Mark Rice
That other Scottish writer. Grew up surrounded by music, books and animals. Started scribbling stories at age five. At ten, discovered Douglas Adams and heavy metal. Never looked back.
Author of #1 Amazon bestseller Metallic Dreams, an epic tale of mayhem, mischief and metal music, all with a uniquely Scottish flavour. Sequel coming soon.
Compiler and editor of, and contributor to, A Blended Bouquet anthology. Contributor to The Book That Changed My Life along with, among others, actor Brian Cox and fellow Scottish authors Janice Galloway, AL Kennedy and Alexander McCall Smith.
And there's more.
Heathen Howff is a collection of 37 short works comprising non-fiction, fiction, and poetry - deep, occasionally dark, and as pagan as can be.
The Cabin Incident is a grown-up reimagining of a timeless tale. It's loaded with grizzly bears, humour and philosophy (as all good stories should be).
Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Eejit is a riotous short story depicting the best/worst day of a controversial US President named McDonald Flump.
Revelation Was Wrong tells of the Apocalypse as prophesied by a drunken seer in Scotland's roughest neighbourhood.
Connect with me at:
www.twitter.com/Metallic_Dreams
www.facebook.com/SparkMacDubh
www.metallicdreams.wordpress.com
“I lay in bed that night, a first-time drunkard at seven years of age, pondering the punishment I knew would arrive on callused palms. In the forest, as if sensing my plight, wolves howled nocturnal laments. The magnificent lunar lullabies of my lupine brethren wooed me into a deep and cleansing sleep.”
“I was ten when I heard the music that ended the first phase of my life and cast me hurtling towards a new horizon. Drenched to the skin, I stood on Dunoon’s pier peering seawards through diagonal rain, looking for the ferry that would take me home. There, on the everwet west coast of Scotland, I heard it: like sonic scalpels, the sounds of electric guitars sliced through the dreich weather. My body hairs pricked up like antennae. To my young ears these amplified guitars sounded angelic, for surely no man-made instrument could produce that tone. The singer couldn't be human. His voice was too clean, too pure, too resonant, as though a robot larynx were piping words through vocal chords of polished silver. The overall effect was intoxicating - a storm of drums, earthquake bass, razor-sharp guitar riffs, and soaring vocals of astonishing clarity. I knew that I was hearing the future.”
“Things began to go wrong when I was seventeen. My band’s twenty-year-old lead guitarist earned seven years in jail for a drug-fuelled spree of violence. The other band members were quick to let go of their musical dreams, but I never did. They did the ‘mature’ thing: after writing off the band as a teenage fantasy, they got real jobs and made some money. They called it growing up. I called it giving up.”
“Dying is the fastest route to fame for an aspiring rock star. The dead man’s melodies become profound, acquiring mystery and rising into a realm beyond the reach of human criticism. In the stopping of a heartbeat, the rocker is transformed from decadent hedonist into misunderstood genius. Aye, death and musical stardom go together like Scotland and rain.”
“The Devil has all the best tunes? My arse! Metalville just got a new sheriff.”