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Welcome to Structo.

As I’m sure you have figured out by now, Structo is a little magazine. We print poetry and prose as well as interviews with and features on some of the most interesting authors and writers working today.

This is issue one. It contains six short stories, two poems and an interview with Ian R. MacLeod. It didn’t really come together as I expected: the pieces come from a variety of genres; two authors took a similar core idea and ended up writing utterly different stories; and there appears to be a bit of a lean towards the fantastic end of the spectrum. It’s been fun to watch.

One thing to note: all content is copyright its respective author unless otherwise noted. We are working on some Creative Commons licensing shenanigans for the next issue though, so stay tuned.

Ah yes, the next issue. We will be working on another magazine in the coming months, to be released around mid-winter, fingers crossed. If you would like to submit some work for inclusion then please make your way over to www.structomagazine.co.uk, where you should be able to find all the information you need. Also on the website is a link to the virtual issue, and some other bits and pieces.

So, whether you’re reading the shiny print version of Structo or its on-line brother, I hope you enjoy it. Let’s see how this plays out.

Euan Monaghan, Editor (Leiden, September 2008)

You must never pause

Your spring season tones,Seduce me with every note,As they float around and settleNear the petals of every flowerThat glower at their stemsTo lean them a little closer to you

You heal me with your sound,So my fumbled feelings,Tumbling feet over head forever,Are never the wrong way round

Such gentle waves,As I drift in the spectrumOf your voices’ inflections;

That reverse my defencesAnd coerce my sensesTo fuse easily as clouds

I have embalmed that time,When the mirror in my palm,Beckoned my affectionAnd held your reflection in front of mine

And it is always there

Until you pause

Your love disappearsAnd I fear for my own.When the rusty bow of that ill-harmonic violaDrags across my bones

I unwind in the silence,My dusty mindWon’t comprehend your choiceAs the voice that I forgotMakes a knot of every synapse

Ill-H

arm

onic

Vio

laby

Joe

Wat

kins

You search for the chordsTo scorch my nervesAs you serve me memoriesThat dismember my life from my past,And the last time

I savoured the sound of anyone else

To B.

Conversation of hope orHope of conversationA look up in the sky ends upIn disappointmentA conflict out of insecurity and loveThe field and nearby cottage lit up in the dark

Walking with a guiding hand on my backSitting on the fenceA kiss, touch, a thoughtDifficulties despite my better wisdom

An underestimation of your own abilityTo leave a mark on a beautiful mindBeing treacherous out of weaknessRather than out of calculation

A kiss, a look and a good-byeAnd then the doorYou´re reigned by fearWhat remains is absurdity

Conv

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A.H

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A S

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A Q

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, An

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Kei

r Jo

hn P

ratt They moved as one through the snow, nomads in an anonymous world. Their

leader, a queen, saw the lone stranger emerge from the surrounding woods first and she bared her teeth at the sight of him. He was ragged and unwashed but lean from a hundred chases. She had seen him before, moving through the natural wooden pillars which surrounded them; he’d been following their troop for days, picking up the meager scraps they left behind. As the snow moved in, and the food moved on, those scraps were getting fewer. The stranger had been forced from his hiding in an attempt to join them, he was hungry. He approached her, as if smelling the power she held over the others that gathered at her heels. She could smell him too, his pungent scent brought to her nose by the bitter wind that, if there had been leaves, would have made a symphony around them. She made the decision to take him there and then, he could be useful, she would have him for herself. Despite the protests of the daughter at her side she welcomed the new member of their group, and they trudged off together, again moving as one, tiny black dots in a wilderness of white.

The night came, and she let the stranger have her. She was the queen, and her new subject was being allowed to have his day as king. They slept together under the cold stars, distant suns which gave up no heat to the darkness, but instead sapped what little there was left. She shivered beneath her coat, and the stranger rested his head on her side; she was instantly calmed.

The daughter moved behind the tree trunks, watching and listening for her mother in the distance. She staggered closer, falling through thick drifts. She didn’t want this challenge; further offspring would mean a greater fight for leadership. Her own father was dead, left behind, his carcass gathering snow, just another indistinguishable lump in the rolling landscape. Any young heir, from this stranger’s loins, would have him as an ally. He was thin, but none the less powerful; even in the darkness and at the distance he was, she could see his muscles twitching beneath the fur that covered him. She was the rightful head of the pack after her mother inevitably died, she was the next phase and she would lead her subjects to food and safety. They would all applaud when the winter was ended, and she would be at the front to accept their praise.

