At last, we are very excited to announce the winner of the Conversations with Spirits supernaturally-themed flashfic competition. It was an incredibly hard decision for the judging panel - the quality of ALL the entries was absolutely top notch, which was why we wanted to recognise Paul, Loris, Claire and Ian’s brilliant writing. We would love to invite the four of you to E O Higgins’ launch party to congratulate you properly.

Now! Without further ado, the winner of the competition, and two tickets to the launch party, a signed first edition of Conversations with Spirits and a character named after them in the book itself is… 

Julia Coleman, for The Returned. 

This quite literally hair-raising composition (which you can read here) had us all riveted. Congratulations Julia, and we hope to see you and all the other finalists at the launch party for a celebratory toast and lots of hearty back patting. 

Thank you also to all of the other entrants in this competition. We’ve thoroughly enjoyed hosting alongside E O Higgins and the Jottify team.

Jimmy was running. The sounds of the city, including the slapping of his booted feet on the slippery cobbles, were muffled by the fog, but the wail of the street organ was clear and sharp. It seemed to be coming from ahead even though he had taken to his heels in order to leave it behind. Was there a scampering of paws beside him? Was there the faint clink of a chain in the mist? Surely it was just his imagination.

His mam would be worried if he wasn’t home soon but he daren’t head back towards the marketplace in case the organ grinder was still there. He would keep going on towards Dunoon Hill and cut through the park. That would be quickest. The oscillating meow of Ring a Ring o’ Roses herded him, stumbling blindly, towards a thinning in the murk.

Jimmy was breathing hard as he burst from the tendrils of brume and was hit with the forlorn keening of the organ ahead of him. The organ grinder was hunched over his instrument, nursing the noise before it fled his grimy fingers and sought cleaner ears in which to shelter. The musician’s face was hidden in the shadow of his creased top hat but Jimmy knew what he looked like. All the kids knew the organ grinder. Didn’t their mams tell them every night?

The organ grinder has one eye and pointy teeth. The organ grinder has the same face as his little monkey. The organ grinder has a mouth like a phonograph horn and that’s where the music comes out. The organ grinder eats little boys who are late home. The organ grinder has red eyes like a wolf. The organ grinder has no eyes and needs his monkey to guide him. The organ grinder will get you. If you hear the music; run!

Oh, yes, Jimmy knew the organ grinder alright. He was a pungent, rheumy-eyed old man with a rickety box and a flea-ridden monkey. Last week, Frank from up the hill had jeered at him while Jimmy had thrown stones at the animal. They were twelve, fer Chris’’s sake, and too old for the bogey-man tales their mams told them to make them behave. Little Jenny Goodhew was scared of the organ grinder. She was only ten and she said he whispered nasty things to her while she scrubbed the front step. That was why they had rushed to her defence with curses and cobbles flung in equal measure. Seeing the old man at the market recognise him and point morosely at the fiend who had been the cause of the bandage on his monkey’s tail had panicked the boy and so he had run.

And yet… This organ grinder was …different. He didn’t sway and hum along. He didn’t have a dancing monkey at his side. He was poker straight, yet slumped like a jacket on a hat-stand. He turned the handle sporadically as he shuffled forward. Lon-don-Bridgeisfall-ing-down – fallingdown-fall-ing-down, it wheezed forlornly. He didn’t look up as he approached and Jimmy was starting to wonder if his mam was right after all.

Step by shambling step Jimmy gave ground as the organ grinder took it. The boy was being pushed back into the fog. This time he was sure he heard the chime of a chain on stone and then there were claws at his neck. The monkey! It jabbered in his ears as it wrapped the chain around Jimmy’s throat and pulled with an unsettling strength.

Gagging, Jimmy stumbled forward into the shadow of the organ. The music was not coming from the horn on the side of the box; in fact, the funnel was sucking him towards it. The force of suction was so strong but there was no breeze, or any change in the fog. It was acting only on Jimmy. He clawed at the feet of the organ grinder, but he could not get purchase on the slimy corduroy trousers between his fingers.

