GORBALS VAMPIRE at Southside Fringe now SOLD OUT

Just a quick note to anyone who might be thinking of coming along to my Southside Fringe show THE GORBALS VAMPIRE tomorrow night Sat 14 (see preceding posts), the show is now SOLD OUT and as things stand I'm afraid there won't be much point in coming to the door on the night. IF there are any cancellations and any more tickets become available, I will let you know, but tickets are currently unavailable.

BUT THE GORBALS VAMPIRE will return. I'm currently booked to perform the show in Glasgow again at the Britannia Panopticon Music Hall in Argyll Street. That's in October, just ahead of Halloween, so watch this space for further details.

Tickets for THE GORBALS VAMPIRE at Glasgow Southside Fringe -- now available at Brown Paper Tickets

Further to my last post concerning my upcoming show at the Southside Fringe in my native Glasgow, just spreading the word that tickets are available both at the Southside Fringe box office, which this year is going to be located in The Art Village in Shawlands' main shopping centre on the main Kilmarnock Road, you can also get hold of tickets online at BROWN PAPER TICKETS. I'll post the LINK here -- http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/2544456 Remember... tickets are STRICTLY LIMITED for this very intimate venue.

Meanwhile, here's a rough draft of the poster!

THE GORBALS VAMPIRE returns - to Glasgow Southside Fringe Sat 14 May 2016

Yes, after successful performances at last year's Edinburgh and Nottingham Fringes, I'm bringing my show about Glasgow's very own Gorbals Vampire back where it belongs... to his and my native turf on the South Side of Glasgow at this year's Southside Fringe, where my 21st Century Poe shows were well received last year. I'll attach here a link to a previous post giving a little bit more of the historical background to the story.... here's the LINK below....

http://martyrossstoryteller.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/me-gorbals-vampire.html

And here I'll paste in the press release for the Southside show. Bear in mind this is a small, intimate venue and tickets will be strictly limited! Tickets are available from both the Southside Fringe Box Office at Art Village in the Shawlands Shopping Centre at 104 Kilmarnock Road in Glasgow, or from the Brown Paper Tickets website (link here): http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/2544456

PS: Here's a link to a SOUNDCLOUD "trailer" recording from my rehearsals... https://soundcloud.com/user-752957699/the-gorbals-vampire-trailer

THE GORBALS VAMPIRE

A dramatic storytelling show by Marty Ross for Glasgow Southside Fringe 2016.

14^th. May at Number 6, 6 Carment Drive, Shawlands G41 3PP.

Venue contact: 07761 299 717

8pm (for 8.30). Tickets £10 (includes food)

Ghoulish and garrulous... Gothic and grotesque and blood-glugging... gaun yirsel' – spend an evening with Glasgow's very own Gorbals Vampire!

Glasgow's very own vampire legend comes to disturbing dramatic life in the latest performance by master storyteller and playwright Marty Ross... What better show to chill spines at this year's Glasgow Southside Fringe?

Well received at last year's Southside Fringe was Ross' 21st Century Poe, in which he not only updated two classic terror tales by Edgar Allan Poe, but relocated them to the streets of his native Glasgow. Now he goes one better, by building this new show around a native horror legend of Glasgow's South side.

It was in the 1950s that local kids in Glasgow's Gorbals became convinced that the vast graveyard of the Southern Necropolis was haunted by an iron toothed vampire with a taste for children. Mass hysteria erupted among both young and old, kids embarking nightly on vampire hunts, wooden stakes in hand,  while panicked adults called the police and demanded a ban on the US horror comics perceived - erroneously, modern historians agree - to be responsible: much more authentically local traditions were involved.

But this true story ended rather anti-climactically: there doesn't, disappointingly, seem to have been any real vampire in the graveyard. But Marty Ross" drama asks: what if? What if there actually was a "something" there, very ancient and strange and terrible? And what if one vampire mad boy found himself in the vampire's clutches?

