DIRTY PIPES (Peeping Tom 1999)
SQUALID FINGERS (Strix 1998)
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All my collaborations linked here: http://dflcollaborations.wordpress.com/
www.nemonymous.com
Des Lewis - GESTALT REAL-TIME BOOK REVIEWS
A FEARLESS FAITH IN FICTION — THE PASSION OF THE READING MOMENT CRYSTALLISED — Empirical literary critiques from 2008 as based on purchased books.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Twelve collaborations with Tim Lebbon
Twelve collaborations with Tim Lebbon linked from here:
DIRTY PIPES (Peeping Tom 1999)
SQUALID FINGERS (Strix 1998)
DIRTY PIPES (Peeping Tom 1999)
SQUALID FINGERS (Strix 1998)
Saturday, January 21, 2012
A Dream of Real Air
published 'Peripheral Visions' 1992
There was no use denying him access to the parlour.
He was my son after all, and I couldn't see him curled up like a whelk in the cold scullery all night.
But when, on that retrospectively fateful weekend, he brought a young lady to visit, one with a dagger-fish brooch on the left lapel of her cavalry-twill costume top - well, I would have needed to resort to the direst vocabulary to warn them both off.
I was indeed sure there would be no safety in numbers. I wanted to continue my life in the magic realism of solitude--and, so, it would be necessary for me to get in my tantrum of making the pair of them unwelcome before they had the chance to sneer at the shortcomings of my abilities as a host.
It is difficult to disentangle my reasoning on such an occasion, as the words slide too easily from my memory, staining the screen of my mind's eye with a pattern of meaning comprehensible only to Hottentots; I even wonder whether I’m actually capable of perpetrating the Queen's English, let alone that alien dialect which the Old Spaceships once crated to Earth in the beaks of insane, if articulate, chickens.
Back to fundamentals.
I opened the front door upon hearing the knock, thus allowing dustmotes and sunlit air to swirl past me. He had warned that he might be coming for a long weekend, if time permitted. There, though, with him, was this female with goggle eyes, both feet planted on the balding doormat. She peered over my shoulder into the well of the hall.
''Yes?'' I scowled. Well, I think that I scowled, since only in stories can a narrator really see through the eyes of others. I had already decided to treat them both as strangers--that was at least what my son deserved by bringing someone I couldn't trust at first sight.
"Hello, Dad ... can I introduce Felicia Kelp?" He did not spell out the name so, even now, I’m unsure as to whether even the Hottentots would be able to get their tongues round what I visualised as the correct words.
I glanced into the sky blue yonder and caught the fleeting sparkle of a star-hopper slowing down for Heathrow . . . or, at that hour, it may even have been Gatwick. Light travel (or travelling light as the popular song of the time put it was so inconsistent. Tachyons had not really bottomed out until AJ Sylvester later dissected one under a microscopic microscope, using a near endless array of diminishing pulleys to guide a scalpel manufactured from one highly sharpened molecule.
Just as I was about to answer as unwelcomingly as possible, I heard a furor from the chicken run in the back garden. The squawking and screeching was fit to raise the Devil on his hindmost. Something had disturbed the creatures' equilibrium. Either too much grit in the meal or the barely perceptible shift of the Earth off its axial cord, which tended to happen nowadays, had gone to their coxcombed heads. Luckily, the moon no longer toppled into the sea, as it did back in the more poetic days of pre-reality--only to be put back in the sky by everybody's image of a God with flowing white beard, trident and sharkbone corsets.
Without a further word (saying nothing was indeed more unwelcoming than pointedly expressing my grievance in stronger language), I showed them into the parlour. There was a put-you-up in there, just big enough for two thin ones, I indicated. I saw Felicity Kell (or whatever her Christforsaken name was) studying the framed photographs on the mantelpiece. One was of me and my late wife.
"Mr. Lewis, you sure looked young in the past." That was no way to inveigle me into accepting her as a complete stranger no longer (or even an incomplete one). I could imagine, indeed, nobody stranger. Before I could protest, my so-called son intervened.
"What's wrong with my own bedroom, Dad? Hasn't it still got hot and cold running water?" He motioned as if to take their suitcases to that very room.
Whether it was the deep rumbling of the starhopper landing across the other side of London, he did not seem to hear my reply:
''You're not taking any see-through floosies up there, Johnny me lad. Your dead mother would turn over in her bed."
He shrugged. He knew I had spoken something, since I had watched his eyes trying to follow my lips. For a man, his eyes were very widely set apart. In his heart, he must have been aware of my misgivings.
"We'll go and feed the poultry for you, Dad." He took his lady friend by the arm (both of which were extremely short for her body, I noticed) and directed her towards the front door, via the parlour door .
"Done it already," I said, pointing to the carriage clock which was between the photographs like a sentry of old. The imperceptible swing of its pendulum proved that the ancient maxim of time never standing still was worthy, at least, of scrutiny by that breed of scientists even now living in the think-tanks of old Ministry of Defence establishments dotted along the eroding coasts of downtown Great Britain.
The lady, who had evidently stolen my son's heart, made herself at home. She spread her legs in an ungainly fashion as she settled down in what used to be my wife's wicker basket, allowing me to see as much as the stocking-tops, but no further. My son smiled at my blushes, if blush I did.
In an attempt to bring matters to an even keel, he started on one of his long boring conversation-pieces about the ancient research into how fish think, make music. Highfaluting college talk, I called it. He needed his brain flushed out. The lady said nothing, while tugging at the harness of her bodice and wriggling to remove her most sensitive areas from the basket's various discomfort points. Then, without prior warning, the shrill alarm in the carriage clock blurted out.
"Time to fill the house!" I shouted, scorching for the tap by the open radiator.
I was just in time. The lighter-than-air water gradually filled the parlour, before our lungs could burst from our mouths like punctured balloons. The water was lukewarm in view of the season. It was strange what routines post-reality brought along in its wake.
That's the way the world is, these days. At least, the three of us stopped the inane chatter. Creatures under water can only open and shut their mouths in the arcane rhythm of misspent speech. When words are empty, lip-reading is worth no more than braille to those now limbless coffins of flesh which were once called human beings kept locked up in disused nuclear shelters, as they are--for their own good, let me add.
My eyes slid round to my temples, slugs that merely looked like the marbles children used to play with. Despite this, I could still discern my son's grinning from side to side, as I think he knew I knew he probably hated the lady (whatever her name) and it was only a matter of time before he unscrewed the stopcock of the sewage outlet under the television set. But would it be wide enough?
The sun shafted through the parlour window and milled with the multi-coloured plankton that swirled from the secret coral seas beyond the stocking-tops.
I would have told my son not to darken my door again, if I hadn't first fallen asleep and dreamed of drowning.
Friday, January 20, 2012
You Walk The Pages - Mark Valentine.
One of horror's favourite archetypes is the highly intelligent, articulate and cultured homicidal psychopath, yet most real acts of evil are committed for petty reasons, by people who are a little insecure and not very bright. Real characters with these properties are not popular because they are less engaging and more annoying, yet Mr. Valentine has created one we can absolutely enjoy spending time with. It's a first person narration from someone with little literary skill, but the character voice is consistent and engaging, and the slow drip feed of growing terrors is nastily effective.
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It's called "You Walk the Pages", and was written by Mark Valentine, a writer I only know by name. Also quite short, this story is narrated by a clearly insane man who wishes to relate how he used the services of a gift website called youwalkthepages.com to get back at his enemies. The site -- which, if some version doesn't actually exist now, certainly will soon -- takes classic literature and replaces the names of the heroes with the names of whoever you want to give the gift to. So if someone wanted to get me a copy of Ulysses wherein I can read things like "Mr. Bill R. ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls", that's how you'd go about it. But our narrator has the idea to place his enemies in the position of victims in horror stories. The resulting private volume is Valentine's horror anthology. And I know what you're probably thinking about where this one's heading, but I'll go ahead and spoil it, sort of, by pointing out that no, these enemies do not suddenly drop dead. This is because our narrator is insane. He's delusional. He's never not those things, and the story doesn't try to fool us into thinking that what he believes might be true but might not be true -- it pretty obviously isn't, and the horror of "You Walk the Pages" is the horror of the narrator's madness. On this level, it is entirely successful. When describing one of his "enemies", an old man who takes up too much space at the library table, our narrator says: "I want to sit there and make notes, I only have a standard size notebook, I do not need much space, but it is all I can do to get a little patch of the desk because of all the space he has got with his papers. He does not even look up, he does not give any sign that he sees you, or that you might want some space as well, you might as well not be there. If he saw what books I was looking at and what i was writing in my book he might take a different attitude I believe." I also like the approach to the anthology idea here. While O'Driscoll's approach is as delightfull literal as you might expect when hearing the idea for The Horror Anthology of Horror Anthologies, and Hughes's approach is to sort of not approach it at all, Valentine imagines something entirely new and unique and on point. Well done.
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The title of this excellent story refers to an internet service which allows you to replace the name of a principal character from a famous book with your own, or that of a friend or family member- or perhaps, of someone you might consider to be your enemy. This captures the imagination of Mark Valentine’s colorful, obsessive and fastidious writer-narrator. ‘One day I sat in my room wondering what to think about, what should engage a man who is a thinker and a dreamer, who is able to have visions like I am.’ I won’t say more but that the narrator incorporates ideas concerning the magical properties of the Seven Wonders of the World into his narrative to great and chilling effect.
---------------------------
“You Walk the Pages” by Mark Valentine deals with a similarly autistic-seeming individual who uses horror stories as a way of getting back at people who offend him, like the lady in the chip shop, by substituting their names for the characters in the stories and making them suffer the same fate, or worse. It is the hilariously deadpan first person narrator that made the story work so well.
