no surprise he wants to move to this side of the world. Hanging on underneath must get tiring after a while.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:52 AM | Permalink

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Tomorrow (or rather, later today) I should, if all goes according to plan, meet Sergeant Shelsky in the unsuspecting town of Edinburgh. It does mean leaving the swamp, but it can't be helped.

On Wednesday he wants to photograph this place. Now, I'm not a big fan of exercise. I can watch weights all day but lifting them when they don't need to be moved seems silly. So does running when there's no pitchfork-waving mobs around. I will be photographing that handsome and desirable residence too, but I'm taking a long lens and tripod. I see no need to indulge in all that up-hill and down-dale stuff.

Since it's Edinburgh we meet in, and since it'll be an overnight stay, I will go prepared. I have a pack of pocket stakes in case of attack by the hordes of miniature vampires said to infest the area. You might not have heard about those. It's not in the tourist brochures. However, should you pick up a box of toothpicks and the shop assistant gives a knowing wink, buy them. Toothpicks to some, pocket stakes to those who know.

They could save your life. And you can even pick your teeth with them.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:36 AM | Permalink

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Just after New Year, I fixed Senga's hearing with a few spare parts. Well, it was driving me nuts having to write everything down.

Now she wants to show her gratitude, which is why I have been in hiding. Her idea of gratitude appears to involve touching my face with her mouth, which is disgusting and downright unhygenic. I don't know where she's been.

While she's not around, I have access to the computer but I have to type quietly in case she hears me. I did far too good a job on those ears. Should have used ordinary human ones instead of dog ones, but I had no working spares at the time. It makes her look a little odd but then she looked fairly odd to start with. I don't think it's affected her looks that much. In fact, there's some improvement.

I think I hear something so I'll get back into hiding. If she finds that invisibility suit I lost, I could be in big trouble.

 

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 03:40 AM | Permalink

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Senga is now fully housetrained and hardly screams at all. I can get back to work now that I don't have to watch her all the time.

If anything, she's overzealous. She has de-rusted the chains in the dungeons and removed all the cobwebs. My pleas on behalf of homeless spiders fell on deaf ears. Well, how was I to know? She didn't tell me she was deaf. Even that time I shouted at her, 'Are you deaf?', she said nothing. Apparently she lipreads so she only knows I'm speaking if she's looking at me, and she doesn't like to do that. Conversation is going to be difficult.

Shiny manacles and no cobwebs or grime. Well, I don't know. I don't think those dungeons will ever be the same. Even Scabby Ted has clean teeth now. How she managed that, I'll never know. There are no signs of shredding on her anywhere.

The castle has never gleamed before. I wonder if it will attract fairies, and whether the Ferals will let any get this far? It'll be interesting to see. My great-uncle, Caligula Dume, often said that fairies were wonderful but I've never tasted one myself.

I wonder if she'll find the things I've lost? The Phantasm ball, Jugular the Clown, and my invisibility suit have all been missing for a long time. Many other things were lost by ancestors down the generations, including an entire army of mechanical warriors, or so my father once told me. He said they were painted to look like terracotta and a long-ago Dume planned to hide them in another country until they were released, whereupon he would activate them and cause mayhem on a grand scale. I don't even know where the control box is, much less the warriors.

Well, Senga wants to clean my computer. It will no doubt improve my typing if I can see the letters on the keyboard once more, so I'll go and do something else while she gets on with it.

 

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:28 AM | Permalink

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Time to relax a little. The article is done and will, I hope, suffice. Time has been short, what with training this new assistant of mine.

I have discovered her name is Senga and that she can cook. Soon, I hope, she will be able to do it without screaming whenever she opens the larder. I don't know what's wrong with her. It's all fresh. Some of those maggots have only just hatched.

She can clean, although she doesn't yet seem to have grasped the notion that the lab needs cleaning too. Well, give her time.

Once she tried to leave the castle, without even being sacked. An encounter with a Feral or two soon sent her rushing back. I don't think I need to put the chains on again. She won't even go near the windows now.

She's settling in slowly. I hope she can manage a conversation in a week or so. There's no hurry.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:30 PM | Permalink

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I admit I'm loving every minute of reading the entries for the toy horror competition. Such imagination. Such twisted minds. And here I was starting to think I was a bit strange, but no... there are those out there weirder than me. It's heartening to find so many kindred spirits. Makes me feel almost part of normal society. Not that I'd want to, but still.

Unfortunately there can be only one. It won't be easy to select from the beautifully twisted minds of those who have submitted and it can be dangerous too. Everyone who doesn't win, it's clear, is a demented lunatic who would stop at nothing to trek across Dume Swamp and attack the castle. Possibly even with the might of the village behind them, if they have sufficient oratory skills (it won't take much. They only know five words and two of those are 'food' and 'beer').

