The Queen in Green: Review/Analysis

Everything-trees, rocks, sun, wind-all of it speaks its own language at its own pace. But being human means we are too self-involved to even consider the notion.

Of all the terrestrial ecosystems found on our beautiful planet, forests (generally speaking), are my favorite. They evoke fear, wonder, beauty, and are home to myths and legends from cultures all over the world. Throughout time, people have associated forests with goodness, nostalgia, reverence, relaxation, sanctuary, and even fear and terror, said to never be traversed because of evil beings that lurk within them. We love spending time in forests, whether it's for hiking, hunting, bird watching, or even to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life. With forests being home to all manner of wildlife, rivers, waterfalls, thick canopies, massive trees, and being so prominent in folklore, myths, and legends, it's no surprise they are settings in fiction of all genres. Gina Ranalli's short story, The Queen in Green, is one such story. A Weird tale that would make anyone think twice about going into the woods. 

Until I read The Queen in Green, I was not familiar with Gina Ranalli; however, after reading it, I fully intend to delve into her other works of literature. If they are of the same quality as this story, then I will be writing more reviews and analyses on her works. In this story, I found she can craft an inviting, enchanting, and deceiving atmosphere, and can shift from playfulness to terror at the drop of a dime. 

A chapbook published by Dunhams Manor Press, The Queen in Green is about a boy named Charlie, who is on a camping trip with his parents. He is sent into the woods to find kindling to make a fire back at the campsite. He spots a squirrel and sets down his bundle of sticks by a huge boulder so that he may pursue it. After the squirrel scurries up a tree, Charlie loses interest and begins collecting more sticks. When he returns to the boulder, he is startled by a small Dwarf sitting on it. The Dwarf greets Charlie, and, knowing Charlie's curiosity and "flights of fancy," the Dwarf convinces Charlie to follow him, with the hopes of seeing something really interesting. Charlie soon discovers that there is more to the forest than meets the eye; he is an outsider in a world he only thinks he knows. And his curiosity will cost him. 

As the last sentence in the previous paragraph states, Charlie's curiosity gets the better of him. He's a kid who is, as his mother says, "given to flights of fancy." In the forest, his imagination is running in several different directions. He's collecting kindling, chasing animals, not taking into consideration of where he's at. He's completely caught off guard by the appearance of the Dwarf. Being smaller than Charlie, the Dwarf is not so much alarming, but is more of a curiosity to Charlie, which somewhat relaxes him and loosens his guard. I initially somewhat suspected the Dwarf's nature when he referred to Charlie's kindling as "loot," indicating that Charlie is stealing from the woods, rendering him an unwelcome visitor. It conveys this theme of humans acting as intruders and thieves in a place that has been around far longer than we have. This goes hand-in-hand with the Dwarf's lecture to Charlie on sentience. The Dwarf leads Charlie to what appears to be a dying tree named Mungforgotta, the Queen in Green, and he wants Charlie to give the tree a little "pick-me-up," a "boost of youth." Charlie thinks the whole thing is crazy, commenting on Mungforgotta being nothing but a tree. The Dwarf says:

So? She's still a sentient being. She still knows what's happening around her. She still has feelings. She and all the trees you see around you-just move at a different pace than the rest of us. They speak on a different frequency. 

The sentience of Mungforgotta and all the other trees puts an even greater emphasis on Charlie and other humans as trespassers, violating and tainting the sacred grounds of a world within our world; a world that, like an iceberg, has much more beneath its surface. Charlie incredulously responds to the Dwarf with, "Speak?" The Dwarf says:

Oh, yes. Speak. They're conversing with each other right now, just as we are. But they speak too slowly for us to hear them. It's one of those wonders of the world. Everything-trees, rocks, sun, wind-all of it speaks its own language at its own pace. But being human means we are too self-involved to even consider the notion. But once you've been made aware of it, as you've just been, the hum of the earth will be  impossible to ignore in those moments when you find yourself alone in an otherwise quiet place.

Being so self-centered and concerned with matters pertaining only to ourselves, we rarely see what's outside our periphery. We rarely catch a glimpse of what lies beneath our surface level perceptions of the world we inhabit. Once we do, though, as the Dwarf says, we can never ignore it. Our simple perceptions are forever altered, once we are revealed hidden truths. More often than not, however, these truths can spell our ultimate doom in a variety of ways. 

