Thursday, January 29, 2004

Well, not to be discouraged by the recent rejection by Playboy of my unique interactive sexual pleasure online game on the grounds that it is too explicit, I have girded my loins and will soon mount a campaign to lure in another (more sexually liberated) buyer for this fascinating product.

Already keen to get going on the photo-realistic girls is Steven Giesler, creator of the stunningly sexy artwork for the Final Fantasy film and the Nvidia DAWN demo.

it's gonna be a fucken corker

Saturday, January 24, 2004

Only a few weeks after the last word was typed on the Yôroppa novel, Hertzan Chimera's third, an American publisher of some repute has very enthusiastically offered to publish it in mass-market paperback in the Spring of 2006.

Not only that, this same publisher is looking at picking up the available paperback rights to the other two Hertzan Chimera novels THE CREATION GAME (formerly "Szmonhfu") and UNITED STATES. Names and details after the signing of the Yôroppa contract.

this is turning into a wonderful 2004!

Thursday, January 15, 2004

In recent times I have been receiving a large number of offers to appear in THIS anthology and THAT themed collection. And just the same way that I stopped trying to write like a horror writer and started to ENJOY writing once again, finishing the last 30,000 words of my third novel Yôroppa after two periods of writer's block over the space of two years I realised that writing to order is just not how Hertzan Chimera gets off. It has to come from inside where the knots are loosened by the clicking of fingertips on a keyboard late into the night or early morning before the call to paid employment offers me a leg up onto my bicycle and out into the grid-locked traffic of Oxford.

nope, anthologies are not one's cup of tea, vicar

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

I have been thinking recently that when I have left companies in the past, everything has gone well for that company afterwards.
1) Sony Cambridge. I left there because of a management situation. All those certain members of management left shortly after.
2) Creation Books. I left Creation Books they escalated to their former glory with shops in Los Angeles and Tokyo.
3) Eraserhead Press. I left Eraserhead Press - now everything's hunky dory in the house of Mellick.
It seems like all I am doing is making a stand by running away, to the benefit of those companies I infested.

fancy realising this on my 38th birthday
The more I think about this HC Unit the less I need it to explain GRAVITY and THE OTHER THREE FUNDAMENTAL FORCES. Contemporary physics works at the Planck length where calculations can be made - this is fine for "up-close" investigation of vectors but gives a real problem when it comes to the "long-range" issue of gravity. So, I have TURNED PHYSICS ON ITS HEAD with my Hertzan Chimera Unit.

Now this is explained in greater depth elsewhere in this blog, but yesterday I thought, "I don't actually need a 'Unit'." The way the term PI is useless in mathematical terms as it merely describes the relationship between ALL CIRCLES and something called A CENTRE, the term Unit is useless to the process of U. E. (UNIVERSAL EQUILLIBRIUM) that the HC Unit hopes to illuminate.

Let me try to explain the dilemma:

the Unit describes that part of space that is falling in on itself - because there is universal GRAVITY, we have to assume that this is because the universe is falling in on itself from all directions. Now I have no mathematical proof for how space would fall in on itself. But the axiom is, "That is what's happening." This falling-in causes mass of one neutron MAXIMUM to exist as a measurable entity - all free neutrons ARE the same mass because the property of space fall-in is universal.

If the physical boundary one of these free neutrons is exceeded the electromagnetic proton-electron pair effect is created. If there is a neighbouring HC Unit, it will accept the charge, if not the charge will evaporate back into Universal equillibrium (if the drop is great enough at the speed of c, we see this as a photon being ejected in quantic steps)

'Light' is the universe hopping backwards to settle the imbalance - why it takes place at c tells us lots about the 'material property' of the universe.

but I don't need a Unit as the axiom is "U. E. is the Unit"

Monday, January 12, 2004

It is my greatest pleasure to announce that the second issue of Terror Tales will feature investigative articles on true-life U.S. horror and an "appreciation" of ROTTEN.COM, and genre-breaking fiction from Gary A Braunbeck and James Havoc to name a few. Trevor Brown (the renowned jap-resident artist) has agreed to let me use his art on the Fuck Horror cover. There's a real nice word-off between Randy Chandler and Robert Lee on the subject of "How to write HORROR" and then there's JAP EYE (part2), HORROR METAL and REVIEWS & INTERVIEWS.

this is gonna be a monsta second issue!!!!