With a crunch that stopped the music dead, Jimmy was squeezed into the phonograph horn. The organ grinder continued to turn the handle, but now the delicious waft of roasting meat was emitted in the place of strangled folksong. As the man walked off up the hill into the fog, the shape of the monkey grew beside him until it seemed almost child-sized. With each step, the white vapour cleared until a shabby old man with a tray of wares was clearly visible to potential customers.

“Hot pies!” cried the monkey-child beside him. “Fresh-made, hot meat pies!”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats,” announced the assistant.  “The moment has arrived to welcome the Master of the Spirit Plane, Psychic Troubadour and Occultist Extraordinaire, Mr Marvin Clay.”

A smattering of applause followed the announcement as the dozen people gathered in the small church hall found space around a circular, baize-covered table.  As the doors clattered open the assistant flicked off the lights, leaving only a single, bare bulb burning above the table.  A figure emerged from the dark. Marvin Clay would have been an unremarkable looking man, were he not clad from head to toe in shiny black polyester, a red satin-lined cape hanging loosely from his thin frame.  The look was topped off with an ill-fitting blond toupee balanced precariously on his orange-hued face. 

“Greetings, fellow travellers of the spiritual highway,” intoned Clay, as he raised his arms in a supplicating gesture.  “Greetings and welcome to an evening that will be both challenging and rewarding, as together we navigate the shores of night’s eternal sleep.”

With a flourish, Clay divested himself of his cape which was swiftly gathered up by the assistant and removed from sight.  Giving an affected sigh, he lowered himself into the single vacant seat at the table and, with a predatory glance, took in the people gathered around him.  This looks like an easy crowd, he thought.

A handful of familiar faces had assembled tonight.  Opposite Clay sat June White, an elderly woman in a tightly buttoned woollen coat, hoping to hear from her sister who had recently died.  Across from her sat Nik, a man who wished to contact his departed mother seeking approval for his “choice of lifestyle”.  The rest were strangers, the rest, that is, apart from the man immediately to Clay’s right.  Posing as another sitter, Herman Getz mingled with them before the séance started; gathering snippets of information about their lives before passing that to Clay via an intricate system of finger movements while their hands were joined in the sitter’s circle.

“Now, friends, I would ask you to join hands with those to either side as we seek to peer through the veil to the other place.  As the spirits gently enter me, for I sense that they are with us tonight, I will be able to communicate messages to you from those beloved ones who have passed across.  Please do not interrupt me but follow any instructions given by my assistant, Mr Head.  So, let us begin.”

The room was quiet, dark and seemed cooler to Clay than when he had entered.  Above the table, the light bulb swung imperceptibly from side to side.  A series of squeezes from Getz determined that the first message Clay would deliver this evening would be from the old lady’s sister.  Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and began.

“I have Ethel here; she is calling to us from the other side.  Ethel, speak up dear, do you have a message for June?  What’s that?  Ethel says she is happy you’re here and she knows you miss her, but she wants you not to worry.  She knows that you’ve not been feeling too well of late.  She wants you to take it easy.”

Overhead, the bulb dimmed then flickered.  A chill settled over the room.  Opening one eye slightly, Clay noticed Arthur Head staring off into the distance, an unsettled look on his face.  All other eyes were on him.  Another series of squeezes interrupted his thoughts before he continued speaking.

“Ethel says you’ve come into some money recently, but to be careful with it, don’t spend it straightaway as you might have need of it soon.”  He smiled to himself.

With a flash the bulb suddenly exploded, showering the sitters with tiny shards of glass and plunging the room into inky darkness.  Around the table, people cried out in alarm before a piercing shriek cut through the noise.  The stench of burning flesh and hair filled the air while the sound of hundreds of tiny feet clattered round and round the table.  Chairs scraped across the floor as people jumped up, vainly trying to escape the terrible darkness.  The shrieking resumed, followed by a loud pop just audible over the din, and then, as suddenly as it started, the cries stopped and the lights clicked on.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please stay calm,” called the assistant from across the room, where he had managed to get the remaining lights on.  As the sitters stared, fear etched bold on their terrified faces, the singed remains of Clay’s cape fluttered down to land on the table.  When the haze of orange smoke cleared all that could be seen of Marvin Clay was his toupee, gently smouldering on his chair.

The Society Club and Unbound welcomes poet George Chopping as he reads from his brilliant new collection; ‘Smoking with Crohn’s’.Join us in Soho on Saturday, December 1^st 7pm – 9pm.