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Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
-------------------------
It's called "You Walk the Pages", and was written by Mark Valentine, a writer I only know by name. Also quite short, this story is narrated by a clearly insane man who wishes to relate how he used the services of a gift website called youwalkthepages.com to get back at his enemies. The site -- which, if some version doesn't actually exist now, certainly will soon -- takes classic literature and replaces the names of the heroes with the names of whoever you want to give the gift to. So if someone wanted to get me a copy of Ulysses wherein I can read things like "Mr. Bill R. ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls", that's how you'd go about it. But our narrator has the idea to place his enemies in the position of victims in horror stories. The resulting private volume is Valentine's horror anthology. And I know what you're probably thinking about where this one's heading, but I'll go ahead and spoil it, sort of, by pointing out that no, these enemies do not suddenly drop dead. This is because our narrator is insane. He's delusional. He's never not those things, and the story doesn't try to fool us into thinking that what he believes might be true but might not be true -- it pretty obviously isn't, and the horror of "You Walk the Pages" is the horror of the narrator's madness. On this level, it is entirely successful. When describing one of his "enemies", an old man who takes up too much space at the library table, our narrator says: "I want to sit there and make notes, I only have a standard size notebook, I do not need much space, but it is all I can do to get a little patch of the desk because of all the space he has got with his papers. He does not even look up, he does not give any sign that he sees you, or that you might want some space as well, you might as well not be there. If he saw what books I was looking at and what i was writing in my book he might take a different attitude I believe." I also like the approach to the anthology idea here. While O'Driscoll's approach is as delightfull literal as you might expect when hearing the idea for The Horror Anthology of Horror Anthologies, and Hughes's approach is to sort of not approach it at all, Valentine imagines something entirely new and unique and on point. Well done.
-------------------------------
The title of this excellent story refers to an internet service which allows you to replace the name of a principal character from a famous book with your own, or that of a friend or family member- or perhaps, of someone you might consider to be your enemy. This captures the imagination of Mark Valentine’s colorful, obsessive and fastidious writer-narrator. ‘One day I sat in my room wondering what to think about, what should engage a man who is a thinker and a dreamer, who is able to have visions like I am.’ I won’t say more but that the narrator incorporates ideas concerning the magical properties of the Seven Wonders of the World into his narrative to great and chilling effect.
---------------------------
“You Walk the Pages” by Mark Valentine deals with a similarly autistic-seeming individual who uses horror stories as a way of getting back at people who offend him, like the lady in the chip shop, by substituting their names for the characters in the stories and making them suffer the same fate, or worse. It is the hilariously deadpan first person narrator that made the story work so well.
---------------------------
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
Horror Planet - S. D. Tullis
It is almost impossible to pick and choose what should be lifted from the text and quoted as I would have to retype the entire story here. I suggest you pick up a copy of this anthology and read everything in it including this story and then you will see what I mean. But I will quote one observation here: ‘But he knew, or at least guessed- which for him was as good as knowing- that it was how the mechanics of dream operated: constructing through an unfathomable process a piecemeal assemblage of dream-motifs, a willy-nilly patchwork culled from first- and second hand experience, overactive imagination, and even smuggling them in from already dreamed landscapes of the unreal.’ This is a guy meets girl story. Robert falls in love with Charlotte. I am still not giving too much away to say that we end up in space, hurtling towards the sun. There is a role to play for a horror anthology. I’m just going to quote one more paragraph here. No I’d better not. I want to though. I must resist. Read the story.
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"...its acid trip condensed narrative bringing to mind similar voyages by J.G. Ballard and Malzberg." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
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S.D. Tullis’s “Horror Planet” consists of a deconstructed narrative that flits between scraps of seemingly random thought, depicting, in a few short pages, a kind of planetary collapse. I loved the frantic pace of this story.
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Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
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"...its acid trip condensed narrative bringing to mind similar voyages by J.G. Ballard and Malzberg." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
-------------------------
S.D. Tullis’s “Horror Planet” consists of a deconstructed narrative that flits between scraps of seemingly random thought, depicting, in a few short pages, a kind of planetary collapse. I loved the frantic pace of this story.
---------------------
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
The Writer - Clayton Stealback
Some beautifully written passages and nice touches of domestic detail make this a convincing little tale. It's a study of obsession, sliding into psychosis, all undermined by a magnificently unreliable narrator.
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"It is a cracker though. Really, it is."
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"...with the suggestion of somnething more sinister and conceptually daring in the background." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
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For several weeks Steven has been wrestling with a short story he wants to submit to a horror anthology called Dark Heights. He just can’t seem to finish his story, he constantly redrafts, reedits, rewrites, changing paragraphs around, polishing sentences- the story is going nowhere and it is driving him crazy. His wife Alice is getting fed up with the routine. Every night when Steven crawls up into his attic to hack away at his story, she sits alone on the sofa downstairs, nodding off to the news of financial collapse on TV. Strange things begin to happen. They must not be revealed here, though they involve elements of Steven’s narrative bleeding into the reality of the story. There are some great one liners of internal rationalizing here, and I was smiling to myself all the way through this story. It was genuinely scary as well. I was reminded somehow of Ash from the Evil Dead films, suddenly confronting surreal and horrific forces. But is it real? Are the manifestations a result of Steven’s imagination? You have to read the story to find out.
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This is one of those stories that keeps you guessing right up to the end. The worlds of fiction and reality start to meld into each other as author Steve struggles to finish writing a short story. This is a very good story. That manages to be a fresh take on this sort of tale.
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In several of the stories, the process of writing itself is evoked in all its arduousness – the anxiety, the growing sense of purposelessness and the sheer bloody-minded determination to define the indefinable, half aware that, in the very act of creating, the author destroys the very thing he is trying to perfect, the beauty of the idea submitted to the harsh and sometimes ugly reality of ink and paper. Oh the horror! “The Writer” by Clayton Steelback draws on this creative struggle. The story gradually assumes an uncomfortable presence in the writer’s life, becoming ever more concrete until an evil character breaks through into real life. The horror of nightmares becoming flesh crops up in several of the stories. As authors perhaps we are more than usually susceptible to this illusion or delusion, perhaps because we are always striving to model characters from real life. I’m surely not the only author to feel confused as to whether a memory of an incident is from real-life or one I imagined for some self-created literary world. Perhaps it’s the first sign of madness. [...] In other stories plants poison or become symbols of annihilation as in “Flowers of the Sea”. In “The Writer”, a vase is transformed into a multi-stemmed plant that scatters its spores and invokes a state of madness.
--------------------
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
----------------------
"It is a cracker though. Really, it is."
----------------------
"...with the suggestion of somnething more sinister and conceptually daring in the background." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
-----------------------
For several weeks Steven has been wrestling with a short story he wants to submit to a horror anthology called Dark Heights. He just can’t seem to finish his story, he constantly redrafts, reedits, rewrites, changing paragraphs around, polishing sentences- the story is going nowhere and it is driving him crazy. His wife Alice is getting fed up with the routine. Every night when Steven crawls up into his attic to hack away at his story, she sits alone on the sofa downstairs, nodding off to the news of financial collapse on TV. Strange things begin to happen. They must not be revealed here, though they involve elements of Steven’s narrative bleeding into the reality of the story. There are some great one liners of internal rationalizing here, and I was smiling to myself all the way through this story. It was genuinely scary as well. I was reminded somehow of Ash from the Evil Dead films, suddenly confronting surreal and horrific forces. But is it real? Are the manifestations a result of Steven’s imagination? You have to read the story to find out.
--------------------------
This is one of those stories that keeps you guessing right up to the end. The worlds of fiction and reality start to meld into each other as author Steve struggles to finish writing a short story. This is a very good story. That manages to be a fresh take on this sort of tale.
-----------------------
In several of the stories, the process of writing itself is evoked in all its arduousness – the anxiety, the growing sense of purposelessness and the sheer bloody-minded determination to define the indefinable, half aware that, in the very act of creating, the author destroys the very thing he is trying to perfect, the beauty of the idea submitted to the harsh and sometimes ugly reality of ink and paper. Oh the horror! “The Writer” by Clayton Steelback draws on this creative struggle. The story gradually assumes an uncomfortable presence in the writer’s life, becoming ever more concrete until an evil character breaks through into real life. The horror of nightmares becoming flesh crops up in several of the stories. As authors perhaps we are more than usually susceptible to this illusion or delusion, perhaps because we are always striving to model characters from real life. I’m surely not the only author to feel confused as to whether a memory of an incident is from real-life or one I imagined for some self-created literary world. Perhaps it’s the first sign of madness. [...] In other stories plants poison or become symbols of annihilation as in “Flowers of the Sea”. In “The Writer”, a vase is transformed into a multi-stemmed plant that scatters its spores and invokes a state of madness.
--------------------
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
The Pearl and the Boil - Rosanne Rabinowitz
In adolescence, we form very strong attachments to music, films or books that seem to speak to us. Such things can stick with us for life, and a rediscovery in middle age can be as evocative of youth as photographs or diaries. This story is about that rediscovery, about regret and missed opportunities. Ms. Rabinowitz writes in a subtle impressionistic style that perfectly complements the subject matter.
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Flying back from Oxford to New Jersey, Cora joins her sister Julie in helping their parents relocate to a new home. When Cora stumbles upon an undiscovered, unopened letter addressed to her childhood self, she is flooded with memories and sensations concerning a collection of stories called The Scarlet Thread and the Amber Road. The letter it turns out, is a response to a note which Cora has left in the very book and returned to the library – almost like a message in a bottle. The message could be understood as Cora’s childhood self longing to share her experience of the stories with a kindred spirit. The story shifts from the first to the third person, scenes from her adult self are juxtaposed with moments from her childhood, the scenes overlapping with fragments vividly described from the collection of stories: A girl enters a house that is filled with sky, another girl is trapped in a bottle, a flower mysteriously starts to play music only to devour the little girl who has nurtured it to bloom, statues come to life during a moment of passion, cities exist where colors are banned, a train is filled with distorted bodies. There is a rich pattern of images and colors and sensations in this story.
