Finally!
I’ve wanted to get this put together since August, but I was
sidetracked by a rush of inspiration, completing three new short fiction pieces
within about a five-week period.
Considering the funky way the year has gone, I just had to strap in and ride
them to completion. That said, there’s
more story ideas (and a new longer piece started about three weeks ago)
bubbling underneath, but before locking in with fiction again, I believe it’s
time to deal with some of the wonderful books I’ve read this year.
Shall we? Oh, before we get started, there are links EVERYWHERE! Please click on them for maximum pleasure...or, well...
Ahem!
Let’s start with
One of the key
elements in any Scott Nicolay (Ana Kai Tangata) story is a keen sense of frisson. He magnifies this aspect by diving into the
mind of one of the characters on such a level as to bring the reader fully into
the story on multiple levels. The
staging of his tales runs the gamut of possibilities, some of which include
starting off with the character already steeped in a bad situation and we’re at
that point where something needs to change (“after”--though, of course, then the really weird stuff kicks in), or putting the character
in a situation that gradually escalates into uncertainty (“Noctuidae”), while
distorting the world around the character in such a way that ‘normal’ is no
longer a part of the narrative (many of his tales; perhaps most of his tales, including the two noted in this sentence). In Noctuidae, we spend the duration of the
terrifying tale in the mind of Sue-min, who is on a hike with her boyfriend,
Ron, and Ron’s friend, Pete. She doesn’t
like Pete. We don’t like Pete. The core of the tale takes place in a cave,
at night, after Ron goes missing. The
frisson rubs hard as the circumstances deteriorate to a point where the
possibility of rape hangs in the air like a clothesline draped with soiled
laundry, all while something indescribable looms outside the cave. The moments in-between are fraught with
tension, fear, and exhaustion. The
creature might seem the bigger peril, but for much of the tale, Pete is right
on par with it. Toward the end there’s a
beautiful moment that tapped the valve on the tension I was feeling, finally
able to breathe again, though a few paragraphs later, I realize it was only the
loosening/readjustment of a noose before having the chair kicked out from
beneath me. Hope may play a role in the
motivations of the characters, but ultimately, hope is the lie they’ve
succumbed to in this powerful tale of truly weird and truly human horrors heightened
to unbearable.
Happiness. We all
want it, but our paths are distinctly different in what exactly happiness is,
and how we attain it. Benny’s got issues,
but perhaps these issues have been made static by medication meant to help, yet
only really stalling any- and every- thing in his life. Benny is already afraid of living--of life
itself, really--until an incident at his therapist’s office, and a friendship
to make Kafka smile changes things for him.
Perhaps Stag in Flight is a love story.
Perhaps it’s a mad fantasy, a twisting of the fabric of reality as
triggered by Benny’s mind. Perhaps it’s
about one man achieving a form of unexpected, surreal happiness.
Perhaps…
Using taut lines and clipped language, not unlike what a
chorus of insects sounds like, Miskowski (Knock Knock + the just released,
Muscadines, which I also will be reviewing at a later date) shows us once again why she is one
of our finest writers with this absurd and, in a way, beautiful tale. Stylistically, the story ‘feels’ like it’s
from another era, yet the focus keeps it firmly in the here and now.
Since I dig insects, the excellent artwork by Nick Gucker appeals
to me. It is grotesque and, as with the
tale, rather beautiful.
Join Gary, his older sister Abby, and their mother, Martha,
as they look to enjoy a relaxing afternoon swimming in the pool at the recreation
center. Seems everybody else has the
same idea, so the pool is overflowing with bodies.
Just another normal day in the middle of a hot summer,
right?
Far from it…
Fracassi expertly layers other characters and a gradually tightening thread of anxiety into
the seemingly joyful setting, relayed to the reader mostly through the mind and
eyes of Gary. Some of the anxiety is palpable,
as his sister is dragged into a real-life situation fraught with menace. Even beyond that, though, the tension twists
into a knot…and then normal is shown the door...and horror takes the reins. What happens as things escalate to a breaking
point is wild, shocking, unexpected…and brilliantly imagined as Fracassi takes
us to a place where…well, let’s just say, what he introduces to the situation
has curious influence over many, and is hungry, so hungry.
Fracassi’s previous chapbook, Mother, crawled under my skin with a truly unnerving finale. With Altar, he does it again, with a master’s
touch. Definitely a writer I will be
following.
Ballingrud’s North American Lake Monsters was a debut
collection that put him firmly on the literary horror map. Horror from a different angle. Writing that sings.