Thus the Gorbals gets its very own full blown Gothic horror myth, a story aspiring to do for Glasgow's south side what Dracula did for Transylvania, what the Phantom did for the Paris Opera, as a tale is spun - dramatic, theatrical, darkly humorous but deeply disturbing, of innocence lost and - possibly - regained.

Those who have attended Ross' previous dramatic storytelling performances, whether at the Edinburgh Fringe or Southside Fringe or the London Horror Festival, or any of his other regular venues, will know that storytelling with Ross is far removed from the comfy chair Jackanory clichés of this oldest, yet suddenly newest, of theatrical forms. Rather his style is boldly theatrical and expressionistic - and here finds itself a fascinating new venue at No. 6 in Shawlands, a performance space combining the intimacy of a domestic fireside setting - so traditional for storytelling - with the room to create a startling one man theatrical spectacle. Please note the £ 10 ticket price also includes food and drink both before and at the interval of the show.

How can you resist the spell of this very Glaswegian vampire?

“Marty Ross has mastered this art of storytelling...” TVBomb, Edinburgh Fringe 2015

“Ross is a master craftsman who never turns down the pressure, painting vile pictures and weaving a grotesque spell... Trainspotting meets Gothic horror” Broadway Baby, Edinburgh Fringe 2013

“Ross has a great aptitude for suspense and terror, and he hurls himself into his tale with energy and passion, in words which ring with the native Glasgow rhythm.” The Scotsman. Edfringe 2013.

MARTY ROSS is a playwright and storyteller with a long track record in radio and audio drama, particularly for the BBC, for whom he has written drama ranging from the Radio 4 series The Darker Side Of The Border to the popular serials Ghost Zone and Catch My Breath to one-off dramas such as Rough Magick, My Blue Piano, Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, The Dead Of Fenwick Moor and Moyamensing: Scenes From The Life, Death & Dreams of Edgar Allan Poe. He has also written two Doctor Who audio dramas and an award-nominated Dark Shadows drama. He has also written drama for the Wireless Theatre Company, including two plays commissioned by, and performed at, the Buxton Festival, Redder Than Roses and The Woman On The Bridge. This year has seen the release of his most acclaimed production yet, Romeo And Jude, an epic production for Amazon Audible featuring Owen Teale and Nick Moran. He also performs widely as a live storyteller in venues great and small ranging across Britain and Ireland.

ATLANTIC IN OUR BONES Chapter 3 of my Scottish thriller.

Pasting here third chapter of my new Glasgow-based thriller ATLANTIC IN OUR BONES which I'm currently in the process of revising. If you want to HEAR me read the chapter on Soundcloud, them here's a link: L I N K

And here's the text of the third chapter....

3./ "You sure you're alright?" the man in the driving seat asks.

Mhairi, gaze searching the mountainous darkness for any hint of Loch Lomond, is slow to turn round.

"What?" she asks.

"That bump I gave you."

He looks kind enough, a wee bit sagged and rumpled and middle-aged; maybe, she surmises, a bit sad about something at the far back of his mind.

"It wasn't much," she shrugs. "I’m okay."

"The guy in that other car, he was hasslin' you?"

She roves her stare past the flashings-by of headlit trees.

"He gave me a lift. Got a bit creepy."

"I bet," says the man. "What you doing, taking lifts off creeps?"

She faces him again, sees him show a lop-sided grin. "I exempt myself, of course, from classification as a creep," he says.

"You sure?" she asks.

"Absolutely. Took the blood test for creepiness last month. Got the all clear. Want to see my certificate?"

"I trust you."

His grin hardens past humour. "Really?" he asks. "How come?"

She shrugs again. "People's hearts aren't so hard to see into."

"Yeah... well... I’d look extra close if you're going to make a habit of hitch-hiking."

"I don't plan to."

“You know anyone in Glasgow?"

"I’ll be okay," she mutters.

"It's not the best place to be stuck without a friend."

"I know someone," she says. "Don't worry."

"A someone who knows you're coming?"

"A someone I can trust."

"Well, I hope that someone doesn't go to bed early. It's going to be the wee small hours by the time we hit town."