They continued on the move, a hare providing a meagre midday meal for the group. The queen had the lion’s share of course, followed by her daughter. The princess watched as the stranger ate the rest, knocking others out of the way in his ravenous hunger. He finished it, and the others bowed their heads sombrely. Further they went, up steep hills and down treacherous paths, and all the time the princess was hoping for a little time alone with the stranger. He stuck close to her mother however, walking side by side, silent as their eyes searched for more hares. A crack off in the distance, maybe a deer, their bellies told them to take chase either way. The princess kept her eyes on the stranger and when he finally broke away from the queen, she darted after him. He was fast, moving with speed and grace through the thick white dust. She was quick herself, throwing up clouds behind her, cold white specks darting into her eyes. He stopped and looked back

at her, the deer now distant, and she slowed her pace. He was cautious, and she was just as wary. She was young, but old enough to know the dangers of an individual such as the one which stood proud in front of her.

When they rejoined the group, it was she he walked next to. She had won him over and there would be nothing further to fear from him. He was protecting her now, he was her ally and it was her mother without the subjects. The queen took little notice, the fear for her group weighing upon her, the stranger now forgotten. Night drew in and the group settled for another cold stretch, getting shelter where they could, and it was then that the queen noticed her partner’s absence. She waited for a spell, hoping he would return to her, but eventually she could wait no longer. She got up from the bed she had made herself, a dry piece of ground in an otherwise sodden landscape, and went to look for what had become of him. She found him with her daughter; they weren’t sleeping however, they were waiting. She came closer to the pair, not expecting what was to happen next, not until they were upon her. Flesh ripped, the blood painted the snow, and a new queen was crowned.

In the morning the queen’s subjects gathered around the body, they mourned the passing, the lifeless shape damp from snow and stiff from the cold. They waited for orders, waited for the new queen. She came to them, provided solace and shared in their grief. A wild animal had attacked their leader, and now she was forced to take her throne; where her mother had failed however, she would surpass in results. They moved on, and he stayed at her side, a stranger was no longer among them, he was now a prince. They led them further into the forest, the trunks surrounding them black against its frosted background.

The queen led them towards summer, an heir in her belly; a new queen or a new king. They were pushing through less and less snow with each day, and the nights were becoming more bearable if by only a little. Her subjects barked out the sighting of a deer, and on the third day of her reign, the whole group ate well. The pack had moved as one in the hunt, working for their fellows’ stomachs. The snows were melting and the wolves moved towards a longer day.

Gre

en S

nake

skin

Sho

esby

Sop

hie

How

ell-P

eak Among darkness, the green numbers of my digital clock glow. 3.47. I stare at

them, hovering in the middle of nowhere, it seems, like stars suspended in a night sky with nothing to hold them there. I wonder what woke me – everything is still and dark, so it must have been something inside my body that clicked to prompt my eyes open.

I sit up and grope for my glass of water; I sip from it, noticing at the same time that my knickers are wet. I switch on my bedside lamp, throw back the covers, sighing and yawning together. In my underwear drawer I find a tampon and clean knickers; I leave the dirty ones in a heap with other clothes on the floor.

On my sheet is a lozenge of blood, about the size of fifty pence. It looks like the Japanese flag. I strip off the sheet and replace it, then climb back into bed to sleep.

On my lunch break at work I go to the toilet. I sit there longer than necessary, listening for the silences in between each drip of blood falling into the water below. There is something startling about seeing it all on tissues and staining the toilet water red, even though I’ve seen this countless times before.

My first period came when I was 10; I went to the toilet during playtime at school and was horrified to discover a brown stain in my Beauty and the Beast knickers. For a dreadful moment I thought I was bleeding to death, before I recalled the videos we sniggered at in sex ed. I lied to my teacher that I had forgotten my towel again so couldn’t participate in swimming lessons and told my friends that I hated swimming so forgot my stuff on purpose.

I flush everything away, and the toilet returns to pristine white. I wash my hands very thoroughly, plenty of hot water and soap, making sure I scrape out from under my nails as well. In the mirror I check my reflection. There are spots on my chin and beneath harsh strip lighting I appear anaemic, sapped of energy. I reapply lip-gloss and eyeliner and they seem to stand out on my pallid face.

Back in the shop there are no customers. I wander among the shelves, pausing as usual to stare at the acid green snakeskin shoes I am waiting to buy as soon as I get paid next week. I have been imagining striding up the street with those spiky heels clacking on paving slabs and people glancing down to my feet to see a flash of bold green. Now, I shy away from the shoes. My toes curl in protest; my eyes ache from their acid colour as though it throws out sharp needles. I couldn’t possess those shoes; they would possess me.

I walk to the door and stare out at the road. Mums shove buggies past, feeding their agitated kids strawberry laces the colour of their flushed cheeks. A lorry has pulled up outside the florist and is unloading a delivery of flowers encased in white polystyrene boxes. I wonder what it would be like to work there, surrounded all day by the musty scents of flowers instead of leather-smelling shoes.