The mention of sentience and frequencies outside the meager range of humans is often explored in Weird Fiction. Christopher Slatsky's stories often involve sentience as a result of emergent properties, such as mega-cities. Ambrose Bierce touched on frequencies in his story, The Damned Thing. In it, there is some sort of monster that lies outside our spectrum of vision. The only way the characters know it's there is because when it walks by trees, the trees can no longer be seen, yet the creature also cannot be seen. So, not only are there things we cannot comprehend, but there are things that are out of range of our senses. In the case of The Queen in Green, the voices of the forest are on a frequency outside the range of human hearing. Sentience in organisms such as trees gives way to the notion that the entire earth is sentient, and our destructive ways give us a parasitic, viral nature. Ranalli takes this grand concept and effectively shrinks it down to a micro incident involving a boy, a Dwarf, and Mungforgotta.

The Dwarf tells Charlie that Mungforgotta is old, sad, tired, and sickly. He wants Charlie to introduce himself to Mungforgotta, but Charlie begins to think that the Dwarf is a loon, and is ready to leave, until the Dwarf asks him, "Don't you believe in magic?" This causes Charlie to purse his lips, and in an impatient manner, raises his right hand and introduces himself to Mungforgotta, the Queen in Green. Suddenly, the trees "gnarled branches twitched," beginning to grown longer and droop towards the ground. Charlie is amazed at the sight, "Holy shit," the only words he could think of. The tree limbs begin to "bristle along their lengths with short, fine hairs while simultaneously bending in peculiar ways, as if the wood had secret joints within it. Charlie is witnessing those hidden truths coming to light. The surface appearance of the forest is all deception, and Charlie is unfortunate enough to see what lies beyond the illusion. Keeping his focus on the tree, the Dwarf is now next to Charlie, and wants him to get a closer look at Mungforgotta, and it's here that things suddenly shift to the terrifying, for Charlie soon realizes that Mungforgotta is not a tree:

The limbs no longer looked like limbs at all-more like enormous, long, black, multi-jointed spider legs, all of them pawning at the ground as if blindly searching for something.

The Dwarf has Charlie in his grip, and is surprisingly strong; Charlie cannot break free. The Dwarf reveals that he and Mungforgotta are one, he lives inside her, but is free to roam the forest. He is "pollen on a fishing line." He attracts bait to the pole that is Mungforgotta. I somewhat see the Dwarf as some sort of guardian of the forest, or perhaps he's an executioner. He disposes of those who come barging into a place they have no business being. Or, he is simply an appendage of a predatory creature, like the dangling tongue of a snapping turtle. Either way, those who lose themselves in the forest, they become prey, as Charlie horrifyingly discovers. 

I was actually caught off guard with this, because I was expecting Charlie to leave the forest, but with his view of the world forever altered, but that wasn't the case. The Queen in Green has a fairy tale quality to it, a parable to keep little boys and girls in check, and to show respect to the environment. What also makes the story so effective is Ranalli's depiction of Charlie. She achieves a perfect balance in making Charlie a believable kid, to the point where I was reminiscing on my own childhood, and my many excursions into wooded areas. Charlie's not a stupid kid, but he is curious, and has quite the imagination. He's well aware of all the possible outcomes that could happen with the Dwarf, making him somewhat on guard, but he can't help but give in to his child-like whims, and the possibility of seeing magic. Ranalli crafted an excellent tale full of atmosphere and terror. She not only made me believe in magic, but her tale will serve as a reminder to be more aware and cautious the next time I find myself in the woods. 

No One is Sleeping in this World: Review/Analysis

If one were to accept that sentience was predicated on matter, and cities were some of the most complicated structures ever built, emergent properties were the inevitable consequence.

When I wrote on Christopher Slatsky's short story, Alectryomancer, I said if you aren't reading his work, you are doing yourself a huge disservice. Well, his short story, No One is Sleeping in this World, buttresses my statement. Slatsky is soaring higher and higher in the realm of Weird Fiction. He's a giant, casting a shadow over the literary landscape, quickly becoming synonymous with all things Weird and Horror. Slatsky writes truly unique and original stories, refreshing to anyone who has read their share of Weird Fiction. He is a gargantuan cornucopia of knowledge, consisting of archaeology, architecture, physics, biology, geology, mythology, religion, folklore, and so much more. He takes his broad depth of knowledge and infuses it with his writing, producing stories that leave you in awe, terrify you, turn the gears in your head, and chill you to the marrow.

