BEHOLD! Oddities, Curiosities and Undefinable Wonders by Doug Murano
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This collection was received free in return for an honest review from Crystal Lake Publishing.
The new weird has arrived. A collection of the strange and the freakish, the dark and the fantastical. Divided into Oddities, Curiosities and Wonders, this is a literary cabinet of alternative delights.
Oddities starts off with the freaks of LaRue’s Dime Museum, a frozen image of a past thought dead and buried. But is it? Wildflower, Cactus, Rose ponders the eternal question of the nature of beauty and the power of image over others, “The world is a mirror … What we see is a reflection of who we are.” The Baker of Millepoix gives himself in more ways than one to help those in his village. And then there is Clive Barker’s Jacqueline Ess: Her Will and Testament. Dark and disturbing, it’s story of who truly wields power “We cannot believe, we men, that power will ever reside happily in the body of a woman … Not true power … The power must be in male hands.” Jacqueline has power, but does she have real control? This tale is my favourite amongst the Oddities.
Curiosities begins with Madame Painte: For Sale, a cursed ornament which wreaks destruction on those who dare to take it into their homes. It is followed by the wonderfully humorous Chivalry by Neil Gaiman. I loved this story for the sheer pragmatism of Mrs Whitaker when the Holy Grail enters her life and an Arthurian knight appears and tries to cut a deal with her for its return. She packs him off with cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches, what’s not to love? Then we plunge from the gentle humour and uplifting nature of Chivalry into the grim holiday-from-hell world of Fully Boarded. The hotel inspector doesn’t stand a chance. In Amelia’s Wake takes us back in time to Canada and the clash of old-world superstition with non-belief, a theme also developed in John F.D. Taff’s A Ware That Will Not Keep. The latter is a tragic tale of what one will do in order to survive, in this case the concentration camp, and the price that had to be paid both then and now. A heart-breaking story. Earl Pruitt’s Smoker pulls us into the world of the hive and the section closes with Hazelnuts and Yummy Mummies, a hallucinogenic trip into the past to make peace with oneself.
Too soon you find yourself coming to the end of the book and its Undefinable Wonders. The Shiny Fruit of Our Tomorrows with its train-hopping and dream-chasing, The Wakeful and a very strange garden. My favourite here, Knitter, a story of creation and destruction, of making and unmaking, scary in its far-reaching consequences for those who see the Knitter. Then it’s underground in Through Gravel, and finally Hiraeth with its elements of folklore and superstition in the tradition of the Brothers Grimm.
Special mention must go to Stephanie M. Wytovich and her poems An Exhibition of Mother and Monster and As a Guest at the Telekinetic Tea Party. The poems are placed at strategic points in the anthology perfectly linking the tales before with those to come, dovetails of darkness which should not be overlooked.
I honestly loved this anthology, the quality of writing and sheer imagination is second-to-none. Diverse and endlessly entertaining, this is story-telling at its best.
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My Runner-Up entry for Microcosms 79. The prompt was to include the line 'The rain seemed to be writing cryptic messages on my window panes.'
Life was being difficult. People would look at me oddly, speak in languages I didn’t understand, move further than they needed to when I joined their queue. Even the rain seemed to be writing cryptic messages on my window pane. Somebody was trying to tell me something. I just needed to tune-in, decode the transmission. So I listened with greater care to the babble of those around me, felt their words spike my brain, repetitive waves of command merging into something I could not ignore, something I had to share.
“Mummy, tell me a story …”
So I told her a story, a story made of the words from the world beyond. I didn’t notice her shrink from me.
“Mummy, can you draw me a picture …”
So I drew her a picture made by the words hooked onto my heart. I didn’t notice her tears watering the page.
The word was even stronger in the hospital. It was everywhere. But I never told anyone. It was my secret.
“Time for Mary to go now, Mrs Williams.”
“Can we have a minute alone?”
A smile, a nod, a closed door.
The word crawled on my tongue, itching to be released. My gift to my child. A secret to be passed from mother to daughter.
“I have a present for you, Mary.”
I pulled her tight to me, whispered my secret word into her ear. I didn’t notice when she stopped struggling.
A scream. “What did you do?”
Still the word itched. It had tasted freedom and wanted more.
“Do, nurse? Come here and I’ll tell you. Let me whisper in your ear …”
Recent times has seen the return of VERStype's regular Jigsaw Cut-up poetry challenge. The site posts two poems from which the writer selects words and phrases to create their own found poem. June's choices were Rudyard Kipling's A Charm and Angel or Demon by Victor Hugo. These are great fun to do and a real challenge as well as exposing you to poems and poets you may not have read. Why not give it a go next time? Look out for the alert via @VERStype.
Below is my response to Kipling and Hugo:
Clutch the hand of Virgil
Take thy ease in his presence
Treasure the soaring of his voice
The echoes dazzling, breathless
Spreading the loveliest reverie
To sweeten and make whole
The woe of all uncounted folk
Whispered Echoes by Paul F. Olson
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
This collection was received free in return for an honest review from Crystal Lake Publishing.