A pair of teenage girls come into the shop; I stand aside, hands clasped behind my back, and watch them browse the sparkly pumps and patent slip-ons. I stare at my feet, snug in worn old pumps I have had for years.

“Excuse me? Hello?” One is saying, waving a gold sandal at me. “I said, do you have this in size six?”

“Sure,” I mutter, taking it from her hand. “I’ll just go and fetch them for you.”

Choking, I wake. I swallow hard and taste salty blood. It feels hot at the back of my throat and sticks there like I’ve been eating something very sugary. I sit up and turn on my lamp, noticing blood streaks on my fingers. It drips from my chin, spotting the duvet covers.

“Oh, shit,” I mutter, pinching my nose hard and rummaging through my bedside table drawers for a tissue with the other hand. “Shit, bugger, shit.”

I have always been prone to random nosebleeds. As a child, standing outside in the sun for too long would induce one as easily as being smacked in the face with a netball in P.E.

Then I notice the blood splattered up the door. It makes a shape like a dog or wolf rearing on its hind legs and spitting scarlet from its jaws. How did this happen? I panic, retching and finding blood darts out of my mouth as I do so. Looking down I see my clothes are soaked and dark pools have formed on the carpet. Blood splashed up the walls and ceiling forms grotesque demon figures. My bed sheets are wet, sticking to my legs, cold and smelling strangely sour. Realising all this blood is mine makes me cry out; I really am bleeding to death.

I start screaming and then wake up. My room is dark; green numbers glow 4.56; my sheets are dry

and everything is normal. I sit up, switch on the light, and take a long drink of water. Each mouthful I swallow soothes me a little more, easing my heart rate back to normal. I am sweating and my face feels flushed. Switching off the lamp again I lie back down on my back, hands folded on my chest so I can measure every breath. I stare at the darkness and see odd shapes materialising in bright colours as if I’ve been staring at the sun too long.

I sell a pair of the green shoes the following day. The woman stands texting on her mobile while I wrap them individually in tissue paper. The tiny squares of their faux snakeskin gleam under the electric light, like individual cells polished to perfection. I lay them carefully into the box. The shoes lie like sleeping siblings, top to tail, interlocked. A spiky heel jabs the arch of the sole on each one.

The woman flips her credit card at me and I run it through the machine. I glance down at the shoes she is wearing now; black boots with lots of buckles and pointed toes like a witch. I slide the lid onto the box, burying the shoes for good. I watch the woman march out with the shoebox under one arm and her boots clapping against the floor at every step.

The

Dan

cing

Part

ner

by Je

rom

e K

. Jer

ome

“This story,” commenced MacShaugnassy, “comes from Furtwangen, a small town in the Black Forest. There lived there a very wonderful old fellow named Nicholaus Geibel. His business was the making of mechanical toys, at which work he had acquired an almost European reputation. He made rabbits that would emerge from the heart of a cabbage, flop their ears, smooth their whiskers, and disappear again; cats that would wash their faces, and mew so naturally that dogs would mistake them for real cats and fly at them; dolls with phonographs concealed within them, that would raise their hats and say, ‘Good morning; how do you do?’ and some that would even sing a song.

“But, he was something more than a mere mechanic; he was an artist. His work was with him a hobby, almost a passion. His shop was filled with all manner of strange things that never would, or could, be sold — things he had made for the pure love of making them. He had contrived a mechanical donkey that would trot for two hours by means of stored electricity, and trot, too, much faster than the live article, and with less need for exertion on the part of the driver, a bird that would shoot up into the air, fly round and round in a circle, and drop to earth at the exact spot from where it started; a skeleton that, supported by an upright iron bar, would dance a hornpipe, a life-size lady doll that could play the fiddle, and a gentleman with a hollow inside who could smoke a pipe and drink more lager beer than any three average German students put together, which is saying much.

“Indeed, it was the belief of the town that old Geibel could make a man capable of doing everything that a respectable man need want to do. One day he made a man who did too much, and it came about in this way:

“Young Doctor Follen had a baby, and the baby had a birthday. Its first birthday put Doctor Follen’s household into somewhat of a flurry, but on the occasion of its second birthday, Mrs. Doctor Follen gave a ball in honour of the event. Old Geibel and his daughter Olga were among the guests.

“During the afternoon of the next day some three or four of Olga’s bosom friends, who had also been present at the ball, dropped in to have a chat about it.

English author Jerome K. Jerome is probably best known for Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog), his 1889 tale of a trip down the Thames. The short story reprinted here first appeared in Novel Notes, which was published in London in 1893. The Dancing Partner has now entered the public domain.

They naturally fell to discussing the men, and to criticizing their dancing. Old Geibel was in the room, but he appeared to be absorbed in his newspaper, and the girls took no notice of him.

