Estronomicon 6

Issue 6 : December 2006

Contents

Page

Is That The Time?

by Steve Upham

1

Crimson Spider Fiction by Jeff Brown

2

ESTRONOMICON The Official SD eZine

Fantasy Visions Cover artist Brian Hamner

4

***

Novelist Beware Advice from Sarah Crabtree

8

The Artful Collector Regular column by Jane Frank

9

Death Codex Chapter 6 by Sean Woodward

23

Photographs Strange tale by Neil Davies

28

Heaven & Hell The art of Michael Calandra

41

1,2.3...1,2,3 Story by Paul Kane

46

Worthwhile Web Cool sites that are worth visiting

56

Published by Screaming Dreams *** Edited by Steve Upham *** Cover Artwork 'Battle Reaver' Š Brian Hamner 2005

All content remains the Copyright of each contributor and must NOT be re-used without written permission from the original Copyright holder(s). Thank you.

Is That The Time? : 1

Is That The Time?

by Steve Upham

Wow, is that the time already? December! This year has simply flown past at an alarming rate. It's been a very busy past 12 months, that's for sure.

This is the time of year where we usually reflect on what we've done with our lives. Asking ourselves if we've achieved what we set out to do when we made our New Year Resolutions at the start of 2006? Did we stop eating and drinking too much and start going to the gym to get fit? Err, no! Did we get a pay rise at work?

Probably not! Another year passes and things slide past again.

But stop and think for a moment about what you have achieved. Pick the best moments of 2006 and make a mental note of them. Let those thoughts inspire and encourage you to work even harder next year to pursue your dreams.

As for me I can honestly say I've had a good year, creatively speaking. Getting this eZine up and running has been has been one of the highlights for me. Not only has it been a rewarding experience in terms of learning new skills, it has also given me the opportunity to get to know a lot of new and very talented people in the process. I would like to thank all the authors, artists and publishers who were generous enough to share their time and work with me during 2006.

The feedback received about Estronomicon has all been very positive and I think the eZine has got off to a great start this year. Many thanks to all the readers who have been kind enough to e-mail me with their nice comments. It does make a difference when I know all this work is being appreciated!

I have lots planned for 2007 so keep watching for more issues of the eZine and several free eBooks to be released. Plus don't forget that Screaming Dreams will also be starting to publish printed books too, so if you'd like to help support this website (and the authors/artists who contribute to the eZine) then please consider purchasing a copy of the books! Any profits made will be invested back into the publishing venture and allow me to offer even more titles in future.

So 2006 has been a good year at this end. And 2007 will be even better! I hope that you will all continue to read and enjoy Estronomicon. Don't forget to tell your friends about it and help spread the word! Keep those comments coming in too, I always enjoy hearing from you. Cheers.

2 : Crimson Spider

Crimson Spider

by Jeff Brown

He lay on the bed, still, cold and stiff. His skin was pale blue, his lips purple, his eyes open and unseeing. His arms were hanging on either side of the bed, palms out and skin ashen, fingernails long and purple. Long, golden hair lay about his head like a dead bride's vail. His lips were parted slightly, exposing a glint of white teeth.

A sheet lay on his body from navel down. It was stained a dark brown color that at one time could have been red. His chest was bare and scarred; deep scars that almost still looked fresh and opened. Noticeably, there was no hair on his body other than his long, golden mane.

There are flies buzzing, zigging and zagging about the room. Sometimes they would take perch on any and all things that they can. Then they'd be off again, buzzing and flitting about.

There are little furnishings in the room; save the bed and a small table there is none. The floor is sticky with dried fluids that hide under picked clean bones . . . they litter the room in piles making it difficult to walk around without stepping on one or two of them. Webs, spun in silver silk, draped the corners of walls and the cluttered bones throughout the room.

A sound appears; soft at first, but then it grows. A hum vibrates through the room. Bones shake, then dance across the floor. They rattle as they click and clack against each other.

His eyes blink, lids closing and opening in rapid succession. Clear, now, he sees.

Slowly he moves, rising as joints and muscles pop, creak, stretch and yawn.

Standing, he looks around the room. He should be horrified, yet he feels nothing.

Nothing . . . nothing . . .

From under the bed where no light shines and spider webs dangle, the hum begins again. It is soft; almost a coo, like from a child. A tongue, long and purple, flickers. It is a whip from a wide mouth edged with shards of teeth. It slithers between lips that aren't really there and nips one bare foot of the man. Slime, wet and sticky adheres to the man's foot.

He nods, accepting what he is to do.

Crimson Spider : 3

"Not long," he says in a soft voice. "Not long, and you shall eat."

The sheet drops to the floor. A body, mangled and mutilated is exposed. He doesn't notice. Kicking bones he drags his feet through them and the many cob webs that plaster them until the door is at hand. It is opened and he is out of it, fading from sight and into nothing.

Eyes, once glazed and unseeing are now carried on the misty wind; along the foggy banks. They seek, find and stalk on silent wings pushed by the cold puffs of stale air.

A breath; soft and almost not there startles the pray. She turns her eyes that are gray and beginning to show age in them. Teeth with no face comes from the fog; long and sharp . . . and hungry. A scream escapes . . . is cut down . . . ceases before heard.

Blood, hot and rich fills his throat and stomach. He shakes, almost violently, as he pulls himself from the dead woman. Licking, flicking his tongue he laps more blood, savoring the taste of fear that permeates through it.

The journey home is short and tiresome. He enters the room dragging the woman's body. It makes a path through the bones and the webs of spiders.

The soft humming begins again then grows loud. Bones rattle and dance once more. The body falls by the bed, making a loud clatter as it lands amongst the hundreds of web covered bones.

Picking up the sheet he lies back onto the bed. He pulls it up to his navel. His arms drop to his sides. His mouth and face are crimson stained. He blinks, lids shuttering in rapid succession. He is unseeing again.

Legs, long and slender slip out from the bed. They are like those of a spider. An impossible tongue flickers out, licking blood. It coils around the woman's open throat and pulls her under the bed with several bumps and thumps. Spinning, twirling, the body rolls over and over and over, layers of silver silk beginning to cover it. There is slurping and grunting and belching.

The man, unseeing, stares at a ceiling not there for him. He hears the feeding of the crimson monster. It will not want food for a time, but then he will awaken again. The crimson monster will seek, will hunt and will send him out to retrieve.

For now, he hears the crimson spider, the crimson monster and he wishes for death that will never come for him.

4 : Fantasy Visions

Fantasy Visions The Art Of Brian Hamner

Many thanks to Brian Hamner for providing this month's cover art. Brian is a highly motivated, creative, and versatile commercial illustrator specializing in fantasy and dark fantasy artwork. He calls upon his love of the fantasy universe to create his visually stunning images. ***

' War Craft' : Copyright Š Brian Hamner 2006

Brian was born on the Mid-Atlantic Tropical island of Terceria, which is a territory of Portugal, and has lived in many different and exciting places all over the world.

His father was enlisted in the United States Air Force so the family traveled a lot

Fantasy Visions : 5

before finally settling down in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

Brian has worked as an Art Director and Graphic Artist as a 9-5 to support his family while maintaining a steady freelancing career on the sidelines.

'Maiden Of The Sea' : Copyright Š Brian Hamner 2000

" I love to create art. My life has taken many turns, but through it all I kept drawing and painting. I was always sure of what I wanted to do with my life.

Early in my twenties, I became determined to try and turn my dreams into reality. I began to experiment in all the media that hadn't been readily available to me before. I finally settled into acrylic paints as the instrument of choice.

6 : Fantasy Visions

Shortly after I began painting, I started to become interested in fantasy illustration as a career. I attended as many conventions as possible and became an enthusiastic reader of almost every fantasy art publication known to man. I knew that I needed to take my ability to another level, so I began to paint every single day.

'The Challenger' : Copyright Š Brian Hamner 2005

Fantasy Visions : 7

Finally, after several years of developing my portfolio, I felt that it was time to give up the dreaming and get ready to compete. I began sending out portfolios to select companies and showing my art at conventions.

I hope one day soon to be able to devote myself to fantasy illustration full time, but until that day comes, I will continue to do what I love and whether there is a market for it or not."

You can catch Brian through e-mail or at Dragoncon in Atlanta Georgia in the convention's Art Show. ***

See Brian's fantasy art portfolio online here : www.brianhamner.com

8 : Novelist Beware

Novelist Beware Chapter Seven

by Sarah Crabtree

Re-read Chapter Six and dwell for a few moments on the sins you have committed in the name of Being Friendly.

Sometimes Being Friendly can be worse than a hole in the proverbial.

You wouldn’t get a surgeon cracking jokes or checking emails in the middle of an operation, would you? Or a policeman stopping off chasing a robber while he sends a photo-text to his girlfriend?

Why should a writer behave any differently? He or she may have the tools to send all these marvellous messages to everyone. In the old days it used to be chain letters. Remember those vile things you dumped off on ‘C Category’ friends? That is, those people you know you wouldn’t bump into in the supermarket. I apologise. You would never treat people like that, would you? Instead it’s better to send them a postcard from a nice resort. Even if you wish they weren’t there with you.

Do you get the feeling that we writers are rather unsociable folk? That we like writing about our fellows, but we don’t want to be a part of them?

Maybe there is some truth in that.

That’s why I will dedicate the next chapter to working out a schedule for writing and helping you to plan your writing.

Checklist: When working to a deadline, do not feel pressurised by email. Aim to check your inbox daily. Lunchtime is possibly a good time. People will have had opportunity to read your emails from the previous day and to respond to any snail mail they may have received from you. It also gives you ample time to phone people if necessary before close of business. Make a note of any vital numbers here for ease of reference. *** Copyright © Sarah Crabtree 2005

The Artful Collector : 9

The Artful Collector Column 6

by Jane Frank

PRICING Part 2: How Art Gets Bought You’ve asked, and you’ve heard the price. But is that what you will pay?

Negotiation is woven into the daily fabric of our lives. We negotiate when selling or buying cars and homes. We bargain over salaries. On a larger scale, unions negotiate contracts and nations arrange treaties and trade agreements. Why then do collectors stress out at the prospect of negotiating the price of a Star Wars poster?

Despite the fact that practically all of the known world operates on the principle that price is a moving target - whether you're buying or selling a comestible or a commodity - Americans have been brainwashed to believe that prices are sacrosanct. Indeed, I’ll go further out on that limb and claim not only is this notion of “fixed prices” (fixed, of course, by sellers!) shared by 99% of the readers of this article, but – along with that minority worldview – you’re probably convinced that bargaining is an exotic skill. But are there really arcane secrets which only those people from Mediterranean countries, the far East, South America, all the islands in the Pacific, or the Mideast (and I don't mean the State of Maryland) know? [Notet: I don't have the room to list most of the known universe, I'm hoping you get the point] NEGOTIATING IS PART OF THE COLLECTOR’S JOB Whether a seller or buyer accepts it or not, or even is aware of it or not, negotiating over price is an established part of buying collectibles, You may not feel comfortable with the practice. You may – in fact – find the entire process so loathsome that you’d rather pay full price. No problem. Most sellers will be happy to take your money. But neither ignorance, or dislike of the practice, or fear of failure, can change the fact that haggling is a fundamental part of collecting. It is considered a part of collecting because only two people are involved in the transaction, and the prices are not fixed, but rather are based on “perceived value”….hence very subjective (see Pricing Part 1, last issue).

Some collectibles, such as coins and comic books, are often graded by professional graders (i.e., “slabbed”), and those prices are published in guides.

10 : The Artful Collector

That makes valuation easier for all parties, and pricing becomes more standardized. Even so, and despite guides to valuing other collectibles, like stamps, or depression glass, or comic art, for example….nothing is fixed. No wonder unique items like Artwork give us angst when it comes to figuring out what we “should” pay!