It's not too much of a problem though. The Rarely-Glimpsed Slimy Swamp Thing restricts my visitors to the minimum, and the villagers are too dim to retain the knowledge imparted by the mad attackers for the duration of the trek across the swamp. They'll forget what they're doing and turn on their leader. It's happened before and it's always fun to watch.

So if you don't win, don't take it personally. I'm not putting you down. Everything I've seen has been good and some have been amazing, but you can't all win.

There can be only one.

You have until the end of July to Be that One.

 

Keep them coming!

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:22 AM | Permalink

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I have taken up weight-watching, as recommended by doctors the world over.

I can't see the attraction. It must be the most dreadfully dull hobby ever invented. It makes you fat and lazy, too.

Perhaps I need a bigger weight.

  

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:47 AM | Permalink

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Read this a couple of times…

Some ghouls will
Some ghouls won’t
Some ghouls eat a lot of lovers and –a
Some ghouls don’t.

I know I’ve gnawed the femur but
I don’t know why
Some say they kill
And some ghouls lie

Once that’s in your head, have a listen to this joyful ditty from 1979. Does it seem quite as it should?

I hope not.

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:35 AM | Permalink

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I rarely leave the swamp but I do have the Internet. So I can virtually, if not actually, move to and fro in the world and go up and down in it. I think that's a line from a book. One my father showed me when I was larval. It had him in stitches but I never saw the jokes.

Lately my wanderings have been agent-biased since I'm looking for one. A proper one, not some fee-charging, vanity-press-submitting con artist. I have Samuel's Girl about ready to restart the submissions so I've been browsing again.

I read a lot of comments where people say they are looking for their 'dream agent'. What is that? Wouldn't a real-life one be more effective? An agent sells your book for you. I expect nothing more than that.

There's no need to pressure an agent to sell the book. There's no need to haggle about advance sizes. Agents work on a percentage. The more the author makes, the more the agent gets so any advance they negotiate is going to be as high as it can be. Every decent agent does that.

What I'm looking for is a business arrangement. I don't need more friends. I don't need a shoulder to cry on. There are plenty in the spares cupboard. I don't need anyone interfering in my daily life. I need an agent relationship that goes like this:

Me: Here's a book.

Agent: It's crap. I can't sell that.

Me: Okay, here's another one.

Agent: Better, but you have to fix these bits.

Me: Fixed. How about now?

Agent: Okay, I think I can sell this. Call me in a couple of months if you don't hear from me.

 

Then I forget about that book until the time comes to fiddle with it again, and in the meantime write something else.

You tell me. What else does a 'dream agent' do? I can't think of anything else I'd want from one.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 10:29 PM | Permalink

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I bought a couple of DVD's recently. A romantic little number called 'Bride of Chucky' and one I've been looking for, an alleged horror classic called 'The Evil Dead'.

'Bride of Chucky' is full of wonderful new ideas. The mirror scene is a masterpiece. The story even tips its hat to 'Hellraiser' at one point. I thoroughly enjoyed every minute.

'The Evil Dead' wasn't as good as I was led to believe. Trapping a character under a fallen bookshelf should really be limited to once per character per film. If one scene is devoted to a character giving his girfriend a specific item, then it must do something. It does do something in the end, but what it does bears no relation to what it is, and it's a very specific and unusual item. I must admit I was, more than once, left with a feeling of 'Oh, you could have used that to...'. I also had the feeling of 'When did you put that in your pocket? I thought the demon stopped you picking it up?'

There are many criticisms from a purely writerly standpoint. People don't heal within hours, blood loss affects stamina especially when you've been awake all day and all night, if you pick up a gun don't leave the shells behind, and if you're hiding bodies in shallow graves in the woods, don't mark them with a cross. These and many more errors marred the story but if you like your gore close-up and personal, well there's plenty of that. One for the bloodlusters. A nice ending too. Still I think that story could have been played so much better if it hadn't just concentrated on the gore. Many things were left unexplored, many potentially useful items were never used.

If you have to choose one of those films for the night, I recommend 'Bride of Chucky'. Murder with a sense of humour. Death with a chuckle. By the end of it you won't mind if Chucky and his bride kill you because you know they won't do it in a plain old ordinary way.

On the other hand, if you want ideas, films like 'The Evil Dead' are worth watching. See where they went wrong and expand on their missed opportunities in your own stories.

It's not stealing if they didn't use it.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:21 AM | Permalink

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The new issue of AlienSkin is online, with new articles and a heap of new stories.

You'll get no sense out of me for a while. My eyes are glued to the screen. When I get them off I'm going to beat Stumpy within an inch of his life.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:09 AM | Permalink

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I don't write poetry. Not because I don't like it, but because I can't do it.

I tried. The results would make any meal return. So I don't.

Besides, how could I--or anyone--top this?

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:14 AM | Permalink

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At the behest of my good and possibly only friend, the acerbic and probably Aperger's Professor Crowe, I looked in on the madness that constitutes Yahoo UK's message boards. There are some wonderfully deranged people posting there. A good dose of McCarthyism wouldn't go amiss on some of the forums, while Hitler might be a little embarrassed at a few of the right-wing views. I'll ask next time I unfreeze him. As per the Professor's advice, I made no attempt to join in. There are no moderates on those forums. Death and taxes rule.