“‘There seem to be fewer men who can dance at every ball you go to,’ said one of the girls.

“‘Yes, and don’t the ones who can give themselves airs,’ said another; ‘they make quite a favor of asking you.’

“‘And how stupidly they talk,’ added a third. ‘They always say exactly the same things: “How charming you are looking to-night.” “Do you often go to Vienna? Oh, you should, it’s delightful.” “What a charming dress you have on.” “What a warm day it has been.” “Do you like Wagner?” I do wish they’d think of something new.’

“‘Oh, I never mind how they talk,’ said a fourth. ‘If a man dances well he may be a fool for all I care.’

“‘He generally is,’ slipped in a thin girl, rather spitefully.“‘I go to a ball to dance,’ continued the previous speaker, not noticing the

interruption. ‘All I ask is that he shall hold me firmly, take me round steadily, and not get tired before I do.’

“‘A clockwork figure would be the thing for you,’ said the girl who had interrupted.

“‘Bravo!’ cried one of the others, clapping her hands, ‘what a capital idea!’“‘What’s a capital idea?’ they asked.“‘Why, a clockwork dancer, or, better still, one that would go by electricity

and never run down.’“The girls took up the idea with enthusiasm.“‘Oh, what a lovely partner he would make,’ said one; ‘he would never kick

you, or tread on your toes.’“‘Or tear your dress,’ said another.“‘Or get out of step.’“‘Or get giddy and lean on you.’“‘And he would never want to mop his face with his handkerchief. I do hate to

see a man do that after every dance.’“‘And wouldn’t want to spend the whole evening in the supper-room.’“‘Why, with a phonograph inside him to grind out all the stock remarks,

you would not be able to tell him from a real man,’ said the girl who had first suggested the idea.

“‘Oh yes, you would,’ said the thin girl, ‘he would be so much nicer.’“Old Geibel had laid down his paper, and was listening with both his ears. On

one of the girls glancing in his direction, however, he hurriedly hid himself again behind it.

“After the girls were gone, he went into his workshop, where Olga heard him walking up and down, and every now and then chuckling to himself; and that night he talked to her a good deal about dancing and dancing men — asked what dances were most popular — what steps were gone through, with many other questions bearing on the subject.

“Then for a couple of weeks he kept much to his factory, and was very thoughtful and busy, though prone at unexpected moments to break into a quiet low laugh, as if enjoying a joke that nobody else knew of.

“A month later another ball took place in Furtwangen. On this occasion it was given by old Wenzel, the wealthy timber merchant, to celebrate his niece’s betrothal, and Geibel and his daughter were again among the invited.

“When the hour arrived to set out, Olga sought her father. Not finding him in the house, she tapped at the door of his workshop. He appeared in his shirt-sleeves, looking hot but radiant.

“‘Don’t wait for me,’ he said, ‘you go on, I’ll follow you. I’ve got something to finish.’

“As she turned to obey he called after her, ‘Tell them I’m going to bring a young man with me — such a nice young man, and an excellent dancer. All the girls will like him.’ Then he laughed and closed the door.

“Her father generally kept his doings secret from everybody, but she had a pretty shrewd suspicion of what he had been planning, and so, to a certain extent, was able to prepare the guests for what was coming. Anticipation ran high, and the arrival of the famous mechanist was eagerly awaited.

“At length the sound of wheels was heard outside, followed by a great commotion in the passage, and old Wenzel himself, his jolly face red with excitement and suppressed laughter, burst into the room and announced in stentorian tones:

“‘Herr Geibel — and a friend.’“Herr Geibel and his ‘friend’ entered, greeted with shouts of laughter and

applause, and advanced to the centre of the room.“‘Allow me, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Herr Geibel, ‘to introduce you to my

friend, Lieutenant Fritz. Fritz, my dear fellow, bow to the ladies and gentlemen.’“Geibel placed his hand encouragingly on Fritz’s shoulder, and the Lieutenant

bowed low, accompanying the action with a harsh clicking noise in his throat, unpleasantly suggestive of a death-rattle. But that was only a detail.

“‘He walks a little stiffly’ (old Geibel took his arm and walked him forward a few steps. He certainly did walk stiffly), ‘but then, walking is not his forte. He is essentially a dancing man. I have only been able to teach him the waltz as yet, but at that he is faultless. Come, which of you ladies may I introduce him to as a partner? He keeps perfect time; he never gets tired; he won’t kick you or tread on your dress; he will hold you as firmly as you like, and go as quickly or a slowly as you please; he never gets giddy; and he is full of conversation. Come, speak up for yourself, my boy.’

“The old gentleman twisted one of the buttons at the back of his coat, and immediately Fritz opened his mouth, and in thin tones that appeared to proceed from the back of his head, remarked suddenly, ‘May I have the pleasure?’ and then shut his mouth again with a snap.