He sounds as if he cares. A trick? The closer she lets him take her to Glasgow, the better placed she'll be if she has to make a run for it. The hand furthest from him checks the weapon in her fleece's pocket.

"I’m not gonna drop in out of the blue. I’ll... I’ll sort something else out tonight."

"Yeah. Glasgow's full of parks. You'll find an empty bench, I’m sure."

"Maybe..." she ventures, "...maybe you know somewhere I could...?"

His eyes fix upon her, so tightly she fears he'll forget the road ahead and kill them both.

"What island did you come from?" he says.

"Island - ?"

"Your accent. It's - what? - from the Orkneys, the Hebrides, someplace like that, huh? And your general approach to getting by in this big bad world, which floating rock of hopeless naivety did that swim in from?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, sweetheart, watch what suggestions you make with that lilt and them fluttering eyes, when you're sat in a car with a guy who could be anyone."

"What suggestion was I making?" she says.

"The fact you don't know makes it makes it all the more dangerous."

"Was I making it at all?"

"Huh?"

"Maybe it's something you made up inside your own head."

She twitches down the first couple of notches on the zipper of her fleece's pocket.

"Guess what, darling," he says, "there's worse heads than mine in Glasgow. So the point is... take care."

"You don't trust that place, sounds like."

"Bitter experience."

"What sort of experience?"

"Too bitter for talking about this time of night. Listen, we... um… I do hate to think of you sleeping rough.... I, um, I live just north of the city. Got a spare room. You could kip there for the night. I could drive you into Glasgow in the morning. Strictly innocent, I assure you."

"I believe you," she says, staring past the shadows of the branches as they stream across his face.

ROMEO & JUDE - my new drama from Audible & Wireless Theatre

This week sees the release of my biggest audio drama yet, the five hour epic of love against the odds, ROMEO & JUDE, which has been produced by Wireless Theatre Company for Audible.co.uk the audiobooks wing of Amazon. This is one of the biggest opportunities I've had to show what I'm made of as a dramatist, so I'm hoping it's well received. In effect, it's exactly what Audible asked for in the first place, a contemporary gay version of Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet - and I've taken my key inspiration from the fact that, of course, in the original production Shakespeare himself would have overseen, Juliet would have been played not by a female actor (heaven forbid a woman should set foot on the Elizabethan stage!), but rather by a beautiful feminine young man. In my own storytelling, I'd directly experienced the power of performance to liberate one from conventional boundaries of gender or sexuality and really wanted to celebrate, the get under the skin, of this process. 

Directed by David Runacre Beck, who also directed my Buxton Festival play THE WOMAN ON THE BRIDGE, now available as an audio download from Wireless Theatre's website, the drama features performances from the likes of wonderful Welsh actor Owen Teale, currently best known for Game Of Thrones, seriously talented newcomer Matthew Tennyson, Nick Moran of Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels & Telstar fame, plus Ricky Norwood from Eastenders, stormingly nasty as the play's equivalent to Tybalt, and wonderful Sarah Whitehouse who was so brilliant in the lead role of the above mentioned Woman On The Bridge and is equally sensitive and moving here. 

Here's a link to the appropriate page on the Audible website.....

R O M E O & J U D E L I N K

And here below is the 'behind the scenes' trailer for the play on YouTube...

Hoping the world loves it like I loved writing it!

ATLANTIC IN OUR BONES - my Glasgow thriller - Chapter 2

Just pasting in here the second chapter of my Glaswegian 'Tartan noir' thriller ATLANTIC IN OUR BONES, which I'm currently putting through what hopefully will be a final revision. If you want to hear me READ this chapter in audiobook form, that's on Soundcloud HERE: https://soundcloud.com/user-752957699/atlantic-in-our-bones-chapter-two

(My other MYSTERIES OF GLASGOW novels are available here: GLASGOW, LIKE A STRANGER and here: AZTEC LOVE SONG )

2./ The train drowns its rumble in the distance. Mhairi lingers under the overhang of the tiny station's roof, the slender white building and single platform marooned in rain-swept blackness. Past streamings from the overflowing gutter, she sees, in the valley below, an intermittent flow of car headlights and tail-lights travelling the sole road, hereabouts, between north and south. Dragging her rucksack onto her shoulders, she pulls up the hood of her fleece and descends from the platform, taking the rain and chill gusts full in her face. Her lower belly suffers another twinge, accompanied by a trickle of blood down the inside leg of her jeans.