Does this mean that because you CAN negotiate price, that you always SHOULD? Or, that if you broach the subject, the seller will automatically lower the price, “on cue”? No. No matter what price has been asked, no matter what offer has been made, no matter how persuasive the seller, the buyer is always free to buy or not buy at the selling price at the time. If you have only five minutes before the plane takes off, and you don't have time to haggle, and you want the item, and can afford to buy it at the seller’s asking price, you buy it. It's as simple as that. If the price is already reasonable, and you don't feel like going to the effort, and you like the person selling the article, and you want the item, you buy it. It's as simple as that. If there is only one of them left, and there’s a line forming behind you listening to your negotiations, and it’s something you want, and you can afford it, and you suspect that if you dither someone will shout out “Hell, I’ll take it at that price!” just go ahead and buy it. No need to drive yourself berserk, wondering if you could have purchased something down the road for 50 cents less.

If you understand the logic of the foregoing, then you’re ready to grasp the critical point I’m making here, which is that you have nothing to lose by attempting to negotiate the price. You can always buy at the stated price. Pull out your wallet, and “cry uncle” and no matter what you swore you’d never pay 2 minutes earlier will be forgotten. The option to buy, or not buy, is YOURS. The option to negotiate prices is therefore also yours, if you have the time, the motivation, and the inclination.

Negotiating is an art, not a science.

There are dozens of books on the market with titles like “The Art of Negotiation” and “You can Negotiate Anything,” just as there are dozens of books you can buy to learn how to “sell.” Yet people still think of selling skills, and bargaining skills, as being as hard to learn as they are hard to teach. Why is that?

I think the reason so many collectors avoid negotiating is because “what works” is dependent on heuristics, “informal rules of thumb” – versus absolute and formal rules that if followed, can be predicted to yield the same result every time, no matter what two people are at the bargaining table. This means that the actual

The Artful Collector : 11

heuristics that guide and shape behavior in negotiating situations are UNIQUE to each negotiator, and to the situation as perceived by the negotiating parties. You can learn what works for you only through trial and error.

This can be scary. You can never be certain that you really got the lowest price, or be confident that you paid less than the next person – and if you are used to the security of fixed prices and “knowing where you’re at” In selling and buying situations, accepting that there’s no ‘real’ price to beat can make you indecisive and anxious. What can I say?

Relax. At the end of the day the tactics that you will actually implement will be those you’ve come to rely on because they fit with your own personality and ways of communicating. After a few years of buying and selling, you’ll develop your own heuristics for negotiating, rules of thumb that work for you, that help you initiate a price reduction, that help you get the ball rolling, even if they aren’t in any formal rule book.

Relax. You have more clout in this two-person transaction than you think.

That’s because, in most everyday sales situations, for relatively common place collectibles, the buyer is in the driver’s seat…. They are the person with the money . . . while the seller rarely is and is looking to make some. Since a sale cannot take place if a buyer does not buy, the buyer ends up with the power. This is a very liberating concept, but one that some collectors choose to ignore in favor of running scared from any bargaining opportunity. Or, just as bad, staying put and paying whatever’s been asked, letting themselves be overcome by the little voices that that whisper “buy it, buy it, you’ll never see another!” – for which behavior the antidote is experience and education, not paying list price.

MAKE THEM WANT TO SELL TO YOU I can hear you saying, "But it’s already for sale. So I know they want to sell it to me."

WRONG. They want to sell it to "Someone." The Someone could be anyone. But "anyone" is not your name. You are you, and someone else may be the "Someone" the seller had in mind, when he priced that item. Get this straight, and you are well on your way to being an expert negotiator.

For any negotiation to result in outcomes to your benefit, the seller must move

12 : The Artful Collector

from viewing you as a simple "prospect" (prospective buyer) to viewing you as a distinct individual with unique characteristics and tastes who could be a valued customer. The seller must want you, and only you, to give that special item a good home. You can accomplish this far more easily than you assume. Become an active participant in the sale process.

How do you become an active participant?

Smile for a longer time.

Be like the seller (walk the walk, talk the talk).

Get sellers to "invest" in you (conversation, food, emotions).

Be deserving. Price considerations are not gifts. You earn them.

Give sellers the information they need to make you happy.

Do not make blanket statements like "I can’t afford it." Sellers aren’t mind readers. Make helpful statements like "If only it were $10 ($50, $100) less, I would buy it.” If you want to buy, give the seller something to work with.

If a seller invites you to sit down, sit down. If they suggest coffee, say "yes." Do not start imagining you are in a spider’s web. Quite the opposite!!! You have now gotten the seller to invest their time in you. The more time invested, the more you will appear deserving of a discount because, otherwise, all their time will have been wasted on you, with nothing to show for it. Remember, you can get up and leave anytime you wish; the seller cannot, nor can they kick you out without losing the possibility of a sale. The longer you sit, the more coffee you drink, the more you talk about auction prices and what you collect, and how long you’ve been collecting, the less willing the seller will be to let you walk away empty-handed.

STAY AWAKE Buying, like selling, is an activity that requires you to be alert. No matter how sleepy, laid back, or indifferent the seller may appear, do not be misled. No one with goods to sell can afford to be casual about it. Casual dealers go broke. No matter what you may make of the seller's behavior, if they have been doing this for a while, they (under their easy-going demeanor), are awake, watchful, and waiting for an opportunity to close the sale.You must be the same.

Many collectors make bad assumptions about this process, based on a misjudgment of the role psychology plays in the sales process. This is born of long-standing mistrust of sellers’ tactics and maintained through a studied incapacity for empathizing with sellers’ motives.

The Artful Collector : 13

Wrong Assumption #1: Dealers are in business to lose money The view that dealers will cheerfully reduce prices to the point that they make no profit from the sale is woefully out of whack with reality. Whenever a seller confides, "This is way below wholesale. I don’t know why I’m offering it to you at this price. I’m going to hate myself tomorrow," put a lock on your wallet.

Case in point [and true story]: In Istanbul several years ago, while spending a few hours at the Grand Bazaar (as most every tourist does) my husband made a terrible mistake in his attempt to get rid of a cordial pest who was offering him a finely made 14K gold “pinkie ring” (featuring a square cut cabochon tiger- eye gemstone), at an insanely low price. To be sure, the dealer had started things off much higher. But noting my husband's grim demeanor and tight lips, he anxiously (and without prompting) continuously dropped the price. Yet my husband balked. He didn’t want it. In frustration, the jewelry dealer finally cried out, "But, sir, isn’t there any price at all at which you would buy it?"

My spouse responded, "There probably is, but I can’t make you that offer. It would be an insult."

Immediately the dealer’s eyes lit up. "Ah, sir, insult me, insult me, please do."

Thinking to put an end to the negotiation, my husband suggested one-third the (by then, totally reasonable) asking price. Now, If this were 47t h Street in Manhattan, New York (heart of the wholesale jewelry district, from which most jewelers in America get their goods) such an offer would be a very tenuous starting point for negotiations, indeed. But this was not Manhattan.

"Done!" cried the dealer, and proceeded to sell him matching cufflinks and a wedding band. . . all the while nattering on about how he had a cousin who lived in Brooklyn (by that time he had already learned our entire itinerary, the names of all our children, found out we came from New York, and was delighted by the news that our ancestors shared the same religion. This had taken about 5 minutes; the negotiation for the rings and cufflinks took about an hour) The point? Dealers are not in business to lose money. There is the price of gold (a market price which everyone is privy to, if they care to check on the day of purchase) and then there’s the price of gemstones and labor (fashioning the piece).

Clearly what such crafting costs “here,” is not what it costs “there.” Lesson: when you are faced with a pro, it does not matter where you begin in a bargaining situation (high or low asking price). They have figured the odds way before you

14 : The Artful Collector

showed up.

Ignore any pitiful tales the seller devises for the price and how much your efforts are sucking the life’s blood from her frail body. She is making money from the sale. Or else, bet your bottom dollar, they’d never sell to you. Your job as a bargainer is to see that a) the seller works hard for that profit, and b) the profit is as low as possible. Do not spend your precious bargaining time weeping with the seller over the money they are losing by selling to you. Do not raise your offer by entreaty, only counter offer. The chances of any successful dealer actually selling anything of value for less than they paid is so remote that it is not worth considering.

What about estate sales? Auctions? Roadside antique havens? Going out of business sales? Flea markets? Are these opportunities for bargains? Again, no one is in business to lose money. Unless you know what price the seller paid for the goods, you will not be on equal footing with him. People who run estate sales and auctions are not fools. They call in the dealers and serious collectors early in the game, for the best pieces and the best prices. Most are fairly knowledgeable themselves. Wouldn’t you be if your livelihood depended on it?

Wrong Assumption #2: There are times when negotiating the price is impossible.

I didn’t say “undesirable” or “inappropriate,” I said “impossible.”

I remember reading about a Foreign Gentleman who visited Neiman Marcus (or some equally swank store, say, Harvey Nichols ;-)). In the fancy dress department he selected a number of expensive dresses, all on sale. When the clerk announced that the tally exceeded $8,000, the Gentleman balked."Wait," he said, "you don’t mean to say that’s the price? I would like to speak to the buyer for the department." When the buyer appeared from behind the dressing area the Gentleman said "$6,000 is my offer. Cash."

The clerk was horrified."But, sir, we don’t negotiate prices here." The buyer told the clerk to shut up while they both listened to the Gentleman's explanation.

"Of course I expect a discount," he said."You have these clothes on sale already.

That means you could not sell them at the original price. The fact that they are still here, and remain unsold at the sale price, means that even that discount is not enough to move them. You don’t want them, and I do. I’ll give you $6,000 for the lot. Cash. This moment. Can you hope to do any better if you hold them and have to return them to the manufacturer who will give you half back, which will not appear on your account for months?"

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"I accept," said the buyer. The shocked clerk remained silent, which was her training. But when the man added imperiously that he also expected them gift wrapped and delivered to his car, she came unhinged.

Later, the buyer explained. Ten dresses, at an original price per dress = $1000.

Sale at 20% discount = $800. Actual price = $500. With cost of money and time value of money factored in, it is worth $400. Cash offer =$600. The buyer makes money. She turns over her inventory. She is happy to deliver the goods to his car, to be rid of them.

These tactics, disparaged and misunderstood by non-bargainers, are just proof of the hard work it takes to negotiate price! Items “on sale” are no different from any other items being offered: “selling price” is not a final price, it’s simply the starting price when you come on the scene. It’s up to you to determine how close the selling price is to the cost of goods + selling expense. Further, as the Gentleman rightly surmised, once his offer was accepted, it was unlikely to be rejected over an additional perk – like ‘giftwraping’ or delivery.

Lesson: “Fixed prices” are not “fixed” for everyone. The idea that prices are cast in concrete, and controlled by sellers when it’s a retail sales environment and not a bazaar, is a concept born of consumerism, “western style” and need not apply to you ….if you’re a person who chooses not to be dissuaded from negotiation by cultural norms. Big or small, glitzy or plain, Bond Street or Carnaby Street, makes no difference. Don’t be influenced by sales personnel, who don’t own the company and have nothing to lose by rejecting your offer. In galleries or antique stores, do not waste your breath attempting to negotiate prices with clerks who don’t have the authority to grant a discount. Ask for the boss. Don’t be shy. Focus on the current or potential sales price given the estimated cost of the goods. Be familiar with the retail mark-ups for the particular industry. Retail stores and their list prices are a challenge, but you can overcome them.

Wrong Assumption #3: The "best price" can be had at predictable times of day (or from predictable people, or on certain products).

Want the best price? Always wait, and make your offer late in the day when the seller wants to go home with money in their pocket. Want the best price? Look for people who look poor; they need money and are more willing to lower prices than people who look rich. Like to bargain? Buy antiques (or houses or cars) – because they are always negotiable in price. New (or mass produced or fair traded) products are not.

