The Fantasy Issue Tales to Titilate, Tantalise, Confuse & Astound!
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The Fantasy Issue tales to titilate, tantalise, confuse & astound! Featuring: MCA Hogarth chelsea schuyler Ben Hayes Emma Cousins Adam Langley Jeston Dulin kate o’neil Contents 3 Editorial, Gary Sykes-Blythe 4 Noble Goals, Andrew Blair 8 HCE Special Feature: MCA Hogarth 14 Blue Magic, Jeston Dulin 15 Merchant Experiments 1 - 3, Jeston Dulin 16 The Path, Kate O’Neil 17 Secrets, Kate O’Neil 18 India in Nisha, Andrew Pidou 20 Reboot, Recycle, Remake: Why we never tire of Fantasy Stories Chelsea Schuyler 22 The Ringmaster’s Confession Neil Laurenson 23 Fancy Talk, Sean Chard 24 Veritas, Ben Hayes 27 Euphoric Flashback, John Morrice 28 Deed Poll, Adam Langley 32 Fish Listen, Emma Cousins 33 Delivered from the Sky, Emma Cousins 34 Witness, Apeksha Harsh 35 Fall for Me, Rhoda Greaves Editor: Gary Sykes-Blythe Poetry Editor: Adam Steiner Fiction & Non-Fiction: Ben Hayes Communications: Alyson Hall Special thanks to: MCA Hogarth, Jodie Carpenter 2 All rights reserved. All intellectual property remains with the author and will not be reproduced without consent. Images courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org Editorial By Gary Sykes-Blythe Some time in the last 12 months, I forget exactly when, my good friends Ben Hayes and Tom Ben- nett recommended I read a book by H.P. Lovecraft. After all, ‘Gary, you like old stuff...’ has been my introduction into all sorts of interesting fields. I was curious. Obviously, as a boy, I’d read The Lord of the Rings and just about every other mainstream fantasy book. It’s normal (for a nerdy dweeb...) to retreat (or advance) into a mythologised world of knights, derring do and cruel villains. Who wouldn’t want that? Like most teenagers I was a demi-god in the making... I thought reading Lovecraft would be a nice breath of nostalgia: magic sword, nameless hor- rors and so on, all with a nice turn of the century varnish. Well. I was wrong. Not that I didn’t enjoy it, no, quite the reverse. More that it wasn’t the ‘cunt’, too. It’s obviously not the usual fantasy set- sort of thing I’d expected. (Perhaps I ought to have ting. In many ways, you could take away the magic at least researched cheery old H.P....) There were and gods, ad you’d still be left with a bloody good witches, daemons and monsters from beyond the story. Sorry, that should read ‘bloody, good story’. edge of etc. but there was also a refreshing origi- nality. You could feel, in the reading, that these So, to content. I suppose, inevitably, we didn’t get really were true... or, at least, you could almost any submissions that were three thousand page believe that they once were true. Needless to say epics set in a fantasy world of myth and wonder. I’ve carried on reading. We did get a surprising array, though. We’ve got everything in this issue (as usual): Chelsea’s in- In some ways, the fact that there’s room for the sightful and witty investigation into the endless re- new is the strength of fantasies. From every hard- generation of the fantasy genre; there’s Ben’s dark on day-dream to every swords-and-sorcery epic, tale of urban fantasy; there’s Andrew Blair’s Scot- the components of the fantasy are there to satisfy tish football/magic kingdom cross-over. There’s and tantalise. Interestingly, they seem to be able even some imagined memory action. Mmmm. to do that irrespective of the cast of characters Lovely. Oh, and of course, there’s the ultimate fan- (erections come and go, after all). You could, for tasy: MCA Hogarth stars as featured writer. A self- instance, replace Frodo Baggins with Harry Potter published triumph who draws... raises children... and you’d barely even have to change the adjec- writes... publishes... markets... tives. I’m not saying that either of those stories aren’t any good, or that the characters are in some way generic, but I am saying that the basic frame work and rules of a fantasy setting allow the im- aginer to customise their experience. Consider Game of Thrones: HCE’s own Adam Steiner once quotably described it as ‘pornograph- ic sex, pornographic violence and pornographic dialogue’. He was taking about the TV show, of 3 course, but the point is good. Yes, there are drag- ons in GoT but there’s also quite a bit more use of Noble Goals By Andrew Blair Red ash football pitches: Pain inflicted, erring accuracy. Massive Doug, on the other hand, dog-shite mingled, characters built. La- would hit the ball very hard indeed in whatever tent violence. A rectangle the colour and direction he happened to be facing at the time. In consistency of a grazed