Saturday, January 10, 2004

4th non-fiction Stoker rec for SPIDERED WEB
Today, SPIDERED WEB (hertzan chimera interviews) received its 4th Stoker rec in non-fiction -- that puts it in 7th position of 17 on that category. *shrugs* Never having been up for a Stoker before I wouldn't know when to start getting excited about this leading to a Nomination proper, other than to say I am already excited about the recommendations.

Thanks go out to all who rec'd and will rec before this joust is ended.

Thursday, January 08, 2004

I started this thread on some list about the top five books of all time (IMHO) and it didn't half remind me of the great books I have read in many genres over the years, so I added five more: here's the list in no particular order.

thomas harris - hannibal
haruki murakami - the wind-up bird chronicles
jeff noon - vurt
octavia e butler – dawn, xenogenesis1
nick cave - and the ass saw the angel
kurt vonnegut - slapstick (or lonesome no more)
haruki murakami - a wild sheep chase
william gibson - burning chrome (collection)
william peter blatty - legion
patrick suskind - perfume

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

LOVE SONGS by Hertzan Chimera
It's been a while since I saw this online, so here it is on my very own blog.

Now, lying totally fucked in the damp wreckage of her bed, her half-shaven head on my hairless boy-chest, I can see the tattoos all over her body. Not ink tattoos like the world famous adornments to the backs of Yakuza hard men, but flesh tattoos; designs raised from the substrata of veins and follicles. Drawn through epidermic impulse into pictorial realisation. Tattoos of the mind; a living twenty-four square foot canvas. Imagery delicate and intricate while at the same time brutal, kaleidoscopic depictions of her sleeping psyche; the tool at the root of their hewing.

When I touch one of the skin forms (an interesting little icon with long legs, horns and spiny back) it dissolves. Skis through snow. Turns to an oily residue. A blurred memory of its former symbolism.

Stephanie stirs in her sleep, alien keystrokes dance across her lips. The destruction I had just caused instantly repaired by her dreamy design. I brush a hand through an entire phalanx of dermoforms, down her back and over her buttocks, drawing a greasy trail through the carnage. Again Stephanie shudders against sleep’s cotton wool embrace. Imagery rebuilt. Icons reformatted.

A game; ha-ha… I shuffle round on the sopping mattress, settling myself into pole position. A cold rasping sound escapes her throat like over rich choux pastry. I draw my right hand up the back of her legs, from the skin-tattooed ball of her right foot; across the wrinkles of her arch; smoothly over the heel; up the Achilles tendon taught as wire; ever-so-recklessly disfiguring imagery into a slurry of sleep shudders and rambling back brain feedback. Up the calf with an open hand. Plunging into the trough at the back of her knee. Up the inside of the thigh.

Stephanie shuddering more and more violently with every tentative inch of ascension. Up to the calligraphisized gash. Grasping her vagina as the jolting movements become a cold shiver, wet and clammy as you like. Massaging memories of vaginal calligraphy up over that wonderfully white arse. Stephanie sobbing a deep ditch of ecstasy.

I allow myself a nasty little laugh, forcefully now along the corrugation of ribcage, up the back of her right arm, annihilating dreams she jabbers at the disturbing intensity of the cerebral turmoil; on up the neck blending jugular vein into ear over the crest of skull over temple and cheek. Sliming beyond my most ludicrous expectation. A ritual reorganisation.
She rolls her shoulders onto me. Draws her legs up into a foetal attitude. Then explodes poker rigid as the skin rebleeds its magnificent tapestry. Dry ice on her upper lip condenses to marbled beads.

I drag my disgusting hand down her throat, over her prominent clavicles, wiping dreams to sludge, molesting her tiny nippleless breasts again and again, just rubbing the flesh to a slaking treacle, down to the barbwire defending the stigmata that so flamboyantly bisects her thighs. And in. Finger by finger to a grand total of three. Then crowbarring in a fourth. Stephanie, her mouth ripped wide open by the horror of her manipulated slumber.
I plunge my tongue into her mouth, tasting the tannin of its curious catfur coating. The charcoal scent of her tortured sighs as she grinds down on my entire hand. Choking on the whole. The brailed calligraphy of her vulva restamping entrance codes on the back of my hand. Over and over, reprinting, rescanning….