“That Lieutenant Fritz had made a strong impression on the company was undoubted, yet none of the girls seemed inclined to dance with him. They looked askance at his waxen face, with its staring eyes and fixed smile, and shuddered. At last old Geibel came to the girl who had conceived the idea.

“‘It is your own suggestion, carried out to the letter,’ said Geibel, ‘an electric dancer. You owe it to the gentleman to give him a trial.’

“She was a bright, saucy little girl, fond of a frolic. Her host added his entreaties, and she consented.

“Herr Geibel fixed the figure to her. Its right arm was screwed round her waist, and held her firmly; its delicately jointed left hand was made to fasten upon her right. The old toymaker showed her how to regulate its speed, and how to stop it, and release herself.

“‘It will take you round in a complete circle,’ he explained; ‘be careful that no one knocks against you, and alters its course.’

“The music struck up. Old Geibel put the current in motion, and Annette and her strange partner began to dance.

“For a while everyone stood watching them. The figure performed its purpose admirably. Keeping perfect time and step, and holding its little partner tight clasped in an unyielding embrace, it revolved steadily, pouring forth at the same time a constant flow of squeaky conversation, broken by brief intervals of grinding silence.

“‘How charming you are looking tonight,’ it remarked in its thin, far-away voice. ‘What a lovely day it has been. Do you like dancing? How well our steps agree. You will give me another, won’t you? Oh, don’t be so cruel. What a charming gown you have on. Isn’t waltzing delightful? I could go on dancing for ever — with you. Have you had supper?’

“As she grew more familiar with the uncanny creature, the girl’s nervousness wore off, and she entered into the fun of the thing.

“‘Oh, he’s just lovely,’ she cried, laughing; ‘I could go on dancing with him all my life.’

“Couple after couple now joined them, and soon all the dancers in the room were whirling round behind them. Nicholaus Geibel stood looking on, beaming with childish delight at his success.

“Old Wenzel approached him, and whispered something in his ear. Geibel laughed and nodded, and the two worked their way quietly towards the door.

“‘This is the young people’s house to-night,’ said Wenzel, as soon as they were outside; ‘you and I will have a quiet pipe and glass of hock, over in the counting-house.’

“Meanwhile the dancing grew more fast and furious. Little Annette loosened the screw regulating her partner’s rate of progress, and the figure flew round with her swifter and swifter. Couple after couple dropped out exhausted, but they only went the faster, till at length they remained dancing alone.

“Madder and madder became the waltz. The music lagged behind: the musicians, unable to keep pace, ceased, and sat staring. The younger guests applauded, but the older faces began to grow anxious.

“‘Hadn’t you better stop, dear,’ said one of the women, ‘you’ll make yourself so tired.’

“But Annette did not answer.“‘I believe she’s fainted,’ cried out a girl who had caught sight of her face as it

was swept by.“One of the men sprang forward and clutched at the figure, but its impetus

threw him down on to the floor, where its steel-cased feet laid bare his cheek. The thing evidently did not intend to part with its prize so easily.

“Had any one retained a cool head, the figure, one cannot help thinking, might easily have been stopped. Two or three men acting in concert might have lifted it bodily off the floor, or have jammed it into a corner. But few human heads are capable of remaining cool under excitement. Those who are not present think how stupid must have been those who were; those who are reflect afterwards how simple it would have been to do this, that, or the other, if only they had thought of it at the time.

“The women grew hysterical. The men shouted contradictory directions to one another. Two of them made a bungling rush at the figure, which had the end result of forcing it out of its orbit at the centre of the room, and sending it crashing against the walls and furniture. A stream of blood showed itself down the girl’s white frock, and followed her along the floor. The affair was becoming horrible. The women rushed screaming from the room. The men followed them.

“One sensible suggestion was made: ‘Find Geibel — fetch Geibel.’“No one had noticed him leave the room, no one knew where he was. A party

went in search of him. The others, too unnerved to go back into the ballroom, crowded outside the door and listened. They could hear the steady whir of the wheels upon the polished floor as the thing spun round and round; the dull thud as every now and again it dashed itself and its burden against some opposing object and ricocheted off in a new direction.

“And everlastingly it talked in that thin ghostly voice, repeating over and over the same formula: ‘How charming you look to-night. What a lovely day it has been. Oh, don’t be so cruel. I could go on dancing for ever — with you. Have you had supper?’

“Of course they sought Geibel everywhere but where he was. They looked in every room in the house, then they rushed off in a body to his own place, and spent precious minutes waking up his deaf old housekeeper. At last it occurred to one of the party that Wenzel was missing also, and then the idea of the counting-house across the yard presented itself to them, and there they found him.