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ALL are FALSE. You can get the same or better prices at the beginning of the day, when a dealer is anxious about doing well, and is willing to sacrifice profit just to insure they’ll break even…no matter what the day brings. You can get the same discount from people who are rich looking as from those who look “hungry”….do not confuse attire (a costume) with sales context (what’s being sold). Think of all those wonderfully turned out sales clerks in fancy stores…who can’t afford to buy what they are selling! You can get any item for less if you have the time and the motivation and the inclination to make the effort – the “packaging” is immaterial, “new” or “old” makes no difference. The bargaining process is completely unpredictable because human behavior is unpredictable.

You can increase the probability of things going your way if you are observant and have some basic understanding of buying and selling behavior. But that’s about it. Bargainers base their tactics on “rules of thumb” developed from years of observing humans in the wild. That experience, combined with some native cunning, produces a modicum of success.

Bad Assumption #4: You can always get it for less.

Sometimes, bargaining is just not going to happen. Accept that. Not all sellers are motivated by money, not all sellers need to sell, and some – by temperament or disposition – just absolutely despise bargaining. In addition, there are times when negotiating the price can be unethical. When artisans create work for you on the spot (and you agreed to the commencement of the process knowing the general price of the goods), don't haggle. It’s too late. You’ve already contracted for the work.

Call me crazy, I also don’t believe in taking indecent advantage of the unwary, poor, or ignorant. I like getting bargains as much as the next collector. But I do not need to steal. Nor do I enjoy it, whether it is from little old ladies, the very young, or the powerless. I am after fair gain, not exploitation.

Outfoxing foxes, however, is sometimes a matter of cross-cultural experience.

When disparities in income or standard of living costs are great, what may seem like “fair play” from one point of view, can seem totally unfair from another’s.

Example: my haggling over 50 cents charged by a Mexican souvenir seller, on the beach at Acapulco, much to the chagrin of my husband. Again, I do not insist that sellers make nothing. Just something less than they could make if they sold it to “Someone.” That is to say, not “me.” ;-) Becoming "someone" to a seller, however, comes with some risks. It's not as simple a proposition as I make it out to be: achieving "individuality" can be both

The Artful Collector : 17

too easily accomplished or impossible to accomplish, depending on the situation....and neither outcome may be under your control. Sometimes innocent negotiations can take unexpected turns and leaps and reap completely unexpected outcomes, both positive and negative. The probability of negotiations moving beyond your control - to your advantage or disadvantage - is related to how removed you are from the seller in terms of social variables (language, culture and race, etc) and life experience. The more extreme the differences between you and the seller, the more likely it will be that lack of experience and familiarity with different styles of communicating and behavior on buyer will prevent you from seeing each other as unique individuals. To speak plainly, to a Papuan villager, selling traditionally carved New Guinean sculptures in wood from their blanket on the ground, upriver on the Sepik, I will never be a "someone" anytime soon. I am just too far removed from their frame of reference, there simply isn't enough time to get beyond the obvious, superficial differences to be anything but an essentially unappealing distraction, and their experience with outsiders such as myself have been exploitive, rather than the kind to engender mutual respect.

Money isn't the only motive for many people on earth; the fact that I come laden with it doesn't mean I will be better received, or more graciously accepted. When faced with that cultural disjunct, you do what you can. You may not get it for less, you may in fact be faced with indifference rather than eagerness to sell. But it's cheap enough to begin with, at $5. And three times more by the time it reaches Port Moresby. And five times more by the time it reaches Cairns, at $25. And 10 times more by the time it reaches the "duty free shops" at Sydney International Airport ($50) And godhelpus, ten times more than that, in a fancy import shop in New York...where you can buy almost the identical goods for $500. You just have to spend $5,000. to get to Papua New Guinea......to get the bargains you can't bargain for. ;-))) But let me drive this important point home by sharing true travel stories to another rare spot on earth ....

In 1987 I traveled with my then teenage daughter, Erica, to China and Tibet. At that time Erica was 16, and heavily into coloring her very dark brown hair. One week half her head would be green, the next week four inches all around the bottom would be blue or red or orange. At the time of our trip it happened that several sections were a brilliant turquoise. She also had pierced her ears, in more than one place, as well as her nose, and wore a tiny stud on the side of one nostril.

She was also fond of bold silver jewelry, gothic skulls, and tattoos. What can I say?

It was the fashion of the day. And she is now at Cal Arts, working for her MFA in costume design and planning for a trip to Sundance where a film she did the

18 : The Artful Collector

costuming for is up for an award ;-) But I digress....When we landed in Lhasa, she drew curious stares. But when we crossed the mountains into Shigatse, the 2nd largest city, we knew by the way young women greeted us that something "special" was happening. We soon learned what that was. It was the custom for women to braid colored strands of cotton floss into their hair. The result was beautiful to behold - brilliantly colored patterns woven into glossy black hair. It was an art, and one that young women spent hours in perfecting. Seeing Erica's hair, young women were mesmerized.....they could not believe their eyes. Then they saw her nose stud, her jewelry, and they went crazy. Innocent, and unconcerned with western notions of rudeness, they pointed, followed us everywhere we went in the market our tour guide took us to to buy trinkets, and (most difficult for Erica) insisted on violating her "personal space." I tried to calm her down (she got scared) while being assaulted by curious women only wanting to touch, stroke, pet, feel, every bit of her. Rules for "how close" is too close evaporate when strangers are objects that need to be examined. As if pursuing a rare butterfly, there was no end to their curiosity. We could not buy anything: they only wanted to trade. Their earrings for hers, their necklace for hers, their clothes (if they could do it) for hers. They examined her eyes and wanted her eyeliner; they held her hands, and wanted nail polish.

By the time I stopped long enough to bargain for some little silver pendants we had drawn a considerable crowd of onlookers. I'd estimate about 40-45 people, including some men who decided to see what the show was all about. It was an audience, I was on stage, and all eyes were on me, to see what I could do. There was no doubt that I was the "mama with the money"....It was an occasion to perform, not bargain. I went through the motions: numbers on slips of paper passed to the seller with great ceremony, the traditional pitious looks, as if arrows had been shot through his hand, as the paper is returned, with my number crossed out and another written in. Back and forth. 1 for x, then 6 for y, then 12 for z, then zigzag back again each time different configurations, different pendants, over and over, the usual, traditional, drill. Each time whittling down the basic formula for volume purchases given the quality of the goods....which is apparent to anyone with eyes. Until we come to 1 for x-aa, and 6 for y-bb, and 12 for z-cc, and the proper amount of time has been spent to be respectful, and I could say OK (whew!)

- with slight advantage to the seller (in keeping with my status as foreigner), "I'll take 3 at the price of y-bbb. As good as I could get, under the circumstances, and everyone knew it. Grins all around. I was a too white, too fat, strangely dressed, female, non-Lamaist Buddhist, stranger with money, from the fabled land of America, and I had still managed to get 3 for the price of y-bbb. Good show!!!

Labor and time intensive, and culturally required, and made into a performance in

The Artful Collector : 19

which the foreigner is on trial, and all because of Erica! (your traveling companion) Lesson? Watch out - it may not be YOU who is your undoing.

Sometimes, you (or someone you love) can be too much of a "someone" to make any sort of negotiating possible.

Next day, however, I had better luck. I sent Erica in a different direction while I went scouting at an open air market. Using Chinese made calculators, the negotiations went pretty smoothly, if not quickly ;-) For the object I was after, the best price possible - after considerable wrangling - in government recognized currency was $80. Of which I had plenty. But if you take bargaining seriously, and WIN-WIN is your objective, you need to think ahead, and "outside the box". The meaning of exchange rates evaporated when I pulled out my aces in the hole - the difference, in this case, between being "anyone" and "someone" - which consisted of this: two packs of Marlboro cigarettes (bought duty free, first chance I got.... tobacco being a MUST for anyone wanting to tip or befriend strangers abroad... forget about the 6000 foot altiitude which makes breathing a challenge) and two U.S. $20 bills. You do the math. But: unable to restrain himself, so glorious was his victory, that my seller raised his booty above his head, and shouted out to everyone in the market within earshot (of course I am translating loosely here) "Look at what I have done!! This is what I've been telling you!!! We must continue to let western outsiders into Tibet!!!"

Win-win. Mission accomplished. Did I really get it for less? Who was the bigger fox? Was advantage taken? I'll never know. And neither, I'd warrant, will the seller know.

Bottom line: don't ever assume you can get, or are getting, anything for less.

Work for win-win, and accept lose-lose as a sort of 2nd best win. But accept that 'getting it for less" if you can accomplish it, sometimes comes at its own price. Be prepared for that.

Wrong Assumption #5: You only bargain on price One of the biggest mistakes collectors make is thinking only in terms of money.

There’s a lot more to “sales price� than the amount filled in on a check.

What value would you place on certain kinds of information the seller has? If you buy something now, can they grant some favor to you in the future, whether a discount on your next purchase or a freebie? Can you combine this purchase with

20 : The Artful Collector

the granting of some other desire, or “give back”? For example, if I buy a box of trading cards, can you throw in a couple of those nine-pocket protectors needed to hold the cards? Or a three-ring binder to hold the mylar protectors I’m buying from you? If I buy this one at full price, will you give me a discount on the next?

There is nothing mystical about making an offer. You can buy for less. The secret is strategy, a sense of personal security, and common sense.

THE ROLE OF CONVICTION IN PRICE SETTING When a dealer gets in a new batch of brabbles, ishkies or moonahs – whatever it is that he sells . . . the first step is to price them. The dealer takes into account the price paid, rarity, size, condition, and aesthetics – as well as marketing considerations like recent publicity related to brabbles, whether he has a customer that specializes in ishkies, what price the local market can bear, and how long it takes, on average, to sell moonahs like his. Based on these and many more factors too boring to list, the dealer sets a price using his experience and knowledge. But if it is late in the day or the last of 50 brabbles just like this, the price may be low. Or if the ishkie came in a batch of top quality ishkies, the price may be high. The problem is that there is no "standard" price for moonahs, no “bourse” or trading market like there is for gold, or soybeans, or stocks and bonds.

And then you walk in the door. And first thing you want to know is: “how much?” You expect the dealer to KNOW. Do you really want to hear “Gee, I’m not sure, Maybe, something around $1500-$2000.”? No, you’re not going comfortable with that. So the dealer sets a price. Listen to how he does it.

Let’s say the price is $1500. And this is really the lower boundary for him. How does he signal that, and prevent an attempt to drive the price lower? To save time and effort, he adds one little word. “The price is $1500., firm.” But what if he says, instead, “I really can’t accept anything less than $1500, for it, and I really should be asking for more.” Or supposing he says $2000. Does that mean he really needs $1500. or $2000.? How do you know when he's saying $2000., he's figuring he’ll end up with $1500.? Or if he’s lucky, $1750. (splitting the difference)? Or perhaps he’ll say $2500., because he knows you, and he’s expecting you to want a big discount in order to feel like he respects you, and he’ll still get his $1500. Or, despite his "really can't go lower" plea, that $1500. could actually be pushed to $1250!

Listen up! Because sellers want to be helpful, too....and to save time, the seller will often signal their position. It may be one little word. “I’m asking $1500.” Or “The asking price is $1500.” Asking is never to be confused with "getting." Or, more specifically, "asking price" is not to be translated as "the price I'm willing to accept." ;-) Another signal that the seller is open to negotiating would be “The

The Artful Collector : 21

price is $1500, but" As in “ . . . but today could be your lucky day,” or “but I can be a little flexible here” or “but that’s for starters.” And are there also signals for telling you when you've reached the end of the bargaining process? Yes. And the magic words there would be "best and final." If a seller ever says those words, that means you're going no farther down that road....he's gone as far as he can go Does this mean, am I saying, that all of the prices I list in my own catalog, and on my website, are therefore bogus, and subject to negotiation? NO. But you can’t know that until you act like a proper collector and question the conviction I have in my price. If I can afford to give you a discount, and still make a reasonable profit, I will. And if I can’t, I won’t. If you don’t ask, you’ll never know.

