The Visitor: Review (Spoilers)

  Their faces--no longer marred by the horror of Dream transfiguration--were still intact. What she had been afforded was a glimpse into the future world. Of the fate that the song would condemn them to, as it had done to her over time. Rook knew at last what would become of all things. 

My first introduction to the work of Farah Rose Smith, and it did not disappoint. A chapbook published by Ulthar Press, The Visitor is about Rook, a musician in a goth rock band, who longs for fame and fortune. Her desire for wealth is so great, that she allows herself to be seduced by a being known only as the Visitor, from a place called the Afterworld. Rook travels to the Afterworld in her sleep, and receives lessons from the Visitor. Unfortunately, she cannot remember the sounds in her waking hours. One song, in particular, captures the ear of Rook; she says it would change the Rock 'n' Roll landscape. In exchange for bringing him to the realm of Earth, the Visitor tells Rook he'll give her the song. It's a Faustian bargain that will not only end badly for Rook, but the entire world.

What really stands out in The Visitor is Smith's prose. She deftly merges the beautiful with the grotesque, creating a vibrant, surreal world; reality and fantasy are blurred, as if you are experiencing a fever dream. The atmosphere is simultaneously ethereal and dreadful, possessing a dizzying effect. You wonder if Rook is in a sort of liminal state, caught between the real world and the Afterworld. Smith's language flows in and around you, smooth, exotic, and rotting. With such a level of quality and care, you can't put it down. 

At the heart of Smith's tale is not just Rook's bargain with the Visitor, but the power of music, as well. Rook is desperate for a change; she wants to get out of her trailer; she wants a life of wealth and luxury. Without giving any thought to possible consequences, Rook is all too eager to make a bargain with the Visitor, even at the expense of her secret lover, and fellow band mate, Miller, which does eat away at her, after the deed is done. Rook takes the life of Miller, allowing the Visitor to use his body as a vessel, giving him free reign over thie human world. It's terrifying scenarios like this that remind us of the mutability of our flesh; they remind us of our vulnerability to beings that far surpass us in every aspect, and are capable of using us as vessels, tools, puppets, playthings, and much more. Rook soon becomes aware of what she has let into her world, and the horror that is to follow. 

The Visitor touches on the power and lasting effects of music. Smith vividly describes the Visitor's music as being otherworldly; it's not meant for human ears, and it has a maddening effect on Rook and the rest of her band mates, during their practice. This being the first time the Visitor plays while in Miller's body:

The overture was a quiet orchestration. One of abysmal melancholy, growing ever stronger with each passing whir of the strange, ethereal guitar. It grew shriller, louder, until the rapturous pounding of rhythmic muscle overcame the subtleties of the beginning. It had theatre, poise--an erotic tension so powerful that one would feel as if a serrated wheel ran back and forth over the genitals, ever-satisfied with a cosmic teasing. Every second thrust the listeners into a seemingly orgasmic fury. A lustful thirst unquenchable in the land of men. 

The outro commenced. An exhaustive depression hovered over Rook--an omnipresent cloud. The others struggled to recover, overcome by the mad genius of the composition.

Music being used in such a manner brings to mind stories like Lovecraft's The Music of Eric Zann, which, I believe, is similar in the use of music never before heard by human ears. The vibrancy of the story is akin to Anya Martin's tale, Sensoria, featured in the anthology, Giallo Fantastique, published by Word Horde. Both Martin and Smith's tale touch on the power and lasting effects that music can have on us; how it can change not just us, but the landscape, as well. 