The Visible Filth follows Will and his girlfriend by
default, Carrie, as well as his actual love interest, Alicia, her new
boyfriend, Jeffrey, and Eric, “a plug of muscle and charisma,” who turns into
an asshole when he drinks too much. That
drinking leads to a bloody fight at the bar Will works at (and where Eric lives
upstairs), after which Will finds a cell phone left behind by a group of
college kids. What the cell phone
contains infects both Will and Carrie, and sets a harrowing row of dominoes
tumbling, ending in a place so bleak and shocking it knocked me sideways. Actually, replace dominoes with cockroaches,
as they’re scuttling around everywhere in this horrific tale.
Seems Ballingrud had fun writing this tale, leisurely
mounting the terror until it’s almost intolerable. But as with everything I’ve
read from him, he writes it with such shimmering precision, one cannot look away. Even if one really, really wants to. It’s all rather mesmerizing.
Perhaps with his words, he’s infected the reader, just as
the cell phone did to poor Will.
Intermission (a break between chapbooks and collections):
How about some poetry?
The poems in The Operating Theater dissect with unflinching
clarity what it means to be human; a human who feels too much. It’s a condition that constantly breaks down
like-minded souls, yet we find a way to push through, rise above the waterline,
gulp fresh air…before dipping back down into the depths of pain. These poems are raw, extremely visceral (“Holy Father Violation”),
devastatingly heartbreaking (“The Right Time to Move On”), and even brutally
fucked up, guilt-driven, no reason spared, all reason splayed open, all
contemplation laced with poisonous self-emasculation (“The Loser Manifesto:
Notes From Dirt”—really, this one’s hard to read, more an uncomfortable
experience like…like remember the first time you saw David Lynch’s Blue Velvet
and Frank Booth came on and placed the oxygen mask over his face and…yeah,
that’s the kind of discomfort wired into this one). Much of this poetry acknowledges a religious/spiritual
foundation, and much of it is apparently born of autobiographical experiences.
Whew! After reading
this collection, I am emotionally wasted, and gleefully so. Gleefully?
Yes, because when art digs this deep, there’s a kind of understanding, a
pact made with readers willing to go along for the ride: we are here and we
hurt, but we find strength in our art, and in those who are brave enough to
never turn away, no matter how deep the blade slices into the soul of
existence.
Ropes recently released a chapbook, Complicity, that I look
forward to reading soon.
Excuse me for this, but it’s what popped into my head when I
went to put some words down about Michael Wehunt’s fabulous debut collection,
Greener Pastures. I was inspired
in…well… Read on.
Sip.
At first, the sweetness is only a promise, a suggestion at
the back of your thoughts, where expectation resides.
Sip again.
There it is, the promise touches the tip of the tongue. You close your eyes to allow no outside
distractions.
Such joy. Such
relief.
But then the flavor changes.
Expectations disperse. You
realize sweat is beading on your forehead.
You open your eyes.
The tea is stained with something red. Something that can only be blood.
You pull sharply away from the glass, wondering if it is
chipped. A quick observation negates
the thought.
From behind you there is laughter.
When you turn to see who would be so cruel, you are
confronted by a mirror.
Your mouth is a splayed-open wound, yet when you wipe at it
with the sleeve of your shirt, most of the blood disappears. A couple more swipes, and your mouth is
suddenly sealed shut.
Screaming is no longer an option…
Yeah, well. This is a
lot like what many of the tales in Michael Wehunt’s debut collection, Greener
Pastures, feel like to me. He easily
draws the reader in, a thread of loss being one of the major linking devices—we
can all relate to loss--and subtly, irresistibly tells his tales. My favorite one is “Onanon,” which explores
Adam’s family history via an infected text, curious photos, and a mysterious woman
who seems to have been there for much of it.
What it all reveals, well, I’ll leave that for the hive-mind to figure
out…just read it. The title tale is
road-weary when it starts during the graveyard shift at a diner, then veers
into a really dark place between the gaps.
I was reminded of the best work of Dennis Etchison, which brought a
smile. Wehunt isn’t a one-note writer,
though, as the nerve-wracking found footage circle within a circle construction (and
constriction, really) of the “October Film Haunt: Under the House” can
attest.
An excellent debut from a writer I look forward to reading
more from. The writing is crisp, drawing
the reader in, passing the reader a tall glass of iced-tea. Go ahead, have a sip…
As a matter of fact, if you want a taste of what Wehunt can
do, and perhaps my inspiration for ordering the book, check out “Birds of Lancaster, Lairamore, Lovejoy” and tell me that doesn’t make you want more.