No dealer will be insulted if you approach the matter in the appropriate way.

QUESTIONS YOU MIGHT ASK: 1. Is your price firm? Can you do any better?

2. Do you have any negotiating room on this one? How long has it been on the market?

3. I’ve seen a lot of dealers carrying these; I’m having a hard time deciding, can you help?

4. Have you noticed the couple of chips on the side? And the lack of color, typically found in these?

5. Would a discount be possible if I make up my mind right now? If I paid cash?

If I paid today? If I buy more than one?

6. I’m looking to start/expand/complete my collection, would you be able to help me in that?

7. I’ve seen similar/lower prices on these, can you say how yours compares?

8. Are you open to offers?

If I am representing a seller who is demanding a certain price, I may have little to no flexibility when it comes to price. Most often though, some kind of accommodation can be made, and the dealer will indicate the limits of their flexibility with respect to what is on the table. Could be broad, could be narrow. That is the “WIGGLE ROOM” Sometimes there’s enough “wiggle” to drive a hummer

22 : The Artful Collector

through, and sometimes there’s so little room for wiggling that not even a credit card with a huge credit limit can get through <grin> The dealer can only do so much for you, however, if you don’t do your part.

“Rules of thumb” for negotiating prices, however, should not be developed at the expense of establishing “boundary rules” for your collection – which is an important discussion that I will leave to a future article. Suffice it to say, for now, that it’s important for new collectors, especially, to establish guidelines for choosing among available opportunities (boundary rules) right alongside their heuristics for how-to negotiate best prices for them. Because, without boundaries, it’s very easy to engage in opportunistic behavior and jump on the first thing that comes your way, just because you can get it for less . . . whether or not that fits in with your long term goals for collecting. If you have limited resources, placing your bet in the wrong area, for the wrong price, which indeed could be a negotiated, or lower than expected price, can be very detrimental to your collecting future. It’s easy for the inexperienced collector to confuse “bargains” with “value,” or be persuaded to buy by a steep discount alone. That’s another reason I encourage you to develop your negotiating skills, so that you have more confidence in new and unfamiliar situations, when sellers act in unexpected ways.

But even so.

It’s up to you to get it for less. *** Copyright © Jane Frank 2006

If you missed Part 1 of this article then remember you can always download the previous eZine issue here : www.screamingdreams.com/estronomicon.htm

Visit Jane's website at : www.wow-art.com for the best in original artwork

Death Codex : 23

Death Codex Chapter Six

by Sean Woodward

With the passing of each day the world of Ision7, with its snow belts, Groves and ancient mysteries, hurled deeper into the maelstrom of the asteroid belt.

Commander Armillo turned to face the viewstat in his private quarters aboard the Starchaser ship. He silently entered the tangent data, checked the time and date, adjusted it back to Axis Templum Standard and waited for the planetoid flight paths to develop. He scanned the stellar trajectories, waiting to see the entry vectors that the lost Pentacle ship had taken, along with his own flight to the planet. Waiting further, allowing overlay of data upon data to fill viewstat’s screen he started to look for anomalies.

Finding nothing immediately he backtracked. There were only three laws he could rely upon – the biggest being time and space. He knew the spatial trajectories were correct, but time? Time always depended upon locale. Stellar movements ensured that. He knew local time and Axis Templum Standard had produced nothing of worth.

He opened a comstat channel and was about to summon the captain of the watch when he thought better of it. He hated consulting others, didn’t want his crew to think there were areas of which he knew nothing. Instead he re-entered the time data and localised it for a thousand worlds, waiting once more.

As a child in the Temple of Ision7 he had been fascinated by all things heavenwards. This was in huge contrast to both his own native peoples of Ision7, the Nav, and the Illuminist Order that had created the Temple. Although their home worlds had been elsewhere it was an edifice of simplicity that they maintained on the planet’s surface. An edifice which the young Armillo had wanted to scale in leaps and bounds.

He was glad to be away from that place and although his ship remained on the surface, he knew he could make those leaps and bounds anytime he wanted now.

What he didn’t know was why a Pentacle ship should be brought to this of all worlds.

He took the Shipcore from within a deep pocket and turned over its triangular surface in his hand. The glyphs were still pulsating brightly.

24 : Death Codex

On the viewstat a list of a thousand dates were starting to grow shorter as the system honed its search path. Against each date a label marker appeared and each of these transferred to a planetary system on the viewstat’s star chart. Armillo watched as each one blinked into existence, cluttering the periphery of his flight path projections.

“Halt” he ordered, standing up, returning the Shipcore to his pocket.

He recognised the distant portion of star map. “Enlarge coordinates 000.000.01”.

Suddenly the viewstat was filled with the image of an ocean world with one lonely satellite. The time label was as un-miss able as the planet.

Winter Solstice, Old Earth Reckoning, Festival of the Birth of Valqueth.

“Convert all timelines to Old Earth, overlay Ision7 trajectory” The system obeyed as Armillo sat silently in his chamber. In two days time, at the Festival of Valqueth, Ision7 came within the reach of an extremely distorted planetary field. He looked at its pattern, looked bath at Ision7’s path through the asteroid belt. There, in two days time, at the densest part of the belt it entered the realm of an Abyss World.

Armillo opened the comstat channel, system wide.

“Ready the ship, we leave in two days” *** Njarn Tibel, supreme Magister of the Eternal Republic of the Temple, grew weary.

He was weary of the isolation of office, weary of the boredom of achievement. Yet more than any of this he was weary of what he had become. Seldom did he have reason to leave the complex heart of Axis Templum. For a millennia the ways of this world were the ways of all worlds. From the standardisations of currency, time and faith to the universal adoption and monopoly of tg-drives. In every facet of human endeavor the touch of the Temple could be seen.

It was this aching weariness, which had first led him open the Death Codex, trying to fathom the mysteries of its Al-Jin-Brewesque scripts and lines in much the same way that Commander Armillo had gazed into the depths of a star chart. It was the Magister’s isolation, which made him the ideal vehicle for the Codex itself.

He believed that he still controlled his own actions, that the web of Al-Jinbrewesques across his body were the pattern of his favourite silver-grey

Death Codex : 25

attire only and the journeys upon the massive Timeships all of his own choosing.

Some days he believed this to be true. Other times he knew all was a charade.

The little piece of the old Magister was slowly fading. He did not fully understand what he was becoming. As the journeys aboard the huge Timeships increased, his reliance on the rippling silver-grey bodysuit became all-consuming. He looked down at hands as he walked across the great hall, not even realising they were his own.

When he awoke from sleep he didn’t recognise the surroundings of his chamber.

Sometimes he didn’t know if it was day or night - if the three moons of Axis Templum had risen or if they had ever even existed. Always he heard that slurred voice. The unforgettable, relentless deep tones of the Qube, echoing inside his skull.

“Refining search fields. Locating DNA” He could smell the sulphourous, iron stench of Qube driven engines tearing through time and space as their enormous undersides of blazing light obliterated tg-fields. Once he had been in awe of their might, the ability to jump in and out of the timeline. But of this too he was weary. He was like some trapped automaton doomed to dancing upon the same stage time and time again. Always searching.

Waiting for Mars in the Sol system to stroke the orbit of Old Earth and then descending once more on that world, abducting couples.

He had tried a thousand times to ignore the siren call of the Codex as it lay in the oak draw of his desk. He had evoked a thousand litanies to trick his mind from the inevitable. Yet nothing could prevent him from opening those pages. Little by little he had begun to understand what had led Valqueth to that icy catacomb on Ision7, why he and his army had allowed themselves to be defeated.

For centuries he had been more than merely one man, he had been Valqueth Invictus, a shining beacon of hope to his followers. And for centuries after his likeness had been lost as the exploits of his life became themselves lost in myth and legend.

The Magister took some small pleasure in the tableau in the Grand Gallery. For now there was a likeness of Valqueth that could ignite the imagination of the people once more. No longer was he lost in the icy depths of Ision7, but a blazing star in the heart of Axis Templum.

For once today the Magister was a little less weary. He almost found himself

26 : Death Codex

smiling. He remembered the days when the tableau had first been brought to the Grand Gallery. The lines of pilgrims wound inside fifty palace squares. The peoples of a million worlds united in their reverence for one man. The Magister knew that with the passing of time that reverence would once more become myth and tangled reflection. He remembered first viewing the tableau when it had been brought to the Gallery. Its craftsmanship made the intricate carvings of Octaine seem little more than the half-realised work of children. The most striking element had been the outstretched arm of Valgueth. That first time, even with the Codex in place, the Magister had been reminded of one the oldest gods of old Earth, of the Sumerian Ahura Mazda. Now, with the Codex missing, secure in his index-free oaken draw, the multitude thought Valqueth’s likeness reached out to bless them. The Magister smiled again and found his hand reach uncontrollably for the oak draw of his desk. *** Vrak preferred the reconnaissance missions in which his employer did not participate. The last time the Nav had brought Commander Armillo in range of the makeshift spaceport, which housed the Temple ship he had wanted to kill the man. Vrak hated everything about the Temple. They were the ones who first angered the Oblivion Saints it was said. Fortunately the Illuminist branch of the Temple had soon adopted the Scarlet Goddess into their pantheon. Vrak liked that; it showed that at least some of the accursed off-worlders could be of use. Unlike the Snowriders that had swarmed to Ision7 from every corner of the galaxy. That was until Vrak’s tribe had ensured that they were unable to navigate the snow canyons.

More than any of the interference from other worlds, it was the Commander himself that Vrak had wanted to kill. Lying on his stomach, the armoured flesh panels on his back were taking the brunt of the impact from the objects raining down from space. He no longer even noticed it. But he had noticed the Commander when they had first met. Vrak didn’t see the silver black uniform and insignia of Temple Commander. What he saw was a Nav like himself who had betrayed everything that was important to his life and that of the tribe. For that reason alone Vrak had wanted kidnap him, leave him in a Grove just long enough for Armillo’s own body panels to grow once more and then sacrifice him to the Oblivion.

Many times on that first day Vrak had watched the scenario unfold in his mind.

It was only Armillo’s personal tg-field, charged Flexor and Starchaser Triad-Class ship that prevented him. He knew the destruction a Starchaser ship could unleash and knew Armillo would not hesitate to use it.

Death Codex : 27

Vrak carefully drew a Flexpad from the box in the snow beside him. Adjusting its display matrix he peered through it at the makeshift camp. He could make out the structure of the enclosures and vast sweeping roadways. They formed a tangle of arches under which the Pentacle ship and its service staff hid. The structure was a legacy of the First Ision7 Snowgames and Vrak would be pleased to destroy that as part of his mission. He had to find a way to access the ship first.

He had planned to take a snowrider’s board and follow under the shelter of the old roadways. There was a point where three of these crossed each other and if he could time it right he’d never be seen entering the enclosure. If he could disrupt the protective field around the Pentacle ship long enough for the Commander to act it would have a Triad Ship vectoring it in before anyone had realised what was happening.

Vrak adjusted the Flexpad, he wanted to ensure that his route into the enclosure would be undetected. Sweeping his vision across the ridge he knew would give best cover he searched for the tell-tale signs of a sensor field. This close he could make out the Navs servicing the ship, but no sign of Signal Extender Poles in the snow! Vrak adjusted the Flexpad once more, this time to search the TG Frequencies. As he looked back at the enclosure, he could make out some of the closer figures.

Though the Flexpad was having difficulty screening out the falling debris from space he could clearly make out the large features of the man directing the engineers. It was Graff, Elderone of the Nav, Holy Father of All the Tribes!

Vrak slowly started moving away from the ridge. Now he wanted to kill Armillo this very day before his disease destroyed their people. It was one thing for him to turn his back on the Tribes, but Graff? This was impossible. The Scarlet Goddess forbade it! No Holy Father of the Nav could even contemplate such heresy. *** Copyright © Sean Woodward 2006

Read Sean's poetry and other work at : www.dragonheartpress.com

28 : Photographs

Photographs

by Neil Davies from an idea by Cathy Davis

"I don't remember you."