In the case of the music played by the Visitor, Rook doesn't realize what it's true purpose is until it's far too late. At the beginning of the story, Rook is in the Afterworld with the Visitor; however, it is in ruin. It is merely a husk of what it used to be. Vegetation is gone, dusk is eternal, forests destroyed. It is a land in peril. Through his music, the Visitor plans to restore the Afterworld to what it used to be, by sacrificing the inhabitants of earth. It starts with Rook. After the band's first practice, essentially, Rook's body begins to break down; and that is what will happen to everyone else, as Rook sees in a vision at the concert they are playing at, towards the end of the story:

The swaying of limbs, the flashes of flesh. Women and men alike removed their clothes and took to pressing their bodies together in a hypnotic rhythm; a new and obscene ritual that only the sound of Rookie Swallows could incite. The thrashing of arms, waggling of tongues, the clattering of genitals. And then, a single face was illuminated--a harbinger to a devil's denouement. A melted face of flesh, indecipherable amidst the muck and mortar. A frozen form so like Rook in the land of dreams, in the throes of flesh-melt; the highest form of dream transfiguration.

Much to her horror, Rook understands what will happen to everyone, and there is nothing she can do to stop it. Everyone will be used as fodder to bring life back to the Afterworld. "This was the song in its proper form--an indelicate means of melting man into feast, into fertilizer. It was terrible. It was magnificent. It was... over." That last bit about the proper form of the song as being terrible and magnificent at the same time is a great way of displaying human thought in the face of something way beyond our comprehension. How do we respond to such sites? How do we perceive them? It's also interesting to ponder the character of the Visitor. It can be argued that there is a level of ambiguity to him, concerning him being bad or good. As in, good intentions with horrifying consequences. He saves one world, but destroys another. And Rook is the one responsible for the fate of everyone; she let the Visitor into her world because she wanted wealth, even though she came to greatly regret her decision. 

 With The Visitor, Smith has weaved a tale of how we let our desires and obsessions cloud our judgment and ability to make rational decisions, often ending with terrible results. It's about music and the language it produces; how it impacts and changes us and the world. It's a haunting, grotesque, beautiful work of literature born in the dark recesses of some unholy world.  If this is what is to be expected from the rest of what Farah Rose Smith has to offer, you can call me an instant fan who eagerly desires to devour more of her work. 

Palladium at Night: Review (Spoilers)

What could no longer be called time passed nonetheless, replaced by a cold, lightless void with no activity save for perpetual dilapidation, existence dwindled into inert useless particles. All Irepani could do was witness this reverse of Creation. 

In a short amount of time, Christopher Slatsky has established himself as a credible force in the realm of Weird fiction. Starting off with a few chapbooks published by Dunhams Manor Press, followed by his debut collection Alectryomancer and Other Weird Tales, also published by Dunhams Manor Press, Slatsky's work has been devoured by many readers, garnering much--and rightly so--praise. Since the release of his debut collection, Slatsky has been featured in periodicals such as Strange Aeons, and numerous anthologies, which include Year's Best Weird Fiction vol. 3, published by Undertow Publications. With so much quality Horror and Weird fiction work being put out, it's difficult to keep pace with all of it, but I do try and make it a point to keep up with anything of Slatsky's that is published, which brings me to his novelette, Palladium at Night, brought to you by Dim Shores. 

PAN centers on Irepani, a recovering alcoholic who lives with his cousin, Lorena, in Portland, Oregon. Formerly homeless, and undocumented, Irepani spent a long time living on the streets of California, and in a bottle. After successfully making his way over the California border and into Oregon, Irepani has been living with Lorena for the last six years. He made great strides in turning his life around; he got sober, and found himself a part-time job at a diner. Wanting a break from the hustle and bustle of the city, Irepani decides to venture out into the wilderness with his dog, Cadejo the Third, and stay at the abandoned Leman fire lookout tower, where he believes he can find some much needed peace and solitude. What Irepani doesn't know, however, is that his little trip will turn into a nightmare of cosmic proportions.

In the majority of his fiction, Slatsky incorporates big concepts that are epic in scope, and PAN is no different. There are many components to the story: alcoholism/recovery, military intervention in the name of security, the occult fused with science, god/god-like/the divine as terror, and the concept of time. While there is so much packed into the story, Slatsky balances all of it rather magnificently; you don't feel overwhelmed or bogged down with what's being explored and communicated, even as the story goes back and forth between Irepani, and a group of scientists and military personnel, which helps add depth and tension to the story. Helping to move the story along is the feeling of dread and unease that slowly builds with each turn of the page. The atmosphere brings about a certain awareness that something is not right; nothing is what it seems, as Irepani soon discovers.

