It was on the good ship Venus…

Midnight Quatermass 21: Ships that burn in the night and Beware the BLARB!

Fun week.

We got back from our trip to Denmark and Sweden a few days ago and have been hanging out with Dave, my old mucker and artist on, well, everything. He and his family kindly house/cat sat for us and now this week we get to throw our kids at various museums and curse the stupid sun together. It also means in the evening, when we should be working, we get to watch every episode of Hammer House of Horror and shout in delight at the likes of Paul Darrow, Brian Cox and Peter Cushing.

We do have a neat little Amicus tribute in this year’s John Carpenter’s Tales for a Halloween Night:

A pile of movie references and a werewolf. Boy, we spoil our readers.

We also had a lovely impromptu local signing of Fetch Book II of which one young reader exclaimed, “I’ve been waiting so long for this!” It always feels great to see someone so happy to have the sequel in their hands, but then I remembered the ride she’s in for.

I’m going to get my shins kicked again. Good job there’s a third volume on the way…

Not sure I’m allowed to talk about that yet so let’s keep it between us.

~

I get readers of QM asking me every now and again about how I’m churning out a story a week. It’s not quite the old where do you get your ideas from? chestnut so I think its worth an answer. When I was a lot younger it took forever to get an idea that I was happy with on to the page and of course I went through that godawful stage where it was easier to start something new than ever finish one single thing. Eventually though my pace picked up.

As a kid I had the best school for quality churn via 2000AD. It’s usually the artists who get sympathy for the incredible page counts they had to tackle, but the writers were also damned by the sheer amount of story that that thing ate up and still does. I like Joyce and Beckett as much as the next guy, but they didn’t have to produce The Apocalypse War. It would have broken them.

Reading about other writers helped a lot and once I realised that the first draft - the fabled puke draft - had only one purpose; to exist - things started falling into place. At university I wrote a terrible novel and that was a big deal. Having a finished thing of a decent length that I could then set aside to come back to later helped get the next thing started and increased my confidence exponentially. Thankfully I never returned to the thing. It was called Exit Wounds and that’s about all you ever need to know about it.

By the time I took my first professional trip to Los Angeles I had what I thought was a decent enough screenplay under my belt and my management set up a round of meetings that were more about me than about my work at that stage. Everyone loved Slingers, but the main question that always came up was, ‘So what else are you working on?’ It was this that lead to probably the most important advice I got from my guys as they explained how this whole Hollywood thing actually worked to a naive Brit.

I’m paraphrasing now, but this is the gist of it:

This town is a furnace. It’s our job to keep it lit and it’s your job to provide the fuel. Now some writers bring one perfect piece of work and it’s like an exquisite scale replica of a wooden sailing ship. The detail is perfect from the bow to the stern. There are small sailors in the rigging and you can see where the damage from previous sea battles has been repaired. It’s perfect in every way from the Captain’s cutlass to the cabin-boy’s mop. And we take it with a thank you (and hopefully a very large cheque) and toss it into the furnace where it burns so very brightly for a few moments and then we say ‘So what else are you working on?’

In the meantime another writer comes in and he’s got none of that but the town loves what he does have which is logs. Lots of rough, unkempt, freshly cut logs. A huge pile of them that we throw into the exact same furnace and while they don’t burn as bright as that beautiful ship they do burn. And there’s a lot of them.

At first this is the kind of revelation that is hard to hear even though it makes a lot of sense if you know anything at all about the American film and television system. Everyone wants to work on the ship. But later, once acceptance has set in, it makes for a much easier time in LA as a jobbing writer. Especially if you want to get invited back.

Now my own career turned out to be a little different from a lot of my LA based writing pals (although to be honest no two of our stories are alike) as I was lucky enough to get paid for development work. I spent around ten years working on projects that never saw the light of day. A few came close and I may work out a way to present a few of them here in one form or another because I do believe they deserve an audience. But not a single one of them to this day has ever got a simple straight forward “No!” because in LA you never kill anything when it’s safer to drop it into a desk and hopefully dust it off a year or five or ten later.