Karen peered at the photograph pinned to the corkboard. She reached behind her, fingers pushing through the papers, pens and rolls of undeveloped film that cluttered her desk until she found what she was looking for. She lifted the magnifying glass to her eye.

"Now why don't I remember you?"

The photograph, one she had taken several weeks ago, showed a simple beach scene. Sand, water, people in swimming costumes. And standing off to one side, where she surely wouldn't have missed him, a tall, slim man in what looked like a double-breasted, black business suit. Most unusual was the wide-brimmed hat tugged low over his eyes. Not quite a cowboy hat. In fact, unlike any hat she had ever seen before. It was black, tall, conical, with that wide, stiff brim.

She remembered the day, bright and hot. She had been wearing a sleeveless top and shorts, her shoulder length black hair tied back away from her face, and had still been too hot. Had she noticed a man in a business suit and that hat on the beach she would have focussed on him, made him the centrepiece of the photograph. The sheer strangeness of the picture would have made it fascinating.

As it was, she had been disappointed when it was developed. It was a nice reminder of a sunny day, but it had no artistic merit. She had pinned it to the corkboard in her office for her private memories.

If she now reframed it, making this strange man more of a feature, she might yet make something worthwhile of the shot. She peered closer through the glass.

Pity the face, what could be seen of it beneath the brim of the hat, was out-of-focus.

Strange that, how the suit and hat seemed so sharp and defined and yet the face was blurred?

I still don't understand how I could have missed him. ***

Photographs : 29

"One of these days I'm going to get to use that precious camera of yours!"

Karen smiled, knew her friend Jackie was at least half-joking, but nevertheless placed a protective hand over the camera on the cafe table between them.

"Sorry, for my use only."

"I can't help thinking that it's your relationship with that camera that gets in the way of you and men."

"At least my camera doesn't lie to me and betray me."

Jackie shook her head, smiling, and took a sip of her Espresso.

"Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re 26 years old, almost two years younger than me. You canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let one bad experience put you off forever. Not all men are Steven you know."

"Prove it!"

Jackie laughed and, after a moment's hesitation, Karen joined her. It was good to laugh. It seemed a long time since she'd had reason.

Raised voices from across the street caught her attention, heard even above the constant droning of traffic and passers-by. She liked sitting at the pavement cafes in the city, liked the closeness of the noise, the people, the smells of city life. It appealed to the artist in her. She liked to cultivate that side of her nature, encourage it, especially since Steven. He had tried to stifle her creativity, crush it.

What his Wall Street mind couldn't understand, it tried to kill.

Maybe finding him in bed with my best friend, my ex-best friend, was really the best thing that could have happened!

"Sounds like somebody got a bad hotdog." Jackie had stood up and was peering out across the traffic towards the argument.

Karen grabbed her camera.

"Back in a minute."

She pushed through the crowds of shoppers and weaved through the gridlocked traffic, raising her camera to her eye as she went, clicking and clicking and clicking.

The angry faces. The jabbing fingers. Open mouths spraying spittle and accusation.

30 : Photographs

A part-eaten hotdog thrown back at the vendor. A pair of tongs waved menacingly in the air. This was fantastic. This was drama. This was art!

The pictures were disappointing.

She watched them develop, feeling an emptiness in her stomach. It was almost a sixth sense with her, knowing when a picture was going to be bad.

“Wish I could tell before I took the things and wasted film.”

She clipped the latest alongside the others, hanging in her darkroom. She could feel the arguing men in the pictures looking at her, accusing her. We set up the opportunity, they seemed to say, and you blew it.

“They were taken quickly. There were lots of other people in the way.”

Excuses. A real professional would have got at least one good shot.

She hung her head, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She knew that was the truth. As a professional she should have made it happen. *** She almost called Steven.

As she sat on the edge of her bed, wearing nothing but panties and a T-shirt, she felt an almost overwhelming need for someone to hold. Someone to lie in bed with. Someone who could wrap her in their arms and hold her close.

Steven had only ever held her as a precursor to sex. Every moment of tenderness or care or concern they had ever shared had been followed by sex, or at least by an attempt to persuade her to have sex.

It was sex that prevented her calling him. She didn’t want sex with Steven, or with anyone. When she thought of sex, she thought of Steven and her ex-best friend. It was an image she didn’t think would ever leave her.

She called no one.

She crawled under the duvet alone, curled up, hugged her knees to her chest and sobbed until she fell asleep. ***

Photographs : 31

The morning was cold.

Through the thin curtains of her bedroom window she could see it was bright outside, and by midday, when the sun finally came round the building and shone through the window, it would start to warm up. But for now her apartment was cold.

She peered sleepily at the clock on the bedside cabinet. 9:03am. Not that time was important. There was nothing she needed to do today. Nowhere to go. No meetings. No pitches. No shoots. No work!

Being your own boss was great, until the work dried up.

She thought bitterly about the photos from yesterday. Unless she got something better than that there wouldn’t be any more work.

Getting out of bed on days like this was hard, but she managed it. She forced her legs out from under the warm duvet into the cold air. She shivered as she stood.

She dressed quickly in those things closest to hand. Tracksuit bottoms. A heavy sweatshirt with ‘I Want You’ stitched across the front, a present from Steven. She pulled on white socks found on the bedroom floor, trying to ignore that they had been thrown there to go into the washing basket, and struggled into pale blue trainers, not bothering to untie them first.

Feeling slightly warmer but no happier, she pulled open the curtains, squinting out at the morning traffic, already near gridlock, and then walked quickly out of the bedroom and towards the small kitchen area.

The coffee she made was black and strong and filled the large Simpsons mug. By the time she was halfway through it she was beginning to feel awake and alive. As she rinsed the empty mug under the tap, she convinced herself that this was only a temporary lull in her career.

“A few bad photos don’t make me a bad photographer.”

She was in a better mood as she opened her darkroom, ready to trash the photos from yesterday, forget about them.

As she reached up for the first one she hesitated. She looked closer. She took it down, picked up the magnifying glass from the tabletop and examined the image, looking not at the two arguing men, but at the crowd behind them. At one figure in that crowd. A figure wearing a black, double-breasted business suit and a

32 : Photographs

wide-brimmed hat, tugged down over his eyes.

“What are you doing there?” she wondered aloud. “Strangely familiar.”

She hurried out of the darkroom, taking the photograph with her. At her work desk she stared at the corkboard, at the beach photograph she had pinned there the other day. Where she felt she had seen this man before.

He wasn’t there.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

She examined the beach scene under the magnifying glass. The families, the sunbathers, the swimmers. But no man in a business suit. No wide-brimmed hat tugged down over the eyes.

Could she have imagined it? Surely not. She had seen him. She knew she had seen him.

She looked closer, harder at where she felt he had been standing on the beach and shuddered.

There, on the sand, were two large, heavy footprints. *** “I’m telling you he was there and now he’s not!”

Karen, mouth half-full of hotdog, spat the last word out, along with a spray of food.

Jackie glanced at her friend as they walked away from the fast food stand, back towards the office building where Jackie worked. She was worried. She knew Karen had been struggling a little lately with work not coming in as fast as she wanted it to. She knew the whole issue with that bastard Steven had knocked her into a downward spiral. But she had never imagined she would become delusional.

“You do realise that what you’re saying just isn’t possible?”

“It happened.”

Photographs : 33

“People do not just get up and walk out of one picture and into another.”

Karen shrugged, not wanting to discuss any further whether it was possible or not. She knew what she had seen.

“Listen.” Jackie stopped and placed a hand on her friend’s arm. “There’s a few of us going out tonight. Why don’t you come along? It’ll be fun. It’s ages since you’ve been out on the town.”

Karen shook her head and gently pulled her arm free.

“I’m not ready for a night parading myself around the clubs looking for men.

Not yet.”

“You make us sound like sluts!”

They paused, looking at each other, before both broke out into laughter.

For a moment neither could speak, until the laughter subsided a little. Karen wiped tears from the corners of her eyes.

“Thanks for the offer though. Seriously, I couldn’t afford it, and I really don’t want to put myself in the firing line with men again.”

“Karen, you look good. I mean, even when you dress down you look good! You put yourself in the firing line every time you walk out the door.”

Karen smiled. “Thanks. And thanks for pointing out I’ve ‘dressed down’ today, as you put it! Go back to work and stop worrying about me. I’ll be fine.”

Jackie checked her watch and started to hurry away.

“I’ll call you later, ok?”

Karen waved and waited until her friend had disappeared into her office block, then she turned to start a long, slow walk home.

She stopped. Her stomach clenched. Her heart seemed to pound in her ears.

The man in the suit and wide-brimmed hat stood at the corner, watching her through eyes hidden by the hat’s shadow.

34 : Photographs

That afternoon, as she sat on the edge of her bed, shivering, trembling, she tried to convince herself she had imagined it.

One moment he was there, the next he had ducked behind the building. She had only hesitated a moment before running forward, almost skidding around the corner, but he was nowhere in sight.

Imagination? Hallucination? Madness?

She pressed the palms of her hands against her face and cried, heavy, shoulder shaking sobs.

What’s happening to me? He was real. But he couldn’t be!

She forced herself to stand up, willed her legs to move, to walk out of the bedroom and to her desk. She had been avoiding this since she got back to her apartment, but she knew she had to look.

The two photographs were pinned side by side on the corkboard, both slightly askew, the corner of one overlapping the other.

For a moment, her eyes would not rise that far. They stayed fixed firmly on the desktop as if looking for something there. But there was nothing there she wanted to find. It was fear that was stopping her looking higher. Fear of confirming what she knew to be true.

I have to do it. I have to know.

She looked up, first at the beach scene. Only those vague footprints remained to show the man had ever been there.

Next, the street argument.

She looked at the watching crowd. There was no business suit, no wide-brimmed hat.

He had disappeared!

She felt dizzy, nauseous. Her fingers trembled as she raised them up to touch the two photographs, as if needing the physical contact to know they were real. But she wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t expected him to be there anymore.

Photographs : 35

How could he still be in the world of the photograph when he was there, in her world? *** The first note appeared the next day.

She found it pinned to the outside of her apartment door, written in faint, spidery handwriting on a page torn from the kind of notebook available in every newsagent in the city.

FOUND YOU. There was no signature.

Shaking, glancing nervously along the corridor, she tore the note from the door, the tape holding it ripping a layer of paint away. She screwed the paper into a ball and threw it in the bin just inside her apartment.

She tried to tell herself Steven was playing some kind of sick joke. Or heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d split up with her ex-best friend and was hoping to come back. But deep inside, pushing at the edge of her deepest fears, she knew who the note was from.

She told no one. *** The second note was pushed under her apartment door a day later as she bathed.

She saw it as she stepped into the living room, naked expect for the towel wrapped turban-like around her wet hair. It lay on the carpet, white with faint blue lines. Folded in two.

She grabbed up her bathrobe from the back of a chair and pulled it on hurriedly.

Her nakedness made her feel vulnerable, self-conscious, as if whoever had left the note could see through her apartment door.

She stepped towards the note, hesitated. Could he still be outside? Waiting for her to get near? Waiting to grab her?

She quickly checked the locks. She could see the security chain was in place, the Yale lock was on, even the ugly black bolt Steven had put on for her after a series

36 : Photographs

of robberies in other apartments nearby was slid across. There was no way anyone was going to suddenly open that door and grab her.

Still, she was hesitant, nervous, as she approached it. Her eyes never left the door.

She picked up the note and retreated quickly back into the middle of the room.

For a moment she considered just throwing the note away, never opening it, never reading it. But she knew she had to read it. Maybe she was wrong and it was from Jackie, or some other friend? Someone who came to the door while she was in the bath and, not getting an answer to their knocking and ringing, decided to slip a note under instead?