A few years ago George Chopping left a glittering career as a shelf filler for a major supermarket. Now he works in a cafe in Oxford. He was born in Torquay. John Hegley has called him “the cream of Devon poets”.  
 
In 2002, as an alternative means of therapy to excessive drinking and jay-walking in South London traffic, Chopping started writing. At first he kept a diary; noting daily observations and recording a satirical account of his views of society and of his place within it. A year and two very short stories later, he had discovered his passion for words, and particularly poetry.
 
Lightheartedly describing his experiences of living with Crohn’s disease, drifting in and out of minimum wage jobs, spying on waterfowl from his narrowboat home, and people watching in pubs, shops, trains and other pubs, George’s poems appealed to most who heard him read them – even those who did not consider themselves poetically inclined. 

George has been performing, comparing and organising gigs for the last few years. He regularly performs at venues all over the country, including participating in the Edinburgh Fringe and at venues and festivals around the UK

“…Had the audience in hysterics” THE SUNDAY TIMES

“…One of Unbound’s raw talents, and, as quickly becomes obvious, a true performance poet. MANCHESTER LITERATURE FESTIVAL BLOG 

“…Droll and witty poetry delivered in amusingly deadpan style” THE OXFORD TIMES

“A poet who bridges the page-stage divide and demonstrates that a book can be quirky
and slightly mad”
APPLES & SNAKES

“…A perfectly balanced mixture of sweet natured observation and steel melting bile” NIGHTSHIFT

 “…Impossible for the sane reader to read, so I lit the fire with it!” SIOBHAN (You Tube comment) 

“…The Cream of Devon poets” JOHN HEGLEY

Join us for a night of poetry, sly humour, and cocktails galore as we welcome George Chopping to The Society Club

Saturday, December 1^st
7pm – 9pm

The Society Club
12 Ingestre Place
Soho, W1F0JF

Copies of ‘Smoking with Crohn’s’ will be available for purchase on the night

They said she was evil.  They said that she’d go and burn in hell for what she done to them kids.  All I can say is that when I saw her laid out on the slab in front of me, all cold and lifeless, I thought she the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.  When old Barleykins left the room, I told her so as well, told her that I would have given anything to meet her, to look into her eyes and tell her that she was the only girl for me and that we should be together forever.

I spent the night in The Two Brewers and had spent up all my spare ready for the week.  I thought that I could forget the sadness that had come upon me; forget the woman of my dreams, as she was already dead.  Little did I know that back there in the infirmary we had made a bond me and her, and it was a bond that would take me to places I never thought existed - dark places. 

Back at my lodgings, is when she first showed herself. As I drifted off to sleep, that’s when I heard her voice, it was soft and soothing and I knew, who it was.  She was stood at the end of my bed.

“Want to be with me, do you?” she asked and I felt like just reaching out and touching her.  “I can make that happen, my lover.  I can make it so that we’ll never be parted.  You just needs to do me some work, my good man.”  I couldn’t speak, I was enchanted, I looked at her face and took in her beauty, then nodded to show that I was game.

The next night, I set about our dark business.  “Start slow,” she had told me, “build up a reputation.  You need to work at this if you want to find me at the end.”  Just after midnight, I found myself outside George Yard Buildings where I waited just behind the archway in the dark. “Be patient,” her voice whispered in my ear, “You just be patient, my man, and you will get your rewards.”

I heard the drunken footsteps approaching, I felt my hackles raise and I gripped my blade so hard my knuckles cracked.  The first blow was the hardest and my, did she squeal, but only for a moment, because my gander was up and I felt the blood rushing through me as I tore at her.  All the time I did it, I heard my darling’s voice calling me on, telling me to rip her, telling me to do my work.  I left our first at the bottom of the stairway and made my way back to Wentworth Street.  Lucky for me I weren’t seen, because I was covered in claret and shaking with the excitement of it all.  I got to my room and shut the door behind me, breathing hard.  My love was stood there waiting, “Grand work, lad,” she said, “very good for a first go, but you got to get better if we’re to be joined.”

