Tag Archives: Review

Review: Collected Works of Scott McClanahan Vol. 1 (Lazy Fascist Press; 2012)

18 Oct

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Mud-Puppies and Catfish girls stomping change, crusty dollars, and irritated receipts in the muddy grass of a backyard. Deer run over again and again until undead, then beaten with a steel thermos as the morning ran screaming away…harmed and insulted by the blazed brains’ pride. Happy to lose arms, watching the blood spurt while calmly smoking. Ace!

Bologna sandwich throwing bums offer mirrors on their shoes, which may suck and twist you in then spit you back out as conjoined with a bum mutant, the hairs bristling from the beard to reach for cheap burgers and cheap beer. Bike rider’s running chainsaws without gears in their bikes, searching for blue horizons on which to chew. Cars that come for you when you think of them smashing bones into mashed ashes while a narrator too cowardly to help runs and causes more accidents, placing himself on the high pedestal of Charlie in Firestarter.

Mysterious epiphanies in strip clubs. Humiliating cross-dressing escapades, partly forced by chance and miscommunication but partly chosen and longed-for. Eerie phone calls with young girls, breathing fiery holograms and playing devilish tricks on the moral balance of slippery narratives. Stubborn jail cells with rubbery bars.

Good Samaritans dream of kissing Bukowski, or eating three piece fish dinners while daydreaming about the racetrack. Kidney stones shaped like crucifixes: a passing mirror for all other secrets. Lonely telemarketers craving a mark and target in the sighing telephone-pole night.

Dead broke pizza thieves sitting in an observation tower watching a cheating father figure cough up blood in chunks of hope calluses. Hairspray brain Grease songs echoing in a witch-cursed bookstore, the ghost of Walt Whitman erasing all of the future pages of books maybe written in other folds of your eyes.

“The Prisoners”–my favorite story in the collection–is unexpected, wise, human, and shocking. Told in McClanahan’s characteristically breezy/greasy and informal style that reminds me a bit of Sam Pink but is less sociopathic in tone and a bit more poetic and dreamy, though no less grounded in a mundane but immediately relevant and compelling yet terrifying reality.

Abbreviated suicide notes drift from paper shredders in abandoned offices where vents wish for shredded paper to feel like snow drifting by.

Forgotten teachers, faded students. Old ladies shoplifting string beans, lonely cashiers. Benevolent futures predicted with a haunting certainty. Waiting on the phantom coal train to sing from West Virginia.

Check out The Collected Works of Scott McClanahan Vol. 1 here

Review: Burnt Black Suns by Simon Strantzas (Hippocampus Press; 2014)

15 Oct

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I read a short story by Strantzas in Nightmare Magazine called “Out of Touch” that genuinely affected me. It’s a simple ghost/haunted house story yet it resonated because of some other human touches (a lonely teen amidst a difficult divorce and a house-bound, sick friend). I had an immediate urge to read Burnt Black Suns afterwards.

Critics of the weird fiction genre are often quick to put everything under the burnt-black sun beneath the umbrella of: influenced-by-H.P.-Lovecraft. The first story in this book (“On Ice”)–while sharing some themes and symbols (eerie, otherworldly god-like monstrosities)–has a more straightforward style, pace, and natural feel than Lovecraft. It certainly is a taut tale that places you right in the desperate arctic circumstances no matter how strangely the plot unfurls. I especially enjoyed the vivid and terrifyingly original description of the monster in this one.

The second tale, “Dwelling on The Past,” is–predictably because of the title-a guilt-infused narrative. There is a particularly fine moment in its second to last scene which manages to blend and balance two separate timelines of hallucinations from the past. It sort of has a Poltergeist flavor to it and is again zippy, direct, and enjoyable–although not as strong/memorable as the first tale.

The third tale, “Strong As A Rock” causes me to revise my view of reviewers flippantly comparing Strantzas’ work to Lovecraft, for this tale shares its atmosphere with “The Shadow Over Innsmouth” to a degree–that sense of an abandoned town(in this case a hospital) being overtaken by malevolent/ancient/supernatural forces. It shares the sense of guilt and lost-loved-one theme of the previous tale, but this one ends too abruptly…and just as strange possibilities were opening up!

“By Invisible Hands” was written for a Ligotti tribute anthology, so that explains the heavy Ligotti influence of this tale. It is a bit reminiscent of two of my favorite stories from Songs of a Dead Dreamer (“Dreams of a Mannikan” and “Alice’s Last Adventure”) in that there are multiple levels of reality conflicting with each other, presaging madness. The puppet the creator constructs mingling with the driver’s multiple arm and mouthed body returning over and over as if in a living nightmare back to the mysterious Dr. Toth’s house was an unforgettably strange and disturbing image.