knee. Rain that this case it was towards his own goal. Chas was sped in seemingly from below. unlucky enough to be in the way, and Doug’s foot connected. A wind that stretched the flags and nets taught, the The ball landed out of sight, somewhere goalkeepers buffeted as they traipsed around their over the grass verge behind the goal. realm, torn between the desire for inactivity and Chas landed next to the penalty spot. median body temperature. The Under 14’s of Grangemouth Colts As their star player recovered, Coach shouted to were hosting the United Republic of Bo’ness (the Johnny to get the ball for the corner. He obliged, latter a salutary lesson in never letting the players hoping that there would be some cover over the name their own team). Twenty-two eleven-year-olds verge, and that the ball was somewhere retriev- were having their epidermises atrophied by every able. One time, somewhere near Falkirk, it had misery the beautiful game could throw at them. gone in a stream that was deeper than it looked, The keener parents were hurling constructive abuse and he’d had to get new boots and some special at them from under car dealership umbrellas, while injections afterwards. the coaches stood arms folded in big puffy jackets: ‘Hurry up. That’s wur only baw.’ stoic, determined, hungover. The Bo’ness coach Johnny sped up for approximately three had initials sewn onto the left breast of his jacket. yards, before lapsing back into a forward-leaning They were not his initials. walk. The home team had the upper hand, as ‘And watch oot for the stream.’ they actually had a midfield. Their star turn – Chas, his skills might not be silky, but they were definitely Ach, pish, thought Johnny. His studs scuffed over breathable nylon – turned yet another defender a dented beer can, and he almost slipped over. and prepared to shoot, Bo’ness’ own champion Someone’s Dad cried ‘Waeeyy!’, but everyone else stepped into the breach. was on tenterhooks over Chas’ injury. Without him, the Colts’ chances for cup success were negligible, Massive Doug was not a subtle footballer. He was so it was vital that any damage could be repaired. also not to be confused with Big Doug, a pie in The supernatural qualities of the magic sponge human form who had somehow ended up on the were, however, being diluted by the saturating left wing – static, like a limpet on a hull - on the conditions. grounds that he was left-footed and could effort- Johnny was Grangemouth’s “Utility player”, lessly curl a cross over everyone’s heads with un- which meant that he was vaguely rubbish in every position. His one skill was running. He could run for ninety minutes, ideally without touching the ball. If football had been played on a pitch a mile long, he might have done better, but it wasn’t, so he didn’t. He reached the verge, a row of planted trees in collapsing wire cages at its crest, and looked down the slope. The slope was full of dying yellow grass clumps. Johnny fell twice more – once on stones, once on a bottle of ginger - before arriving in a 4 heap at the bottom on the slope. Still, this had sped things up a bit, descent wise. Beyond the stream – ambling passively aggressively along - a dusty, rock-strewn patch of land greeted him, sur- they have on Game of Thrones when that guy de- rounded by felled trees on either side. At the far capitated the horsey. end was a JCB sitting dormant by some fluttering orange tape, flailing from a tree, ostensibly fencing Cool. off the old Gamesie fields. By this point Johnny had completely forgotten The ball was nowhere obvious. With the trees about the football. cleared, the wind and the rain were channelled Picking himself up with a little help from straight into Johnny’s face. The icy blast meant that Physics and the ground, Johnny put his best foot he could only lift his hand above his eyes mo- forward and tested the stability of a rock jutting out mentarily. He considered legging it to the chang- of the stream. It stayed firm. He brought his right ing rooms and nicking another ball from another foot across and balanced carefully, feet together, team’s kit bag, but he’d probably be seen. The arms outstretched. Leaning over, he gripped the Falkirk Council Sports Barn was currently a squat sword gently and gave it an experimental tug. brown hut on the far side of the pitches which To his surprise, the sword came free with smelt of bleach, mud and fear. This became oddly ease. To his further surprise, this caused him to comforting after a while, because it meant that you overbalance and fall backwards, flinging mud into were technically indoors and under shelter, struc- the air with the blade of his new weapon.