Everything was beautiful: blueschist states of mind. The night sky was complete and we knew it, thanks to the old mnemonic. Mother didn’t show us anything per se, but she bought the book in which I learned the trick: a Junior Collins Encyclopaedia that included a comprehensive chapter on the subject of Space. It was simple and beautiful, the way certain things are: nine words forming a coherent and logical sentence that perfectly aligned to its raison d’etre.
Somewhere, dear Reader, there exists an imaginary handbook on how writers must write their stories. The first chapter of this imaginary handbook dictates to writers how they can and cannot start their stories. There is a list of the ways in which one must not begin the plot under any circumstances. One of these rules mandates that the story must not open with its hero in bed.
I can’t deny I got a bit of a shock when I first saw her lying there. Right next to the bins. The rep had been wrapped loosely in an old tarpaulin, but somehow it had fallen open. I pulled the tarp aside a little more and saw that she had one leg bent underneath her body, eyes closed, her uniform intact but smudged with dirt.
I think historical horror is something that needs exploring more. There’s nothing more frightening that the dark capabilities of human beings over the course of history. There have been acts of pure evil over the centuries, and these acts continue in present day. My current work-in-progress explores the experience of a psychic with telekinetic powers who finds himself in a concentration camp. The setting of real-life evil is going to be an interesting one to draw out. It’s rather like Carrie meets the Boy in the Striped Pyjamas if that makes sense. So I think drawing on the real horrors of the past is a bit of a gap in current horror.