When a collection of stories is reissued, you know it must be regarded as special by the publishers, that it is still ‘valid’ in some way. Even though this book included a brand new novella, I was still slightly sceptical, thinking that perhaps the stories might seem dated, jaded. Would stories published in the late 80s still hold up today?
Firstly, I must admit I have never read Paul F. Olson’s stories before so I was not quite sure what to expect but I did read the stories in the order printed as suggested by the introduction which indicated a clear progression in the quality and depth of writing – something with which I must concur.
The early stories were entertaining, dark happenings in small towns very much in the mould of Stephen King but without as many of the little details he throws in to set the scene so perfectly. However, these touches of increasing atmosphere and tone began to come through stronger for me from Through the Storm onwards.
Before this though is The Visitor. An unsettled autumn sees the return of a yearly visitor and strange happenings occur—very much ‘something wicked this way comes’. Attempts to encourage his leaving or prevent his returning fail and nothing, nothing can be done to change it. This inability to prevent disaster, to ward off the darkness that is out there continues in From a Dreamless Sleep Awakened, The Forever Bird, Homecoming and They came from the Suburbs. Each story finishes in such a way that the reader has to fill in the gaps … although they are very clearly signposted.
Then there’s the ‘something horrible in the cellar’ trope of Through the Storm. The imagery of nature’s fury as the backdrop for the escalating conflict between Andy and his great aunt ratchets up the tension in this tale; the build-up mirroring the seething anger and resentment in the boy until he erupts … with such disastrous consequences. The More Things Change brings a surreal, Daliesque quality to an horrific situation which results in paranoia and ignorance and a witch hunt. Ghosts, curses, facing fears and confronting the past are all covered in Guides, Getting Back, Faith and Henry Gustafson and Down the Valley Wild.
Finally you are left with the meatier, and newest, offering from Olson, Bloodybones. It wrong-footed me straight away, at least for the first few pages, and then the perspective shifts as David Mahon describes his hunt for Amy, his missing girlfriend and you realise the tale began as a story within a story. Even though time has passed and his girlfriend is assumed dead, he still searches the area of her disappearance and, together with her sister, eventually discovers the old story of Bloodybones and past murders, of a ghost who is no longer resting. Bloodybones is the standout story for me here. Olson’s imagery and pacing was spot on and the ending was much more satisfying than those earlier stories.
Whispering Echoes is certainly an entertaining collection and a worthwhile read with carefully crafted stories. All shades of darkness are represented here.
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For those of you who do not know, The Infernal Clock (originating as an anthology which I co-edited with David Shakes), is in the process of evolving into a brand in its own right. Both of us hope to develop it in such a way that we can provide a platform for horror writers to develop their own writing and get wider exposure - something that is very difficult in the publishing industry, as well as to further our own writing careers.
Following the publication of The Infernal Clock we announced the Infernal Flash Competition, challenging writers to create a 500 word (max) horror story based on the prompt to be found here.
This week we are delighted to announce that Mark A Morris is our Fourth Place winner.
Please drop by The Infernal Clock and read his story. If you want to find out more about him, check out his website The Assorted Writings of Mark A Morris and look for him on Facebook where he is a frequent poster of quality flash fiction.
My Microcosms 74 flash entry. Joint Community Pick and HM from the Judge. Not bad when trying to combine my elements from the spinner which threw Pegasus, Thule and horror at me. If you like writing flash, why not join in? Microcosms is every Friday and offers the chance not only of being selected by the Judge but also by the community.
Weary eyes followed the boy’s directions. A mass of white slowly loomed into focus, stark against the ink of night. The crew shrugged their shoulders and turned away. It was just another iceberg.
Only the Captain paid any attention. He had not quite given up. Slowly the ship drifted towards the frozen mound, the temperature dropping so that by the time they reached the hostile shoreline frost dusted his men, transformed them into ghosts.
The mysterious island of the northern wastes. “Prepare to go ashore,” he ordered.
“But Captain, the stories …”
He looked sadly at his men, his ghosts. “We have no choice. No food, little water. Here—we might have a chance.” Then he looked back at the ocean, the never-ending emptiness and they saw it with him.
It was as bleak as expected, ice and barren rock, but they found an easy path leading them inland. Soon snow started to fall, obscured their vision. The group huddled together as the flurry became a blizzard.
“Did you see it?”
The Captain turned.
“A horse,” said the man, pointing. “I saw a horse!”
The Captain looked in the same direction. Could see a shape that might be a horse, might not. Might be false hope.
“A horse, Captain!” Others were pointing now and they could all clearly see the creature, whiter than anything they had ever seen before. “It must come from somewhere.”
Hope sparked dead eyes. Until the horse stretched out impossible wings.
“Pegasus,” said the crew, voices awed.
“We can never follow him,” said one sailor. “He belongs to the spirit world.”
