Work in progress - my new novel "The Secret Lives of Melissa Powell". Excerpt from first draft. The Secret Lives of Melissa Powell Carmilla Voiez Wanda arrived at the inmate’s door with a bundle of letters. The absence of her mentor, and the associated unease Dawson always brought with them towards cell D41, should have given Wanda all the confidence she needed to initiate contact, so why wouldn’t her hands stop sweating? Why did she feel like a thief in the night, sneaking a

I came to a halt, a full stop, a period of rest, while writing "Venus Virus". Another project started demanding my attention. Without fixed deadlines, I agreed, like a child rushing to open all the presents on Christmas morning. "The Secret Lives of Melissa Powell" is only a working title. I might decide on another later on. It's a story about prisons, literal and metaphorical. It's less of a horror story and more a tale of mysticism. I suspect the best definition for it, if

I have been a member of NaNoWriMo for eight years and competed during six of those with varying degrees of success. 2015 was a particularly difficult year. I averaged just 700 words per day and failed to complete anything more than the bones of a short story. While from 2009 – 2011 I managed to pen the first drafts of all three books in the Starblood Trilogy. I think a lot of it depends on how well the story you’re writing grabs hold of you, and what other things you need to

Wednesday November 8th, 2017, and day eight of NaNoWriMo. Having not managed to pen any words towards my novel yesterday, I sat for three hours typing this morning and have gained over three thousand words, taking me to 16,032 words, almost three thousand above par. Is the story any good? I hope so, but it’s too early and I’m too close to it to tell. I seem to have internalised “Crime and Punishment” and I’m writing pages of my main character struggling with thoughts of guilt

NaNoWriMo is an intensive writing boot camp that costs nothing but late nights, blurred vision and sore wrists. I discovered it through a group of friends I met while studying Creative Writing with the Open University. Three of my novels (the entire Starblood Trilogy) and one novella, Basement Beauty were started during the frantic month of November. The point is to write uncritically at least 50,000 words during one month. The point is to give your imagination free-reign, no

It’s a beautiful house, built in 1735 by the architect William Adam. A house that is almost three hundred years old is bound to have some ghost stories connected to it, right? Looking at its tranquil beauty from outside it’s hard to imagine anything bad happening here. But it has some violence in its history. The owner, Lord Braco, was one of the people who ensured MacPherson never benefited from a royal pardon by moving the town’s clock forward by one hour. His son, the seco

Happy Halloween brain-eaters. Z Nation season 4 is alive and kicking and The Walking Dead will start again very soon. Add to these living-dead factoids the fact that my short story “Eat the Rich” will be released by Weird Punk Books in their anthology “Zombie Punks Fuck Off” this autumn. What a way to celebrate the greatest season for Horror lovers. The book is available to pre-order, but I’m offering you the chance to read an excerpt from my story right now to celebrate my i

Today (Aug 1) is the release day for my short story collection, Broken Mirror and Other Morbid Tales. To celebrate and explain the background to some of the stories, this week I will be posting what inspired me to write some of the tales. Today I will discuss the background to Jagged Jaws. CW: Sexual assault. Something happened to me when I was fifteen. It affected me so profoundly that, thirty years on, it remains a part of me. It took decades and therapy to accept that I wa

The white-haired man plants kisses on his lips, but the boy shakes his head. Letting his lover sleep, the man sits naked on top of the covers, smiling. He glances up at Lilith then reaches for his glasses. Slowly, as if every muscle in his body has turned to gelatine, he pushes himself up and stumbles bow-legged towards the window. Their eyes meet and he reaches out his own hand and places it on the other side of the glass. She smiles at him as he reaches for the window latch

Working on a new novella (or possibly a short story) with the working title "The Violinist". It's a horror piece. I've paused at 1646 words. My character's arrived at the place she needs to be, and the whole thing is shrouded in magic and mystery as much as possible. First draft so too much telling and not enough showing, but I will sort that out later. Writing, a wonderful way to spend a hot afternoon. Here are the first few paragraphs of the first draft as a wee teaser for

The club is dark and full of a sweet smelling mist. Lilith cannot see the magician in the swarm of black wrapped bodies. Standing at the edge of the dance floor, she looks around the room. Dancers’ teeth glow, as do the white and neon flyers on every table. Shining drinks look like lanterns under the black light. It feels like home. She sees a man bouncing forwards and backwards across the dance floor. He wears a black trench coat and shiny jeans and the skin just below his m

The white-haired man plants kisses on his lips, but the boy shakes his head. Letting his lover sleep, the man sits naked on top of the covers, smiling. He glances up at Lilith then reaches for his glasses. Slowly, as if every muscle in his body has turned to gelatine, he pushes himself up and stumbles bow-legged towards the window. Their eyes meet and he reaches out his own hand and places it on the other side of the glass. She smiles at him as he reaches for the window latch

Excerpt one - Chapter 1 Satori stands in the centre of his bedroom. His fingers and the lace cuffs of his shirt are stained from the charcoal he uses to scribble symbols. Markings cover every surface: the bare floorboards, ceiling and walls. Even his wardrobe and door are covered in intricate black sigils. He unbuttons his shirt, swearing as he leaves fingerprints on the cotton. After tossing the garment on to his bed, he unzips his jeans, and forces the denim over his legs a