What Michael Griffin brings in his debut collection, The
Lure of Devouring Light, is a deep imagination tethered to the quiet side of
horror and weird fiction genres. Yet in
saying that, weird and horror might just be touchstones, as his real strength
is characterization. Nobody, I repeat,
nobody does relationships, couples in all stages of their time together, like
Griffin does. He’s particularly adept
with couples who’ve got some years under their belt, like in the masterful “Far from Streets,” which I’ve previously reviewed and consider a modern weird
fiction classic (and is included here).
Another high point for Griffin is his use of pacing. I think it shows
Griffin has confidence in his abilities as a storyteller, putting trust his
instincts. Layering with finesse. Atmosphere is key as well...so
what I’m saying is Griffin brings a jam-packed writers' toolbox, and uses everything
for optimum impact. With his exquisite
explorations and word-building, he’s painting a big picture, even as it might
be intimate, as in the outstanding short (mystery leading into hallucinogenic
terror into...?) novel that ends this collection, “The Black Vein Runs Deep.” That intimacy, especially in this tale, is
brought to the forefront as the reader occupies Colm’s mindspace as he
contemplates possible connections with Adi, as well as the underlying
mystery. It’s good stuff, honest, never
backing away, before the reality Griffin has built tumbles into a
fantastical place…that might just be an illusion.
Or is it cosmic and epic? The
ambiguity leaves the reader contemplating what exactly just happened…in a satisfying
way. The harrowing between-death (post-death?) tale,
“The Accident of Survival,” left me disorientated, perhaps because I could
relate to the confusion the narrator was experiencing. “No Mask to Conceal Her Voice” carries on
with a different kind of disorientation as Hollywood train-wreck, Lily Vaun,
looks to kick-start her derailed career, accepting an invitation to be in a
film by the strange director, Leer Astor, leading to a surprising revelation in
the finale.
All of this combines to introduce the readers to a writer
who has a full grasp of his talents, yet also invites speculation on where he
will go next. Griffin is one of those
writers whose storytelling demands a large canvas. I can see many novels in his future. No matter what, more Griffin will always be
welcomed by this reader.
(Muzzleland Press) <---of note: Creeping Waves is only $5 on the site until Halloween.
Matthew M. Bartlett made a major impression with many
readers (including this one) with his debut collection, Gateways to Abomination, a rare self-published book that left a huge impact. Creeping Waves plays off of the ideas
incorporated in Gateways, primarily the thread of the insidious WXXT radio
station, as well as his two other chapbooks published in the interim, The Witch-Cult in Western Massachusetts and Anne Gare’s Rare Book and Ephemera Catalogue, and combines, expands, and refines it all. I think of the GtA and CW much as I think of
Evil Dead and Evil Dead II. Like the original Evil Dead, GtA is raw, but sets a striking foundation upon which the second book uses as
a springboard, and furthermore, Bartlett’s writing has grown into a real force. Much like the second movie, Creeping Waves
plays up the gruesome, the horror…and the humor. The meatier tales (though often laced with
worms—just…just read the book) have real weight, but one cannot discount the
slighter in-between tales, as they add character and depth to the all-around
reading experience. “Night Dog” is
corporate horror that pushes latter-stage Ligotti, or perhaps Mark Samuel,
right off the page. It’s harrowing and
unflinching, especially when our narrator witnesses the transformation of CEO
Wren Black into…something truly nightmarish.
(I may have said too much, yet the ride is full of witty writing, so
you’ll want to take it anyway.) “Rangel,”
which I reviewed before, messes with memory and loss before it stumbles into a
bizarre celebration of Boschian proportions. (Just read my full review HERE.) “The Egg” is absurd and shocking and contains
“chickens and eggs and flesh and love” and a whole lot of crazy shit!
I didn’t read this “collection” as a straightforward
collection. It’s more like a mosaic
novel (thanks for this, Nicolay), where all of the pieces, the shorter and often humorous and/or curious
pieces, help to create an overall atmosphere upon which the longer pieces reach
in and drag you through the abattoir of horror.
The tone, the setting, it is all woven together with the skill of a
spider, and the mind of a diabolical mad scientist. Wicked, brilliant, and always entertaining,
Bartlett brings the goods and then some with this phenomenal…collection? Mosaic
novel? Satanic songbook? er…whatever the
hell it is, it works!
This was fun. It always is, but I am going to attempt to write and post reviews more consistently, as opposed to letting things stack up. I hope you enjoyed reading them as much as I did writing them.
Also: all of these reviews will be up on Amazon and Goodreads soon, probably next week when I get back to the states.
That's it for this one. Now...go out and purchase the books I've included here (at least the books still available, as a couple were limited--and write your own reviews.
These writers deserve your attention.
;-)
Painting by Andre Martins de Barros. This is pretty much exactly how I feel right about now...