One item I noted was the comment on Charles Dickens' 'Oliver'. The latest adaptation for British television cast Nancy as a black woman. There was much furore on the forum. Mr. Dickens must surely be spinning in his grave? I thought Mr. Dickens would have been delighted.

Dickens made no reference to skin colour in that book. That, I think, was part of its universal brilliance. Apart from Fagin, who was Jewish, the rest of the cast could have been Chinese or African or Indian or anything else. It was set in London but it could have been Beijing or Karachi or Cape Town or Bangalore. Fagin didn't even need to be Jewish to make the story work. No ethnic requirement at all, in any component of the tale.

It was a story of an orphan who fell among a pickpocket gang and who was eventually rescued into 'polite society'. The orphan was a sympathetic character, but so were all the 'bad guys'. Fagin was an old man looking for a retirement nest-egg. He had no intention of hurting anyone. Dodger was a child who knew no other way to stay alive. Even Bill Sykes, the killer, wasn't all bad. Almost, but not quite.

At its essence, it's a story of the criminal element of the city. Any city. Anywhere. Not the gangs, the Mafia, the Tongs, just the ordinary tough-time kids who are doing their best to survive. New York. London. Paris, Munich. Everybody's talking about popular musicals like Oliver. (if you're hearing 'Pop Music' and wondering who sang it, wonder on. I know, but I won't tell. Ha!).

That's why the story lives on. It fits everywhere. It's not tied to a specific time or place. It's not the story of a specific Oliver in a specific London, even though it specifies that this is Oliver and this is London. Oliver could be M'beki, or Li Pau, or bhuPinder. It doesn't matter. The story works anywhere. It works in the 1800's, it works now, it works in a future setting. Everywhere and everywhen.

When your story is critiqued by a critique group, you'll often hear that your descriptions are lacking. What does your hero look like? What does he/she wear? Don't tell them.

Every reader wants to be the hero of the story. That's the point of reading. It's escapism. In that moment, you are the Green Arrow, or Batman, or Harry Potter. Perhaps you're Frodo, or Gandalf, or the Barrow-Wight or even Tom Bombadil. You are the one doing the Great Things. You're in their heads.

If the hero is specified as a Patagonian Hindu of Tibetan descent, how many can identify? You can't work with that as a reader. It can't possibly be you (few exceptions noted). 0n a more general note, if your hero is specifically black and middle class, your white/indian/Chinese readership is excluded. The story is most definitely not about them. They can't identify.

Ah, but what about Lord of the Rings? Isn't Frodo white? Aren't the elves white? Aren't the orcs black?

Who says? Tolkein? I think not. Frodo could have been an Eskimo for all the books say. Sauron could have been (and most likely was) a freelance mortgage consultant. Who else could be so evil? Frodo and Sam were small, and weak, and helpless. You all feel like that once in a while. Yes, you do. That's why you find someone in these stories to identify with. When you write, keep in mind that other people are just as neurotic as you.

Keep it vague. Engage your reader, but engage them all. Not just a select few. 

Read 'A Christmas Carol'. What colour is Scrooge's skin in that book? Would the same story work just as well in Zimbabwe or Tokyo or Baghdad, even if you replaced Christmas with another religious festival?

Ask the same question of your own stories. Do they translate in time and space? Can everyone find something to identify with in there? Will they still find it in ten years' time?

If the answer is 'Yes', then prepare to be a success.

If it's 'No', keep trying.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 05:33 AM | Permalink

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Isn't that the most wonderful name for any creature? The real thing is less imposing than the Slimy Swamp Thing, but the name wins hands down.

They have another name, because of the slime they exude. The snot-otter. How can one animal have two such fantastic names? It's unfair.

I'd try to introduce them into the swamp, but they need clean water. We don't have much of that here. Not with Stumpy around.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 03:04 AM | Permalink

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Soon it will be Halloween, and I'll be getting ready for the annual round of trick-or-trick. I gave up on the treats years ago. I'd offer candied kidneys, fondant-filled eyes and sweetbreads in aspic, but nobody ever appreciated any of them. So now I just wait for the tricks. I have a few of my own for purely retaliatory purposes, in keeping with the spirit of the season. Which reminds me, I must get Stumpy to ensure the roof-cauldrons are well filled with fresh lead and that we have a good stock of flesh-arrows.

While we wait for the festive day, the new issue of AlienSkin is up and worth a few hours of computer time. Lucky for me, I didn't send the article about my current woeful attempts at getting an agent interested in this novel of mine. Sergeant Shelsky's article is about publication this month, and I'd have clashed. Lady Blade (read the article, don't just lust at the picture) has taken on the legend of King Arthur for this issue.