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Rosanne Rabinowitz’s finely detailed study of a woman’s search for a book she once picked up in the school library acknowledges the power of books as totems, somehow focusing a person’s entire worldview. The story within this story develops the idea of feelings or ideas transforming people’s lives –either for the better – a pearl, or for the worse – a boil. The story’s psychological depth allows the reader to appreciate the symbolic power of the book. A girl and boy encountered in a field of flowers, provides a sort of Arcadian vision for the story’s protagonist, towards which she strives. Flowers and plants are symbols of love but, later, in a different story within the story, another plant engulfs and digests the girl who tends it.
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"There's an element of something almost fable like about this story, with the events described entirely empirical on the surface, but beneath that the hint of fact and fiction entangling in the manner of sympathetic magic." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
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"And the warmth and final joy of "The Pearl and the Boil"?"
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Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
--------------------------
Flying back from Oxford to New Jersey, Cora joins her sister Julie in helping their parents relocate to a new home. When Cora stumbles upon an undiscovered, unopened letter addressed to her childhood self, she is flooded with memories and sensations concerning a collection of stories called The Scarlet Thread and the Amber Road. The letter it turns out, is a response to a note which Cora has left in the very book and returned to the library – almost like a message in a bottle. The message could be understood as Cora’s childhood self longing to share her experience of the stories with a kindred spirit. The story shifts from the first to the third person, scenes from her adult self are juxtaposed with moments from her childhood, the scenes overlapping with fragments vividly described from the collection of stories: A girl enters a house that is filled with sky, another girl is trapped in a bottle, a flower mysteriously starts to play music only to devour the little girl who has nurtured it to bloom, statues come to life during a moment of passion, cities exist where colors are banned, a train is filled with distorted bodies. There is a rich pattern of images and colors and sensations in this story.
------------------------
Rosanne Rabinowitz’s finely detailed study of a woman’s search for a book she once picked up in the school library acknowledges the power of books as totems, somehow focusing a person’s entire worldview. The story within this story develops the idea of feelings or ideas transforming people’s lives –either for the better – a pearl, or for the worse – a boil. The story’s psychological depth allows the reader to appreciate the symbolic power of the book. A girl and boy encountered in a field of flowers, provides a sort of Arcadian vision for the story’s protagonist, towards which she strives. Flowers and plants are symbols of love but, later, in a different story within the story, another plant engulfs and digests the girl who tends it.
---------------------
"There's an element of something almost fable like about this story, with the events described entirely empirical on the surface, but beneath that the hint of fact and fiction entangling in the manner of sympathetic magic." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
-------------------------
"And the warmth and final joy of "The Pearl and the Boil"?"
---------------------
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
The American Club, - Christopher Morris
A story with layers of meaning, it leaves the reader with many questions unanswered, but that's fine by me. Elements of Jeckyll and Hyde, and The Spiderwick Chronicles
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When Daniel Polzer receives a phone call informing him that his father is dying in a hospital in Ockham, Wisconsin, he is forced to abandon his school work during finals week and rush to his bedside. His father Edgar Polzer is the victim of an anonymous hit and run accident. As Daniel sits vigil at his bedside with his sister Sarah who has also returned home, we discover that Edgar has been displaying increasingly strange and paranoid behavior, particularly just prior to his accident. He fears the family home is haunted, he believes that he is being watched and followed. Without giving any more away, the story centers around a Faustian collection of tales, one of which has been penned by Daniel’s father. You have to read this gripping tale to find out the significance of the title. The setting in Wisconsin, and certain elements of the story reminded me at times of something we might encounter in a tale penned by Peter Straub, but Christopher Morris’s voice is his own, and the title and its significance is incorporated into the tale in an interesting way. The story made me want to turn the pages to discover what was going to happen next.
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“The American Club” by Christopher Morris follows a young man named Daniel who discovers that his eccentric writer of a father is in a coma following a car accident. Daniel finds a letter from his dad instructing him that in the event of his death, he should to burn all his fiction, the majority of which is unpublished. This is a top class mystery that unravels with perfect pace and likeable voice, and has a tense finale that leaves an unsettling aftertaste.
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The American Club by Christopher Morris is a griping dark story which sees a son dicover his father’s hidden talent for writing and the dark secret behind that talent.
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The American Club by Christopher Morris is a brilliant tale, Daniel Polzer is a student sitting his final exams, but when he hears that his father has been put in hospital after a hit and run accident, he has to rush home. When he gets there he discovers that his father has been acting odd, and it all seems to centre around a collection of tales. A highly enjoyable read.
--------------------
“The American Club” also features a doppelganger, of sorts. The narrator delves into the enigma of his dying father’s writing but uncovers an unpalatable explanation for his father’s refusal to publish his work. This is an intense study of the subconscious. A ruined building with its decaying staircases and abandoned cellars acts as a metaphor for the writer’s twisted imagination and reflects an over-arching theme of this collection – the horror of the literary imagination. As writers in search of horror we become subjects of our own literary endeavours. What could be worse? The author, Christopher Morris, is astute enough to leave the ending insubstantial, to give the reader the merest hint of the dark truth.
-----------------------
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
-----------------------------
When Daniel Polzer receives a phone call informing him that his father is dying in a hospital in Ockham, Wisconsin, he is forced to abandon his school work during finals week and rush to his bedside. His father Edgar Polzer is the victim of an anonymous hit and run accident. As Daniel sits vigil at his bedside with his sister Sarah who has also returned home, we discover that Edgar has been displaying increasingly strange and paranoid behavior, particularly just prior to his accident. He fears the family home is haunted, he believes that he is being watched and followed. Without giving any more away, the story centers around a Faustian collection of tales, one of which has been penned by Daniel’s father. You have to read this gripping tale to find out the significance of the title. The setting in Wisconsin, and certain elements of the story reminded me at times of something we might encounter in a tale penned by Peter Straub, but Christopher Morris’s voice is his own, and the title and its significance is incorporated into the tale in an interesting way. The story made me want to turn the pages to discover what was going to happen next.
-----------------------------
“The American Club” by Christopher Morris follows a young man named Daniel who discovers that his eccentric writer of a father is in a coma following a car accident. Daniel finds a letter from his dad instructing him that in the event of his death, he should to burn all his fiction, the majority of which is unpublished. This is a top class mystery that unravels with perfect pace and likeable voice, and has a tense finale that leaves an unsettling aftertaste.
-------------------------
The American Club by Christopher Morris is a griping dark story which sees a son dicover his father’s hidden talent for writing and the dark secret behind that talent.
---------------------
The American Club by Christopher Morris is a brilliant tale, Daniel Polzer is a student sitting his final exams, but when he hears that his father has been put in hospital after a hit and run accident, he has to rush home. When he gets there he discovers that his father has been acting odd, and it all seems to centre around a collection of tales. A highly enjoyable read.
--------------------
“The American Club” also features a doppelganger, of sorts. The narrator delves into the enigma of his dying father’s writing but uncovers an unpalatable explanation for his father’s refusal to publish his work. This is an intense study of the subconscious. A ruined building with its decaying staircases and abandoned cellars acts as a metaphor for the writer’s twisted imagination and reflects an over-arching theme of this collection – the horror of the literary imagination. As writers in search of horror we become subjects of our own literary endeavours. What could be worse? The author, Christopher Morris, is astute enough to leave the ending insubstantial, to give the reader the merest hint of the dark truth.
-----------------------
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
Residua - David Mathew
A lovely and gradual unfolding of the psychological complexity of an apparently simple, if unpleasant scenario. Mr. Mathew takes a not entirely original concept and moulds it into something new and unique.
-----------------------
Steve Bilty is in prison, sentenced to 18 years of hard time for a crime he may or may not have committed. A prison guard, Orwenson, seems to know something about it. When Bilty comes across an Alfred Hitchcock presented anthology called Ghostly Gallery in the prison library, strange things begin to happen behind the prison walls. The enjoyment in this involving story revolves around the scenes between Bilty and the prison guard Orwenson. The dialogue between these two characters just jumps off the page. Slowly we come to realize what is haunting Bilty, and you have to read this entertaining story to find out what his crime may or may not have been, and if he is guilty or innocent. (And those Hitch anthos surely have seeped into the impressionable minds of many a young reader.)
----------------------------
One of the longer tales, “Residua” by David Mathew is the intriguing story of a possibly-innocent con who becomes attached to a book called Ghostly Gallery in the prison library. He starts to encounter characters from it in real life, also baffled by the intentions of an oddly benevolent guard who seems able to read his mind. It notches up the tension and curiosity well with strong, fleshed-out characters and snappy dialogue. There’s a lot of subtle fear in this story, and when some horrible truths come to light, it pans out into an absorbing journey of damage with a cheeky punch-line.
-----------------------
-----------------------
Steve Bilty is in prison, sentenced to 18 years of hard time for a crime he may or may not have committed. A prison guard, Orwenson, seems to know something about it. When Bilty comes across an Alfred Hitchcock presented anthology called Ghostly Gallery in the prison library, strange things begin to happen behind the prison walls. The enjoyment in this involving story revolves around the scenes between Bilty and the prison guard Orwenson. The dialogue between these two characters just jumps off the page. Slowly we come to realize what is haunting Bilty, and you have to read this entertaining story to find out what his crime may or may not have been, and if he is guilty or innocent. (And those Hitch anthos surely have seeped into the impressionable minds of many a young reader.)
----------------------------
One of the longer tales, “Residua” by David Mathew is the intriguing story of a possibly-innocent con who becomes attached to a book called Ghostly Gallery in the prison library. He starts to encounter characters from it in real life, also baffled by the intentions of an oddly benevolent guard who seems able to read his mind. It notches up the tension and curiosity well with strong, fleshed-out characters and snappy dialogue. There’s a lot of subtle fear in this story, and when some horrible truths come to light, it pans out into an absorbing journey of damage with a cheeky punch-line.