“One Last Bloom”–the body horror tale most referred to in their reviews–was excellent (and also the longest piece so far); it feels closer to Stuart Gordon Lovecraft than to the man from Providence himself. It also shares a bit with Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein (a work Lovecraft himself was hugely indebted to). Strantzas wisely frames this grisly From Beyond(1986)-flavored tale within an unrequited love triangle, notes, and journal entries. It reads a bit like a romantic comedy mixed with body horror–sort of reminiscent in tone to The Loved Ones(2009) (one of the best horror films of the last 30 years).

“Thistle’s Find” is an absolutely wonderful piece of the macabre. This has that pulpy/Reanimator Lovecraft vibe but with a more bad-taste of late 80’s/early 90’s horror movie element. I actually wish more pieces were as daring and funny as this one. Still, Strantzas has continually kept me surprised so far. [Note: on thinking back/revising my notes, this one remains my favorite story in the collection. It has kind of a 80’s goofy/Back-To-The-Future or Weird-Science vibe, but then becomes much darker.]

“Beyond the Banks of the River Seine” ends rather abruptly, and the supernatural element ends up being more of a tease than in previous tales where it was the showcase and focus. The voice is quite strong and it is a nice mix to throw in a new locale(France). I guess I just wanted to know what happened to Elyse, and to have a further doorway opened.

“Emotional Dues” is an incredibly visceral piece, shining a cruel light on the darkness and pain within every true artist’s heart; this really is an astounding collection of weird tales, and I might say here lies the true heir to Ligotti. Yet there is an accessibility to Strantzas’ style without compromising his strange and warped ideas–ideas like drifting clouds with the capacity to scramble and twist one’s preconceptions of the horror tale without, paradoxically, drifting too far astray. The imagery in this tale is particularly gruesome, strange, unexpected, and haunting.

“Burnt Black Suns” concludes this excellent collection. On his website, Stranzstas states that ” I know a few writers who work with oblique narratives, and a few more with cosmic horror, but I don’t know many that flip between both to the degree I do, especially within the confines of the same story.” Indeed, this masterful tale embodies both a sense of “cosmic horror” and “oblique narratives”; I especially enjoyed the scene where the narrator turns on his pregnant girlfriend to pursue his phantasmal lost child. This subtle state of madness is portrayed with sensitivity and with an underlying/terrifying current of cosmic dread.

I hope to read many more excellent stories by Simon Strantzas. I also love that his work helped inspire True Detective, my favorite television show (and I hate most television) since Twin Peaks.

Check out Burnt Black Suns here.

Website of Simon Strantzas

Review: Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson (Two Dollar Radio; 2013)

11 Oct

Mira-Corpora-Cover

Wow. To read this directly after By The Time We Leave Here, We’ll Be Friends was a revelation. These two works offer whole new vistas of writing ideas and styles. This one felt more intimate somehow; probably because it reminded me of people I knew in my youth.

Hazy daydreams. Disturbed snapshots of a dysfunctional childhood (alcoholic mother). Redirected, spiralling narratives pointing/painting towards a cohesive whole.

Murderous truckers, sawing off kids limbs. Flashes of Henry Darger’s psychotic paintings but this time in world called Liberia. This reminds me of the excellent quote by Paul Eluard that opens the novella: “There is another world, but it is in this one.” And, indeed, another world does seem to open up within this one as you proceed through Mira Corpora’s riveting yet fractured pages. Jackson even confesses that Mira Corpora is based on a series of journals he kept as an adolescent–an extremely strange and original approach. I kept asking myself exactly how much changed was or left unaltered.

Odd oracles in fragments of notes discovered in tree houses. Young lover’s promises. Matted hair. Becoming feral. Superimposed desires in the form of reflections on the bodies of floating dead teenagers who could have almost died in ecstasy. Burning bodies mixed with perfumes, the awkward stages of ritual. An homage to Macbeth’s witches in the nightmarish forest (a lot of these scenes reminded me of the atmosphere of Charles Burns’s Black Hole as well).

I also enjoyed the series and asides and meta-narrative reminders that this is a series of discovered notebooks–there is a line in one such italicized meta section of Mira Corpora that talks about stabbing a hole in a piece of notebook paper and how an entire world is contained there (like the Eluard quote)–also, the fact that Jeff’s oracle is an ominous blank page–ominous because it predicated someone’s death previously–is an important symbol related to the theme of Worlds Within Worlds.

Bloated cassette tapes containing cherished, taped-off-radio mixes and packages managing to find our narrator even when he lives in a cardboard box. Black condoms, walkman headphones without foam. Nose-biting, ethereal music-loving clues. Transformed and transfixed to honor ephemeral passions. Clues to the unconscious or the soul, whichever heart-wrenches you away from the cold shadows and into the nourishing sun of some way of contacting humanity.