Maybe she was letting her fears and insecurities get the better of her.

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just a piece of paper!

She opened it.

The handwriting was stronger, bolder.

WATCHING YOU. Her fingers loosened and the paper fluttered to the floor, lying open on the carpet, the words screaming up at her ashen face.

The doorbell rang.

She snapped her head up, towards the sound.

My God, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s out there!

It stopped ringing. It rang again. Stopped. Rang. Short, sharp rings continuing on and on until her head reverberated with the sound.

And as the ringing continued, the hammering started. The hammering of heavy fists on the door, bang bang bang, again and again. The door shook on its hinges with each blow, the locks rattling, the bolt jerking as if it would break free.

She slammed her hands over her ears, closed her eyes, fell to her knees and screamed.

Photographs : 37

She was still screaming when the banging and the ringing stopped. It had only lasted for fifteen seconds at the longest, but she felt it had always been there, filling her head, clawing at her heart and her stomach.

She was still screaming when her neighbours called the police.

They had to break the door down to get to her. *** She returned to her apartment two weeks later, calmed by drugs, reasoned with by experts.

“Are you sure you’ll be ok?”

Jackie stood with her outside the apartment door, concern threatening to furrow her recently botoxed brow.

Karen forced a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

She had found her stay in the hospital frightening at first, each doctor, each nurse, each visitor seeming to wear a business suit and wide-brimmed hat. Later, she had relaxed. She felt safe surrounded by the hospital staff. And there were no photographs around her bed.

Now she felt better, recovered. She had accepted their explanations of stress, delusions, imagination.

The police had shared her first suspicion about the notes. That they could have come from Steven. She knew they had questioned him. She did not know if anything came of it.

One psychologist had suggested she wrote the notes herself, as part of her reaction to the stress she was facing.

She doubted that.

Nevertheless, she felt safe enough to return to her own apartment. Steven would send no more notes, having been warned off by the police. She felt it was time to return home and to her normal life.

She lifted the key towards the lock, hesitated and turned to her friend.

38 : Photographs

“Maybe you could just come inside for a minute or two?”

Check there’s no one there.

Jackie glanced at her watch and smiled.

“Of course I can. Listen, I’d have taken the day off if I’d known you were coming out today. I’m really sorry I’ve got to get back to work.”

“That’s ok. I understand.” She took a deep breath and pushed the key into the lock, turning it slowly, almost reluctantly. “And thanks for fixing the door.”

The door had been repaired. She knew Jackie had paid for that. It opened smoothly.

For a moment she thought about asking Jackie to go in first, but then, with the same stubborn resolution she had used when starting out in business on her own, she stepped into the darkness, her hand scrabbling for the light switch.

She breathed a sigh of relief as light flooded the living room. Everything seemed as she remembered it, and the familiarity helped calm her.

“I’ll have to just do a quick check and then get going,” said Jackie, following Karen into the apartment.

She hurried from door to door, turning the lights on in the bedroom, the bathroom. Karen wanted to ask her to check under the bed, in the shower cubicle, but she couldn’t bring herself to look such a coward.

Jackie came back to the living room, smiling.

“All clear.” She took Karen’s hands in hers. “I’m really sorry I’ve got to rush.

Lock the door after I’ve gone. You’ll be fine here, and I’ll call round straight after work. Ok?” Karen nodded and forced another smile.

“Thanks. You’d better get going. Can’t have both of us without a job.”

Jackie leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

“See you later.”

Photographs : 39

Karen followed her as far as the door and then, with a final wave, closed it behind her hurrying friend. She turned and locked the Yale, slid the new bolts across, top and bottom now, and hooked the new security chain in place.

She walked slowly through the living room, a slight smile on her face, her first genuine smile since returning. Her nervousness, the remnant of her fear, was retreating. No one had been waiting for her, hiding in the darkness. She had known they wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be, of course. Too many experts had explained how that man could never have existed except in her own mind for her to think anything else.

But fear didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think, and she had needed to see the empty apartment for that to finally fade.

It was good to be back. Good to be feeling normal again.

For a moment she did not move, just stood in the centre of her apartment with her eyes closed and her head back, savouring the freedom from the hospital and, more importantly, the freedom from her fear.

But there was something she needed to do to bring closure to the whole, dreadful incident.

She walked to her desk. She needed to take those photographs down from the corkboard. They would do her no good staring at her every time she needed to work. She would throw them away. She would not even look at them.

She reached the desk, leant forward towards the corkboard and stared at the notepaper pinned alongside the photographs, strong, thick letters scrawled upon it.

GOT YOU! She wanted to scream, opened her mouth to do so, but no sound came out. The trembling returned to her body, the fear to her heart. She clutched the edge of the desk to stop herself falling.

He was real. And he had been in her apartment!

Something dark covered her eyes and she blacked out. *** It was Jackie who phoned the police that evening.

40 : Photographs

She returned to the apartment after work, just as she promised, but there was no answer.

She didn’t believe Karen would have gone out alone, and she stood and hammered and rang long enough to wake anyone who might be sleeping. Several of Karen’s tired and irritated neighbours could attest to that.

Given Karen’s recent history, the police had shared her concern.

Jackie followed the police in, searching the empty rooms. She found Karen’s desk, the corkboard. She stared at the photographs. At the beach scene.

At the man standing incongruously on the sand wearing a black, double-breasted business suit and wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes.

He was smiling, his teeth white and sharp in the darkness of his face. His hand lay heavily on the shoulder of a small, slender young woman. She stood just in front of him, head bowed, shoulder length black hair covering her face. Hanging from one limp hand by the strap of its carrying case was a camera.

It was Jackie’s turn to scream! *** Copyright © Neil Davies 2006

Find more of Neil's work at : www.nwdavies.co.uk

Plus watch for his new book : The Midnight Hour Available from Screaming Dreams in 2007

Heaven & Hell : 41

Heaven & Hell The Art Of Michael Calandra

I was born in Monroe, Michigan and began painting and drawing at a very early age. No surprise there, all kids draw, but I never stopped!

'Broken Halo' : Copyright Š Michael Calandra 2006

Throughout my teens, I taught myself line quality and drawing by copying and imitating comic artists. Most of you know very well the art of Frank Frazetta, Bernie Wrightson, Jose Gonzalez (Vampirella), and the entire stable of artists at

42 : Heaven & Hell

Warren. I couldn't wait to scrape up the couple of bucks every month to go grab the latest Creepy, Eerie, and Vampirella.

By the time I entered Monroe County Community College on an art scholarship in 1980, I had started to focus on portraits, wildlife, and general art technique. I was also taught the best lesson of all - I HAD TO WORK! Thanks to Gary Wilson and Ted Vassar, I slowly began to round out and discover my own technique, which I still do today.

'The Creature' and 'The Mummy' : Copyright Š Michael Calandra 2006

Ted Vassar was a wildlife artist at the time, and, being influenced by him, I began painting wildlife and doing many shows and competitions. I had works appearing in many publications including Monroe Magazine, Michigan Out-of-Doors, Wyoming Wildlife, and Wildlife Art News.

In 1987, I received a commendation from the State of Michigan for artistic achievement. I competed in the Michigan Wildlife Artist of the Year Competition and placed in the top five in 1988 and 1989. I also placed top five in the Wyoming Conservation Stamp Competition in 1991, when my work went on traveling exhibit throughout the state's museums. I was the featured artist at several gallery

Heaven & Hell : 43

shows and exhibited works at many wildlife art festivals, including the Northern Wildlife Art Expo. I had several one-man shows, including Central Wildlife Gallery in Toledo. Ohio, and at the Monroe College. I eventually started producing Limited-Edition prints of a good half dozen or so of these images and amassed quite a following. Thank you to those people!

Despite all the busy activity in the wildlife field, I still had an attachment to the horror genre. I continued to draw Frankenstein, Dracula, and assorted zombies.

This type of work is at the opposite end of the spectrum from wildlife, but most artists do a variety of subjects.

'Mystic' and 'Blue Flame' : Copyright Š Michael Calandra 2006

In 1993, when the film Bram Stoker's Dracula was released, I was inspired enough by the imagery to paint Gary Oldman as the Count. In a way, this was a new direction to take my work, but was also a return to the kind of art that I really enjoyed. I liked the painting well enough to have it licensed through Sony Merchandising and had it printed as a Limited-Edition. Because of my ventures into the horror art realm, I have had the opportunity to meet many of the horror

44 : Heaven & Hell

film heroes that have inspired me in my youth. Some of these people, such as Tom Savini, Anthony Hopkins, Gary Oldman, Ted Nugent, and the band Kiss now own some of my work!

Learning the mechanics of the airbrush has taken me into the world of nudes and pin ups. The airbrush lends itself to this genre, and I have no shortage of work or inspiration in this arena. While I am currently working almost exclusively in the horror art, pin up, and fantasy field, I do a lot of architectural commission work . These projects make up the body of my current work. I really have a great time meeting and working with other artists, models, and photographers.

'The Bloofer Lady' and 'Dracula' : Copyright Š Michael Calandra 2006

In 2005, I was commissioned by Image Ten, Inc. to produce work to represent the classic 1968 film "Night of the Living Dead". In 2006, I started to do commission work with Fantasy Flight Games, who produce the role playing game version of George R. R. Martin's Game of Thrones books. My work appears in Veronika Kotlajic's book "The Muse", a compilation of her career as a model and artist. My work has also appeared in International Illustrator and Airbrush Art/Action magazines on several occasions.

Heaven & Hell : 45

I am lucky enough to work with a great stable of photographers and models. I have been doing work with Veronika Kotlajic, Bianca Beauchamp, Anastasia Dorohova, Drakaina, Claudia Moreno-Toscane, Nicole Damon, Kelly Kole, Khwan, Deb Shaw, Lauren Michelle, and their photographers. I can't thank them enough for what they do. ***

'Space Girl' : Copyright Š Michael Calandra 2006

Find Michael online at : www.calandrastudio.com or at : MySpace

46 : 1,2,3...1,2,3

1,2,3...1,2,3

by Paul Kane

The numbers. They were the worst part.

Counting, and the continual repetition. 1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3. But it had to (3, 1, 2) be done. There was no escaping the fact that she had to (3, 1, 2) do it. Michelle Blake was a prisoner of the numbers, of the counting. She performed her bizarre acts like a dancer obeying the rhythm of a silent tune. 1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3… or a fitness fanatic following a precise work-out routine. Never any release, never any differentiation.

She mouthed the numbers even now as she placed one foot in front of the other.

Forwards and back again, keeping a watchful eye on the pattern of the carpet.

Michelle had long since broken the concentric square motif down into (3, 1, 2) a series of arithmetical interpretations. It no longer represented any aesthetic value to (3, 1, 2) her, like everything else it was part of a template she lived by – though many wouldn’t even call what she lived a life. When she looked around all she could see were the numbers, those three…1, 2, 3…numbers. Everything was broken down into (3, 1, 2) that familiar triad.

1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3. She would make it to (3, 1, 2) the living room door in what, half an hour? That was quite fast for her. During her darkest days it had taken something like two (3, 1, 2) or three (1, 2, 3) hours to (3, 1, 2) cover a few metres.

Stopping, starting, beginning again. Never right. Never enough times; she was never able to (3, 1, 2) reconcile it in her mind. If it wasn’t done correctly then she knew what would happen. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about and the responsibility was hers to (3, 1, 2) shoulder alone.

No, no it wasn’t. Not anymore. For one…(2, 3, 1) thing she had to (3, 1, 2) stop thinking about it as a responsibility. It wasn’t; it was a combination of chemicals and conditioning. Imbalances and habituations. She had to (3, 1, 2) start thinking about it as more of a disorder than a birthright – or a princess being handed a crown and a kingdom.

‘Trust me,’ she whispered under her breath, in the slight gap between counting, ‘this is not a kingdom I’d choose to… 3, 1, 2…rule.’