-----------------------
-------------------------
---------------------
"...cleverly blurs the lines between reality and fiction,..." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
--------------------
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
The Fifth Corner - E. Michael Lewis
A great little supernatural tale, somewhat in the style of Ramsay Campbell with a little nod to Lovecraft. Short and pacy, with a good sense of growing menace.
-----------------------
Vered Kyle, an associate professor of literature, is assembling an anthology of ghost stories for his debuting university press imprint, and he wants Roman Maddox Booth, an university alumnus and author of golden age pulpy ghost stories and revenge plots to include an unpublished tale in his anthology. This he hopes will draw some notoriety and attention to his book. Private and ascetic in life style, old and wheelchair bound, Booth now lives in an old manor house, Heatherby Estate, outside a town called Blackchurch. The ‘Fifth Corner’ it turns out, is a tale which Booth had penned upon hearing of H.P. Lovecraft’s death, a tale so terrifying that it has been sealed in an envelope and sown into the seat of one of booth’s limousines, a 1933 Rolls Royce Phantom II, in nearby Marymont: ‘a three story pseudo-gothic brick and marble edifice’ filled with other notorious cars. The only copy of the tale in existence it turns out, is to be found inside the car. Drawing on occult Lovecraftian themes, infamous and legendary Necronomicon texts, and images which reminds me of King’s Christine, and more perhaps, From A Buick 8, E. Michael Lewis has penned a straight to the gut horror story, which is very welcomed in the collection here. Scenes are genuinely well handled and gripping. Sometimes the straight, no nonsense horror story delivers what it promises, it does what it says on the box, or in this case, in the car, and this story does it well.
--------------------------
The Fifth Corner by E. Michael Lewis is another dark tale which has some powerfully scary scenes as an old vehicle refuses to give up it’s secrets.
-------------------------
The Fifth Corner by E. Michael Lewis, is so far the most horror story, horror story here. Looking to assemble a great anthology of horror stories, Vared Kyle wants an unpublished tale by Roman Maddox Booth. However, Booth after writing this story thought it too terrible see the light of day. It has been sealed in an envelope and stitched in to the lining of one of his limousines. This is an out and out horror story that tips its hat to both H P Lovecraft and Stephen King's Christine. A nice change of pace in he collection
----------------------
In the creepy, superbly crafted “The Fifth Corner” by E Michael Lewis, the manuscript of a terrifying ghost story ( and much more than that) lies hidden within a very sinister car.
----------------------------
“The Fifth Corner” by E. Michael Lewis is a well-written story that might have made its way into any collection of horror fiction. It’s the story which stands out for me as being less concerned with the world of literature and ideas and more with the standard tropes of the horror genre: a struggle against a manifestation of evil. It kept me on the edge of my seat and turning the pages but I was aware, even as I admired its technical skill, of the extent to which its central “horror image” was familiar to me from films and stories within the genre. The protagonist, unlike many of the other characters in this collection, seems to emerge unchanged by his experience. It serves as a reminder of what it is about “horror” that the small press and particularly the slipstream is so good at subverting.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
-----------------------
Vered Kyle, an associate professor of literature, is assembling an anthology of ghost stories for his debuting university press imprint, and he wants Roman Maddox Booth, an university alumnus and author of golden age pulpy ghost stories and revenge plots to include an unpublished tale in his anthology. This he hopes will draw some notoriety and attention to his book. Private and ascetic in life style, old and wheelchair bound, Booth now lives in an old manor house, Heatherby Estate, outside a town called Blackchurch. The ‘Fifth Corner’ it turns out, is a tale which Booth had penned upon hearing of H.P. Lovecraft’s death, a tale so terrifying that it has been sealed in an envelope and sown into the seat of one of booth’s limousines, a 1933 Rolls Royce Phantom II, in nearby Marymont: ‘a three story pseudo-gothic brick and marble edifice’ filled with other notorious cars. The only copy of the tale in existence it turns out, is to be found inside the car. Drawing on occult Lovecraftian themes, infamous and legendary Necronomicon texts, and images which reminds me of King’s Christine, and more perhaps, From A Buick 8, E. Michael Lewis has penned a straight to the gut horror story, which is very welcomed in the collection here. Scenes are genuinely well handled and gripping. Sometimes the straight, no nonsense horror story delivers what it promises, it does what it says on the box, or in this case, in the car, and this story does it well.
--------------------------
The Fifth Corner by E. Michael Lewis is another dark tale which has some powerfully scary scenes as an old vehicle refuses to give up it’s secrets.
-------------------------
The Fifth Corner by E. Michael Lewis, is so far the most horror story, horror story here. Looking to assemble a great anthology of horror stories, Vared Kyle wants an unpublished tale by Roman Maddox Booth. However, Booth after writing this story thought it too terrible see the light of day. It has been sealed in an envelope and stitched in to the lining of one of his limousines. This is an out and out horror story that tips its hat to both H P Lovecraft and Stephen King's Christine. A nice change of pace in he collection
----------------------
In the creepy, superbly crafted “The Fifth Corner” by E Michael Lewis, the manuscript of a terrifying ghost story ( and much more than that) lies hidden within a very sinister car.
----------------------------
“The Fifth Corner” by E. Michael Lewis is a well-written story that might have made its way into any collection of horror fiction. It’s the story which stands out for me as being less concerned with the world of literature and ideas and more with the standard tropes of the horror genre: a struggle against a manifestation of evil. It kept me on the edge of my seat and turning the pages but I was aware, even as I admired its technical skill, of the extent to which its central “horror image” was familiar to me from films and stories within the genre. The protagonist, unlike many of the other characters in this collection, seems to emerge unchanged by his experience. It serves as a reminder of what it is about “horror” that the small press and particularly the slipstream is so good at subverting.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
The Rediscovery of Death - Mike O'Driscoll
The two best stories of the collection for me are The Rediscovery of Death by Mike O'Driscoll which uses the classic trope of a haunted/cursed book but does so in a stylish way in a beautifully paced story that leads to a climax that - if not entirely unexpected - is extremely satisfying....
-----------------------
Nicholas Cleaver, the owner of an ailing independent publishing business in Roath, Cardiff, has enjoyed some critical and financial success in the past. Anxious to repeat some of his early successes, he agrees to meet up with a sickly looking man called Simon Strickle who claims ‘to have the rights to over thirty unpublished tales of supernatural fiction by some of the field’s most acclaimed writers’. The manuscript which shares the story’s title, contains a true treasure trove of hitherto undiscovered works by Aickman, Leiber, Bloch, Clark Ashton Smith, Shirley Jackson, Lovecraft, Angela Carter- the list is extensive, and Cleaver is understandably more than a little skeptical about its authenticity- until he sees the manuscript with his own eyes. There is a catch of course, and you have to read the tale to find out how this anthologist’s dream turns into nightmare. Authors and editors presently in the field (and in this anthology) may find themselves interwoven into the fabric of this chilling story.
-----------------------
And although I very much enjoyed “The Rediscovery of Death” by Michael O’Driscoll – a slick piece of paranoia and obsession concerning a small press stalwart who discovers the publishing opportunity of a lifetime – I predicted the pay-off well before it arrived.
-------------------------
In "The Rediscovery of Death," Mike O'Driscoll adapts the responsibilities and uncertainties of a small press editor and the seductive quality of great fiction to comment on gradual psychological collapse
------------------------
The Rediscovery Of Death by Mike O’Driscoll finds a small press publisher given the opportunity of a lifetime, the use of real people and facts help give this story weight.
---------------------
The Rediscovery of Death by Mike O’Driscoll. This is another one of those tales that reminds me of The Tales of The Unexpected, and that is a good thing. They were a staple of my childhood andI still remember them fondly. Nicholas Cleaver is given the chance to save hissmall publishing company, when he meets Simon, who claims to have the rights to unpublished stories from masters of the genre. Of course there is a catch, you get nothing for nothing, but you need to read this tsale to find out what that catch is.
-------------------
In the enticing “The Rediscovery of Death” O’Driscoll describes how the owner of a small imprint happens to assemble a collection of unpublished stories by famous writers ( but things are not quite what they seem…).
--------------------
It's a common conceit among writers that words have power, that books are magical, that something can be written strongly enough to exist independently after it's sent out into the world. The idea of a book that feeds and grows fat on its readers is not completely new, but Mr. O'Driscoll delas with it confidently here, juggling abstract concepts with an exciting, pacy story. A great read.
------------------------
“The Rediscovery of Death” by Mike O’Driscoll, features a struggling small press publisher in search of a winning title to keep the publishing wheels turning and a shadowy character offering some kind of Faustian bargain. A down-to-earth girlfriend provides the rational viewpoint. The horror anthology becomes, for the publisher, a horrific anthology. This is a story about literary obsession and also, crucially, about the disintegration of meaning.
-------------------------
"Such is O'Driscoll's skill that, like Nicholas Cleaver, we lust after the proposed anthology,..." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press).