And there's something else new. If you can write a complete story in 150 words exactly, you can submit as micro-fiction. No pay for these but hey, it's only 150 words and it's a publishing credit. Where else can you get that?

I thought of letting Stumpy try, but I doubt he knows 150 words and even if he does, he's not likely to get them in the right order.

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Golf is to Scotland what soccer is to England, rugby to Wales and American football to, well, America.

Unfortunately there is nowhere in Dume Swamp flat enough for a green, or solid enough for a fairway. My golfing activities are restricted to hitting balls from the tower. I can get a Feral at 150 yards on a good day.

Stumpy is not happy about it because there’s no way to put a tee into the granite slabs of the tower floor. He lies down and holds the ball in his fingers. Honestly, you should hear him complain – and I only undercut my stroke four times. That was because he held the ball too high the first time and because he was shaking so much the second and third times. The fourth one was deliberate.

To shut him up for a while I bought a golf game for the computer. I’ve never been much interested in computer games but I went along to the village where Tumbleguts McJoystick runs a video game shop. He makes a lot of the games himself, apparently. I browsed among games with strange titles like ‘Angry Mob’, ‘Castlesmasher’, ‘Kill the Doctor’ but settled on a copy of ‘Deathmatch Golf’.

It’s a well-made game, I have to admit. The gory parts were most realistic. Basically, it’s a golf game with extensions. On normal computer golf, if you slice the ball it goes off into blank green and flat scenery. Away from the course, nothing exists but flat grass.

Not in this one. I hooked a shot into the car park and broke a windscreen. I then had to complete that hole as fast as possible before the owner of the car came out of the clubhouse. All car owners are big, angry and vicious in this game.

Now I had to complete the course before he found out who broke his windscreen. Other characters in the game will tell him who did it unless they’re bribed or killed. I chose the cheaper option, even though I was armed with only a bag of golf clubs.

That does change: if you birdie a hole you get a shotgun in your golf bag. A hole in one gets you a nailgun. Very nice, and very handy at the seventh where I had to cross a bridge with a troll under it. The Billy Goats Gruff would have been a much shorter story had Little Billy Goat Gruff been properly armed.

The car-owner almost caught me at the twelfth but I had already woken the Wyrm that lives in that hole, so I left them to fight it out.

It seems he won because he reappeared at the fourteenth. I had just dealt with the horde of goblins and won myself a rocket launcher. That slowed him down a bit, but the car-owners can’t be killed, I think. Unless there’s some weapon hidden somewhere that I didn’t find on my first round.

To survive, you have to complete all eighteen holes and make it into the clubhouse—which is full of big, angry car owners. You have to reach the bar and order a round of drinks to placate them. It goes very much against my nature, but that’s what it took to win the game.

It wasn’t real money, but the game was so realistic I had to count my pocket change to be certain.

 

I’ll have another go later. I’m sure I missed a few things last time.

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I broke my mother’s heart today.

It was my own fault. I should have put the jar on a more secure shelf. Adding Uncle Isaac’s skull to that shelf was the last straw, but he was Mother’s brother so I thought they’d like to be together.
 

Well, they are now. Together in a pool of formaldehyde on the floor.

Never mind. I know how to mend a broken heart.

Cyanoacrylate.

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I have wondered about showing my photographic efforts to Professor Crowe but I have always decided against it. He’s always trying to prove the existence of ghosts. They always dodge his camera, and with good reason. Proof of the afterlife is not a good idea, not at all.

So I’ve never mentioned Death’s visits, never recounted my father’s continued haunting of the vault, never told him about the Soul Bag nor described the occasional appearance of Red Stan. I think, in his zealous fervour to find scientifically testable proof, he has never paused to consider the implications.

Why should any government restrict itself to small bombs in times of war? Why minimise civilian casualties? Why not use nuclear weapons? If Professor Crowe succeeds in proving that nobody ever really dies, then the moral restriction is lifted. Anyone can kill anyone else, with no pangs of guilt at all. They’re not really dead. They’ve just moved into a new existence. Yes, I already know all this which is why I can perform my experiments with my visitors. They usually turn up sad and lonely, and therefore they’re better off after I’ve finished with them. I don’t think it would be a good idea for everyone to realise this, though. It might make my visits to the Throat and Razor a little riskier than usual.

Consider a world where the death penalty is the easy option. Consider what will happen when science accepts the existence of life after death and sinks its teeth and claws into the subject. It won’t be long before they find the demons and let them out too. That’s not a good idea because most demons aren’t really very friendly and have very poor social skills.

In no time at all, they’ll prove reincarnation and then we’ll all be in trouble. Imagine finding out you were convicted of terrible crimes in a former life and sentenced to three life sentences. You’ve only completed one of them so it’s off to the pokey you go. Next time you’re reincarnated you’ll go straight back in.