But whether it was a responsibility or not, she no longer had to (3, 1, 2) cope with it on her own. After twenty-five years of being passed from pillar to post, she

1,2,3...1,2,3 : 47

had finally found the support she needed in Josh. Not Dr Nesbit, not even Dr Josh.

Just Josh – plain old Josh, although with the best will in the world no one could ever describe him as plain. Not with that curtain of blonde hair and starry eyes…

Concentrate, Michelle, or you’ll never get to…3, 1, 2…the door. Or worse still, she might lose count again and have to 3, 1… Damn! Michelle sighed and backtracked carefully, starting again, quite literally, from square 1.

But now that the thought of Josh was in her mind, she found it all but impossible to (3, 1, 2) get rid of it. She’d known him almost two…3, 1, 2…years now. A young therapist who’d heard about her plight and taken a special interest.

He was the reason it only took her half an hour to (3, 1, 2) cross a room and not longer. The work they had done to(3, 1, 2)gether had given her new hope. He’d broken down her affliction into (3, 1, 2) its component parts: delved deeper than anyone had every bothered before, or she’d let anyone delve – because it was Josh, because she trusted him and, if she was honest with herself, was more than a little in love with him.

Josh didn’t look at her like she was a freak. Okay, she knew it was part of his job not to (3, 1, 2) look at her that way, but that hadn’t stopped most of the medicos she’d known from doing just that. No, Michelle knew it was more than that. He did genuinely did care about her and that meant a lot. Even so, it had taken some time to (3, 1, 2) get her to (3, 1, 2) open up, to (3, 1, 2) get her to (3, 1, 2) remember.

It was a strange thing, she’d thought her memory was lousy. She couldn’t recall actions she’d just done, couldn’t bring to (3, 1, 2) mind carrying them out: hence the repetition in case she’d done it wrong or hadn’t counted correctly. But Josh taught her that there was nothing wrong with her memory at all. It was her mind purposely rubbing this out so that she would have to (3, 1, 2) keep doing the “Groundhog Day” thing, as he called it. The way Josh explained this was by comparing it to (3, 1, 2) someone (2, 3, 1) who didn’t think they deserved to (3, 1, 2) be happy.

‘Think about it,’ he’d said. ‘They unconsciously create difficulties to ensure that they won’t ever reach that state. They won’t be happy because they’re not giving themselves permission to be. Does that make sense?’

Michelle had nodded, flicking the light switch on and off and counting out loud, ‘1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3.’

‘In your case, though, you’re not giving yourself permission to be free of this.

You’re caught in a loop, or a sequence of loops, that you don’t want to break out

48 : 1,2,3...1,2,3

of. At least not yet.’ He paused. ‘The question is - why?’

Michelle broke off from the switch for a second. ‘I don’t enjoy doing this,’ she told him, then continued flicking the light switch.

‘I know you don’t, of course you don’t.’ Josh put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Christ, who would? But that’s not the point I’m making, Michelle.’

She almost stopped counting then, but caught herself in time, and started to count faster: ‘1-2-3,1-2-3, 1-2-3.’

‘You’re doing this for a reason. We just have to figure out what it is.’ He smiled then and it was the sweetest thing she’d ever seen.

The hard labour had started in earnest after that, trudging through the minutiae of her life. God, that had been fun. About how she’d been living in the house after her mother left for the last seven years virtually on her own, a recluse from society, surviving only with the aid of social services and various medical staff who would come in and check that she was okay - or as okay as Michelle could be - periodically.

‘Thank heavens for takeaway pizza,’ she’d said. The joke had been forced and neither of them laughed. ‘I don’t even have to…3, 1, 2, 3…count the knives and forks for that. Don’t even have to …3, 1, 2, 3…make it to …3, 1, 2, 3…the kitchen, just the front door…’

Doctors and the usual “nutcrackers” - her words - had visited Michelle since she was little. Her mother had made sure she received attention from the best (‘She felt she had to…3, 1, 2…Anything to…3, 1, 2…have a “normal” daughter.’). But nobody had been able to (3, 1, 2) do anything for her. In fact half of them didn’t have the first clue where to (3, 1, 2) begin. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder specialists came and looked at her, prescribed pills and tried to (3, 1, 2) talk her through the treatments. None of them worked.

‘I could hear what they were telling me…1, 2, 3…I knew they were right, honestly I did,’ Michelle said to Josh.

‘But hearing and believing are two different things.’

‘I suppose they are…1, 2, 3…And then you came along.’

1,2,3...1,2,3 : 49

Josh tipped his head, slightly embarrassed, then looked up at her again. ‘Then I came along,’ he said.

She told him about everything she’d been through, about how her mother had been forced to (3, 1, 2) hire private tutors to (3, 1, 2) teach her because she couldn’t get Michelle to (3, 1, 2) school – any kind of school. Could barely get her to (3, 1, 2) go out of the front door. For her the outside world was like a minefield, an overwhelming barrage of things to (3, 1, 2) do three times, times a million. Panic would set in before she even got to (3, 1, 2) the gates of the old house, the numbers coming out as incomprehensible drivel. It wouldn’t be long after this that she’d enter a catatonic state, collapse or pass out – probably all three (1, 2, 3). The oblivion that this offered was actually quite nice; it was like when she took her sleeping tablets – she had no choice but to relinquish her duties.

‘Mother used to…3, 1, 2…try and get the neighbourhood children to…3, 1, 2…come round and play,’ said Michelle. ‘But you can imagine what that was like, can’t you? Who wants to…3, 1, 2…play with a kid who keeps getting up and down off the settee or counting the cushions over and over again? And children can be very cruel…’

As a result she’d never really had any friends, no one willing to (3, 1, 2) stick around. No one willing to (3, 1, 2) try and understand. But then how could she expect them to (3, 1, 2), when she didn’t really understand herself?

‘What if we were to go back further than that?’ Josh had said to her eventually.

‘Can you remember anything about your early childhood?’

‘Numbers,’ Michelle had replied. Always the numbers. ‘1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3.’ She knew what he was driving at. When did all this start? But at the time she couldn’t honestly tell him. All she’d ever known was the numbers and the counting. Her unique way of viewing what she saw around her.

‘Yes, numbers. But what else?’ Those expectant eyes…she didn’t want to (3, 1, 2) disappoint him. Not Josh.

‘Stories. Mother trying to…3, 1, 2…read to…3, 1, 2…me; folktales mostly.’

And Josh had come back with something totally unexpected then. ‘I see.

Michelle, did you know that a lot of the old folktales had threes in them?’

‘1, 2, 3…No.’

50 : 1,2,3...1,2,3

‘Goldilocks and the three bears…the three pigs…Red Riding Hood when she confronts the wolf at the end of the story: Gramma, one…’ Josh held up a finger.

‘What big eyes you’ve got. Two…’ Another finger. ‘What big ears you’ve got – and we all know what happened when she got to the teeth.’ A third finger rose and he closed his fist. ‘The fact is they mostly followed patterns connected with threes.’

‘Oh,’ said Michelle. ‘My favourite was always the one..2, 3, 1…where the handsome prince would come to…3, 1, 2…the secluded castle to…3, 1, 2…save the damsel in distress. I liked that one…2, 3.’ She gazed at him and he grinned.

‘You mean like sleeping beauty?’

Michelle nodded, still mouthing the numbers.

‘One day you’ll wake up, Michelle. I promise.’ And then they’d moved on to (3, 1, 2) another topic.

It was amazing really, but until Josh had mentioned the “threes” Michelle had never really thought about how so many sayings in life were related that way.

Third time lucky, bad things always happening in threes, letting the phone ring three times before answering.

Father, son and the Holy Ghost…

‘You never talk much about your father.’ That was how the conversation began.

Michelle had been stirring her coffee at the time. Round three times, stop, then round again. She’d been doing that for the last fifteen minutes. Josh knew her well enough to (3, 1, 2) realise that any moment now she’d take it out and start tapping it on the side of the cup: three times, over and over. The coffee would be stone cold by now. She said nothing by way of a reply.

‘Your records say he died when you were very young, Michelle.’

‘My records,’ she snapped. ‘Is that all I am? Is that what I’m made up of, a set of files in some office?’ A set of files in triplicate.

It was a reflex action, and a diversionary tactic. ‘You know that’s not true. Why are you trying to change the subject?’

‘1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…I’m not.’

1,2,3...1,2,3 : 51

‘Tell me about him.’

‘Who?’ ‘Your father.’

The spoon came out of the cup and Michelle initiated the tapping. ‘There’s nothing to…3, 1, 2…tell. He died, end of story.’

Except it wasn’t, was it? It was only the beginning of the story.

Josh leaned over the dining room table they were sitting at. ‘Did you love him?’

‘What kind of a question is that?’ Michelle tapped the spoon harder against the rim of the cup.

‘The kind you’re not answering.’

She looked down at the spoon and the cup. The tapping had slowed considerably. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘It was a long time ago, but yes. I loved him very much.’

‘What are your fondest memories of him, Michelle?’

Looking up, she searched his face. ‘I don’t…’

Josh took her free hand, the one not tapping the spoon. ‘Think back. You can do this, I know you can.’

And she did. She cast her mind back to a time when she’d been happy. Big, strong hands lifting her up into (3, 1, 2) the air and Michelle giggling with glee.

Riding on his shoulders through a park or wood, somewhere green at least. A family day out, a picnic maybe…Michelle wasn’t sure. But there was water, she remembered a river: and the sun. A sun she hadn’t seen, a heat she hadn’t felt against her skin in almost twenty two…3, 1, 2…years. She could hear the birds in the trees, see the dappled light filtering through the leaves…

The spoon was hardly connecting with the cup at all. ‘He was so proud of me,’ Michelle said. ‘I was his little Button. He kept talking about all the things I would do, places I’d go…And how clever I was, he was even teaching me-’ She froze, began tapping the spoon faster against the rim.

52 : 1,2,3...1,2,3

Josh squeezed Michelle’s hand tighter. ‘Tell me, Michelle. What happened to him?’

There were tears in her eyes, still caught there, trapped. But it wouldn’t be long before they broke free and ran down her cheeks. ‘People. Pictures of people.

Pictures of animals…and shapes…’

Josh frowned. ‘I…I don’t understand, Michelle.’

‘1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3. All the way through. One person, two people, three…One cat, two dogs, three birds. One square, two circles, three triangles.’ Michelle reeled off the list like it was a mantra.

‘Is this how you first started to look at the world around you?’

‘One person, two people, three…One cat, two dogs…’ she repeated.

‘What’s the connection to your father, Michelle? You have to tell me. It’s important.’

Michelle shook her head and carried on chanting.

Josh squeezed her hand even tighter and something seemed to click inside her head. ‘Tell me,’ he whispered.

When she spoke again, it was staggered, as if it was painful to (3, 1, 2) get the words out. ‘In…the…book.’

It took a second or so for realisation to dawn on Josh. ‘My God, the people, the animals, the shapes…They were in a book. Michelle, was your father teaching you to count?’

‘1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…’ Michelle was tapping the spoon so hard it chipped the side of the cup.

‘So you were learning to count from a book, that you father gave you?’ The pictures, the numbers. It certainly explained why she’d started to (3, 1, 2) make those links. Why Michelle had begun to (3, 1, 2) break everything in life down to those three (1, 2, 3), little digits. But not why she’d carried on counting, and the same numbers over and over. Josh pressed her, even though he could see she was upset. ‘Michelle, what happened to your father?’

1,2,3...1,2,3 : 53

‘Daddy…Daddy…Daddy.’

‘Something happened to him, didn’t it?’

‘Phone…three…rings,’ Michelle spluttered. Then one word: ‘Hospital.’

‘What were you doing when the phone rang, Michelle? Were you reading from the book? Were you counting?’

‘1 - Daddy told me 2 practice and never…3.’