For some people this is incredibly frustrating, but I had such a great time out there. I just felt very lucky indeed to be writing anything. In that period I also got to play around with some old favourites of mine, mostly remakes and reboots, stuff like Airwolf, The Last Starfighter, Flight of the Navigator and Silent Running.

I also had a pretty good take on one of my favourite novels, The Hawkline Monster by Richard Brautigan, but it turned out the rights were a minefield at the time after Jack Nicholson had had a bash at it although I hear other people have had a stab at it in the years since, but it remains unfilmable.

Which is all to say that during that decade I learned not to be precious about anything I wrote - I got rewrote a lot and was also asked to rewrite other writers - and if there was a deadline I learned to get the thing done well before.

And also to never ever go into a meeting without something else ready to go in my back pocket. I think every single thing that did get traction of mine lead not from the original meeting itself, but from my Columbo like knack of turning with one more thing to pitch as I headed for the door.

During Covid I pivoted full time to comic book work as it just made more sense than waiting for airports to reopen properly and doing the travelling with a young family either left behind or in tow. Now I’m starting to get that itch again as its been a while and so I’ll probably get the puke draft of a new screenplay done this side of Christmas. It’s on the list at least. That other old chestnut, writing as a career is nothing but getting homework for the rest of your life, isn’t wrong and while it certainly isn’t for everyone, I’m not sure what I’d be doing right now if it wasn’t this.

So thanks for being part of it. Seriously.

I reckon I’m about half way there to having enough short stories to throw together into a collection and while I don’t have a clue what an editor will make out of stuff thrown together on the hoof like this getting that pile of nonsense into print has accidentally become the first aim of Midnight Quatermass.

I need a little more time to straighten out my online profile, but in the next couple of weeks I’ll start looking to promote this thing properly and hopefully grow the readership a little. I’ll almost certainly need help with that, but I also want to keep this initial readership happy with what I’m doing. And please do drop me a line in the comments or over on Notes or Threads etc if I should be following you or reading you. I try my best to keep up, but I often need a nudge in the right direction…

~

Main personal update is that this weekend we’re off to meet our new dog for the first time.

Bit worried having a pup will make everything I just wrote a pack of lies, but I do enjoy a challenge.

Enough of all that. Story time.

BLARB

Deep space. Not as dark as you think because of all the damn stupid stars.

Front and centre is a starship. It’s a blunt weapon of a thing more akin to a fist than the sleek craft of science fiction. She’s at a full stop. This is the Realmship Caratacus. Parked in the Eagle Nebula some 7000 light years from home.

“We are gathered here today to say goodbye to a brave man.”

We’re in the shuttle bay. The man speaking, front and centre, is Commander Pete. Behind him, standing solemnly, is his bridge crew. Standing in front of him is the ship’s contingent; fifty four of the bravest, loyalist, sexiest individuals that the Realm can muster. The uniform helps. It’s all a little Dan Dare Pilot of the Future.

Between the Commander and the crew rests a black and glass casket which has everyone’s attention.

The crew have their name and rank embroidered in cursive on their chest. So if this was a syndicated tv show you’d be watching Lt. Susan, Lt. Brian, Sgt. Keith and Ensign Debby week in week out.

But right now they’re hanging on Commander Pete’s every word.

“Captain Jonathan was a hell of a pilot but also not one for pomp and ceremony. We hereby relinquish his meat to the infinite maw of space. Jenkins!”

Everyone turns to the ship’s janitor, Jenkins, stood off to the right near the bulkhead. He’s giving a thumbs-up to Commander Pete As he pulls what looks like an old-fashioned toilet chain with a wooden handle.

Everyone turns back to the casket which is now beginning to tip.

It only takes a few seconds and then it’s gone.

~

Outside the casket floats away from The Caratacus which is already moving off. It’s gigantic engines on full burn as Captain Jonathan’s body begins its journey into the infinite.

The Caratacus is tiny now.

All is peaceful all is silent.

Until…

“Cast off the cloak, me hearties!”

