Speculative reading is a Hallowe'en scream

Published on Sunday 4 November 2007 00:14

INSTEAD of staying at home, besieged by guisers demanding folding cash rather than Cox's Pippins, I spent this Hallowe'en at the Writers' Bloc reading, the intriguingly entitled To The Devil An Asbo, in the Canon's Gait bar. These regular readings showcase "speculative" writing - the poetically correct term for the genres of fantasy, science-fiction and horror. As well as public performances, the group publish limited edition chapbooks of 250 copies and a new free magazine, One.

The group is certainly doing something right, as the room was filled to capacity, and, unlike the majority of literary readings, the average age was closer to 30 than 60. Writers of speculative fiction are, perhaps, the most looked down on in the literary world (it's a close run thing against Mills and Boon); and despite the roll-call of great names (Bram Stoker, David Lindsay, Arthur Conan Doyle, MR James, HG Wells, HP Lovecraft) it's still viewed as a slightly improper, faintly adolescent form of writing. So, To The Devil An Asbo was something of a revelation. The stories were witty, clever, genuinely spine-tingling in places and unafraid to take on larger issues and concerns.

The evening kicked off with Andrew C Ferguson, reading a wonderful jeu d'esprit which put characters from the popular children's TV series Balamory through the plot of cult classic The Wicker Man. It's tempting to say it put the Baal into Balamory. He continued with a very spry and profane tale of Scottish faeries and the assistance they lent to the Scottish football team. It has all the energy and vigour of early Irvine Welsh, but with far more humour and nuance.

Andrew Wilson and Gavin Inglis both performed proper ghost stories - Wilson's a superb little piece about how disguised the guisers actually are, and Inglis contributing a shocker about "internet graveyards". The story begins like a simple con; an online cemetery that charges customers for a loved one's virtual memorial. But it cranked up paranoia and simmering resentment towards an eerie conclusion.

Stefan Pearson's story dealt, as he said, with two of his favourite concerns: hating middle class environmental activists and zombies. Using your reanimated mother-in-law to drive an electricity generator in the basement was just the first of a series of very big mistakes in a story that balanced its grotesque comedy and gruesome subject engagingly. It has to be confessed that you need a robust stomach for some of the passages - Pearson's description of the difficulties in catching an undead cat with its own intestines was black and brilliant. Ferguson recounted how the foul-mouthed football player in a previous story had set a new Scottish record, in that 1% of the total word-count couldn't be broadcast on radio.

This was genuinely daring stuff, and there was enough comedy throughout to keep the darkness in check. In a way, it felt like how readings used to be: irreverent, surprising and provocative. Being overlooked by "serious literary fiction" has almost been beneficial for speculative writing - it carries a torch of innovation and rebelliousness that has long ago been snuffed out in middlebrow studies of middle age adulteries in middle England.