A couple of weeks later I played my games again down Buck’s Row.  I enjoyed that job, took my time and used one of Mr Barleykins sharp knives from the infirmary.  All the time she whispered to me, telling how with each splendid slice I would get nearer to her.

I worked hard for her and kept my day job going, I even helped Barleykins when some of the ladies was brought in.  I had a smile when that happened and I could hear a little laugh from my girl, not loud enough to be heard by anyone but me.   

It all finished just three months after it had started, our work, I had really got a taste for it, becoming a real master at cutting, taking bits out when I wanted to and making a pretty mess for me and the dear old boss to go through the next day.

When the last one came, she told me to make it my best and give a good account of myself, I did the works as well as I could.  “You’re done now, my man,” she whispered as I left the whore.  “You’ve earned my companionship, just as I promised.”  So I walked to the river and threw in my bag of tools, keeping one back for the last job.  I watched the black drops fall into the water below.  As my strength left and I dropped, it was like falling into her arms, the water was cold but I was warm, in the embrace of my love.

Set to be together.

Made for each other.

Made for Hell.

The cold from the bare boards is numbing, and my spine is rigid against the door frame. I reach up and rattle the handle. Locked. On my knees in the dark I press my ear against the keyhole, straining for the sound of breathing.

“Are you there?”

“Yes.” At last.

“Will you open the door?” I’ve never begged for anything in my life.

“No.”

“Why not?” A pause. Shuffling.

“It isn’t up to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It isn’t up to me to let you in.”

“But I want to see you.”

“You’ll have to wait. You wouldn’t like it in here, anyway.”

“How do you know? I might. You’re in there, so why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re just better off out there.”

I put my eye to the keyhole, but the darkness is total. My body could use some sleep, but I pray the cold and the lonely hardness of the floor will keep me awake.

“I just want to talk to you. I miss you.”

“You’re talking to me now.”

“But not properly. You’re in there and I’m out here. I want to lie down on the bed and wrap my arms around you.”

“I know.”

Another long pause. Can I hear snuffling?

“Are you still there?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“How are you?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t expect it to be like this.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you won’t leave me alone, for starters. Can’t you give me any peace?”

There sharpness in his voice hurts even more than my frozen knees.

“And you’re late. Where were you, before?” he demands.

“You know where. At the hospital. They kept me waiting. Paperwork.”

“No, I know that. Not then, before. Before before.”

“Oh. My mother’s.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Why? Where did you think I was?”

For the longest moment, I wait. Then, “Where did you think I was?”

“I don’t know. With him, maybe.”

“Him? Him, who?” Frozen realisation stabs at my heart. “Oh my god, is that why?

Another silence. Then, “Yes.”

The cold holds me firmly in its grip as I rattle the handle and pound the door with my fists.

“Let me in, you idiot! How can you think that? Let me through that door right now! There’s only you. Always. I love you.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s too soon.” Misery and love bind us together on either side of the locked door as I press, sobbing, against it.

***

As a pale stain of light seeps around the windows, and November draws its first, tentative breath, I clamber stiffly to my feet and try the door handle again. It turns with a quiet click and the door swings silently open into the empty room.

The bedroom curtains are open, and thin sunlight falls on a smooth quilt. I lie down, fully-clothed, on a bed scarcely warmer than the floor. The heavy platinum ring on the chain around my neck is bulky and uncomfortable, so with reluctance I take it off. I go to place it carefully on the marble-topped washstand beside the bed, but at the kiss of stone on my hand I drop it, and it rattles like old bones. Cold stone. Cold metal. Cold bones. I lie on my back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, the silence from the empty space beside me drowning out all possibility of sleep.

After lengthy debate, today we’re very pleased to announce the first of the FlashFic Competition results, which will be released in reverse order. The brief was to write 700 words on a supernatural theme, and the panel would like to HIGHLY COMMEND:

Loris Clements, for The Night Before the Morning After

and Paul Holbrook, for Chain Me Not In Heaven.

Congratulations from E O Higgins, Unbound and Jottify! We will be posting Loris and Paul’s entries in full - meet us back here to read at your leisure…

Anonymous asked: I have recently bought a copy of ' The Gin Lane Gazette' by Adrian Teal. It was on 'pre-order' status and is now 'buy it now.' I haven't been given any notification as to when I will receive the book. Can you help?