‘Never stop?’ Josh asked. ‘Is that why you carried on counting, because he wasn’t around to tell you to stop? You felt you had to carry on after he died, to finish what he started?’

She shook her head. ‘No 1, 2, 3…No!’ ‘I’m here, Michelle, you can tell me.’

So she did.

Now, as she crossed the carpet and remembered what she’d shared with Josh, what she’d allowed herself to (3, 1, 2) dredge up not so long ago, the tears came again. The splintering of the cup as she knocked it off the table. Josh holding her as she wept. And one final thing: a kiss on the forehead, just like her father used to (3, 1, 2) give her.

She remembered what he’d said as well: ‘Sleeping beauty, it’s time to wake up.’

Michelle hadn’t done that immediately. It had been a slow waking, but with Josh’s help in the two (3, 1, 2) weeks since she’d opened up, she’d begun to (3, 1, 2) see things a little more clearly. Begun to (3, 1, 2) realise that maybe it was time and that even though she was still following the patterns right now, perhaps she could turn the tide. Give herself permission to (3, 1, 2) be free (1, 2, 3) of this prison forever. She wanted to (3, 1, 2) be able to (3, 1, 2) cook Josh a meal to (3, 1, 2) say thank you, to (3, 1, 2) go outside and see the sun again…Walk through dappled forests again, perhaps hand in hand with the man who’d done so much for her.

Could she simply just stop, though, after all this time? After all these years of counting…1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…? Michelle was so set in her ways, stuck in this rut…

‘Sleeping beauty, it’s time to wake up.’

54 : 1,2,3...1,2,3

Time to (3, 1, 2) leave the kingdom behind for someone else to rule.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Josh had said. He was the one who’d made her understand.

It was just a coincidence; that’s all it was. Just a coincidence.

Michelle wasn’t far away from the living room door now. It would take her another five minutes at least – 1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…Or she could cover the distance in a matter of moments. Her choice, her decision.

‘1, 2, 3…’

Enough.

‘1, 2, 3…’

Enough. ’1, 2…’

Enough!

All was quiet. Michelle stood perfectly still, hardly daring to move. It was as if she’d forced time to do the same, frozen it until it saw what her next move would be. Gritting her teeth and closing her eyes, she placed a foot on the carpet. Then another, and another. No counting. No 1, 2, 3. Just walking normally, something other people took for granted. She had a bit of a wobbly moment after the third step - instinctively she wanted to take her foot back, to repeat the motion, do the steps again. But she held fast, carrying on to the door and placing a hand on the jamb for support. She opened her eyes and breathed deeply. It might seem like nothing much to anyone else, but for her it was a small victory. The beginning of a new life perhaps.

Briiiinnnggg-briiiiiing…

Michelle jumped, turning sideways to look at the hall table; her heart suddenly in her mouth. Jesus, it was only…

OnlyBad things always happening in threes…

In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost…

1,2,3...1,2,3 : 55

Amen…

Briiiinnnggg-briiiiiing…

Michelle bit her lip. She should answer it, should just pick it up and dispel her demons once and for all. Except…except she knew who it would be. What it would be about. What had happened; again. She’d abandoned her duties, her responsibilities, and now the kingdom was falling apart without her.

Let it ring one more time, a third time. Just let it ring.

She wondered what she would do now without him.

No, maybe it’s not too late…

Briiiinnnggg-briiiiiing… …3…

1, 2, 3, 1, 2… Not too (3, 1, 2) late, to (3, 1, 2) save him. She’d only stopped for a little while.

Crying, Michelle picked up the receiver. Counting all the time under her breath.

1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…

1, 2, 3…1 2…

3. *** Copyright © Paul Kane 2006

See what's lurking in the shadows over at : www.shadow-writer.co.uk

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Worthwhile Web Here are a few things I've been checking out lately. If you would like to advertise your own website or products here then feel free to get in touch. Please remember that I will only include site links that are of relevant content! ***

The Hellraiser Films And Their Legacy

by Paul Kane Foreword by Doug Bradley

Published by McFarland Publishers www.mcfarlandpub.com Hardback ISBN: 0-7864-2752-3. $45, ÂŁ31 Best-selling horror and dark fantasy novelist Clive Barker had a rocky start with the first attempts to convert his stories into a visual medium. Directors and screenwriters turned the film adaptations of Underworld and Rawhead Rex into something barely recognizable - and box office failures as well. Consequently, he was determined to make the next movie himself, and set about approaching film

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companies. The script was based on his own Hellbound Heart novella, and the resultant film was the undisputed 1987 horror classic Hellraiser, which Barker not only directed, but insisted on being involved with at every step. It spawned a movie franchise that to date includes eight films.

This new volume explores not only the cinematic interpretations of the Hellraiser mythos but also its intrusion into other artistic and cultural forms (covering the comics series, collectables, and Hellraiser’s influence on other movies and TV shows).

Beginning with the unconventional sources of Clive Barker’s inspiration, the book follows Barker from his pre–Hellraiser cinematic experience through the filming of the horror classic. It examines various themes (such as the undermining of the traditional family unit and the malleability of the flesh) found throughout the series and the ways in which the representation of these themes changes from film to film. The religious aspects of the movies are also discussed.

Characters central to the franchise - and the mythos - are examined at length, with production histories for all of the eight Hellraiser films included, detailed notes and index, quotes, and a look at how the movies were received.

Included is a foreword by actor Doug Bradley, who portrayed the infamous Pinhead, and 75 illustrations, many rare behind the scenes photos and original Clive Barker sketches.

Available directly from McFarland, Amazon.co.uk and .com, Barnes and Noble, Waterstones, Tesco.com, W.H. Smiths.co.uk and all good bookstores.

Copies signed by the author can be bought from the Shadow Writer website ***

UNREST UNREST, Asgaard's exciting new supernatural horror/medical thriller, is already scheduled to attend a total of 15 high-profile film festivals before year end and is in the process of enjoying a distribution deal for a domestic theatrical release early December. Indeed, UNREST is set to stop at 9 festivals including Fantastic Fest 2006, Shriekfest, Chicago Horror Film Festival, Screamfest, Hollywood Horror, Sci-Fi and Fantasy Film Festival, International Horror and Sci-Fi Film Fest and the 20th Leeds International Film Festival, to name a few.

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It recently took home the Award for â&#x20AC;&#x153;Best Horror Filmâ&#x20AC;? at the 2006 Illinois International Film Festival and is scheduled to be released on 500 Screens November 17-19t h as part of the After Dark Horror Festival.

Unrest is the brainchild of Jason Todd Ipson, MD, who is making his feature directorial debut with this project. For Unrest, Ipson, who attended USC-Cinema Television School and successfully crossed over from surgery to directing in 1999, has taken the familiar elements of the horror genre and combined them with his knowledge of the world of medical students to create an intelligent, stylish medical thriller that explores the issues around mortality and the separation of body and soul.

Using a real hospital and morgue as its principal settings, Unrest tells the story of four medical students in a Gross Anatomy Lab that find themselves dealing with the vengeful spirit of one of the cadavers they have been assigned to dissect.

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Jason Ipson comments: "I went to medical school in Salt Lake City, Utah. There was a rotation that we did at the VA Hospital which was terrifying. Literally there are tunnels that go underneath this hospital that would go for 1.6 miles. During med school, you would walk around these tunnels at two or three in morning, where there is nobody around. I always thought it was the perfect location to do a movie. Now was the time to do a horror film that takes in my background. I set out to do this project based on the location.I built this project on the basis of being in that hospital and the creepiness and what the medical students went through there."

UNREST, with its compelling cast of characters that seem to jump off the screen, is not the average Hollywood generic horror movie. With strong creative writing and stand out performances, it delivers a visually stunning addition to the medical thriller/horror genre.The movie features a great ensemble cast of young up and coming talent from film and television which includes Corri English (Bedford Diaries), Scot Davis (Honeymoon with Mom), Joshua Alba (Alpha Dog), Jay Jablonski (Everybody Wants to be Italian), Marisa Petroro (Reno 911!:Miami, Deal or No Deal), Derrick O'Connor (Daredevil, End of Days, Pirates of the Carribean).

Emmy award-winning director Michael Fimognari (Fighting Tommy Reilly) is the director of photography, with wardrobe by Madla Hruza (The Yellow Bird), and special make-up effects by Emmy award-winner Greg Solomon of Optic Nerve.

FACT SHEET 1) UNREST has now been accepted at 15 film festivals, and Asgaard is in the process of signing a deal to distribute the film theatrically.

2) The film was shot in a functioning hospital using a real morgue.

3) They had to be prepared to shut down production any day that the VA had an autopsy.

4) A full orchestral sound was achieved by looping live musicians.

5) The songs in the movie are in Aztec, using proper grammar learned by Michael Cohen, the composer.

6) Several crew members reported ghost sightings while making this film.

Additional Media coverage http://radiomemories.libsyn.com/index.php?post_id=39719 http://www.tv.com/corri-english/person/99186/summary.html http://scifi.about.com/b/a/243104.htm http://www.cinequest.org/2006/programguide/event_view.php?eid=184 ***

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The Golden Talisman Book 1 Of The Talisman Chronicles

by J. Stefan Jackson

Now available from Mundania Press

Hidden within the deep woods of rural Alabama, along the forgotten southern course of the Tombigbee River, lies an unseen world feared for centuries by the residents of the tiny town of Carlsdale. Only one person has ever survived a visit to this place long enough to tell about it. His name is Jack Kenney.

Thirteen years old at the time of the event, Jack and his family were forced to flee Carlsdale and head north to the larger city of Tuscaloosa. The menace from their former home left them in peace for nearly eight years. But after the brutal murder of a noted archaeologist and teacher at the University of Alabama, everything changed. Jack and his older brother, Jeremy, attend the University and are close friends of the late professor. Within days of his death, they are abducted by the FBI, held against their will in a secret holding facility near Manassas, Virginia.

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Frustrated by the brothers' seeming refusal to cooperate, the agency's interrogations become increasingly violent, until Jack gains a welcome reprieve when Special Agent Peter McNamee arrives from the FBI's Richmond office. He befriends Jack and gains his trust, drawing upon a similar supernatural event from his own youth. Willing, finally, to talk after so many years spent in sworn silence, Jack leads Peter on an extraordinary roller-coaster ride involving a mystical and deadly realm located in America's Deep South...

For free excerpts and to learn more, visit : www.jstefanjackson.com ***

Artists U K The Sketchwork Of Ed Org

Artists UK offers some beautiful signed prints from this artist ...

'Moon Faerie' : 'Titania' : 'The Horns Of Elfland' Copyright Š Ed Org : Images Courtesy of Artists UK

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'Moon Faerie' by Ed Org This is a signed open edition with an image size of 133 mm x 233 mm with title under the centre and signing in pencil by the artist bottom right in the border.

Printed on a fairly heavy matt board. Supplied mounted in a 50mm mount to an overall size of 250 x 380 mm.

Price: £19.95 'Titania' by Ed Org Another beautiful sketch piece by Ed Org, this time of the classic Shakespearian faery queen. If you like fairies then this must be a MUST! This is a signed open edition with an image size of 129 mm x 239 mm with title under the centre and signing in pencil by the artist bottom right in the border. Printed on a fairly heavy matt board. Supplied mounted in a 50mm mount to an overall size of 250 x 380 mm. Fabulous gift for anyone into fairy queens, shakespeare ... or just gorgeous erotic pictures.

Price: £19.95 'The Horns Of Elfland' by Ed Org A lovely open edition signed print. The image size is 196 mm x 316 mm with title under the centre and signing in pencil by the artist. Printed on a fairly heavy matt board. Supplied in a 60mm mount to an overall size of 350 x 490 mm.

Price: £29.95

Check out Ed Org's Section on Artists UK to see the other prints available.

You can order these amazing prints (and much more) from : www.artistsuk.co.uk ***

ADVERTISE HERE See the eZine page at Screaming Dreams for more info