Red-scarved, frizzy blonde-haired singer in a grainy photograph. You return to the spotlight of your dreams. Traffic sounds become a song during the search for a maybe dead rock star. Drunken burglaries. Prison shadows. Chewed-off noses, chewed-off tongues. Sepia-tinted dreams for vintage bands already lending dreams to some starry-eyed teen staring at the back of a still-original plastic-sheathed vinyl artifact. Mouth-breather. Casual devil-worshiper.

Dreams could only be sleep-blind, snow-blind carousels. Baited with a little bag of heroin to plastic guitar humiliation.

Sketchy operations in underground veternarian offices with an upper window to watch people’s shoes on the sidewalk pass.

Divorced from one’s own body as if trapped in a mirror. Drugged and drifting while burning money and drinking the last drops of booze beside a highway. Let the spirit revolve or welcome inner revolutions, as if an uncertain raven in search of a dead hawk’s claws on which to feast.

Were the skaters slicing through the ice or just scratching flame trails on the endless white paper typewriting the unbearable vision of the orange tree?

Check out Mira Corpora here

Review: By The Time We Leave Here, We’ll Be Friends by J. David Osborne (Swallowdown Press; 2010)

7 Oct

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I started reading By The Time We Leave Here, We’ll Be Friends in a bit of a haze. After reaching about the 60% mark, I decided I must’ve only been half paying attention…and I was a bit lost. I decided to consult some synopses. Was this book really worth my time? The reviews were unanimously stellar, many comparing the book to David Lynch and Clive Barker. Also: many of the synopses focused on the fact that, eventually, an escape from the Siberian Gulag would be attempted with a “calf” (a prisoner to eat/cannibalize should the Siberian wilderness prove barren of nourishment). Putting emphasis on this element of the plot adds a bit of sensationalism (which, oddly, even the book’s editor (Jeremy Robert Johnson) reinforces in his afterword). Although an excellent scene–and perhaps the most lucid/thrilling/suspenseful in the book–it is but a silver of what the novel contains, and this novel is hardly a much of a suspenseful or traditional book at all. In other words: I loved it.

Even the aforementioned prison-break scene ends with a surreal mythological flavor (I won’t go into specifics since this is also the end of the novel). The novel is a bit like a puzzle, albeit an exquisitely tightly constructed one. So if you, like me, find yourself a bit lost the first time through, don’t be ashamed; just start at the beginning, regain your footing, and allow this beguiling little work to enfold you within its enchantments like a modern day Pedro Paramo.

One often feels as though one were tumbling through a George Grosz or Mark Chagall painting…in that it features a sense of charged/conflicted history but with a fantastic element (a man picking lint out of the ventricles of his heart or a serpentine shaped light escaping another man’s throat). Shark teeth, little women in shirt pockets, obscene tattoos, whale bones lodged into thighs. Even Diego Rivera is mentioned. Talking chalk writing, humming placentas, barbed wire growing and thrashing like venomous horror movie vines, ingrown (into ear) shoelaces, and haunted mines are just a few of the other images that will leave an imprint in your skull with a swift boot-kick to the face.

You feel like you’re reading an Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn novel at times, yet then something very strange or whimsical happens–like an angry guard growing shark’s teeth or an officer beating her lover with a vodka bottle instead of making love as they then both derive immense pleasure from the sadism (shark teeth growing, eyes shifting to a devlish shade)–and we return to the harsh prison camp reality…yet at the periphery: a kind of electric fan of insanity continues to hum and blow, threatening to unravel and distort all of the officers’ and prisoners’ conscious and unconscious experiences there. Dreamlike scenes when a wounded prisoner fights with an officer while urinating all over him and his wound (by whale bone) would be one such scene to support the previous thesis.

Hallucinated voices over the radio, feelings drifting through a netherworld from someone far away (“warm and red feelings”). Throats that can suck souls. Fantasies of cannibalism Dreams of holding a stick attached to a decapitated head while feeding it apples. A marvelously strange and original book. This one will last.

check out By The Time We Leave Here, We’ll Be Friends

Peckerwood by Jedidiah Ayres (Broken River Books; 2013)

27 Sep

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This was a short, satisfying, complex little crime novel. It shifts perspectives quite often (hawks In Cold Blood sections come to mind) to a slightly-surreal/jarring effect, but nonetheless feels like classic hard-boiled noir. One unforgettable scene includes two disorganized crime yokels trying to frame a disguised televangelist in a redneck gay bar.