I whip out my fist with one sharp tug. Stephanie’s body flips into the air. A creamy exegesis scintillates the already manky mattress. Again a readjustment of position sees me taking a jockey’s pose, perched upon her steaming thighs. Hands plunged deep into the body gore. Hands either side of her. Body Wanking. Clawfists now dredging through clavicle candy and breast fat, rib gristle and belly meat. Thumbs crashing over her gaping pudenda. Restructuring the Sanskrit on velum into a grossly lacerated cold custard fantasy.

The harder and faster I dig up the dirt, the more intense and intricate its reinterpretation. A singularly complex cry escapes her. She bucks underneath, nearly unseating me. Digging my heals in, my percheron bucks on. Eyes nailed shut. Screwed tight. Intoxicating fumes of aniseed and ozone lifting off her like a ground fog on a chilling autumn dawn. She arches her back an unbelievable angle. I press on, driving my hands through the slurry of her breasts and the seem to dislodge…

Stephanie snaps awake. Sees me over her. Sees her displaced breasts.
“Now you know… the cat is well and truly… out of the bag.” She gasps.
She reaches across the bed for the telephone, “This you will like…”
She taps in a five digit number. “Think of a name… Got one?”
“Man or a woman?” I ask…
“Don’t matter.”

She gets a call connected tone and holds the handset to my mouth, “Say it, now! You only get one chance!”
I choose something classy, “Jane Templeton Rice.”
Quickly Stephanie tosses the telephone aside. Tumbling through the air, it draws a rainbow trail of fibres emancipating the stinking sweat and other trace elements present in the claustrophobic atmosphere, a biogenetic ululation. The glowing fibres knot together as the air is whipped up icy cold and naked, a visibly emaciated redhead woman hits the floor with a resounding thump. The landed trout glistening wetly as frontal lobe hyper stimulation waves scamper through her freshly formed femininity. Her eyelids rip open revealing eyes as clear as copper sulphate crystals. The red central blemish on her freckled forehead. Burst blood vessel? Tilka?

“Tchick tchick.” Stephanie clicks her teeth, as if to a dog. Her cold wet body still beneath me gives out a final involuntary spasm.
“Here, girlie…” she calls to the teleported female, congratulating me, “Nice piece of work. For an apprentice..” she beams maniacally, reaching for the fairground dentist’s toy and making it whirr and whiz as the redhead I had baptised Jane begins to crawl towards us slowly slipping into character. A sinister crossbreed of sturm und drang.
“Hold out the pretty hand for me…” Stephanie the contralto. The redhead holds out her left hand.

Before I can comprehend what is going on, Stephanie shoves the dentist’s drillbit right under the nail of Jane’s index finger. Tugging out a red fibre from under the nail that stretches to a length of six or seven inches. The redhead passes out.
“What are you doing?” I exclaim.
“Nerves of steel, these whores.” Stephanie slithers from beneath me extricating the long red fibre from under my Jane’s index fingernail. She wraps the bleeding fibre round her right hand, playing out a few extra yards, “Nerves of steel.”
The hand becomes a glistening ball of fibre in the blink of an eye. She kneels up on the bed in front of me, “This will blow your fucking mind.”

She pulls her breasts right off. Just rips them off with her free appendage and stuffs the nerve-swathed ball into each gangrenously gaping hole in turn until the hand clears. She raises her head to the ceiling and lets out a single tone. An operatic A flat minor. And, wow, if this girl I had picked up in a local bar just a half hour before didn’t just sprout monofilament wings from the holes that used to house her breasts. If they didn’t just unfurl and dry to crisp Perspex wafers beating to the pulse of her racing heart. If she didn’t just flap those microfine wings and rise gracefully into the air. Back arched. Singing tone poems and laughing daydreams.

Songs from the heart of gladness.

Saturday, January 03, 2004

This is a special recording of the Hertzan Chimera short story "Mr Clarinet". Arranged and spoken by the northern artist who inspired the original short story all those years back, Stewart Shelley.


you gotta love Stewart's scouse accent