“He rose up, very pale, and followed them; and he and old Wenzel forced their way through the crowd of guests gathered outside, and entered the room, and locked the door behind them.

“From within there came the muffled sound of low voices and quick steps, followed by a confused scuffling noise, then silence, then the low voices again.

“After a time the door opened, and those near it pressed forward to enter, but old Wenzel’s broad head and shoulders barred the way.

“‘I want you — and you, Bekler,’ he said, addressing a couple of the elder men. His voice was calm, but his face was deadly white. ‘The rest of you, please go — get the women away as quickly as you can.’

“From that day old Nicholaus Geibel confined himself to the making of mechanical rabbits, and cats that mewed and washed their faces.”

Bei

ng Ja

mie

by P

enel

ope

Flem

ing-

Fido

Jamie did not like Wednesdays. It seemed like school had already been going on forever, yet there was more of the school week to go than had already passed. He felt penned in, unable to play even in the evenings because there was always homework and piano practise that had to be done first. Even the nicest parents insisted on that. To make it worse, there was double Maths on a Wednesday, and his best friend Mark hated Maths, so not only did the homework take that much longer, but he was always in a bad mood that day. Today was no exception.

“Wednesdays are the pits,” grumbled Mark as he tumbled out of bed that morning. Jamie grunted a sleepy acquiescence, and Mark, turning to look at him, gave him a poke. “Wake up, sleepyhead!” he exclaimed. “Mum will be up talking about breakfast any second.”

Mark’s Mum had adopted Jamie nearly a year ago, to the great delight of both Jamie and Mark. They spent as much of their time as they could together, even sharing a bedroom. They were, in Jamie’s opinion, best mates; and Mark’s Mum was simply wonderful. Mark’s Dad, on the other hand, was not quite so fond of Jamie.

And that was another problem with Wednesdays. It was Changeover Day. Mark’s Mum and Dad didn’t live together, and though during the beginning of the week Mark and Jamie lived with Mark’s Mum, from Wednesdays after school to Saturday evenings, they lived with his Dad. Mark’s Dad had not wanted to extend the weekly invitation to Jamie, but Mark had insisted that it was both of them or neither, and eventually his Dad had given in, though with a bad grace.

At Mark’s Dad’s house, Jamie and Mark weren’t allowed to share a room: Mark had a nice bedroom upstairs, whilst Jamie was relegated downstairs to what Mark’s father called a “Utility Room” and what Jamie, privately, called a junk heap. Wednesdays were always the start of the gloomy half of the week for Jamie, though he’d rather be there with Mark than here without him.

His thoughts were interrupted by Mark’s Mum poking her head around the bedroom door.

“Are you up?” she asked, and seeing Mark already dressed, she sent him downstairs to the breakfast table. Then she turned to Jamie. “Come on then, Jamie: breakfast time,” she said brightly, and as she opened the cage door and poked a piece of carrot inside, followed by a handful of dried food, Jamie cheered up. Really, in some ways being a guinea pig wasn’t so bad after all.

Ian

R. M

acLe

od In

terv

iew

cond

ucte

d by

the

Edi

tor

Did you always know that you wanted to be a writer?No, but the idea came pretty early. If, however, I’d become a professional footballer, or an archaeologist, or a secret agent, and you were interviewing me now, I’d have given you the same answer. Of all the ridiculous dreams, it just turned out to be the most realistic.

When did you first get a story published? It was the late eighties. I sold a couple of stories, first to Weird Tales, and then to Interzone. They came out the other way around, with Interzone first, although the Weird Tales story, 1/72nd Scale, was the one I wrote first, and the one I sold first, and it also ended up getting a Nebula nomination. So that’s the one I tend to think of as my first.

How many novel-length stories had you written before [first published novel] The Great Wheel was picked up by Harcourt?Just one, which I actually finished. That was in the early to mid eighties,

when I was in my early thirties. Which I tried to sell, and failed to do so. In retrospect, rather predictably. It was the first serious writing project I really put all my heart and soul into. Only a couple of short stories came before that – which were also rejected. So I really learned how to write, partly in technical terms but also as a discipline, by writing that novel. Another couple of novels I tried wouldn’t finish, so I returned to short fiction. Eventually, I started selling.

Can you describe a typical writing day? Is there such a thing?No, there isn’t. The dream day is get up, have breakfast, sit down, start writing. Maybe get a thousand or two words written, so I can do other things with the rest of my day. Things not necessarily separate from writing — but then one of the joys and terrors of being a writer (not to mention working from home) is that there is never any clear distinction between working and not working. I certainly work best in the morning, though. What that work often entails can often be pretty frustrating, but

“I wasn’t consciously treading in anyone else’s footsteps. I was aiming for pure snow.”