But the Captain smiled. That was no longer a problem. The storm had dropped and the horse led them on. It left no mark on the snow. And they left no footprints.
... sort of. I've had a bit of a declutter here at My Playground. When it's a wet Bank Holiday, thoughts usually turn to housekeeping of some sort and I thought it was about time to blew the cobwebs away from this site.
Some things have gone, some remain but in particular you might notice a Reviews page. A recent step for me was to become part of Crystal Lake Publishing's advance reader group. They send an email asking if I'm interested in a book and I say yay or nay. I've been lucky in that the two they've sent me so far, second to be posted in June, have been good - as far as I'm concerned. I know others may disagree. If I don't like something, I will say. I reviewed a Grey Matter Press book recently, Mister White and only gave it 3 stars which made me feel bad, even though 3 means I liked it! Others have rated it much higher. But reading is subjective and publishers will be prepared for this, just as much as writers have to be. The Mister White book, by the way, was one I purchased as part of my determination this year to read more from small and independent publishers.
I have put a note on my Reviews page that I will consider approaches to review books when I can. You can get in touch with me via the Contacts page or send me a message over twitter @el_Stevie.
What else have I been up to? Working behind the scenes for The Infernal Clock. This wonderful anthology - I am allowed to say that as I am biased - is available on amazon. If you would like the chance to win a print copy why not enter our Infernal Flash Competition. You still have a chance to enter your story, maximum 500 words, closing date 3/06/2017. Go here for more details and to check out the prompt. The winner also gets consideration for a slot in our next anthology and the top four will get their stories published on The Infernal Clock blog. I look forward to reading your stories.
Talking with Psychopaths and Savages: A Journey into the Evil Mind by Christopher Berry-Dee
My rating: 2 of 5 stars
Thought there would be more to this than there was. Touched very lightly on a number psycopaths, giving accounts of interviews etc but throughout there were references to the author's other books and considerable references to his publisher, John Blake which felt almost like book 'product placement' which was very irritating.
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Kingdom of Fire and Darkness was my entry for last week's Microcosms flash fiction contest. The special challenge asked that you create a 'new' myth as well as incorporate the prompts. I chose the creation of the Underworld.
Kingdom of Fire and Darkness
Half-flesh, he crawled through dead tunnels. The skin of him, albino patches splintered by bone. Blind eyes bleeding tears of despair as fingers tore at rock, guided old roots of ancient trees into a mouth forever hungry. Exhausted, he collapsed and once more allowed himself to remember.
“Creatures move beneath our land,” had said the Elders as the ground opened to swallow the year’s harvest. “We need a warrior to go down into the dark, destroy those who seek to destroy us.”
Erebus had volunteered, entering the belly of the mountain with eyes wide open only to close them as he starved and found his nails picking at the meat of himself, making him lesser. His mind began to wander and his mutterings echoed along tunnels, crept out across the valley, disturbing those who had long since given him up for dead. The lands had been quiet since Erebus had gone into the below world.
But then he returned. Half-man, half-abomination he crawled out of the dark, slithered amongst villagers frozen in horror, wrenched a child from its mother’s arms, dragged it back into the tunnels from which he came. There he showed it the lakes of fire, the bodies of others, strangers he had captured, taught the child his ways.
“This is my kingdom,” he rasped. “I will let you return above but you must tell them of the fires that await them, tell them of this world of the dead, tell them to send me their madmen and murderers. If you do not, I will come for you.”
So the child, now a youth, returned to the light; told of the inferno below, spread the story of Erebus, travelled far and wide until all knew of the horrors of the Kingdom of Fire and Darkness.
This was my Runner Up entry for Microcosms weekly flash fiction competition. Elements I used: 'The Empty Room' (Burt Bacharach song) and horror genre.
A frail hand caressed the thick stone wall, felt its solid reassurance. Dim light filtered through a crack in the brick canvas, an almost accidental slit admitting only a weak jagged ray which settled on papyrus skin, illuminating the calligraphy of age. The hand moved and continued to trace its unsteady path around the perimeter of the tomb. For many years the hand had marked the passage of time in this manner, fingers trailing the white powder of mildew in never-ending rotation, dragging fear and despair in its wake. Occasionally the hand would feel cold metal break the monotony of brick, chain links heavy, weighting down weary flesh, would linger over the smoothness of iron, its curves the curtailer of a freedom long-since lost. Deformed feet allowed the hand to lead, soles immune to the soiled floor, its soft slipperiness. It was a path they had walked many times before and, until now, always in company. The voice belonging to the hand tried to sing, a weak and feeble sound compared to the strength of the screams which had once echoed around the chamber. It was a song he missed. The voice broke with frustration, let out a sob. Death had been impatient, had stolen what he had intended to give, a gift which he had been lovingly preparing for years with such exquisite tortures. The hand led the feet to the door and back out into the world leaving the room empty behind him. But it would not stay that way for long. His eyes would choose another guest and soon his hand would be caressing more than stone.
A writer - I think that says it all.