While Irepnai is all about seeking solitude at the lookout tower, many of his companions do not think it's a safe place to stay. The tower is something of an urban legend; it's a source of various stories and strange things, and Irepani's companions believe the city is much safer, offering relative safety, warmth, and sustenance. Driving Lorena's jeep, Irepani turns down a gravel road that leads to the lookout tower, and it doesn't take long for him to begin feeling a sense of fear. Cadejo whines and paws at the passenger window. Pulling over to let her out and go to the bathroom, Irepani notices the dashboard clock is dim, showing only dashes instead of numbers. Cadejo is gone longer than Irepani is comfortable with and finally calls her back; she returns, but Irepani is already on edge:

His heart hammered in his chest. Why was he so riled up? Cadejo had never been in any danger. The hustle and bustle of the city was comforting; the vastness of the wild held too many unexplored regions, places dimly lit where only cloven hoof and paw had disturbed the carpets of moss. Too many places for Cadejo to get hurt or lost. That must be why he was so on edge. 

During other parts of the story, Irepani feels exposed and vulnerable; he feels a sense of menace in the woods surrounding him. Slatsky does well in establishing a dichotomy between the wilderness and the city; a sort of wilderness vs. civilization. Over the centuries, perceptions of the wilderness have changed from being a dreadful place full of monsters and terror, to a place where people go to get away from city life; they desire the beauty and tranquility of the forest, so that they can forget about their life in the city for a while. In the case of Irepani, he very much wanted to get away from the city, much to the dismay of his companions, who view the woods surrounding the lookout tower as a cursed place where strange things take place. It's safer to stay in the city, the pinnacle of civilization. What I think Slatsky is delving into here is--at least to me--are the flawed and changing perceptions we have of what the wilderness is to us. An interesting essay that discusses this topic at length is by William Cronon, called The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature. Give it a read, if you are interested. 

Some major themes that Slatsky explores in PAN are time, alcoholism, and what we would probably call religious experience. The core of the story is how human perceptions of time differ at a cultural and individual level. Some cultures have no concept of time at all, while others may measure time by the changing of the seasons. Western culture lives and dies by the clock. At the individual level, one person could perceive an event as dragging on, happening in slow motion, while another person perceives the same event as happening so fast, they aren't exactly sure what happened. You could perceive a certain memory as happening a couple months ago, when it actually happened two years ago. Out in the wilderness, the clock in the jeep doesn't work, and Irepani's watch and phone are dead, so he has no way of keeping track of time, and he's basically guessing how long it takes him to get from the lookout tower to the Leman Observatory, and back again. In addition, the second narrative in PAN is the group of scientists who have been able to weaponize time; they can change the course of history by altering years, hours, minutes, even seconds. 

Of great interest is how the feat of weaponizing time is achieved through fusing mysticism with science. It's no coincidence, either, that Irepani says prayers to give him strength concerning his recovery from alcoholism, and the scientists and military personnel make mentions of God, and beings that would be considered god-like. More specifically, a Quasi-Temporal Eternality:

Sorry. A QTE is a being that experiences its entire life all at once, the past present and future simultaneously. With that in mind, an eternally existing God must experience everything that has ever been or will be. 