Don’t like your life? Just kill yourself and start again. The only thing stopping many suicides is the thought that this might be it, this might be the only chance at life you get. Prove it’s not and see what happens. You won’t find a street sweeper or cleaner anywhere on the planet. Anyone stuck in any job like that is just going to jump off a building and hope they come back as royalty. They’d be wrong of course. Suicides come back as administrators which is why they all have such dead eyes and no imagination. Trust me on this. I heard it from the lips--well, teeth--of Death himself.

So I keep my photos to myself. I tape over those recordings of voices, few of which made any sensible comments anyway. I mean, what would be the point of my experimenting into the influence of terror on human biology if nobody was scared any more? I’d never get any results at all.

Death would be furious with me too. All that extra work he’d have because of me. I think Red Stan might be happy though, but I don’t like him all that much so screw him.

That’s why I don’t tell Professor Crowe about the ghosts I’ve seen, photographed and recorded. If I did, I’d ruin my experimental work and cause an enormous amount of trouble, and that would draw unwelcome attention to me and my laboratory.

So I won’t tell anyone. Not even you.

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Death came for my father last night, but he wasn’t home. He never is, since Death’s visits are so predictable.

Father died many years ago, but his spirit dodged Death’s grasp. He’s been hanging out in the vaults ever since. He likes to count the money, which I don’t mind since he’s no longer capable of spending any of it. Having a ghost in the vault, especially a vindictive one, is better than any locks I could buy.

Still, Death comes around, once a month, with scythe and soul-bag and wanders around the castle looking for the old man. He’s never here. He always knows when Death’s on the way. It’s the darkening in the air that gives away his approach, every time.
 

I don’t think Death really expects to catch my father any more. I think he comes here for a cup of tea and a chat. He does his cursory examination of the castle while I make tea—well, this time Stumpy made the tea—and then we settle down in front of the fire and discuss the afterlife. I’ve noticed Death takes less and less time over these inspections each visit. I’ve also noticed he makes straight for the laboratory as his first stop.

It’s a difficult discussion, since Death doesn’t like to talk shop when he’s off-duty, so I’ve never gleaned too much information from him. He knows Red Stan. I gather they have some kind of business arrangement, but Death wouldn’t elaborate.

I threw another limb on the fire and settled back in my chair. “You’re becoming a regular visitor,” I said. “Do you have a lot of places you visit once a month?”

Death responded in that booming voice that could only be produced in an empty ribcage. “Not many.” He sipped his tea. It fell through his jaw but he caught it neatly with his lower ribs. “It’s just that there’s usually a few loose souls hanging around here.”

“Oh?” I wondered at this for a moment. “Ah, of course.” I nodded at his soul bag. “So, you’ve found Mr. Pustule, and that kitchen-seller? That’ll be why you always want to visit the lab.” It also explains why the Professor never finds any ghosts here.

“Well, yes. I doubt I’ll ever catch old Dume, your father, but this is rarely a wasted trip anyway.” He held up his cup. “Besides, the tea is good. Your new assistant brews a decent cup. I could do with someone like him back home.” Death leaned forward. “How’s his health?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. Stumpy’s likely to live a few years yet. If he becomes a nuisance, I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, well.” He patted his soul bag. “Like I said, it wasn’t a wasted trip.”

“What will you do with them?” I tried to work the conversation around to life after death, as always. Death usually deflects me but I keep trying. I’d love to beat Romulus to the punch on this one.

“Well, the politician’s easy. You can tell them by their vile, pus-yellow auras. He’ll go straight to the hot place. The other one’s more difficult.”

“Oh?”

“The aura’s not clear. She did knowingly sell dodgy kitchens, but she did it to support her family.” Death sighed. “I hate the difficult ones. All that paperwork.”

I nearly choked on my tea. “Paperwork? You have paperwork?”

“Well, yes. Since the politically-correct started arriving, they’ve been making a fuss. The Big Guy hates it but his son does like to keep the peace. So they’ve been allowed to set up appeals, courts, hearings. They’ve even managed to drag a few lawyers out of the fire. I tell you, it’s a nightmare. The courtroom can’t have a roof or the burning lawyers fill it with smoke. Yet they won’t let you light your pipe in there, oh no. It makes no sense at all.” He slumped in his chair. “You won’t believe the ridiculous Spirit Rights movement they’ve started. I’ll tell you, it’s just not worth getting into Heaven any more. This lot want to let any old heretic take up residence. Last I heard, they were muttering about having more than the fair quota of Christians.”

“I hadn’t planned to go to Heaven. I wouldn’t know anyone.” I bit my lip. This was more information on the afterlife than I’d ever managed to coax from the black-clad skeleton. He noticed my interruption and must have realised he’d said more than he should, because his teeth clacked together.

“Well, I’d better get on. Thanks for the tea.” Death rose from his seat. “Busy times, you know. Wars everywhere.”

“I never watch the news. You’d need to talk to Stumpy about that, but I doubt you’d get any sense out of him.”