Suddenly a small ship is visible. It’s basically an egg. This is the Cat’s Meow.

A privateer flying under crossed bones.

“Bring the booty aboard.”

~

Inside the ship we see the main feature is a lot of netting and rope. Also piled against one bulkhead are a stack of empty caskets and assorted lids.

Two freebooters are standing around Captain Jonathan’s casket almost respectfully. The third, their leader - all dreadlocks, tattoos and whimsy - has the lid off and is plucking medals from the dead man’s chest.

“These trinkets will fetch a pretty penny on Zemo Six or my name ain’t Freebooter Jones!”

The biggest, baldest and dumbest looking of the crew, Freebooter Brains, now has a hand inside the dead man’s dress uniform and is holding something blood red and bible black. His partner, Freebooter Peggy is helping Jones pull at Captain Jonathan’s stubborn boots.

“I’ve said it afore and I’ll say it again. You wouldn’t catch me dead in one of these things. Too many unscrupulous types around,” says Jones.

“Shut up and pull!” says Peggy.

They don’t pay attention to Brains who is now looking at the bulbous throbbing mass that has engulfed his hand.

“‘Ere. What’s this I gotta ‘old of now, Jonesy?”

~

Back aboard The Caratacus, Commander Pete and Lt. Susan are waiting for the elevator. It’s all very swish.

“Shorter service than usual, sir,” comments Susan.

“Necessary. Your won’t know how Captain Jonathan died. Didn’t want to start a panic.”

They enter the elevator.

“Bridge!”

Susan looks at the Commander expectingly.

“Good man, Jonathan. Wouldn’t have expected anything less. He single-handedly killed a Blarb.”

“A Blarb? Impressive. They’re extremely hard to kill,” says Susan, raising an eyebrow.

“Indeed. Died on the operating table. Doc thinks he got all the barbs out, but…”

The elevator opens up on the Bridge and they step off. A lot more wood-panelling than you were expecting.

“Ah that explains it. You don’t mess with Blarb barbs,” says Susan.

“Quite,” says Pete settling into his chair. “Couldn’t take the risk of one of those popping on the ship. Can you imagine?”

“Hardly, Commander,” Sally replies grimly. “It’d be carnage. Total carnage.”

~

Freebooter Jones is cowering down using the pile of empty caskets for cover. He’s terrified.

The body of Captain Jonathan is halfway out of its casket. His torso has burst open and from it a spaghetti-mess of bible black and blood red tendrils has erupted. Some of them form the rough outline of a hideous head complete with open screaming mouth while the others are wrapped around the freebooter crew.

Brains is firing a huge blaster at the thing as his face turns into a beetroot because of the tendril wrapped tight around his throat. Peggy has been caught around the stomach, having the life squeezed out of her as she drops a handful of blinking green grenades.

“BLAAAAAARRRRRBBBBBB!” says The Blarb as the grenades roll around the deck.

With tendrils advancing on him like snakes, Jones is back on his feet and using a transparent casket lid as a shield. The advancing Blarb is trying to form a smile as it advances on the freebooter, his crew dangling dead behind it, as it kicks the now yellow-blinking grenades.

“Blarb!” says the Blarb.

The huge explosion sends Jones hurling through the air into an open casket still clinging to the lid which now snaps perfectly into place.

What are the odds?

The last few grenades roll over a grid in the floor marked DANGER: FUEL VENT.

~

The Cat’s Meow explodes as Jones, now trapped in the casket, is propelled straight towards us.

His fists bang uselessly against the glass.

His scream is as silent as the space around him.

For the first time we notice an inscription at the bottom of the casket:

“And may a flight of angels carry him to his rest.”

As the casket begins its endless spin into nothingness the Blarb, a born survivor, floats into view looking a little lost and alone.

“Blarb?” says the Blarb.

But sadly, in space, no one can hear you blarb.

END

Tad late this one. I can hear the foxes in the back garden fighting (or worse) and that’s my cue to hit send and start mulling the next piece of wood for the fire.

Stay warm!

Mike