This is deliberate, I believe, on Slatsky's part. Some of the steps in recovery involve believing in something greater than yourself, and giving yourself over to that power, to help you recover. What Irepani experiences towards the end of the story, could be considered a religious experience. In the presence of the alien, QTE, whatever you want to call it, Irepani experiences the birth, death, and rebirth, of the entire world; he's reliving his past over and over again. He's experiencing the past, present, and future, simultaneously. In the face of something so powerful and far beyond human comprehension, how do we view such a thing? Is it divinity? Is the divine actually terrifying? Is this what Matt Cardin refers to as "Holy terror"? Does Irepani feel safe in such a presence? These are powerful questions that we may not want answered. Slatsky also creates a relationship with time and alcoholism; they parallel each other. When Irepani drank, it helped him:

But he wanted a drink. This wasn't just a craving, but something far more primal, addiction stained into his very soul. It was a cliche to say alcohol numbed him from the realities of life, but there was that and something more--drinking helped retain those rare moments when he'd felt happy about being alive, slowed everything down, prolonged the good times, the joyful memories moving as if sinking in molasses. Blotted out the anger and loneliness. Everything else was pushed aside, speeding by so quickly drunken brain couldn't acknowledge the struggles and pain.

We see how alcohol altered Irepani's perception of time. Drinking slowed everything down for him, allowing him to savor and enjoy the good times. Everything outside of that whizzed by him in a flash of light; he forgot about everything else. Another aspect is the loss of time. It can be interpreted that Irepani drank the bottles of vodka he found in the lookout tower, which could explain why he wasn't sure if the form he sees on path moved or not, or why some experiences seemed to last longer than others, or the opposite. Can Irepani account for everything that happened? Slatsky does so well in pairing an epic concept with the humane, weaving a powerful tale with multiple layers. 

We also see military intervention in the form of using time in the name of national security. Major General Targ wants to see that the security of the United States is not in any way threatened, but also wants to cultivate weapons out of time to "send enemy soil back 1.5 billion years when their land was at the bottom of the ocean." Such an amazing discovery and all we can think to do is use it for weapons. On the other hand, is it wise for us to traverse uncharted realms? Are we being careless with science? Just because we can, does that mean we should? By delving into the unknown, are we risking ourselves and the entire planet? 

Once again, Christopher Slatsky does well in solidifying his place in the contemporary Weird fiction landscape. He has crafted a tale that truly embodies what Weird fiction is. PAN is more than just about exploring the unknown and our place in the world and universe; it explores our perceptions and how they differ from culture to culture, and from person to person. It's about how we try and make life better for ourselves, no matter where we are from and what our circumstances may be. It's about understanding, and showing compassion for those who are suffering and in need. 

Too Late: Review

You never believe in us. You assume we are made up, to explain the nature of man. Child, we are the nature of man, because we have infiltrated humanity, time and time again. Every foul act you blame on your evolution, on your 'human nature' we take pride in under veils of delicious shadow, and hate, and psychic refuse. We bask in the glory of your undoing, one rape, one child murder, one genocide at a time. And you say 'God is dead.' You couldn't be more right. The battle for the world was lost long ago, and as your preachers thump the pulpit with bloody fists, we throw another body on the pyre.

Right out of the gate, Sean M. Thompson comes swinging with his debut collection of stories, Too Late. In just 62 pages, Thompson manages to violate and decimate you with tales of lust, betrayal, murder, urban legends, and demonic possession. Thompson's visceral, hardcore prose will bludgeon you until you are at the threshold, leaving you a whimpering, bloody pulp. And if you manage to survive, his stories will linger within you long after you are done reading them; trauma locked away deep down inside you.  

Thompson's collection technically contains five stories, but a sixth story is added as bonus material. While the stories are not related to one another, there is a sense of cohesion, as they all take place in various parts of Massachusetss; this makes the stories, I think, more intimate for the reader, thus having a stronger impact. Thompson's stories are about very real, very flawed people who find themselves in unreal situations that challenge their perceptions of reality. There are terrible, unfathomable things on the fringes that are hungry for both flesh and spirit. 

The first story in the collection is Fickle Mortality. A serial killer is on death row, and during her final 60 minutes of life, she reflects on her crimes and how much she enjoyed them; the thrill of the hunt, and taking pleasure in her victims' final moments of life. Our killer also hints at something greater at work, indicating that she will be reborn and live on. Is she telling the truth, or is she just insane? That's for you to decide. With some commentary on childhood abuse, and the celebrity status of serial killers, Thompson starts off nice and slow, tying you to a chair and giving you a small taste of what is coming for you.