“Hmm. Chatty type, is he? Makes good tea, too.” Death made for the door. “Well, see you next month. If your father shows up, tell him I can fast-track him into a job with the red guy. Bypass all the queues, you know?”

“I’ll tell him,” I said. I don’t know why Death always heads for the door. Perhaps he regards it as courtesy, but he always disappears before he reaches it.

I finished my tea. With a little time to kill, I decided on a refill, but Stumpy was hiding under the kitchen table and refused to come out. I made my own.

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When I gave Stumpy a beating for breaking my computer, he insisted it was 'cruel and unusual punishment'. I think he gets such terms from those conspiracy-theory books he's always reading.

It did set me thinking though. A beating could be considered cruel, but hardly unusual. People have been beating each other since the dawn of mankind. It's one of the more usual forms of punishment, surely?

So I've tried to come up with a really unusual punishment. There's no need to worry about the cruel part - they're all cruel, that's the whole point. But what makes them unusual?

Crucifixion is very cruel indeed, but it dates back to Roman times. They used it a lot so it doesn't count as unusual. Stoning is older still, and still in common use in much of the world. Nothing unusual there.

One of the most imaginative proponents of this particular field of study was Tomas de Torquemada, head of the Spanish Inquisition. Aside from the general-purpose devices such as the rack, the Judas cradle and the iron maiden, Tomas spent a great deal of time researching unusual ways to cause pain and death. The head-clamp was a large vice, tightened a little each day until the victim died or agreed to confess to whatever he was accused of. Note that in those days you were not required to be guilty of anything in order to confess. Committing a crime was optional. Being punished for one was not.

There was one device of particular novelty, a small and portable hand-held torture implement. The pear-shaped metal head was inserted into the victim (yes, up there!) and left a shaft protruding. Turning the shaft rotated a screw-thread. This opened up the pear-shaped thing like the petals of a flower, though not a flower you'd want to sniff. Oh, and the points of the petals were sharp, too.

Once the opening had begun, the pear could not be extracted without literally ripping the guts out of the victim, In fact, it's fair to say that once this had been inserted, death by blood loss was the only possible outcome.

This definitely fits the description of cruel, and I think it's a good candidate for the award of unusual, too. It's a rare implement, and few of Tomas' guests survived his introductory devices so there weren't too many who experienced this one.

Tomas is a tough act to follow. Perhaps next time I'll bludgeon Stumpy with a live otter. That would certainly be unusual, and doubly cruel. Well, he put the idea into my head, so he has nobody to blame but himself.

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I have suffered the indignity of a broken computer these last few days. I spent ages beating Stumpy for breaking it, and now it turns out it wasn't him. Well, he needed beating anyway. it gets some of that dust out of the wrinkles in his saggy skin. So it wasn't a completely wasted effort.

What happened was that one of the Ferals sneaked in and ate my hamsters. I had seven, running in wheels to power the computer and I've now had to train new ones for the job. All is well again, and Stumpy is, at least temporarily, relatively free of filth and a rather attractive shade of purple.

I should beat him more often.

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Friday the 13^th is here. Local elections loom, so I might get visited by a politician or two. Nobody minds if politicians disappear. I have that old hockey mask dusted off, ready to answer the door.

 

Bad luck for them.

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 Stumpy has lost his mind. He's been rummaging around in the old part of the castle again, and found what he insists is a helmet for some kind of devil-beast. He thinks i'm planning to go all Saruman on him, and create my own race of orcs.

I tried to tell him. It's just my mother's wedding veil. From what I was told, my father lifted the veil, with help from the best man, at the end of the ceremony. He immediately put it back down, then refused to let her take it off for the next twenty years.

When she did finally remove it, I could see his point. She wasn't any prettier underneath. I used to think I'd had a traumatic childhood with this mask peering over my cot every night, but when I saw her face, well, let's just say I counted my blessings.

Anyway, since he's found it, I've put it on a stand for display. At least for the duration of Mother's Day.

 

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There's a lot of chatter going around the blogs on the perils of self-publishing. I lurk on other writer's blogs, I admit, and rarely comment. I can't help it. I'm a lurker by nature. My father lurked, my grandfather lurked, and so on. We have the lurky gene.

Anyway, the upshot of it all is simple. If you just send it somewhere to be printed, it's not a publishing credit. If someone (agent and/or editor) has assessed and approved it, then it's a publishing credit.

Self-publishing also means you don't get any help at all with proofreading, editing, or any form of error correction. To those who consider themselves above all that, consider this; that's probably why you're not getting accepted by traditional publishers. Nobody likes a smartass.

There's also the marketing to consider. You can spend all your time doing this yourself, or you can let a publisher's marketing department do it for you. They know how. It's what they do. While they're doing that, you can be writing another book.

I don't think any kind of self-publishing is worthwhile for fiction. There are many non-fiction instances where it can work: say you researched your family history and wanted it in a bound book. Who's going to buy it?

Suppose you want to do a photographic record of your local area. Who'd buy that?