Hi,

All pre-orders of this book have been sent to our despatch company to send out. If you want to email me on support[at]unbound.co.uk however, then I can have a look into this further. 

The Unbounders

Anonymous asked: What happens if a book is over 100 Per cent funded? Does the excess go to the author or to Unbound? Or does it go back to those at the end of the line of funders?

Hi, 

If a book is over 100% funded this means that it is now making profit. All profits are split 50/50 with Unbound and the author. I hope this helps. 

The Unbounders

Last week, to raise funds for the very talented E O Higgins’ Unbound Book Conversations With Spirits, we had a Hallowe’en seance with the world-renowned and extremely phantasmagorical medium Laars Head. 

Before the evening of wonders began, all attendees were required to fill out a prayer card. These cards asked them which dead celebrity they would like to contact since, as Laars said, “Let’s face it, messages imparted from dead superstars like Elvis Presley, Evel Knievel or Jack the Ripper are going to be significantly more interesting than anything your nan has got to say.” 

The questions on the cards were as follows:

1. With which dead celebrity do you wish to make contact? 

2. What question would you wish to ask? 

3. How would you expect the dead celebrity to respond? 

Laars didn’t have time to contact all of the celebrities on the sheets, but we felt that these cards were frankly too interesting to keep to ourselves, so we’ve put some people’s answers here for your amusement.

Disclaimer - some attendees were not taking this as seriously as Laars, so please try not to be offended.

1. Colonel Gadaffi

2. What do you think of this year’s X Factor?

3. A pungent fart.

*

1. Queen Mother

2. How many G&Ts did you drink a day?

3. More than you could afford, dear (in a slurred voice).

*

1. Kurt Cobain

2. Would you like to shoot every little shit who covers Teen Spirit?

3. Yes.

*

1. Terry Nutkins

2. What pants are you wearing?

3. Badger fur ones.

*

1. Michael Jackson

2. Do you think Janet copied your hair/singing/dancing/nose?

3. Yes she did, uncreative bitch.

*

1. John Lennon.

2. Are you angry? Angry at Paul?

3. Yes. He keeps murdering ‘Hey Jude’.

*

1. Gilles De Rais

2. What was that all about?

3. Curt, imperious and then gushingly apologetic. 

*

1. John Wayne

2. Did you know my mum was called Marion too?

3. Silence (he’s dead).

*

1. Orson Welles

2. What would you do differently?

3. Nothing. I believe in fate. Live!

Anonymous asked: How longer after a book is fully funded will it be published?

Hi there,

It usually takes us about 4-6 months to complete production after the manuscript is handed to us by the author. The time taken for the authors to write the books differs however. I hope this helps.

The Unbounders. 

The American way for this traditional Thanksgiving dish is sweeter than sweet, but, since for adoption purposes only we may pretend ownership at Hallow’een, I have cut the sugar by a half from the Kentucky sweet potato pie version. Naturally it should be made masked and caped in the kitchen.

• Shortcrust pastry made with 180g flour and 90g unsalted butter baked blind
• 675g or so red onion squash or pumpkin (Italian or French the best, not watery and stringy like English)
• 240ml double cream
• 55g unsalted softened butter
• 55g light muscovado sugar
• 2 large eggs
• 1/2 tsp each ground cinnamon, mace, cloves, ginger
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1/2 tsp sea salt

Cut the pumpkin into melon sized wedges, scoop out seeds, and roast until tender on a baking tray in a hot oven (200/Gas 6)

Scoop flesh into a large bowl and whisk in the cream.

Cream butter and sugar thoroughly then add the eggs one at a time, beating as you go.

Stir this mixture into the pumpkin and cream then add spices, salt and vanilla and amalgamate.

Taste and adjust spices if necessary. Scrape into the tart-case and return to the oven at 180/Gas 4 for 30-40 mins or until browned and puffed up.

Cool on a rack for 15 minutes. Serve with vanilla ice cream or clotted cream. Happy Hallowe’en!

Like this? Take a look at Tamasin’s latest book, Smart Tart.

Monday November 26^th The Jam Factory, Oxford

Tuesday, 30th October, 6:30pm Blacks Club, Soho, London

HALLOWE’EN SEANCE