For the last few years, author Ian R. MacLeod has been doing his best to wrench modern fantasy away from its precious magic rings and orphans-who-have-a-hidden-power-but-don’t-know-it. In the process he has won a Nebula, a Hugo and two World Fantasy Awards. His new novel, Song of Time, is out in late 2008.

adult literacy. But no longer. At least at the moment.

Are you a very organised writer, with the whole book planned before you start writing the first chapter, or do you tend to discover the story along with your characters?No. I’m probably more organised than I was, but still I like not to know things, to find them out through writing. I’d warn any potential writers to be careful of getting too sucked in to the whole planning/outline business. Sure, they can be useful and I can and have written outlines, but they’re only one of many ways in to the creative process, and are often prepared after the event, when the ideas are already blossoming, and nobody, publisher or writer, expects a book to turn out in a way for which the outline is an exact template.

I think that the SF genre seems to exert a particular attraction to budding writers who imagine that a story can somehow be created and worked out before it’s actually written, with little cards and flowcharts and chapter outlines and so forth. I reckon that’s because the science part of SF itself is very much about trying to impose order on the chaos of the world, and the genre often tends to reflect this, and appeal to readers who like things to be linear and logical, even when they’re wildly speculative. But fiction doesn’t work that way. The very idea of having something made before it’s there is essentially illogical.

Can you tell us something about Song of Time?It’s a book about the near future — the future that, if we’re lucky enough, we’ll

I guess, as I’m still writing, and although I’m scarcely prolific, I must be getting some of it right at least some of the time. Basically, you have to keep researching, dicking around with ideas, trying fresh tacks, walking the dog, banging your head against the wall. All of that can be surprisingly time-consuming, especially the wall-banging. It’s a balance between pushing yourself on and not just doing stuff for the sake of it.

You also teach English and creative writing...Yes, and as I always say in creative writing sessions — and still keep having to remind myself — the writing part is actually the easy bit. Or it becomes so. Putting some nice-looking sentences on a page is a craft, a skill which, if you have a moderately good ear of language, can be learned. The real trick is to find something to write about, and a way of expressing what you want to say about it.

As far as teaching creative writing is concerned, and although I’ve worked with most kinds of groups, I now do most of my work in schools, with kids between the ages of about 8 and 15. And there, as well, I try to put the emphasis on the ideas and creativity side of writing rather than the nuts and bolts. There’s more than enough nuts and bolts being taught in schools already without my adding to it. I’m a completely self-taught writer myself, though. I’m not much cop at paying attention to what others have to say about things which are dear to me, although I’d like to think I’ve got a bit more receptive as the years have passed.

I used to do some English. Mainly

live to see ourselves. And it’s about the possibility of the leap into machine intelligence, the whole business of transferring the memory and essence of a personality from flesh to circuitry. The main character is an elderly concert violinist contemplating that very leap, who discovers a strange man lying on the beach beneath her Cornish home, and looks back at the life she’s lived through this current century. It’s about art, and love, and religion, and death, and music, and families, and redemption, and the end of the world. All the usual stuff.

What prompted the move to [Song of Time publisher] PS Publishing?Basically, the need to find a publisher who’s prepared to go with an SF novel which is also (or attempts to be) a work of literature. So much of what gets to the shelves these days from the major publishers tends to fit into certain kinds of pigeonhole.

Was Song of Time a conscious move away from the world of The Light Ages and House of Storms, or simply the Next Thing?In a way, yes. But I’ve always been interested in doing new stuff. For me, that’s what fiction in general, and SF and fantastic fiction in particular, is supposed to be about.

Do you think you will ever return to the world of aether?I’ve written a novella set in the same world called The Master Miller’s Tale which came out in Fantasy and Science Fiction last year. I would like to return there again, too, but the big idea of another novel which might push the whole thing on to a new level hasn’t

come. Not yet, anyway. And I don’t like re-heating old cuisine.

Both The Light Ages and House of Storms feel very real, like an account of what might have been, rather than what most people think of when they imagine a fantasy tale (i.e. a hero waving a magic sword around). Was that a conscious aim when writing the books?Yes. You’ve expressed it exactly.

Are there any other books that you think manage to pull off this kind of fantasy realism?Um, this will sound arrogant, but I’m not sure there are. There are other books which do a whole variety of things, and most likely far better, which I raided, but I wasn’t consciously treading in anyone else’s footsteps. I was aiming for pure snow. I always do. I really don’t see the point otherwise.

What do you say when people ask you “where do you get your ideas from”? Philip Pullman used to tell people that he subscribed to Ideas ‘R Us...The key thing for me is the desire to write. From that, and then from grabbing hold of the sort of odd thoughts which pass through all of our heads, and then hanging on to them for dear life, I sometimes find that I get somewhere. It’s a bit like catching a fish. Sometimes you have to reel in hard and really work at it. Others, you just have to sit peacefully (or try to) and wait. Even when you get a bite, a nibble, you just watch it for a while. Eat a sandwich. Count the ripples. Let the river run past you. Sometimes, it’s just an old boot that’s waiting down there in the depths, anyway.