If you wrote any kind of academic or specialist book, who'd buy it?

The market for those things is very small and often very local. You're not going to interest a New York publisher in a photo-collection of the cheery vagrants of Marchway, nor of the fascinating mutated and often carnivorous plant life of Dume Swamp. For the village residents, such a book would be invaluable, but even so the total expected sales wouldn't exceed 50 copies. So it'll never have the Random House of Penguins on the cover, that's for sure.

My sarcastic friend, Romulus, has self-published a small book on ghosthunting. It's very short, and likely to appeal only to a small group of readers. So he put it through Lulu. That makes sense. No publisher would look at it, because it'll never sell enough to pay them. Plus, he doesn't really care how many he sells. It's not his primary source of income, not by a long way.

One idea that was mooted, I forget where, was that a writer might want to get themselves a printed copy of their finished novel before they send it out for agents to reject. Even after acceptance, it takes a long time before the book appears on shelves. You might not want to wait that long to see what it looks like in print.

Well, you can do that through Lulu too. Just be sure never to make the book available to the public, or you've shot yourself in the foot. The best option would be to load it up, get as many copies as you want printed, then delete it (after the copies arrive). These are working copies only, you don't need to fool around with pretty covers. Don't buy too many: one to write on when you find the blunders you missed on screen, one to store away so you can remind yourself what it looked like before the agent/editor changed it all. That's all you need.

Lulu doesn't charge you to put books up. They only charge for the copies you buy. I can see where such an idea might be attractive, but beware - be absolutely sure the public don't get so much as a sniff, and be sure it's deleted before you send to agents. If they search on your name, or your title, and they find it on Lulu, they'll be reaching for the form rejection in the next instant.

Also, don't pass your Lulu copies around. It won't be as good as the final print, and if you have a lot of friends who are interested in it, why would they buy it if they've read it? How much money you make depends on who buys your book, not who reads it.

If you're a writer, you're self-employed. Even if you have another, real-life job, your writing counts as self-employment the moment you try to sell any. Just ask the taxman. It's your job. You should be paid for it, you shouldn't be giving your work away for free.

Most of all, you should never pay anyone anything in your quest to be published. Never. How would you react if, in your day-job, your boss demanded you pay for permission to come to work?

If anyone asks you to pay them to let you write for them, react the same way.

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If you're a fan of Dr. Who (I prefer the ratty old doctor played by William Hartnell myself) and also of Monty Python, you might like this combination:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GfNfDiqAF9Q

It even made Stumpy almost smile.

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Stumpy interrupted my writing time today. Don't be concerned. I let him live.

He wanted to tell me about a story idea he had. I reacted to this, as I always do, with grace, poise, and mature sophistication.

I stuck my fingers in my ears and bellowed 'La la la' to no particular tune until he left the room.

What non-writers never realise is that story ideas are ten a penny. Finding the time to construct a story around them, and making the idea come to bleeding, screaming, suppurating life is the hard part. If someone tells you an idea, and you use it, they expect recompense. If they tell you an idea and you've already written and published a story using that same basic plot, they'll still claim you stole it. It's best not to hear the idea in the first place.

Every writer has heard the 'I can sell you a great idea for a story' line, or one of its variants. Never, ever, let them speak the idea aloud. Never.

Some writers are worried that if they show their work to others, their idea will get stolen. So what if it does? If someone needs to steal your idea, then they have no imagination of their own. They might scribble something but without imagination, it won't be any good at all. If I let you in on some ideas I've been batting around, you might well go off and use them. I don't care.

Sometimes I put up ideas I've been thinking about. I might write a hundred words about an idea for a novel. That's going to end up at around 80-100,000 words when it's all done. If it ever gets done. Let's suppose someone reads the idea and decides to use it themselves.

Why would I care? They'll turn that 100-word outline into a story, maybe even a very good one. It will be nothing like the one I'll write from the same outline. If you give an outline to a hundred writers, they'll come up with a hundred different stories. An outline is like the signpost in the swamp that says 'You are here'. Where you go next is up to you.

Ideas are not sacred. Ideas are not valuable commodities. Ideas cannot even be copyrighted. Ideas are easy. Clamping your backside to a chair (I use Mole grips for the fast-release function) and writing the wretched thing is the hard part.

If you read an idea here and are inspired by it, good. I'm not going to come to your millionaire's mansion in ten years and demand a cut of the proceeds. I might send Stumpy, but I won't be there. I'll be here. Writing something else.

Any idea you read here is free. Public domain and all that. If you do use one, I'd like a footnote (inspired by Dr. Dume, please visit his castle but don't tell anyone where you're going) but even that's not compulsory. If I find an idea posted here has been written up and published, I'll feel a warm glow from the thought that I might have inspired it. I'm not going to stalk you. I hear people get quite upset about that sort of thing.

There are something like six billion heads in the world. My good friend, Romulus, would say that most of them are empty but even so, the chances of anyone having a unique thought are slim. Whatever you've written, someone else has thought of it. If you're lucky, they haven't bothered to write it.

