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Since the show opened in London in , it had been seen by more than 80 million people worldwide. Free beer was offered to all adult patrons.

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Many of the characters were named after people connected with the original Romero movie. Adding to the LA zombiefest, Zombies! Meanwhile, Johnny Depp voiced the disappointing Pirates of the Caribbean: Legend of Jack Sparrow spin-off video game, and Monster House was based on the animated film and obviously aimed at younger children. At least Stubbs the Zombie in Rebel Without a Pulse allowed the player to actually become a zombie and turn the inhabitants of a small American town into an army of the walking dead.

The six-inch tall Buffy the Vampire Slayer:? Each figure, based on the original design by Jack Harris, was packaged in a colourful tube and limited to 1, pieces each. The eleven-inch high polystone maquettes came with hand-numbered certificates of authenticity. Despite an impressive line-up of guests that included international authors Kim Newman and Koji Suzuki, publisher John Pelan, artist Brom, actor Bill Moseley and Toastmaster Peter Straub, mismanagement led to some problems after the event.

Ray Garton was announced as the somewhat premature recipient of the Grand Master Award.

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Feist and Juliet E. McKenna, while David J. Howe was Master of Ceremonies.

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The author also continued his winning streak by picking up the Best Collection award for 20th Century Ghosts. Howard Artist Guest. In fact, the IHG Awards were surrounded by controversy, but we will return to that a little later. Three days later in Austin, Toastmaster Bradley Denton hosted the World Fantasy Awards presentation following a crowded banquet on the Sunday afternoon. Only one of the winners was actually present. More observant readers may have noticed that no anthology winner was listed in the International Horror Guild Awards above.

This was not an oversight. Obviously, this did not seem to have been a problem for any other major awards in the field. The anthologies market is already depressed enough. Arguably, may not have been the best of years, but it was certainly far from the worst.


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As we had intended, our open letter stirred up discussion within the field. However, what none of us who put our names to the statement expected was the vehemence that it would provoke. Within hours of its posting, message boards were buzzing with people discussing the pros and cons of the letter. I soon started receiving e-mails attacking me personally.

Over the following weeks I was threatened and insulted, and I know that others received similar treatment. Only one person who signed the letter subsequently asked to have his name removed. Many more contacted us and asked if they could have their names added. Perhaps even more telling was the excuse by another judge that the panel did not receive enough free copies of anthologies to make an informed decision.

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What the IHG judges and administrator had failed to take into account was that it is the job of the panel to track down individual titles and then discuss the subjective merits of those books amongst themselves. In this particular case, they should have nominated whichever anthology titles they collectively felt were the best of those published in If they then decided that none of these titles ultimately deserved the final award, then so be it. At the very least, our protest raised some important issues, and I hope that such a decision will not be taken so lightly again. For me, personally, it was a nasty, spiteful and disheartening time that exposed the dark and malicious underbelly of the genre I love and work in.

Am I glad I got involved? Given the harassment that I had to put up with, would I do it again? You betcha! Perhaps if Ray had had that idea before me, it would have looked a little bit like my story. Dry heat rose from the cracks in the sidewalks, brushing the brown grass that grew there as it shimmered by. There was a hush in the stilted air, high and hanging, the sun like a burnt coin frozen in the pale and cloudless sky, the trees still, green leaves dried and baked, panting for a breeze.

Rotating window fans moved hot air from outside to inside. Newspapers rustled on kitchen tables, their pages waving until the artificial breeze moved on, then settling hot and desultory back into unread place. The breakfast plates sat unstacked, forgotten; lunch plates with uneaten lunch — curling pumpernickel, wilted lettuce, an inkblot of mustard dry as paper — sat nearby. Morning coffee milled in two mugs, still tepid from the afternoon warmth. His wife Mabel, prostrate on the nearby couch, the faded sunflowers of her house dress clashing and merging in a wilted riot with the worn daisies of the sofa print, tried to say something but failed.

Her right hand continued to weakly fan herself with its magazine and she tried again. At one time, Summer had belonged to them. From the first day of school letting out, until the dreaded bell sounded again, they had ruled summer as if they owned it.


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There had been baseball and bad tennis, and miniature golf and marbles in the hot dust. There had been butterfly hunts with orange black monarchs big as pterodactyls and just as difficult to catch. And their own swimming, from dawn to dusk some days, emerging at the end waterlogged beings, raisin boys, to dry and unwilt in the setting sun. And this year it had started the same — the banishment of black-and-white marble notebooks, pencils thrown under beds spearing dust bunnies, school clothes in the backs of closets. And out with the baseball glove! Oiled, smelling like new wet leather, sneakers that smelled of dirt, short pants, the dewy morning giving way to a fresh hot feeling and late afternoon thunderstorms scattering the ballplayers with warm wet drops big as knuckles and the temperature dropping and making them shiver.

And swimming, and more swimming, and more swimming still, and the cool-warm nights, the sharp cold taste of ice cream, of a bottle of cola drawn from an iced bucket, of a hot dog steaming, hiding under hot sauerkraut. It was Shep who noticed it first: in the dangerous treehouse on a mid-August afternoon.


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They had finished trading baseball cards, arguing over how many cards always doubles! Shep spoke without breaking his concentration. Idly, still scanning his Vault of Horror , Monk kicked out his sneaker and caught Lem on the shin.

Something like a faint hiss, something like the eerie castanet sound cicadas make, passed by his ears and brushed him on one cheek, but there was not so much as a breeze in the early hot afternoon. That afternoon it was too hot to swim. It stayed that way the next three days.

Monk had built, from boards too useless even for the treehouse, a lab table in one corner, and they fiddled with the chemistry set, trying to make things that were yellow and then turned red, others that made smoke. They toyed with the rabbit-ear antenna on the ancient television, a huge wooden box with a tiny black and white screen the size of a TV dinner tin — for a while they brought in the monster movie channel, and watched, in a snowy and line-infested picture, the Man from Planet X rampage through the Scottish moors.

Monk brought down a bowl of grapes, and they ate some of them, and spit the rest at each other out of their mouths, pressing their cheeks for cannonade. But their eyes kept drifting to the cellar windows, and the heat and light outside. They made it halfway to the secret pond, and turned around, dripping and panting. They played darts in the cellar, and set up plastic army men and knocked them down with marbles and rubber bands. Lem and Shep talked about body odor and shaving their upper lips while Monk scowled.

And always, for three days, they kept looking to the cellar windows, up high, filled with light, and closed against the summer heat. The radio played music, and talked about the heat. The air was dry as the inside of an oven. There was a cloudless sky, and a smile of moon tilted at an amused angle, and, after a while, there were stars in the dark but they looked faraway and dim through the hot air.

The telescope went unused.

by THOMAS CARLYLE

They swam for a while, but the water, over the last three days, had taken on the temperature and feel of warm tea. Inside the tent it was as hot as outside, and they shifted uncomfortably as they tried to sleep. When they tried to read comics by flashlight, the flashlights dimmed and then went out. The sun came up over the trees the color of melted butter.

They spit out the water in their canteens, which tasted like warm aluminum. It only went down to eighty-nine last night, folks. According to meteorological indications, it should be in the middle eighties, with moderate humidity! Fancy that! Shep looked at his friends, and there was a suddenly grim look on his face. Thunder heads would gather in the West, dark mushrooming promises of cool and wet, and then break apart as they came overhead, dissipating like pipe smoke into the blue high air.