A chapbook published by the consistently fantastic Dunhams Manor Press, No One is Sleeping in this World tells the story of Julia and Carla, two friends who are in the process of making a documentary titled, Landscape of Open Eyes. They are driving to a building that was designed by an architect named Alexei, whose designs were drawn from his dreams and knowledge of the occult. By no means a prolific architect, the majority of Alexei's buildings, following his mysterious disappearance, were demolished, rendering any existing building a highly rare find. Being labeled a decadent artist steeped in controversy amplifies the reward and excitement of being able to lay eyes on one of his buildings. As Julia and Carla get closer to their destination, things slowly spiral into the Weird and unknown, and their obsession and curiosity will open them up to things no one should have any business knowing.

Slatsky's story should be required reading for aspiring Megapolisomancers, and would make for a great companion piece to Thibaut de Castries' book, Megapolisomancy: A New Science of Cities. It's quite possible that Fritz Leiber was guiding Slatsky's hand in writing No One is Sleeping in this World, but it's all Slatsky's voice and uniqueness. A variety of themes and concepts are explored, creating a deep, complex, ambiguous tale that deserves to be read multiple times.

Obsession and curiosity, especially in Weird Fiction, have a tendency to get even the most intelligent protagonist into trouble, or, in some cases, much worse. Carla has been obsessed with architecture since her college days. Julia's obsession is film making. Their obsessions, coupled with their search for the Alexei building, lead them into dark, unknown territory, ultimately resulting in being subsumed by architectural integration.

Carla first begins to realize that all is not what it seems when she isn't sure if they are in the Central Industrial area:

The street was dominated by rows of corrugated metal warehouses, the pavement strewn with burst trash bags and discarded clothing. A woman pounded her palm against the car as we drove by, her face contorted with rage. Everything felt wrong- I knew the homeless weren't feral animals squatting in waste, I was certain the city hadn't always been so tainted or misaligned. Exhaustion whipped up my anxiety.

Carla and Julia have entered an alien landscape, unrecognizable especially to Carla. She knows this isn't right, something is way off, but they can't stop now; they've come to far to just turn around and give up. They need footage of what is possibly the only building left that was designed by Alexei. To help figure out where they are, Carla checked the map on her phone, but all it did was load something that looked like a "stain grasping for air." Additionally, all the street signs had plastic trash bags over them, duct taped to keep them there. They are on the outskirts of the unknown, about to cross the threshold into another world; a world they will find inside the Alexei building. Eventually, they find the Alexei building. Carla is disappointed at her initial viewing of it, but soon sees the tented roof and "ornamental mascarons on the cornice like the faces of the dead crawling through the structure itself." Now, no one is allowed inside this building, it's condemned; however, Carla and Julia's disappointment with the exterior of the building prompts them to find a way inside. Their determination to capture footage of Alexei's designs takes the further and further into the unknown. They find a rusty sliding shutter, and, strangely enough, it's the only surface on the whole building that's not covered in graffiti. Seems rather inviting, don't you think? As if the building wants them to enter. 

Opening the shutter and entering, Carla detects the faint sound of singing, somewhere off in the distance. Singing? In a condemned building? Curiosity may tell you that you want to know who is singing, and where in the building it's coming from. Carla and Julia try numerous doors, all locked. The main corridor takes them to a room with a huge sliding metal door, locked with chains, and the faint smell of incense that reminds Carla of Mass. There also is a stack of pallets against the wall. Crestfallen, Carla believes there is nothing here in the way of Alexei's touch. Before calling it quits, though, they see a "wide lintel that ran the length of the room and ended at an Oeil-de-boeuf window above the imposing doors." Their determination renewed, they drag the pallets closer to the window, uncovering a hole in the wall. From the opening, they hear the singing and smell the incense. The opening appears to connect to the other room. Carla tells Julia she is not turning back. Would you turn back? I like to think I would, but I'm not so sure. Curiosity and obsession can get the better of us. Julia says, "Down the rabbit hole?" This isn't just an ordinary opening in some wall; This is the threshold that delineates the known from the unknown. Carla and Julia are entering a world that very few have seen; a world that, perhaps, shouldn't be seen. There are some things better left unknown.