Beyond the station, a narrow road, coursing with water, descends past a portakabin post office, a tiny school, a fire station and the short single line of houses which passes for a village, the curtains tugged tight. At the foot of the hill, the main road greets her with the spray from a northbound supermarket lorry.

At the road's far side, a small hotel clenches light and warmth within itself, a few chattering backs-of-heads bobbing behind the leaded windows of its bar. She wonders if there isn't some outbuilding where she could bed down. There is a phone box near the door of the bar. It occurs to her that a phone call and a confession would sort her a bed for the night.

But by the time the next car has swished by, awareness of how important it is to keep running has reasserted itself, along with a certainty of there being only one place, one person, she can run towards. Squelching onto the grass verge at the near side of the road, she turns into the glare of the next vehicle hurtling southward.

As it races by, she wonders if she should stick out her thumb. Instead, she stares at the dark shapes behind each oncoming set of headlights, urging one of them, sooner or later, to understand what it is like to be a lost object in a callous world.

Her backward steps have carried her to the far end of the verge before a car swerves close, passenger door swinging wide.

*********************************************************************

"Some’dy waiting for you in Glasgow?"

Facing Mhairi across the table in the roadside cafe, the man with the vague smudge of moustache licks his middle finger, using it to mop doughnut crumbs from his plate.

"Mm," she nods, taking another slurp of milkshake.

"What? Family?" he asks, smiling that same smile he's been shoving her way since picking her up at Bridge of Orchy.

She gives a sidelong shrug. "Yeah."

She wishes they could have kept on going, whooshing through the dark in his snug, sleek car. Mightn't they have been as far south as Loch Lomond, by now?

"They do know you're coming?" he asks, licking the crumbs from his finger. He has told her he sells cars, that he's got his own showroom in Glasgow and is on his way back from a trade show in Fort William, clearly assuming she's impressed.

She nods. He pats his hand on top of hers.

"There was me taking you for a little girl lost," he says. 'Aitch', he's asked her to call him.

She tries to slide her hand clear. He takes firmer hold.

"Can we... can we maybe get going?" she suggests.

"That highland lilt," he grins, "that bonnie red hair. The boys are gonna fall over themselves in the Big G."

She wrenches her hand free. "Can we? Go?"

"Sure," he agrees, knocking back a last mouthful of coffee. Cappuccino foam clings to his moustache.

They head outside to the gravel car park, which is almost empty of vehicles at this hour. The rain has dwindled to a drizzle.

“Ooh...!” says Aitch, frowning and doubling up as he opens the door of the driving seat.

“You okay?” asks Mhairi.

“What? Oh... yeah, sweetheart. Oof. Just the usual.”

“Usual?”

“My digestion… the Rennies shareholders must be cock-a-hoop every time I clock a doughnut. Ulcers! Side effect’ah being a successful entrepreneur!”

“Is there...” Mhairi begins warily, “...anything I can... do...?”

He straightens up, shows a plucky smile.

“You, pet? Well, short of you having a jumbo bottle of Pepto-Bismol on you, you could spare me a wee five minutes for a lie down before we move on.” Reaching inside his souped-up little number, he pushes flat the back of the driving seat. 

“Oof...how could I have missed the whiskers on yon doughnut? – Don’t worry, pet, you don’t have to stand out there in the rain. Here, look - !” He pushes down the back of the passenger seat. “You can have a wee lie down too. Bet you could do wi’ one!”

“Uh no…” says Mhairi, stepping back, “…not really….”

“Well, the café there’s shutting up, so where you gonna hang around, catchin' the rain, while my belly’s settlin’? Still umpteen miles o’highland between us and Glasgow. Go on, doll, climb in.”