Don't worry about people stealing your ideas. Those who could actually make use of the idea have no need to steal it. Those who would steal it are unlikely to be able to use it.

Don't listen to anyone who offers you an idea. You don't need it, and you're just opening yourself up to future problems if you use it. Unless, as here and in the Alienskin articles, you have a written assurance that the idea is offered for free and completely free of strings, threads, and trails of mucus. Well, no strings or threads anyway.

Active discussions of this subject are currently going on all over the Internet, on blogs and writer's groups. That's where I stole the idea for this entry.

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A madman rang my doorbell today. Dressed as a salesman, he waved glossy brochures and said he had come to sell me double glazing. It's a big castle, he said, with lots of windows. Doesn't it get draughty?

"It's a castle," I said. "It's supposed to be draughty. Prevents the buildup of undesirable odours." I sized him up. One of my life-sized models needed a new chassis, but he was far too short to be useful. Even a few days on the rack wouldn't fix him. Besides, I was intrigued by the idea of double glazing, whatever that might be. I tried to imagine windows fitted with glass twice as wide as the opening but couldn't for the life of me work out why anyone would want that.

"It cuts down noise, too." He was making this up, I was sure. I folded my arms and nodded at him to continue. He did. "Double glazing can block disturbing noise, leaving a peaceful and calm environment."

I considered this. "A peaceful and calm environment is not really what I intend for my swamp. Besides, this castle is far enough from the village that they are unlikely to be disturbed by the noises."

The madman cleared his throat. He took a step back and pointed upwards. "You have a window up there with no glass at all. My company could fit a nice PVC frame in there in no time, and it would be much warmer inside."

I rolled my eyes at this and spoke very slowly. "If I were to plug that window with glass, it would shatter next time I shot at the Ferals, now wouldn't it?" That was, in fact, what had happened to the original glass but he seemed to have difficulty absorbing what I had already told him so I decided not to explain further.

"Ferals? What are Ferals?"

That was it. This double glazing sounded like something I really didn't want to buy, and I could think of no experimental or decorative use for this man, so I handed him a flashlight and an airhorn. "Blast the horn and wave the light, and you'll see them for yourself."

I closed and locked the door and ran upstairs to fetch my crossbow. He had sounded the horn twice before I reached the window, but I still managed to bag a few as they carried him away.

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Apparently it's something called Groundhog Day today, or maybe it was yesterday. Anyway, I ignored it because I don't like groundhogs. Very little meat on them, once you have them cleaned and ready for the pot. Besides, I always spend the whole night picking them out of my teeth, and I've never worked out why eating them makes me watch my shadow. So I just snacked on some leftovers from my last experimental subject.

I've been wondering what the Rarely-Glimpsed Slimy Swamp Thing tastes like. Apparently oily fish is good for you, and the Swamp Thing, while it's definitely not a fish, is very oily indeed.

Originally, I assumed the Swamp Thing was Grandmother Dume, but it can't be. I had one of those rare glimpses of it recently and it has two eyes, not one, and neither is on a stalk. So it can't be Granny. Her disappearance at around the time of the first Glimpse of the Swamp Thing must be coincidence. Unless, of course, it wondered what she tasted like.

I expect she was a bit chewy.

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I rarely watch television. Reception is poor because of all the flying monkeys. I'll have to get the anti-aircraft guns working again one day.

Internet access is, of course, unaffected. So I was able to catch up with some children's programming, since Mother never allowed me to view such nonsense when I was in my larval stage.

She was right, as it turned out. If I'd been exposed to things like this I might have turned out demented, rather than the well-balanced adult my parents brought me up to be.

It's a good thing my mother was such a tough woman, even though it meant I had to run the tenderiser for three days before she was edible.

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They don't like the cold. Poor Tim here is suffering after a visit from Jack Frost. It's time to bring them inside and put them in the fire. They'll be happier there.

Actually, since the oven's on anyway, I could use that to warm them up. As long as they don't eat my dinner while they're in there.

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Welcome to Dume Towers, surrounded by frosty swamp at the moment. The Rarely-Glimpsed Scaly Swamp Thing is even rarer these days, although it's best not to spend too much time outside because it'll be hungry. I haven't seen a salesman in months.

No sign of Santa again this year. I performed all the invocations, burned the right body parts in the right amounts, hung the Sacred Stockings over the fireplace, but nothing. The other red guy turned up again but he's no use. He just goes on and on about trading my soul for something. I explained, once more, that I never enter into any business deals with anyone who has a tail. Perhaps I'm picky, but there it is.

Perhaps I'm supposed to take the feet out of the stockings? I'll try that next year.

Or maybe Santa called in on the Scaly Swamp Thing first. That would be unfortunate.

Well, no matter. It's nearly time for the New Year celebrations, and I'll be having a guest for dinner. Better go and get the oven warmed up.

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