Getting on their hands and knees and bringing a camera, Carla and Julia enter the opening, taking a sharp right that leads them all the way to grate, separating them from another room. What they see gives them pause:

At least thirty people kneeled in the center, chanting something that sounded vaguely Gregorian if not for an undertone of gasping. I was shocked to see they all wore torn yellow raincoats and plastic trash bags over their heads like a parody of Mantilla.

At this point, how can you turn back? Carla even says, "What the fuck?" Julia wants to make sure Carla is filming the whole thing. How many people can honestly say they have seen something like this? If this congregation of bag-heads isn't weird enough, what comes next is truly frightening, and Carla is the only one with enough sense to get out of there. A bag-head narrator says, "I offer you the prisca sapienta (rediscovering ancient knowledge that had been lost over the ages) of the Architect! I offer you the GREAT WORK!" Then, the truly unfathomable happens:

Shadows in the corner of the room closed in. Black tendrils dripped from the ceiling, from the chaotic architecture, across the cement floor to the center of the warehouse where muscular strands danced in anticipation of great things.

Carla could not comprehend what she was seeing. The black tendrils congealed into something ineffable. The best way to describe it: 

A giant, its head a mass of billowing trash bags, each malformed bubble expanding and deflating repeatedly. Its arms were thick sheets of glass crudely cut into half moon shapes like scimitars, the surface stained and milky as slag glass. The head moved in such a manner it blotted out the space it occupied.

The monster feeds off the chanting of the bag-heads, and Carla finally decides it's time to leave, but Julia is fixated on the grotesque, disturbing scene. She's already lost, and even grabs Carla's arm with a "fanatics strength," indicating she is already one of them. Having no other thought but to leave, Carla elbows Julia and breaks her grip, fleeing from the awful scene. Julia's escape would prove to be futile, however. Slatsky does an excellent job of exploring what our obsessions and curiosities can do to us. How we have this innate ability to see something to the end, no matter the risks and consequences that may be involved, even if, in the end, they prove horrific. It's one of those instances where death is a much better fate than what Julia and Carla experience. 

Slatsky also tackles the monumental concept of sentient cities. Cities that are god-minds; conscious, gigantic beings. Now, the story is told as Carla's recollection of how her soul was subsumed by architectural integration, but the beginning--the second paragraph--gives us a glimpse of the present:

An infinite array of cities swim through a sea of stars, megalopoli pass overhead adorned in streets and inhabitants and sputtering lights that inevitably blink into darkness. Klaxon horns scream with the enormous shriek of rusting metal, groan with the voice of split concrete. Ophanim wheels grind, propel existence into infinity.

Slatsky's clever introduction is enough to immediately suck you in. You wonder to yourself, how did it come to be this way? Sentient cities? What are we? Throughout the story, Slatsky slowly pieces together fragments of the how and why. Carla describes the idea of her and Julia's documentary as such:

We proposed that architecture was a brain template, cities neurons in the caudate. If one were to accept that sentience was predicated on matter, and cities were some of the most complicated structures ever built, emergent properties were the inevitable consequence. Aqueducts, avenues, sewers and axons; dendrite slopes, every street a glial cell. Infrastructure was just another ghost swarming with parasitic denizens, humanity a pack of animals dancing on the head of a flèche in the dreams of cities.

What we have here is a role reversal, of sorts. Humans dominate the earth, its landscapes and geography; however, our very structures, the mega-cities we created--complex systems--gained consciousness, becoming an organism and rendering us as parasites. Or, at the very least, we are simply part of its anatomy. It's another way of hitting on this whole idea of our insignificance. We are insects; tiny pinholes of consciousnesses engulfed by a greater consciousness. Julia also says (one of my favorite quotes from the story), "Ghosts are just how a city dreams about what it used to be." To even think that we are experiencing, LIVING, the dreams of a city, it's enough to shatter the most stable mind. Julia's quote is also key, because there is some debate as to whether or not the things that Carla sees are the result of her unstable mind, due to years of drug use and therapy, or is she really experiencing the dreams of the city. Throughout the story, Carla thinks she sees different faces floating down the streets, but then turn out to be bags, carried by the wind. Another scene that calls into question whether or not any of this is real, is when Carla and Julia are peering through the grate at the bag-head worshipers. From a dark corner, a movie projector is projecting images of various civilizations, maps, cuneiform tablets, and other images. Suddenly, a bag-head stands up from the crowd, book in hand, opens it and begins to read from it. One of passages reads:

Not only has this biological change been conclusively shown, the evidence also suggests that the bigger the city the greater risk for schizophrenia. The demiurge that constructed this architectural universe is intentionally altering the species to become conduits for dreams.