-----------------------
Which mainly worked out, since the first story I chose, Mike O'Driscoll's "The Rediscovery of Death", is sort of a hoot, and catnip for a guy like me. The main character is Nick Cleaver, and Cleaver is the owner of the small horror publisher Thingumbob Press. He specializes in publishing the first story collections by promising young horror writers. His business life has been a bit of a see-saw, and Nick is nervous about the future when he's contacted by a man named Simon Strickle who claims to have in his possession a large number of excellent, never-before published stories by the genre's leading writers. Intrigued, Cleaver agrees to meet with Strickle and have a look. However, he'd assumed that by "leading writers" Strickle had meant contemporary names, like King, Campbell, Barker, and so on. But no. The first name Strickle mentions is Robert Aickman, dead for thirty years. And Shirley Jackson, dead for almost fifty. Fritz Leiber, August Derleth, Angela Carter, all dead. H.P. Lovecraft... How, Cleaver wants to know, did nobody know about these stories? How could the estates, the various biographers and anthologists, not know? And right around here is where "The Rediscovery of Death" gets amusing, because O'Driscoll starts name-dropping like crazy. Not name-dropping in the "I know this person!" sense, but in the "I'm going to pack my story as full of real names as is physically possible." So, when Cleaver is researching Strickle on the internet, we get: "By the late eighties Strickle was editing a series of little known but highly influential anthologies, all now out of print. Among those who commented on Strickle's work was Jonathan Carroll, who called him one of the most astute editors in the field, while Peter Crowther said he owed him a huge debt of gratitude... There were people [Cleaver] could speak to about Strickle -- Peter Crowther for one. And surely Ellen Datlow and Stephen Jones could confirm his reputation?" And elsewhere he wonders aloud to Strickle how editors like David G. Hartwell and S. T. Joshi could have missed these stories, so thorough are they. Outside of the double up on Peter Crowther, no horror editor or anthologist is mentioned twice -- every time, it's someone knew, which gets a little ridiculous (although, on the other hand, where the hell was Kim Newman in all this?). But fun. I found it to be sort of like watching a film and suddenly a major scene is taking place on a streetcorner you know very well, maybe near where you grew up. It's uselessly exciting. Useless or not, though, I enjoyed how fully within the world of contemporary horror publishing O'Driscoll wanted to submerge his story, and this method ended up achieving the verisimilitude he was no doubt going for. He does the same thing with the writers whose stories Strickle gives to Cleaver, and that was neat, too, although I did blanch when suddenly Richard Laymon's name was dropped in there with Aickman and Lovecraft and Jackson and Leiber and so on. I mean, please. As for the story itself, it's a good one. It's not entirely not what you might expect from a story with that premise -- Strickle is clearly a sinister figure, and Cleaver has no clue what he's getting into, even as the stories themselves, each one a fresh masterpiece, begin to obsess him. I won't ruin it, though. One odd thing is that among the writers being celebrated/used to crush Nick Cleaver's soul is one named Willard Grant. He appears to be fictional, but my assumption that Grant would come to function in a way similar to Lilith Blake from Mark Samuels' fiction turned out to be off. There's something going on there -- O'Driscoll's "The Rediscovery of Death" takes it's title from Grant's "The Rediscovery of Death", which in turn will become the title anthology, The Rediscovery of Death, being put together by Cleaver. But O'Driscoll doesn't go much further with that. Maybe for the best. Anyway, I'm in favor of this sort of post-modern horror fiction, of which there is very little -- you're far more likely to find this kind of thing on film, and there it's generally being produced by a pack of gibbering idiots. So this is better!
----------------------
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
-----------------------
Nicholas Cleaver, the owner of an ailing independent publishing business in Roath, Cardiff, has enjoyed some critical and financial success in the past. Anxious to repeat some of his early successes, he agrees to meet up with a sickly looking man called Simon Strickle who claims ‘to have the rights to over thirty unpublished tales of supernatural fiction by some of the field’s most acclaimed writers’. The manuscript which shares the story’s title, contains a true treasure trove of hitherto undiscovered works by Aickman, Leiber, Bloch, Clark Ashton Smith, Shirley Jackson, Lovecraft, Angela Carter- the list is extensive, and Cleaver is understandably more than a little skeptical about its authenticity- until he sees the manuscript with his own eyes. There is a catch of course, and you have to read the tale to find out how this anthologist’s dream turns into nightmare. Authors and editors presently in the field (and in this anthology) may find themselves interwoven into the fabric of this chilling story.
-----------------------
And although I very much enjoyed “The Rediscovery of Death” by Michael O’Driscoll – a slick piece of paranoia and obsession concerning a small press stalwart who discovers the publishing opportunity of a lifetime – I predicted the pay-off well before it arrived.
-------------------------
In "The Rediscovery of Death," Mike O'Driscoll adapts the responsibilities and uncertainties of a small press editor and the seductive quality of great fiction to comment on gradual psychological collapse
------------------------
The Rediscovery Of Death by Mike O’Driscoll finds a small press publisher given the opportunity of a lifetime, the use of real people and facts help give this story weight.
---------------------
The Rediscovery of Death by Mike O’Driscoll. This is another one of those tales that reminds me of The Tales of The Unexpected, and that is a good thing. They were a staple of my childhood andI still remember them fondly. Nicholas Cleaver is given the chance to save hissmall publishing company, when he meets Simon, who claims to have the rights to unpublished stories from masters of the genre. Of course there is a catch, you get nothing for nothing, but you need to read this tsale to find out what that catch is.
-------------------
In the enticing “The Rediscovery of Death” O’Driscoll describes how the owner of a small imprint happens to assemble a collection of unpublished stories by famous writers ( but things are not quite what they seem…).
--------------------
It's a common conceit among writers that words have power, that books are magical, that something can be written strongly enough to exist independently after it's sent out into the world. The idea of a book that feeds and grows fat on its readers is not completely new, but Mr. O'Driscoll delas with it confidently here, juggling abstract concepts with an exciting, pacy story. A great read.
------------------------
“The Rediscovery of Death” by Mike O’Driscoll, features a struggling small press publisher in search of a winning title to keep the publishing wheels turning and a shadowy character offering some kind of Faustian bargain. A down-to-earth girlfriend provides the rational viewpoint. The horror anthology becomes, for the publisher, a horrific anthology. This is a story about literary obsession and also, crucially, about the disintegration of meaning.
-------------------------
"Such is O'Driscoll's skill that, like Nicholas Cleaver, we lust after the proposed anthology,..." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press).
-----------------------
Which mainly worked out, since the first story I chose, Mike O'Driscoll's "The Rediscovery of Death", is sort of a hoot, and catnip for a guy like me. The main character is Nick Cleaver, and Cleaver is the owner of the small horror publisher Thingumbob Press. He specializes in publishing the first story collections by promising young horror writers. His business life has been a bit of a see-saw, and Nick is nervous about the future when he's contacted by a man named Simon Strickle who claims to have in his possession a large number of excellent, never-before published stories by the genre's leading writers. Intrigued, Cleaver agrees to meet with Strickle and have a look. However, he'd assumed that by "leading writers" Strickle had meant contemporary names, like King, Campbell, Barker, and so on. But no. The first name Strickle mentions is Robert Aickman, dead for thirty years. And Shirley Jackson, dead for almost fifty. Fritz Leiber, August Derleth, Angela Carter, all dead. H.P. Lovecraft... How, Cleaver wants to know, did nobody know about these stories? How could the estates, the various biographers and anthologists, not know? And right around here is where "The Rediscovery of Death" gets amusing, because O'Driscoll starts name-dropping like crazy. Not name-dropping in the "I know this person!" sense, but in the "I'm going to pack my story as full of real names as is physically possible." So, when Cleaver is researching Strickle on the internet, we get: "By the late eighties Strickle was editing a series of little known but highly influential anthologies, all now out of print. Among those who commented on Strickle's work was Jonathan Carroll, who called him one of the most astute editors in the field, while Peter Crowther said he owed him a huge debt of gratitude... There were people [Cleaver] could speak to about Strickle -- Peter Crowther for one. And surely Ellen Datlow and Stephen Jones could confirm his reputation?" And elsewhere he wonders aloud to Strickle how editors like David G. Hartwell and S. T. Joshi could have missed these stories, so thorough are they. Outside of the double up on Peter Crowther, no horror editor or anthologist is mentioned twice -- every time, it's someone knew, which gets a little ridiculous (although, on the other hand, where the hell was Kim Newman in all this?). But fun. I found it to be sort of like watching a film and suddenly a major scene is taking place on a streetcorner you know very well, maybe near where you grew up. It's uselessly exciting. Useless or not, though, I enjoyed how fully within the world of contemporary horror publishing O'Driscoll wanted to submerge his story, and this method ended up achieving the verisimilitude he was no doubt going for. He does the same thing with the writers whose stories Strickle gives to Cleaver, and that was neat, too, although I did blanch when suddenly Richard Laymon's name was dropped in there with Aickman and Lovecraft and Jackson and Leiber and so on. I mean, please. As for the story itself, it's a good one. It's not entirely not what you might expect from a story with that premise -- Strickle is clearly a sinister figure, and Cleaver has no clue what he's getting into, even as the stories themselves, each one a fresh masterpiece, begin to obsess him. I won't ruin it, though. One odd thing is that among the writers being celebrated/used to crush Nick Cleaver's soul is one named Willard Grant. He appears to be fictional, but my assumption that Grant would come to function in a way similar to Lilith Blake from Mark Samuels' fiction turned out to be off. There's something going on there -- O'Driscoll's "The Rediscovery of Death" takes it's title from Grant's "The Rediscovery of Death", which in turn will become the title anthology, The Rediscovery of Death, being put together by Cleaver. But O'Driscoll doesn't go much further with that. Maybe for the best. Anyway, I'm in favor of this sort of post-modern horror fiction, of which there is very little -- you're far more likely to find this kind of thing on film, and there it's generally being produced by a pack of gibbering idiots. So this is better!
----------------------
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
Common Myths and Misconceptions Regarding Rita Kendall - AJ Kirby
Rita Kendall, scream queen of schlock horror films of times past, is perhaps past her prime herself, and she now spends her halcyon days languishing in front of a swimming pool with strong drink at her side. Expecting to recount juicy details of her days in the film business, and eager for an extended modicum of fame, she accepts an offer to have an in-depth piece written about her by a visiting writer in residence. Martin Smart (Smartin), the ‘writer in residence’, has been commissioned to write an in-depth piece on her by a mysterious patron, a horror aficionado, who wishes to remain anonymous and assemble a collection to be titled: The Horror of Horrors Anthology- the HOHA. In the space of the story AJ Kirby draws what feels like an effective in-depth portrait of his heroine, using flashbacks, psychological fugues, fragmentary well chosen observations- all infused with rich film imagery that increasingly draws into question Rita Kendall’s fragile mental condition.