The next story, and my favorite of the six, is Stranded in the Storm. Josh and Karen are driving in the middle of a snow storm, on their way to party. Their car spins out of control and crashes into a snowbank. Josh calls for a tow truck to get them out, but is told it'll take about an hour for it to arrive; in the meantime, Josh and Karen sit tight, but have no idea that something is out in the woods, something huge and unnatural, and it's stalking them. Thompson's detailed descriptions of the snow, cold, and the menace that is looming over Josh and Karen, really help to dial up the dread, making you anxious and shaky. This is high-octane horror with a hint of tragedy at the end that is enough to make you shed a tear or two. 

Jumpin' Jack is tale about how you can never truly know someone. Our narrator reveals that Jack Brentweather, his co-worker, massacred fifteen girls in one night, and reflects on how no one could've known that Jack was capable of something so horrible, but also reflects on the self-guilt that ravages his mind. The narrator plays back over and over about how he should've been more aware, more in tune with the fact that something was wrong with Jack. It's a great commentary on how we punish ourselves for not doing something, anything, that could've stopped a horrible tragedy from happening. And like in Fickle Mortality, there is some commentary about how killers are immortalized and glorified through songs, stories, the media, and any other medium. Thompson also leaves this one up to the reader to interpret if Jack was just insane, or if something greater was at work, something guiding him.

Dust is my second favorite story in the collection. It's a fine Weird Western, something that we don't have enough of, if you ask me. Clickin' Clarence and Red Robert are looking for a place to shack up in, after robbing some people who were passing by in their wagon. Not wanting to get caught in the sandstorm that is rapidly approaching, they find shelter in a town called "Dust," except that it's deserted. They soon discover, especially Clarence, that there's more to the town than they truly know. This tale is dripping with atmosphere; it's creepy, and nicely paced. The theme of betrayal is at the center of this tale, but I love how Thompson fleshes out the town of Dust and its ghostly residents, and even making the town a character itself, in the sense that it's always looking for people to visit, except they never leave. 

 The End of Humanity is a maniacal, apocalyptic tale about an author who is in a creative slump. He searches the web for some ideas and come across the site of a demonologist by the name of Henry Scatherty, who only lives a few towns over. Unbeknownst to the writer, Mr. Scatherty is not what he appears to be. The story is told in the first person, from the point of view of the writer, giving the read a palpable sense of the doom that is approaching, and the feeling of degeneration in the writer, as he loses more and more of his humanity, taken over by something malevolent. Reading it makes you feel like the apocalypse is really happening, or that it's almost at your doorstep; it's too late for you to do anything. There is no interpretation to be made here: there are things that exist in places that we only see in nightmares. They are real, and they want you. 

The bonus story is Those Damn College Kids. Four friends are on their way to cabin for a little getaway, but things slowly begin to fall apart for them. Tempers flare, motives are revealed, and a tale of folk horror turns out to be true. Thompson adds a sort of commentary within the commentary, as the friends talk about what would happen in a horror movie, but that those things wouldn't happen to them because they are in the real world. The story has the feel of a Friday the 13th movie; there's lust, sex, alcohol, running and tripping, woods, and killer on the loose. 

With his debut collection, Thompson brings to the table a nice mix of stories that range in tone, themes, emotion, power, humor, and varying levels of horror and madness. Above all, though, Thompson brings the reader a powder keg of entertainment. These stories are akin to a late night at the drive-in, so bring a friend or your significant other, get yourself a beverage, some popcorn, and sit back for a fun night of gore and terror!