Not only does this passage seem familiar to Carla, but she suddenly sees footage of herself projected on the wall. Footage of her at five years old, standing at the foot of her bed. Now, I will tell you, I was convinced that this was all in Carla's head; however, it dawned on me: if the city is a god-mind, a colossal consciousness, then it is aware of the thoughts, ideas, and feelings of humans. More to the point, it's aware of Carla's thoughts and feelings. The city is aware of its body, its entire being. Carla is experiencing the dreams of the city. To further drive this home, when she flees Julia and the disturbing scene with the giant, she makes it outside, but witnesses an incredible change:

The street was no longer asphalt and traffic signs but an expanse of wet gavel stretching off into a horizon the color of a blood clot. Rivulets trickled through the rocks where crosswalks used to be. The stifling atmosphere felt like a sheet of clear plastic had been stretched across the sky.

By the time Carla comes to this startling, mind-shattering revelation, it's too late. Architectural subsumption is inevitable, and the only fate. This nicely leads into the next topic to be explored. The bag-head worshipers practice a sort of neo-religion. Sacred Geometry is referenced a couple times in the story. It's used in the design and construction of religious structures. Anything from temples, mosques, churches, to altars. It's even utilized in sacred spaces. Symbolic and sacred meanings are ascribed to the geometry and proportions of these structures. The Alexei building is a church for the bag-heads. A new church for a new age; a sanctuary. Was this Alexei's intention all along? To design a new church for an age he foresaw? The room the bag-heads are worshiping in, it has the Alexei touches, but it's also reminiscent of Piranesi's Carceri prints. Giovanni Battista Piranesi was an Italian artist from the 18th century. His Carceri prints depict enormous subterranean, labyrinthine structures, consisting of stairways and walkways that lead to nowhere, they dead end; distortions and chaos. The room serves as a place of worship, and to communicate with the demiurge, which is frequently mentioned in the story. The demiurge is the artisan--the architect--responsible for designing and constructing the physical universe. It's not the same as the monotheistic god. A quote I used above says the demiurge is altering the human species to become conduits for dreams. This would be the dreams of the city. Through worship, the bag-heads are conduits, making the city's dreams manifest. The amount of worshipers in the building also explain why Carla never saw anyone, especially homeless people, in a city block radius of the Alexei building; they have all been subsumed. Now, the demiurge may just be the only explanation humans use to explain these grand workings. To use Slatsky's other story Alectryomancer as an example, Rey and other people in the story have their belief in god, to some degree or another, but it's too simplistic when faced with the complexities of Phainothropus, the real puppet master in the story. There is something highly complex at work in No One is Sleeping in this World, and humans explain it to the best of their ability; the only way their feeble minds can express it. The cities are the real puppet masters of the humans; the god-minds that sail through oceans of stars. We are merely a fraction of their make-up. 

There is yet another theme to be found in Slatsky's stories. You see, the majority of Weird Fiction places great emphasis on cosmic indifference. We experience the indifference of the cold, unforgiving cosmos. We look up to the stars and feel our insignificance. Slatsky, on the other hand, has us look inward, to the earth. Insignificance and indifference is right in front of us, or right beneath our feet. It also emphasizes the unknown and alien on our very own planet, the planet we think we have mastery over. It's one more reason why Slatsky's tales are so original and unique, and another reason why I cannot stress enough how amazing his stories are. I'm a full-fledged advocate of Christopher Slatsky. He is a name that should be on everyone's radar. He's a force of nature that cannot be stopped, nor should he be. He is shaking the foundation of the Weird Fiction world, making waves and dropping jaws. Slatsky is the future of Weird Fiction, and the future is now. 

