I'm looking for a publisher for my micro-novella "Tullis Immortallis" which - at 15k - is a bit of a bugger to find a home for. It's too long for a short-story antho and is too short to publish as a novella.
Stlylistically, it doesn't fit with my other 15k+ micronovellas (which could be categorised as 'hyperfiction' or something), so it doesn't feel right bundling it up with them and self-publishing or something.
This is a sort of West Country New Wyrd type thing, I guess. Very, er, 'English', I suppose. A bit quirky, but also fairly commercial too. Maybe I could try Weird Tales, but I doubt they'd bite. At this point an agent would be very handy, but I really don't have the sort of profile to attract one or the juice to reel in a mid-league editor / publisher.
If anyone is interested in putting it out, then mail me on my dumpmail address kekw10cc [AT] googlemail [DOOT] com. Some money would be nice, btw. You don't write something that long over a lunchtime, so would be cool to get some renumeration for my efforts.
Basically, the story follows the main protagonist thru 400+ years of life on the run from a secret cabal - maybe real / maybe imagined - who want to dissect him in order to learn the secret or eternal life. It's a mixture of dark pseudo-occult fantasy and psychological spy-thriller.
Here's a brief excerpt - a section set in (you guessed it!):
It was 1973 and they were tripping on acid down in John’s basement flat. John was playing something by Yes on the B&O deck and speakers he’d bought for thirty quid from the junk-shop on the corner. His pinched, weasel-like face was rigid with tension, lips protruding out in a half-pout as he air-guitar mimed a Steve Howe solo: breeanng-brakka-brak…pyoww! “Fucking ace, this bit!” he yelled, “Listen!”
Scott looked up from the electric bar-fire. He had been counting the glowing spiral ridges in the heating-element. It was like a tube of solid DNA or something. But a chord progression in the track had caught his attention. There it went again: a tricky, Baroque-sounding arpeggio that underpinned Howe’s fretwankery: m.1-I, m.2-V^6, m.3-vi&V^7/V, m.4-V…
Scott recognized it instantly. “I wrote that,” he said.
“Fuck off, Tully, you spaz…" John wind-milled his left arm, as if playing some monolithic, never-ending Pete Townsend chord. He made a strange, strangulated noise; a half-laugh that sounded like some new language. “You couldn’t have possibly written this. It was written by…written by…” He scanned the gatefold sleeve for clues. “Wakeman, Howe and - fucking hell! What the fuck’s that?” He dropped the sleeve and recoiled in horror from some invisible threat.
Brummie Dave grinned up at him from beneath the table. “You’re messing with forces beyond your comprehension, John,” he said, ominously.
John studied him suspiciously. “Don’t say things like that. You’re freaking me out.” He bit his thumb nail and laughed nervously. “You’re like a fucking elf sat down there in your cave.”
“Elf? I’m bloody Sauron, you wally. I have pure evil running through my veins…”
“1687,” said Scott, resisting the urge to touch the bar-fire. “Blackfriars. That’s where I wrote it. It popped into my head. Just like that - ” He snapped his fingers and recalled the moment as if it were five minutes ago. The scene stretched out in front of him like a painting. He could even smell the horse-dung and the human excrement that littered the road. A Scratch ‘n’ Sniff landscape. Imagine that hanging in the National Gallery, he thought. “Now some fucking Prog band’s ripped me off….”
“I know you’re a mature student, Tully, but that’s just bloody ridiculous,” snorted Brummie Dave from under his “special table”. He looked like a pterodactyl now or the bloke on the back on that Amon Duul II album.
John put his hands over his ears. “Stop it, stop it - stop it! You’re sending me over the edge…”
“Watch out, John!" cackled Brummie Dave, brandishing a Yes album-cover. "You’re…Close To The Edge!” He laughed and the room turned itself inside-out.