Muscadines: Paperback Review (Spoilers)

All my life I've made arrangements for unwanted men. I thought, once upon a time, Mother was searching for one she could keep. But she wanted what they owned, whatever she could get. She chose the ones who were proud of the size of a wallet, or the gold of a tie clip. Most were liars. They flashed a dime store pinky ring, called it a diamond, and said there was a lot more where that came from. Card sharks with fake names. Vacuum cleaner salesmen, hundreds of miles from home. Lonely men. Nobody looking for them, nobody expecting them home. They weren't afraid to travel alone. They should have been afraid. 

Ever since I read S.P. Miskowski's Skillute Cycle, I have been a fan of her writing. She creates creepy, dreadful, oppressive atmospheres, along with engaging, flawed characters. She digs deep into these characters--with great skill, I might add--and reveals grisly portraits of broken homes, fractured child/parent relationships, poverty, family cycles, identity, self-preservation, past deeds, and much, much more. In her story, Muscadines, Miskowski does not disappoint, crafting a fine piece of Southern Gothic Horror literature that left me staggering. 

Muscadines is published by Dunhams Manor Press, with art by the great Dave Felton. Felton's cover is a truly accurate, ghostly and terrifying depiction of what awaits the reader. Honestly, I can't imagine anyone else doing the cover. Muscadines tells the story of Alma, Martha, and Louise, three sisters living in their family home in an unknown, rural part of Georgia. At first, it's just Martha and Louise living together, but after many years of living in various places, Alma returns to assume the role as head of the household, much to the consternation of Martha. Told through Martha's fragmented narrative, we are treated to a horror show of family secrets that involve abuse, their deceased mother, poison berries, morbid rituals and traditions, and murder. 

Miskowski immediately establishes the mood of her story by not telling us exactly where it takes place. We know it's in a rural part of Georgia because of other areas mentioned in passing, such as LaGrange, Stone Mountain, Warm Springs, and Chipley, but that's all we have to go by. What we are told is:

Down here, in our part of the state, the roads disappear in the dirt and weeds. Houses are half a mile or more apart, and some are deserted. Farming families that didn't lose husbands in the last World War lost sons in Korea. So there's nobody working the land now but a few old ladies. Their houses are like ours. No fancy driveways. No lawn jockeys. No estate names. We're not on any historic route. For that you're better off heading to Warm Springs or Stone Mountain. Even chicken farmers from Chipley think of this place as the sticks. 

Miskowski puts the location in a sort of weird state; she gives it a sense of otherness, something alien-like; it exists outside a state of normalcy. She writes that travelers usually pass on through, rarely stopping. And if they do stop, it's to take a picture of a cotton field, or some other site or object. To the travelers, the location is something different, something they don't normally see; or even something that's forgotten, or even hidden, like a kind of hidden poverty. In other instances, travelers find themselves lost while on their way to some other destination. This gives the story the feel of a twisted, dark fairy tale, something that's hazy and dream-like. By immediately setting this up , Miskowski is telling you that you are in for a brutal, deranged, and hallucinatory ride.

Muscadines is told in the first person, by Martha. The narrative is fragmented, in that some chapters are only one or two sentences, while others are anywhere from one paragraph, to multiple paragraphs. It makes you feel like you are reading a diary of sorts; something you'd find in an old abandoned farmhouse. It definitely makes the story feel more personal, adding heightened levels of emotion, rawness, and pain. Some of the things Martha says are enough to make you recoil in horror, causing you to put the book down and catch your breath. The story is perfectly paced, as Martha reveals more and more with each page turned, all the way until the very end.

At the heart of Muscadines is the theme of unbreakable family cycles, and abuse. We learn that Martha, Louise, and Alma's mother, Ruth, grew up in a fanatically religious, abusive household. Ruth's parents, Ophelia and Desmond Parker, attended church three times a week, and always asked for the congregation to pray for Ruth, who Desmond said had a demon in her. No one was to believe anything Ruth said. She would receive beatings from not only her parents, but Sunday school teachers, as well. Miskowski doesn't pull any punches in her descriptions:

Once Ruth was unconscious, or at least couldn't move, Desmond would put on his dentures and unbutton his collar. He'd take a flashlight down off a shelf in the hall, and go to search for signs of the demon on his daughter's body. Taking special care to check all the hidden spots where that crafty monster might leave his traces. After a thorough search Ophelia would bathe Ruth, change her nightgown, and put her back into bed. 