"No... listen..." Mhairi responds, scanning the unpopulated distance between herself and the cafe and the road beyond, "...I’m just gonna...."

"What?" asks Aitch, grinning. "Catch the bus? What bus? C'mon, I’m talkin' about an innocent lie down. We can play at being Babes In The Wood, eh?"

"No..." Mhairi draws back further, "...no way."

Aitch steps after her, gastric agonies dispelled.

"You don't want to snub me entirely, I’m sure? Wind up stranded here? It's a cold world if you don't make the most of a friendly hand."

He reaches towards her. She turns, takes the first step of a sprinting away. He catches her rucksack, dragging her back, pulling the pack down the single arm onto which she has its strap looped. She turns, tries to tug it back. He pulls her closer, the pack sandwiched between them.

"Hey..." he says, "...what's the panic? Even a sweet wee teuchter cannae be entirely naïve about a fellah's assumptions when a lassie hops in his motor, middle of the night."

She pulls harder on the pack. He tugs it his way.

"What you got in here?" he sneers. "The crown jewels? Some frilly knicks tae fire my fantasies? Or…"

He stops, lifting one hand from the pack, studying its palm in the meagre light. Something drips on his shoe. Looking up, he glimpses too late the metallic flash. The sound of the flesh around his eyes shearing wide registers ahead of the pain.

He supposes the eyes themselves have been scythed out, hot black agony searing his skull, sending him tumbling through the open car door at his back. The rear of his head bumps the door-frame, his backside bouncing on, then sliding from, the edge of the driving seat, clunking onto the metal edge below.

Tears scald a pale shape into his darkness, the shape of the girl staring down at him, all white face and red hair. She grabs the rucksack, running off. For a moment, he watches her dissolve into the drizzle. Then, pain biting deeper across his face, blood coursing hot into his mouth and bubbling up his nostrils, he gropes into the driving seat, anger jostling ahead of agony.

Mhairi, running, hears the rev of his engine, the slice of his wheels across the car park's gravel and puddles. The cold heat of his headlights is upon her back, throwing her shadow before her, the vehicle’s heat and oily stink sniffing at her rear. She glances over her shoulder.

Metal, hard and hot and slicked with rain, thumps into her. But even as she is thrown across it and cast to the ground, she realises this car came from another direction.

The next second or two is a chaos of engine snorts, wheel screeches and gravelly rattlings. Her reeling vision settles on Aitch's car, much further away than she had thought. It stands at a skewed halt, exhaust fumes thickening the red glow of its tail lights. It is another set of headlights that shines across the puddles in front of her. Somewhere to the rear of that glare she catches the sound of a door opening, of feet splashing her way. Aitch's car screeches out onto the road. Mhairi feels hands about her shoulders.

"You okay?" someone asks: a man's voice, Glaswegian, gentle and slightly gruff. "That bastard almost killed you."

ATLANTIC IN OUR BONES First Chapter of my new novel

Hi, just beginning final polish of what I hope is the final draft of my new 'Tartan Noir' novel ATLANTIC IN OUR BONES, the latest in my series The Mysteries Of Glasgow (another two novels, AZTEC LOVE SONG and GLASGOW, LIKE A STRANGER, are available already HERE: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Aztec-Love-Song-Marty-Ross/dp/0956219322  ... and HERE: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Glasgow-Like-A-Stranger-ebook/dp/B004ZH3EGQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1365784255&sr=1-1&keywords=glasgow%2C+like+a+stranger

No better way of testing if the words all flow freely than to read the darned thing out loud, which I've done with the first chapter posted on SOUNDCLOUD here.... https://soundcloud.com/user-752957699/atlantic-in-our-bones-chapter-11

And here's the text of that first chapter.... More to follow!!!

The moment he spots her, on the platform of the harbour's train station, a shock seizes Chief Superintendent Creggan, a shock sharper than the wind off the sea loch.

“Mhairi....?” he mutters, like the old family friend he is, starting towards her even as she darts aboard the train. He has almost reached her when the doors slide shut between them. The train, running late, starts grumbling into motion.