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felt everything slipping from above. Maybe I don’t mean slipping? I mean rising away, like steam. Everything was rising and it was already far beyond the reach of the whistle man. The whistle man squared himself (by which I mean straightened himself out), put his hands in his pockets and looked straight ahead — into the sea. Music was pounding behind him. The music felt powerful to the whistle man, physically powerful, like it could lift a table. It felt natural too. It felt natural like the crashing of the waves and the croaking of the gulls. The whistle man wasn’t feeling natural though; he felt anxious. “I feel calm, but I don’t feel natural.” He thought to himself. The whistle man didn’t care much for feeling natural anyway, it was unnatural to him.

A tiger ran past the whistle man. “Strange!” He thought to himself, but then he considered this reaction. He filibustered. He dwelt on the thought for a few seconds (although you can‘t time thoughts!). A string of unspoken words formed in his head (maybe the words weren’t words or even in his head, but we‘ll allow it for the sake of the sentence). “But what is strange?” He thought. “Except for that with which I am not familiar?”

How Liberal! How benevolent! Perhaps now you have at least a vague image of the whistle man in your mind? Yes? On to the tiger then!

The tiger was playful, but you know tigers, they’re so unpredictable. It’s in the tense muscles, the vacant tail wagging and those precise, calculated head movements. Here though, all that need be said is that the tiger was playful. Furthermore, he was receptive to the whistle man’s company.

“You must be the whistle man!” He said. The whistle man wasn’t unpopular, he just felt as if he hadn’t been given the chance to be popular.

“How did you—”“You’re big on myspace!” the tiger interrupted. The whistle man felt happy! He relished the rare occasions on which he was

recognised. He acted casual.“Yeah,” He said. “But why are you here?”“I’m in the marines. I’ve been fighting in the war but now I’m on leave.”

The tiger was proud and pointed his nose up towards the whistle man’s chin. “Have you been scared in the war?” The whistle man asked. “Yes.”“I’ve been scared too—” Why was the whistle man being so open to the tiger? Perhaps it was because

he had been truly very anxious recently? He felt as if a great and dark wave had washed over him. No, maybe it would be better to say the whistle man felt as if he’d endured a dream in which he had embraced a dead relative and then woken up feeling half dead himself? He felt like he’d been reminded of something sad and destructive. He felt truly even more anxious. There was hope though. He continued,

“—but to hear a tiger marine has been scared in the war has settled me somewhat. I will be honest and precise: I’m scared of the future. I’m on the

edge of a dark yet-to-be-inhabited wood and everything looks so desolate and so empty.”

The tiger found comfort in his stranger-companion’s words. He rolled onto his back and listened to the collective sounds of his environment. The whistle man did the same. It was true he had felt anxious recently, but in the presence of the tiger marine he felt different. He thought to himself, “the world was once so colourful,” and he gave a deep sigh. As he breathed in, the whistle man imagined himself ingesting the whole ocean and all its strange secrets. Then, as he released his breath, he felt his eyes close under the burden of his strange thoughts and the whistle man fell into a sad and dizzy haze.

It was true he had felt anxious recently, but the sound of the sea and the scared tiger marine induced a calmness in him. It wasn’t a happy calm, but a sinister empty sort of feeling, in his head (for the sentence, please!) he likened it to standing in a cave during a rainstorm.

As the whistle man drifted deeper into himself he felt the throbbing rip of the music fade. The jarring guitar riffs and clapping snare drum dissolved into nothing and left a lone voice singing a sort of pop nursery rhyme. The voice was child-like. He turned to face the voice but instead watched the street lights as they dimmed until they were like fireflies, which proceeded to uproot and fly off somewhere until they were nothing. Next, he saw all the cars that were racing up and down the boardwalk stop. The whistle man watched as they turned off their lights and engines and stood still leaving an eerie, empty world of no noise and no fuss except that ancient, but misunderstood, roar of the ocean and the child-like voice of the band. It was singing some rhyme:

“Pull down the blinds block what’s left of the stars.” The whistle man was torn. The words meant everything and nothing to

him. He didn’t know whether his blind had been lifted or not. Maybe it had been pulled down further? Perhaps the whistle man’s anxiety had sent him into some lonely psychotic haze? The whistle man lay like some wretched Ophelia as the tide pulled in and, first, bathed and licked at his feet, but then slowly and sadistically crept up his body until he was half-drowned in salt water. The tiger had long abandoned him.

The music continued:

“YOUR LIFE IS A SONG BUT NOT THIS ONE.”

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