The family cycle of morbid rituals and traditions doesn't begin until Ruth is eighteen years old and inherits her house after her parents die. Since she was a kid, Ruth kept a berry plant hidden underneath the back steps of her home. With the discovery of what the berries could do, and the appearance of muscadines growing on her land, Ruth established a new vocation that would ensure her survival, and would be passed down to her children. She would ground up the berries to a fine powder and mix them with the muscadines to make wine that could render someone unable to move. Thus began the ritual of Ruth going out to find men to bring back to her home, sometimes having sex with them, drug them, tie them up, murder them, and take their possessions; and her children played a part in it, as well. And we later learn that all three girls have a different father that fell prey to Ruth.

When Ruth dies, and Alma leaves, Martha takes over the household and cares for her sister, Louise. Martha does everything she can to break the horrible cycle that her Mother started. But when Alma returns years later and assumes the role as head of the household, the cycle comes back, as Alma begins doing the same thing her mother did: bringing men back to the house to be drugged and murdered. At first, Martha fights it; she hates that Alma is back and wants her out, but as the story reaches its end, all three girls fully embrace the cycle, and vow to continue it. 

What's so great about Horror and Weird Fiction, is that strange, bizarre, and horrifying ordeals are effectively used to highlight numerous themes. In this case, Miskowski crafted a tale about an unbreakable family cycle, and that no matter how hard we try, we are destined--or doomed, which may be the more appropriate word--to fall into the those cycles, some of which began generations ago. We always talk about how we aren't going be like our parents, and our parents said they aren't going to be like their parents, and so on and so forth, but it's inevitable. Even the best of us maintain certain aspects of a cycle, despite our best efforts not to. Whether it's your father's temper, or your mother's gambling, something is going to stay with you. In the case of Alma, Martha, and Louise, it's their mother's ritual killings. 

Once again, S.P. Miskowski has shown us why we should be reading her work. It's her skill at writing evenly paced stories and smooth prose, coupled with her incomparable ability to dig deep down into peoples' souls and unearth all their complexities and layers. With Muscadines, Miskowski brought us a tale that's, brutal, raw, and unwavering in it's onslaught of the reader's being. If you haven't read Miskowki yet, now is the time to start doing so; she is taking literary Horror to new heights. 

Grass: Review

Can a body be a forest? A deep dank overgrown woods? A tangled jungle of viscous vegetation that requires a machete to slash a pathway to its dark, dark heart?

From the thickest, darkest depths of a long forgotten swamp, comes Anya Martin's novella, Grass, another knockout book from Dim Shores, a vanguard of Weird and Horror fiction. Huge props to Jeanne D'Angelo, for creating such a lush, alluring, alien-like cover that emanates vibes of mystery, erotica, and science-fiction, accurately capturing Martin's humid and swampy tale. I can honestly say that, out of Dim Shores' current catalog, it's my favorite cover.

Grass centers on Sheila, a woman living in Georgia who receives a call saying that her alcoholic, abusive ex-husband Dave, and his wife Monica, were killed in a plane crash. Due to Dave never updating his medical records, Sheila is still listed as an emergency contact and must drive to Camden County in southern Georgia to identify the body, ensuring that it is indeed Dave. After two years of trying to forget Dave and all the pain he caused her, he is suddenly thrust back into Sheila's life, and as a corpse no less! Sheila gets much more than the corpse of her ex-husband, though; she leaves the morgue with a stowaway; something alien, a primordial being that takes Sheila to new levels of passion and pleasure.