------------------------
Common Myths and Misconceptions Regarding Rita Kendall by AJ Kirby. Is an account of past her prime horror actress Rita Kendall, who is recounting her life for a reporter commissioned to write an article for The Horror of Horrors anthology. This is a well written, story, that draws you in with some excellent use of flashback story telling.
-----------------------
This is an ingenious exploration of identity, with a protagonist we empathise with from the start, even as we gradually realise how little she is in touch with reality. There is a tragic past, some things we are all actually afraid of, and a proper horror story moment.
-------------------------
Werner Herzog said that the thing to be avoided at all costs, in cinematic terms, is the clichéd image, as presented through the lens of any Hollywood movie. The stories in this anthology avoid the clichés of horror, either by creating fresh sources of disturbance or by getting inside the horror image to dissect its psychological power. In “Common Myths and Misconceptions Regarding Rita Kendall”, A.J. Kirby exposes the world of an aging horror starlet whose famous scream is subjected to analysis by a bored magazine writer who thereby uncovers the star’s secret source of guilt. As Rita Kendall’s shadowy doppelganger is slowly and clumsily sleuthed out by the hack we slowly witness the pain behind the melodrama and the emptiness of the celebrity life that conceals it.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
------------------------
Common Myths and Misconceptions Regarding Rita Kendall by AJ Kirby. Is an account of past her prime horror actress Rita Kendall, who is recounting her life for a reporter commissioned to write an article for The Horror of Horrors anthology. This is a well written, story, that draws you in with some excellent use of flashback story telling.
-----------------------
This is an ingenious exploration of identity, with a protagonist we empathise with from the start, even as we gradually realise how little she is in touch with reality. There is a tragic past, some things we are all actually afraid of, and a proper horror story moment.
-------------------------
Werner Herzog said that the thing to be avoided at all costs, in cinematic terms, is the clichéd image, as presented through the lens of any Hollywood movie. The stories in this anthology avoid the clichés of horror, either by creating fresh sources of disturbance or by getting inside the horror image to dissect its psychological power. In “Common Myths and Misconceptions Regarding Rita Kendall”, A.J. Kirby exposes the world of an aging horror starlet whose famous scream is subjected to analysis by a bored magazine writer who thereby uncovers the star’s secret source of guilt. As Rita Kendall’s shadowy doppelganger is slowly and clumsily sleuthed out by the hack we slowly witness the pain behind the melodrama and the emptiness of the celebrity life that conceals it.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
Horror Stories FOR Boys - Rachel Kendall
Despite a series of powerful and caustic flashbacks spurred by the discovery of an anthology in his childhood home, Gary, the story’s anguished, melancholic protagonist, reluctantly decides to make the two hundred mile drive to visit his dying father in hospital. Perhaps due to the main character’s first name, I was reminded in moments of the writing of Gary McMahon, particularly in its unflinching honest portrayals of often grim existences. Rachel Kendall’s writing voice is her own however, and the power in the story lies in the hard and bitter decisions that Gary has to make, but you have to read the tale to find out exactly what those choices are.
--------------------
In “Horror Stories for Boys” Rachel Kendall presents a powerful story of a man suffering from migraines who must visit his dying father and face an abusive past. The author managed to make me feel that bitter-sweetness of nostalgia – even though the past evoked isn’t mine – and although light on plot, this is mature and emotional writing. Of a similar calibre is “Midnight Flight” by Joel Lane about an old man losing his memory, searching for a book he recalls from childhood. Both these tales satisfy with very brittle emotions and atmopshere.
--------------------
...an excellent examination of the consequences of childhood trauma.
----------------------
Horror Stories For Boys by Rachel Kendall revisits an abusive childhood and the escape offered by a much loved book, it’s a rich and emotionally powerful story.
--------------------
Horror Stories For Boys, by Rachel Kendall, has Gary a migraine sufferer having to make a journey to visit his dying dad, a journey that throws up old memories, and decisions that Gary must make. This is a grim and melancholic story that works very well.
-----------------------
“Horror Stories for Boys” by Rachel Kendall is a gloomy tale of hate and pain, featuring a man visiting his dying father and bringing back grim childhood memories.
--------------------
"The emotions are keenly felt,..." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
---------------------
At the heart of this story is a rather implausible incident, but Ms Kendall writes so nicely we have to forgive her. A story firmly rooted in reality, and the banal everyday horrors of troubled families everywhere. She just pushes it a little further and skews the point of view enough to make this a compelling read.
-------------
Rachel Kendall’s “Horror Stories For Boys” shows no restraint in revealing the brutality of an abusive father and the traumatic effects of his up-bringing on the son who returns to his childhood home to remember, with the aid of a book of horror stories, and rekindle his hatred of his father. But it’s the final scene, as he visits his dying father in hospital which carries the full sting of this powerful narrative. This is a story full of light and darkness and a terrifying realism.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
--------------------
In “Horror Stories for Boys” Rachel Kendall presents a powerful story of a man suffering from migraines who must visit his dying father and face an abusive past. The author managed to make me feel that bitter-sweetness of nostalgia – even though the past evoked isn’t mine – and although light on plot, this is mature and emotional writing. Of a similar calibre is “Midnight Flight” by Joel Lane about an old man losing his memory, searching for a book he recalls from childhood. Both these tales satisfy with very brittle emotions and atmopshere.
--------------------
...an excellent examination of the consequences of childhood trauma.
----------------------
Horror Stories For Boys by Rachel Kendall revisits an abusive childhood and the escape offered by a much loved book, it’s a rich and emotionally powerful story.
--------------------
Horror Stories For Boys, by Rachel Kendall, has Gary a migraine sufferer having to make a journey to visit his dying dad, a journey that throws up old memories, and decisions that Gary must make. This is a grim and melancholic story that works very well.
-----------------------
“Horror Stories for Boys” by Rachel Kendall is a gloomy tale of hate and pain, featuring a man visiting his dying father and bringing back grim childhood memories.
--------------------
"The emotions are keenly felt,..." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
---------------------
At the heart of this story is a rather implausible incident, but Ms Kendall writes so nicely we have to forgive her. A story firmly rooted in reality, and the banal everyday horrors of troubled families everywhere. She just pushes it a little further and skews the point of view enough to make this a compelling read.
-------------
Rachel Kendall’s “Horror Stories For Boys” shows no restraint in revealing the brutality of an abusive father and the traumatic effects of his up-bringing on the son who returns to his childhood home to remember, with the aid of a book of horror stories, and rekindle his hatred of his father. But it’s the final scene, as he visits his dying father in hospital which carries the full sting of this powerful narrative. This is a story full of light and darkness and a terrifying realism.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
Paper Cuts - Nick Jackson
Mr. Volpius, a writer of horror stories, is bitten one morning by a serpent coiled around the thorny stem of a rose bush in his front garden. Panicked, he quickly instructs his wife Eva to call upon a doctor, who soon turns out to be of dubious intent. The story takes off from here and revealing more would spoil this entertaining tale. As in Rhys Hughes’s previous story, some absurdist and comic elements are incorporated into the narrative to great effect. The story explores ideas concerning poetic inspiration, the solitary nature perhaps of the writer’s life and his imagination- and particularly, the role of his muse (and her infidelities, also to great and grotesque effect.) The tale moves beyond its boundaries in its final act, contrasting nicely with the well handled claustrophobic parameters in the first half of the story.
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Paper Cuts, by Nick Jackson, one morning horror writer Mr Volpis is bitten by a serpent hiding in his rose bushes. Is a fine story that mix the comedic elements of the story well with the more tenser moments.
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In this collection, the theme of circularity crops up several times. Here, a writer writes about a writer, and the words bite back. Every writer will recognise the feeling of digging as deep as you can inside yourself, laying your soul on the page and still only seeing a poor shadow of better writers' work. Sometimes your own words come back and mock you - here they do worse than that. Ironically, this is a highly original piece, and often quite beautiful, in a red, squishy and dripping sort of way.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
----------------
Paper Cuts, by Nick Jackson, one morning horror writer Mr Volpis is bitten by a serpent hiding in his rose bushes. Is a fine story that mix the comedic elements of the story well with the more tenser moments.
-----------------
In this collection, the theme of circularity crops up several times. Here, a writer writes about a writer, and the words bite back. Every writer will recognise the feeling of digging as deep as you can inside yourself, laying your soul on the page and still only seeing a poor shadow of better writers' work. Sometimes your own words come back and mock you - here they do worse than that. Ironically, this is a highly original piece, and often quite beautiful, in a red, squishy and dripping sort of way.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
Tears of the Mutant Jesters - Rhys Hughes
Books, in Rhys Hughes’s absurdist horror story, can be fastidious things. They can make noises in the middle of the night, they can howl and cry out in pain, they can wail and wince, they can groan and eject weird vomit, they can sob and shiver and even shift position and mess up even the most careful bibliophile’s regimented collection of books. The book in question, an anthology of one hundred surreal and fantastical horror stories, can even suffer from appendicitis! (Nearby volumes have other ailments: Athlete’s footnotes, allergic reactions to bookmarks, and my favorite, particularly relevant to anthologies: the loss of consciousness.) Such is the absurdist mode in this comic and disturbing tale, rich with anthropomorphic literary devices. The story seems to want to perhaps challenge the idea that there is no place for comedy, surrealism or satire in the weird tale of terror. It is very much welcomed here.
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Rhys Hughes’ “Tears of the Mutant Jesters” is a pleasant diversion from the more serious material involving a book with appendicitis (a vestigial echo of the time when books ate grass). A short tale, it brims with clever wordplay and wry humour.
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It’s not all darkness, there is humour, of a sort, in Rhys Hughes’ Tears Of The Mutant Jesters a typically Hughesean bizarre tale which bends, warps and twists the English language into a remarkable story about sick books.