Creggan, who has just got off this selfsame train, weary after a tedious conference in Inverness, followed by the lengthy, slow-running journey which has brought him back home, runs alongside the carriage, Mhairi in view as she takes a seat on the carriage's far side, the girl's pretty, slender face fixed forward, giving no clear sign she has spotted him.

He gives up the chase as the train rattles into the distance. What is he concerned about? - he asks himself. The girl looks fine, old enough, just about, to competently make a journey on her own. And yet... it is not like her father, for better or worse, to turn her free like this. Creggan fumbles out his phone, thumbing his way to a familiar number. Past the platform's far end, he can dimly make out the island, on the grey horizon beyond the mouth of the sea loch.

*********************************************************************

On that island, the sea-wind swings wide a cottage's front door, clattering its knob against the wall of the narrow hallway. The gust ebbs. The door attempts to creak shut, barely halfway there when the next gust slaps it as wide as before. Beyond, past a hiss of wind-coarsened undergrowth, the sea grunts a cold grey laughter.

Wind-stirred puddles lie in the warps of the hallway’s linoleum floor. On the wall at one side, coats hang in a clump, threadbare sleeves and crudely patched elbows jostling one another. Through the living room doorway, the television crackles its imperfect reception of some faraway game show. On the coffee table facing the TV, the old manual typewriter hunkers its metal bulk. Alongside, the all-but-full ashtray and all-but-empty whisky glass gather dust. Nearby, the phone rings and goes unanswered.

In the kitchen, the little table with the checked tablecloth stands set for dinner, the dinner itself beyond rescue within the burnt-down stump of saucepan on the fused hob. A tiny crab scuttles the floor. The kitchen door, half-open onto the hall, voices a low groan, then slams against its frame, caught by a gust that makes the kitchen calendar flutter on its hook. The phone rings on.

Upstairs, empty rooms offer that ringing no answer. In Mhairi's little box room, the rumpled covers on the single bed hold only soilings of dried blood, the small and slender hand-print in blood on the wall above hardly hand enough to lift a receiver, the silence which chokes the place scarcely able to afford Chief Superintendent Creggan the answer for which, over on the mainland, he fairly aches.

*********************************************************************

Blurring by, the highland landscape and the troubled clouds above lie slashed with violet and scarlet. Hill after hill swells – green, brown, black - against the sky and is bundled aside. Between them and the edge of the railway track, a bog shivers, its pools mirroring the sunset clouds, the waters suffering the first stabs of oncoming rain.

Mhairi sips lukewarm tea. The train compartment is half empty, but still the figures with whom she shares it seem to press altogether too close, their various conversations a threatening murmur. Perhaps it’s her they’re muttering about: that strange lassie who bought her ticket with a cascade of coins across the station counter, like a kid who'd taken a hammer to her piggy bank.

That man there, face like a bleached headstone… doesn’t she know him? From Church, maybe? Friend of Dad’s? No… maybe not. Her Dad has so few friends. Has… Present tense. How dare she phrase it otherwise? Yet to see him back there at the station, Creggan of all people... what kind of fate, of ill luck, does that imply for this attempt at escape? Perhaps he's already phoned ahead, ensuring her arrest at the next station. Maybe he's been over to the island already and seen... and seen....

No, of course not, there hasn't been nearly enough time for that. And why should even he raise any alarm over her catching the same perfectly ordinary train he himself had just got off? All the same....

At the other side of Mhairi’s table, a baby on its mother’s knee screeches from a scarlet, single-toothed mouth, eyes fixed on Mhairi. Maybe that young and raw - she ponders – it can smell the blood. Like a crow. Or a police dog. Or maybe that’s a cry of sympathy? It’s a terrible thing, after all, to be a child in such a world, as Mhairi well knows: all of seventeen, yet with little more experience of all she is running from, of all she is running towards, than that cry-baby kid.

Her innards suffer their latest pang. The dour-faced man further up the aisle has seen her wince, craning his head for a clearer view. Does she know him? Does he know her? Did he spot that look Creggan gave her?

She knows one thing: she must get off this train.