After two readings of Martin's novella, I feel like it can be considered something along the lines of a treatise on abuse against women. All the elements combined to make her tale are backdrops, where at the forefront of the tale, is Sheila's struggle to survive, attempting to live her life one day at a time, in the horrible wake of Dave's brutality against her. One would think that Sheila would have been thrilled upon hearing about Dave's death, and while there was some exultation, there were more emotions that flooded throughout her mind:

The biggest surprise was a sudden emotion of loss, sadness--no, not love! Should she be crying? Did Dave deserve her tears? She never thought she'd ever cry if he died. He deserved to die, didn't he, for what he had done to her? No, she didn't have any reason to cry. She didn't love Dave, couldn't even remember saying she did. The emotion churned, intensified into hate, the back of her head burning as it used to after he slammed his fist into it. She closed her eyes and grasped above her forehead, wincing at the pain.

For those who have never even remotely experienced what Sheila went through at the hands of Dave, it's difficult to understand why anyone would feel anything other than happiness at the death of such a disgusting human being; is it really for us to understand? Are we ever actually going to truly understand? Perhaps Sheila remembered the more pleasant times with Dave, and may have even missed those times. And, perhaps, Sheila turns to hate because, in a sense, Dave got off easy; he's dead and gone, and the majority of people who knew him will never know just how terrible he was. Worst of all, Sheila is still alive, and still dealing with the mental and emotional scars that Dave left upon her. Every single day, Sheila has to muster the mental and physical fortitude to keep going, compartmentalizing her trauma, focusing on taking care of her flowers and plants, giving her a sense of comfort

Another aspect of abuse that Anya deftly explores is the 'why'. Why did Sheila stay with Dave for as long as she did? For some, the simple answer is, "You should've left him the moment he laid his hands on you." We all want to believe it should be that easy, but, unfortunately it isn't. Anya doesn't provide the reader with a single response, but rather, through Sheila, opens up the reader to a world of reasons and the psychology behind them. Dave wasn't always abusive to Sheila; there relationship didn't start off that way, it was gradual. Even then, there were periods of calm between Dave's violence. Maybe Sheila thought the last time would be it. Maybe she found herself normalizing it. Perhaps she just focused on the better times, and that it wasn't like this all the time. She could've felt trapped, or thinking that she would never find something better than life with Dave. Dave's mental and physical abuse kept Sheila down, and in fear. Then, Dave divorces Sheila, leaving her to wonder if she was the problem the whole time, further fracturing her self-esteem and confidence; now, clearly, Sheila wasn't the problem, but you can see how Dave completely destroyed everything about her. At one point, Sheila actually contemplates suicide, wondering if it's a better alternative than living a life of trauma, triggers, and constant anxiety. 

The creature, alien, whatever you want to call it, serves as not only a source of comfort for Sheila, but as a source of pleasure; something new, something different. Did Dave ever please Sheila? If he did, she can't remember when, or if he ever did. Is this the Unknown for Sheila? Because of Dave, would Sheila ever be able to let another man into her life? The swamp creature--something from a more primordial time--does more for Sheila than anyone ever did. Much like Dave, however, Sheila discovers the true nature of the creature: it must have water, and will devour anything it can to survive. Sheila found herself in the same situation she was in with Dave for all those years, and had to get out of it as soon as possible, leading to the abrupt, yet jaw dropping conclusion.

Of course, these themes and elements would be nothing without Anya's smooth prose. She uses language that creates a lush, humid, vibrant, and tragic tale. Her descriptions of the Georgia heat and humidity greatly emphasize the oppression felt by Sheila; so much, in fact, it's more than capable of making the reader heavy with the weight of Sheila's experiences. And Anya's erotic passages involving Sheila and the swamp creature are quite juicy, and do well to express what Sheila had never quite experienced.  Blending Horror, Erotica, Science Fiction, and referencing such films as Swamp Thing, The Creature from the Black Lagoon, and more, along with themes of abuse, post traumatic stress, tragedy, anxiety, and pleasure, Anya Martin crafted a tale that is on the level of being discussed in a college literature course. Anya expertly navigates these themes that many do not understand, nor, to some extent, want to acknowledge. I was only left with one question: when are we going to see an Anya Martin collection?