--------------------
Next up is a humorous tale by Rhys Hughes, where an avid book collector has to deal witrh a book that is suffering from appendicitis, yes Mr Hughes loves a pun, and story is filled with puns. It is a lightweight tale that after three very heavy and serious tales brought a nice bit of light relief to the collection
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One of the contemporary horror writers whose name O'Driscoll drops is Rhys Hughes, and Hughes just happens to have his own story in The Horror Anthology of Horror Anthologies. It's a short one, six pages, called "Tears of the Mutant Jesters", and while laziness played a role, I did choose two very short stories to follow up O'Driscoll's long-ish (not very, though) story because I wondered how the premise inherent to the whole anthology could be gotten across, while still leaving room for anything else, in a six or seven page story. Plus, one of those stories was called "Tears of the Mutant Jesters", and I'm not made of stone. Well, in Hughes's case, it doesn't matter, because "Tears of the Mutant Jesters" plays more like an advertisement for surreal horror than anything else, and a pretty low brand of surrealism, at that. "Tears of the Mutant Jesters" is the title of a horror anthology beloved by Thornton Excelsior. It is a collection of surreal horror, "a somewhat sidelined subgenre." The six pages of the story mainly consist of the book needing readjustment on the shelf, the book weeping, Excelsior's attempt to help the book, his various conversations, which are basically each exactly the same, with his housekeepers -- none of whom he hired which is pretty surreal when you think about it -- named Dawn, Midday and Dusk. So you'll have lines like "Dusk was sweeping the land", which is a pun, but also she really is sweeping the land -- sweeping up mountains. Anyway, I guess I missed the thing where everybody likes puns again, but I still don't. Hughes features them prominently, and makes me very much against the idea of partaking in his brand of surreal horror.
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There is a tightrope between intelligent wordplay and groan-inducing puns, and this story strides along it with confidence, with a couple of minor slips. A short and amusing piece, it plays with deep existential themes but doesn't properly explore them. Shades of both Terry Pratchett and Jasper Fforde. Fun.
-----------------
In “Tears of the Mutant Jester”, the books themselves become sick, vomiting indigestible words and having to be relieved of their unnecessary appendices. Rhys Hughes’ brightly punning narrative transforms the darker subtext of horror like a breath of fresh air. Where other authors see an opportunity for expressing angst, Hughes seizes the chance to make us laugh at this literary conceit – books have feelings too!
Thornton Excelsior, Rhys Hughes’, character understands the power of books and the words they contain as much as any of this collection’s authors. We spend so much time in the company of printed words that we know their power: their ability to create or destroy, to provoke wars and reduce men to quivering wrecks, to inspire love and devotion and to raise our eyes to beauty. Books are the driving force of many of the characters’ lives.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
Further Thornton Excelsior stories have appeared since the HA of HA here: http://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/2012/01/06/real-time-review-of-tqf-39/
-------------------
Rhys Hughes’ “Tears of the Mutant Jesters” is a pleasant diversion from the more serious material involving a book with appendicitis (a vestigial echo of the time when books ate grass). A short tale, it brims with clever wordplay and wry humour.
--------------------
It’s not all darkness, there is humour, of a sort, in Rhys Hughes’ Tears Of The Mutant Jesters a typically Hughesean bizarre tale which bends, warps and twists the English language into a remarkable story about sick books.
--------------------
Next up is a humorous tale by Rhys Hughes, where an avid book collector has to deal witrh a book that is suffering from appendicitis, yes Mr Hughes loves a pun, and story is filled with puns. It is a lightweight tale that after three very heavy and serious tales brought a nice bit of light relief to the collection
----------------------
One of the contemporary horror writers whose name O'Driscoll drops is Rhys Hughes, and Hughes just happens to have his own story in The Horror Anthology of Horror Anthologies. It's a short one, six pages, called "Tears of the Mutant Jesters", and while laziness played a role, I did choose two very short stories to follow up O'Driscoll's long-ish (not very, though) story because I wondered how the premise inherent to the whole anthology could be gotten across, while still leaving room for anything else, in a six or seven page story. Plus, one of those stories was called "Tears of the Mutant Jesters", and I'm not made of stone. Well, in Hughes's case, it doesn't matter, because "Tears of the Mutant Jesters" plays more like an advertisement for surreal horror than anything else, and a pretty low brand of surrealism, at that. "Tears of the Mutant Jesters" is the title of a horror anthology beloved by Thornton Excelsior. It is a collection of surreal horror, "a somewhat sidelined subgenre." The six pages of the story mainly consist of the book needing readjustment on the shelf, the book weeping, Excelsior's attempt to help the book, his various conversations, which are basically each exactly the same, with his housekeepers -- none of whom he hired which is pretty surreal when you think about it -- named Dawn, Midday and Dusk. So you'll have lines like "Dusk was sweeping the land", which is a pun, but also she really is sweeping the land -- sweeping up mountains. Anyway, I guess I missed the thing where everybody likes puns again, but I still don't. Hughes features them prominently, and makes me very much against the idea of partaking in his brand of surreal horror.
------------------
There is a tightrope between intelligent wordplay and groan-inducing puns, and this story strides along it with confidence, with a couple of minor slips. A short and amusing piece, it plays with deep existential themes but doesn't properly explore them. Shades of both Terry Pratchett and Jasper Fforde. Fun.
-----------------
In “Tears of the Mutant Jester”, the books themselves become sick, vomiting indigestible words and having to be relieved of their unnecessary appendices. Rhys Hughes’ brightly punning narrative transforms the darker subtext of horror like a breath of fresh air. Where other authors see an opportunity for expressing angst, Hughes seizes the chance to make us laugh at this literary conceit – books have feelings too!
Thornton Excelsior, Rhys Hughes’, character understands the power of books and the words they contain as much as any of this collection’s authors. We spend so much time in the company of printed words that we know their power: their ability to create or destroy, to provoke wars and reduce men to quivering wrecks, to inspire love and devotion and to raise our eyes to beauty. Books are the driving force of many of the characters’ lives.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
Further Thornton Excelsior stories have appeared since the HA of HA here: http://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/2012/01/06/real-time-review-of-tqf-39/
The Useless - Dominy Clements
As in the opening tale, Dominy Clements explores the idea of a text spreading or infecting those that come into contact with it, willingly or otherwise. Daniel Ausema’s story similarly employs the image of the severed tree to paint a larger canvas, a synecdoche of the condition of the surrounding landscape. This tale incorporates both of these elements whilst raising questions as to the reliability of the narrator’s perceptions. Dominy Clements’s main character, the wife of a university lecturer, finds herself stranded alone in the desert after she and her husband’s car has run out of gas. In a memorable early scene where she awaits her husband’s return on foot from a nearby gas station, her eyes fall upon a strange figure lying on the side of the road. ‘For some reason, my brain has been accepting that everything is as normal as the situation allows, and I fall back into a more relaxed state on seeing the return of my better half.’ The better half however turns out not to be her husband but a stranger, a man who introduces himself as Bob. Her husband he informs her, is unwell, and waiting for her in the nearby town. Revealing more of the story would spoil any surprises. The tale has a nice twist, and several memorable weird scenes. It also provides an additional interesting variation on the relationship between the body and text, and those perceptions that bind them.
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The Useless by Dominy Clements starts out as a cliche, a breakdown in the dusty west, but soon moves beyond that into a nightmarish exploration of the power of words
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The Useless by Dominy Clements starts out as a cliche, a breakdown in the dusty west, but soon moves beyond that into a nightmarish exploration of the power of words
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"The events described are weird and disturbing,..." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
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Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
“Can you recall the lasting effect of the most deeply disturbing collection of horror stories you’ve ever encountered? The narratives join hands…” — From THE USELESS by Dominy Clements
Colleen Anderson - It's Only Words
Colleen Anderson’s opening story of shifting malleable identities, temporary unsatisfied catharsis, exorcism and infection (of the body and of actual texts) opens this DF Lewis edited anthology of horror stories. Kudos must go to Tony Lovell’s excellent cover artwork and photography which already seems to perfectly complement Colleen Anderson’s opening tale. Lloyd, the tale’s protagonist we discover, is plagued by some form of personality disorder or schizophrenia. He might also be haunted by the stories he has been reading since he was a boy. It is a strength of the story that this disparity remains unclear-his thoughts and mind however are certainly subject to a cacophony of voices. A seemingly banal incident involving the protagonist’s car being unjustly towed away has harrowing consequences. Revealing more would spoil this excellent tale. Colleen Anderson incorporates elements of body horror and intertextuality in an effective and original way.
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Curtain-raiser “It’s Only Words” by Colleen Anderson is a muscular start with the tale of Lloyd, a frustrated and unhappy man who collects horror anthologies. He finally snaps and kidnaps a smug wheel-clamper, but rather than the murderous revenge-against-society one might expect, the results are much more memorable and interesting. I won’t spoil it by revealing the moody sting in the tail of this original piece.
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The opener, It’s Only Words by Colleen Anderson is a “chronicle of pain and lonliness” where a library of horror anthologies is used to teach others life lessons in a variety of splendidly gruesome ways.
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Kicking of the anthology is It’s Only Words by Colleen Anderson. In it Lloyd, who is an avid collector of horror stories, struggles with everyday life, he finds it hard to interact with people, and thinks that everyone is out to get him. One day he finally snaps, and kidnaps a smug smart arsed traffuc warden. Once he is bound and gagged in Lloyds house, Lloyd dsecides to tell his story to the traffic warden in a very unusual way. Soon Lloyd embarks on a quest top get his story told to all those who deems have wronged him. Colleen Anderson kicks off the anthology in a stunning fashion, this is a moving tale, tat shows there is a power in words and stories
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"...the tale providing a tasty sampler of what is to come." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
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There is a grand metaphor at the heart of this short piece, about the power of words to remake an individual. Ms Anderson handles it quite deftly overall, her high poetic language beautiful and emotive, though some of the more prosaic sections seem a bit dull by comparison. A good idea, well executed, which is as much as one can ask from a piece this length. I might have preferred it without the last paragraph, which more or less explains it all - I was enjoying the uncertainty.