I hope Jedidiah Ayres keeps publishing crime books in this style; it was quite refreshing compared to other grocery-store crime Gods like Patterson, Kellerman, and the like. It is twisted, compelling, and action-packed. I reread the prologue for its somehow hypothetical tone and jarring investigation of dead possibilities several times before embarking on the unforgettable ride that is this novel.

check it out

TV Snorted My Brain by Bradley Sands (LegumeMan Books; 2012)

31 May

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Deeply in love with the cover art of this one–I wonder if this artist actually does comics? This one did not have the same emotional depth as some of the other bizarro writers I’ve been reading lately. Nonetheless, you will find some imaginative absurdist mayhem within these pages. Check it out if you feel like some lighter/consistently slapstick and scatological bizarro fare.

Buy TV Snorted My Brain by Bradley Sands

Die You Doughnut Bastards by Cameron Pierce (Eraserhead Press; 2012) Review

31 May

Die You Doughnut Bastards

The title probably sounds overly goofy, silly, and inane–but this book will surprise on many levels with its inventiveness. It is a very unique collection of Russell Edson-inspired poems, childish drawings, and short stories as only Cameron Pierce can write them–which combines absurd content imbued and emblazoned with a tragic and haunted human element. My favorite in the entire collection was “Lantern Jaws.” Although I only read it this morning in my flat in Istanbul, I already know that it will remain one of my favorite short stories. Cryptic, sad, simple, surprising, and genuine. I will not soon forget the image of what lay beneath Vanessa’s bandage, which proves to be both beautiful and horrific or the comedic yet haunting (and very Lovecrafitan) scene when David joins Vanessa’s parents for dinner. I could ramble on and on about the intricate beauty of each and every piece, but I ask that you discover them for yourselves, take a chance on Mr. Pierce’s dreams, and wander beyond the threshold of your previous imaginative barriers.

Buy Die You Doughnut Bastards

Bizarro Central

Carnageland by David W. Barbee (Eraserhead Press; 2009) Review

26 May

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This bizarro sci-fi/fairy tale hybrid was pretty fun and odd, if you don’t mind a kind of lazy adherence to the heroic journey structure–no, Harry Potter or The Hunger Games this ain’t…although both the aforementioned works are still-born, tiresome works for a brain-dead planet. Why are many pop culture addicts so comforted by patterns? One may never know…the truth could be too horrible ever to discern.

Invader 898 is assigned to conquer a specific planet where hermaphrodite wizards/witches rule and Rapunzel-esque princesses dot the aforementioned hero’s golden brick road through threshold guardians and potential gateways to return with the elixir. But, again, this is all done in a mostly satirical fashion, albeit with some explicit scenes of violence and perverse humor.

Buy Carnageland
Eraserhead Press

Shatnerquake by Jeff Burke (Eraserhead Press; 2009) Review

26 May

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I finally got around to reading this one the other day. I found it enjoyable in many ways, yet it caused me to ask myself a recurring question: what is like to write with characters that already exist?

Fan-fiction.

But is this fan-fiction?

No. Not at all.

Actually…despite the excessively nerdy setting (a William Shatner convention), the Shatner impressions (by various Shatner performances) aren’t even pedantically accurate. Having only seen a few Star Trek episodes, there appear to be very few stock phrases in evidence.

Therefore, one begins to wonder: if this is not a heavy-handed ode to nerd, doll-collecting culture…then what is it?

I feel, like the best of bizarro, it is a sort of half-hearted attempt a satirize a given concept or subculture without actually ridiculing it too harshly and, in that misadventure/misdiagnosis, creating some bold, original, and quick–a kind of blitzkrieg of an idea, half-executed and kind of spinning in a psychedelic direction while, due to the quick speed of its execution, it retains its b-movie robes so it can never quiet rest and dusty itself into a certain brand of literary experimentalism.

Instead, its intention remains like a blur of excitement, fun, and a weird idea never fully perfected.


Buy Shatnerquake

Eraserhead Press

Hurt Others by Sam Pink (Lazy Fascist Press; 2012) Review

25 May

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I’d read Person a few years ago and ended up selling it at my garage sale before moving to Istanbul. Someone did buy it for 1$, but my dislike of it seems baffling in hindsight after reading this magnificent collection of anti-stories entitled Hurt Others.

The style is deceptively simple; at first, it seems slightly juvenile–but then, every so often, Pink will dash off a line that is casually brilliant, cryptic, or a sentence that contains a circular thought…forever spiraling and leaving unanswered what was never in fact a question in the first place.

Sam Pink is the kind of writer–like Bukowski, Fante, Moravia, Hemingway, Raymond Carver, and Frederick Exley–that takes you into their personal life, but the crystal waters of reality at first depicted are soon sullied and blurred as the painter goes to work with his bloody brush.

Buy Hurt Others

Lazy Fascist Press