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In “It’s Only Words”, the fine first piece in the anthology, the protagonist uses fragments of texts to cocoon his victims, thereby relieving the thunderous discourse of the inner voices that poison his existence but, as people around him begin to lose their ability to communicate, he fears he has become the agent of this linguistic decay and the final impression is of a world spiralling into chaos.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
---------------------
Curtain-raiser “It’s Only Words” by Colleen Anderson is a muscular start with the tale of Lloyd, a frustrated and unhappy man who collects horror anthologies. He finally snaps and kidnaps a smug wheel-clamper, but rather than the murderous revenge-against-society one might expect, the results are much more memorable and interesting. I won’t spoil it by revealing the moody sting in the tail of this original piece.
----------------------
The opener, It’s Only Words by Colleen Anderson is a “chronicle of pain and lonliness” where a library of horror anthologies is used to teach others life lessons in a variety of splendidly gruesome ways.
---------------------
Kicking of the anthology is It’s Only Words by Colleen Anderson. In it Lloyd, who is an avid collector of horror stories, struggles with everyday life, he finds it hard to interact with people, and thinks that everyone is out to get him. One day he finally snaps, and kidnaps a smug smart arsed traffuc warden. Once he is bound and gagged in Lloyds house, Lloyd dsecides to tell his story to the traffic warden in a very unusual way. Soon Lloyd embarks on a quest top get his story told to all those who deems have wronged him. Colleen Anderson kicks off the anthology in a stunning fashion, this is a moving tale, tat shows there is a power in words and stories
-----------------
"...the tale providing a tasty sampler of what is to come." (Black Static #25 - TTA Press)
-----------------
There is a grand metaphor at the heart of this short piece, about the power of words to remake an individual. Ms Anderson handles it quite deftly overall, her high poetic language beautiful and emotive, though some of the more prosaic sections seem a bit dull by comparison. A good idea, well executed, which is as much as one can ask from a piece this length. I might have preferred it without the last paragraph, which more or less explains it all - I was enjoying the uncertainty.
----------------
In “It’s Only Words”, the fine first piece in the anthology, the protagonist uses fragments of texts to cocoon his victims, thereby relieving the thunderous discourse of the inner voices that poison his existence but, as people around him begin to lose their ability to communicate, he fears he has become the agent of this linguistic decay and the final impression is of a world spiralling into chaos.
Any further reviews after 20 Jan 12 will appear in the comments below.
My own views: http://horroranthology.wordpress.com/editors-story-by-story-commentary/
Friday, January 13, 2012
DFL’s Best Four for fiction published in 2011
Best Novel: HERE COMES THE NICE – Jeremy Reed
Best Anthology: The VanderMeers’ massive ‘The WEIRD’
Best Collection: ‘Allurements of Cabochon’ by John Gale
Best story or novella: ‘Suburbs of the Black Lyre’ by Ron Weighell
Best Anthology: The VanderMeers’ massive ‘The WEIRD’
Best Collection: ‘Allurements of Cabochon’ by John Gale
Best story or novella: ‘Suburbs of the Black Lyre’ by Ron Weighell
Plastic Scab
Cosmetic surgery has been in the news recently and, with some of the problems attached to it, one has to ask: WHY DO THEY BOTHER?
Anyway, that’s beside the point. Opinion is never a question of absolute truth. Opinion is another form of story-telling. However, what I have to tell you about is the absolute truth: a backstreet in an out-of-season seaside resort (I won’t say exactly where because I don’t want anyone going there to check). I stumble across a building that looks as if it was once a bijou cinema from before the days of déjà vu or dvds. Along its frontage, there are the words SCAR MUSEUM. It isn’t as derelict as I at first imagined. I can still hear the sea from across the roof: beckoning me. I wish to heed its beckoning. But I am beckoned instead by an actual human shape – from a dilapidated kiosk at the front of the so-called SCAR MUSEUM. It’s as if I’m being hypnotised. I feel my cheeks being visually scoured for scars.
I pay over a £5 note. The only one I have. I see a notice that no change is given: just like on carpark ticket-dispensers, a fact that seems strange with a human ticket-dispenser in a kiosk.
“What am I paying to see?” I ask. A little too late to ask.
“Don’t the name give it away?” the individual sneers rhetorically with a backward click.
“You have exhibits then that are ... scars. Body scars.”
“Yes.” The final s of Yes is certainly a hiss and a half.
I feel drawn within. There are cases with sloping glass covers and inside them things that – if I hadn’t already seen the name of the place – I might assume are damp disfigured postage stamps or crumpled bits of beige carpet or torn bits of old parchment.
I feel followed.
Not by the ticket-dispenser but by someone else covered in a huge pair of tights through the legs of which I vaguely glimpse bones. And a face, through the gusset.
And that face seems to have right in the middle of its forehead a mystic Third Eye or, on closer scrutiny, an oriental cosmetic mark or, on even closer scrutiny, a patch torn from a 1950s toy. A reddy brown piece of Bakelite or synthetic flashing that a toddler child might have torn from an Airfix model he had got fed up with glueing soon after receiving it at Christmas.
“I’m starting to heal, you see,” a voice tells me: pointing to the forehead with the reddy brown thing there. “All of me will be healed soon,” it adds.
I think to myself with a mode of story-telling needed during these days of Credit Crunch and Eurozone Crisis – that one can now never depend on demand streams, even supply ones, to process the end products of what one needs to manufacture for mere subsistence if not, one hopes, for entrepreneurial greed or financial gain.
I leave the building with a sense of downbeat silence unredeemed even by the one huge tidal teardrop that is the sea. Everything mends in the end, though. Sort of.
Sunday, January 08, 2012
Thursday, January 05, 2012
The Dark Damp Corner
It wasn’t always dark, it wasn’t always damp. Or should I have said that the corner was never only dark, it was never only damp. It seemed to go in cycles. It was a top corner of one of the second floor chalet-bungalow bedrooms; near its chimney flue and where the severely sloping ceiling met the outside wall. The cycles comprised periods of not being damp or dark at all. For months on end, and going back in history, for years on end, I suspect. Neither damp nor dark. Then cycles comprising periods of being both damp and dark at once. Never one condition without the other. Darkness and dampness as a tug of war: a host in creative or destructive battle with its parasite, but I was never sure which was which. Darkness or dampness as the cause or effect? How could I tell? I am not a surveyor or professional builder. I was simply sure that you always needed both dampness and darkness for each to exist.
Meanwhile, it was a mystery in other ways, too. There seemed no obvious reason for it. The roof in the corner’s vicinity had been repaired (and eventually the whole roof was replaced as just one repercussion), various other pointing or structural jobs done, chemical treatments given to the wall, even prayers given up to whatever gods controlled dry rot or whatever the condition was called. When in a whimsical mood, I often compared the phenomenon of that corner’s characteristics to those of a real person, someone with moods. Body as well as outer personality and inner mentality.
Someone like Charlie.
Or someone like Mary-Ann.
Both with their own moods and cycles that coincided. A marital pitch-battle that thrived as a battle for its own sake rather than a battle that exacted its climactic defeats or victories. For them, darkness and dampness were called by different names. Only one memory away from a false future.
Charlie and Mary-Ann had lived together in the chalet bungalow for many years. I lived there, too, but they never saw me. I was usually where they were not. Except on the rare occasion when the three of us attended the same room; I would hide behind something in the room, made myself as small as possible, climbing in, for example, behind a book on the bookshelf. Of course, today, with E-books no such hiding-places for me. Not the dampness aura of old books nor the clinging darkness that one imagined littering their fiction plots in the shape of words. Most books had unhappy endings in my experience. Or perhaps that was because I only read books with unhappy endings?
“What’s that noise?” Charlie asked.
They were sitting together in the centrally-heated lounge that stretched from back garden to frontward street. The lounge, being downstairs, was naturally longer than the combined width and length of the two bedrooms, even though one of them was above the stairs-area and the kitchen. Both bedrooms, though, were kept centrally heated, too, in this modern age. I think I was the only one who had got to grips with the logistics of this place where we lived. Its spaces and margins, and its accoutrements or aids of comforting existence that swelled and unswelled with the seasons. Neither Charlie or Mary-Ann gave the impression of ever even thinking about such matters. Mysteries for them were never mysteries. Unless you consider something to be mysterious, it never becomes a mystery.
“It’s the wind,” Mary-Ann replied.
But, upon thinking about it, I am possibly just as unthinking as they are. I never questioned their existence, never thought about how old they must be now, never wondered what I was doing there and why there was a purpose in me being there. Doing and being, different words meaning the same thing perhaps. What and why. What doing? Why being? I knew it was not the wind. I knew it was me they had heard. That was the ‘what’ at least? The ‘why’ remained beyond my reach to know. Beyond, indeed, my reach to be.
I scuttled from the lounge as soundlessly as possible and then up the stairs on all fours, on all my tip-toes. My favourite lurking-hole was in one of the bedrooms beneath the roof. Yes, you guessed it. That corner. That dark damp corner. That damp dark corner. Each room normally has eight corners, half of them ceiling level, the other half floor level. I kept repeating “dark damp corner, damp dark corner” in some form of incantation. Not with words aloud, but from thoughts inside. Thoughts are always silent. Even when you come to speak thoughts, they turn out to be quite different thoughts from the thoughts you thought you were thinking before you spoke them or they are not your thoughts at all!
Perhaps my presence explained everything about that corner. Explained everything that did or didn’t do; was or wouldn’t be. Eventually, I hear the whispering Charlie and Mary-Ann coming upstairs with their light bedtime reading. The days are closing in, growing shorter, during this time, of course. Autumn: the only season I know for certain. For me, mysteriously never-ending. Ever dry-leafing, ever wet-rotting. Very little kindling. Reason unknown.
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