The Fishing Hut: Review/Analysis

Some of my fondest memories are of the weekend fishing excursions I went on with my father and grandfather. We would dedicate an entire Saturday or Sunday to fishing. We enjoyed laughs, good conversation, the outdoors, and the thrill of having a potentially monstrous fish on the end of our lines. More than that, though, we enjoyed spending time with one another. Fishing was the one thing we all loved to do together, so whenever we did go, we cherished every minute of it. Knowing this about me, it should come as no surprise that I take to Weird tales involving fishing. One such tale is Steve Rasnic Tem's short story, The Fishing Hut, from the pages of Black Static #45.

Steve Rasnic Tem is a name that every horror fan should know. He is a legend in the field, revered and respected by his contemporaries. He is synonymous with exemplary writing, creating haunting landscapes, eerie atmospheres, and fantastic character relationships. I loved his novel, Deadfall Hotel, an odd, creepy novel that pulled at my heartstrings; filled with loss, rites of passage, emotional pain, liminality, transition, and much more. The Fishing Hut is yet another example of Tem's ghostly and superb writing.

The Fishing Hut begins with a man named Bishop, who, on the suggestion of his doctor, is driving to a campsite to go fishing. Bishop is a rather irritable, impatient individual, and his doctor tells him that fishing is a form of meditation, and will help him relax. Despite having no desire to go fishing, Bishop goes anyway. He purchases a brand new fishing vest that has several pouches, putting an old boy scout compass in one, and leaving the rest empty, making him stand out as the goofy looking, stereotypical fisherman. Stuck in a line of traffic leading into the campsite, Bishop loses his patience and pulls into the opposite lane, speeding ahead of all the other cars. He ends up driving past the designated camping and fishing areas and winds up on a gravel road leading away from the river. Well past the hustle and bustle of campers and fishermen, Bishop comes across and old man who directs him to a fishing hut, a place where he will find peace and quiet, if that's what he's looking for. What transpires is an unsettling, haunting experience that offers Bishop a chance to let go of who he is and change. It's an experience he will never forget.

 The character of Bishop is an impatient individual, treated like a child by his wife Irene, yet his lack of patience makes him childlike. There seems to be a lack of control over his life, as well. Irene wants Bishop to see doctors that will directly tell him he needs to lose weight and exercise more, and it's clear that Bishop isn't too fond of being told what he shouldn't or shouldn't do, which is why he likes the doctor he is currently seeing. Rather than express concern over Bishop's weight and prescribe exercise, the doctor simply suggests a bit of peace and relaxation will do wonders for him; however, Bishop's doctor brings his childlike behavior to his attention, when he informs Bishop that he stares at the secretary "a bit too long," telling him that he doesn't have to check back until six months. What that really means is, don't come back.

Bishop is clearly an outsider in this story; he's out of his element amongst the camping and fishing grounds, wearing a brand new fishing vest for the occasion, along with new gear. He even practices putting worms on hooks at home, so as not to embarrass himself, which is something he is quite concerned with throughout the story. When Bishop meets the old man who directs him to the fishing hut, his eyes are described as "strained, watery, as if he were about to cry." The look of the old man is one Bishop saw in the mirror almost every morning, perhaps to indicate an unhappy life; a life that constantly irritates him to no end, greatly adding to his impatience.

When Bishop asks the old man he meets on the road if there is some place quieter to fish, away from all the other campers and fishermen, the old man says, "I guess there's the old fishing hut. Some still use it, I reckon. It's quiet, and it's shady enough, if that's what you're looking for." Now, that seems like a normal enough response, but when Bishop says it sounds perfect and asks where it's located, the old man says "perfect," as if he's examining the word, and follows with, "I don't know. Good enough for some. Depends on what you're looking for." The old man's second response indicates there is more to the fishing hut than meets the eye, which Bishop doesn't pick up on. The old man makes the fishing hut sound as if it is beneficial to some people, if beneficial is a word we can use to describe what it does. Others may spend ample amounts of time in there and have nothing happen to them at all.

The fishing hut itself, like many other locales in Weird tales, is a place where the impossible happens. It's a place that tears down the barriers and constructs we have each created through our individual perceptions of the world we live in, and how we view it. I can't stress enough that locales, such as buildings (down to their architecture), villages, houses, cities, forests, caves, and the like, are just as important as the characters themselves, and, more often than not, are characters themselves; place as character. They often *are* the story. Those who enter these locations find themselves in a liminal state; they undergo an initiation process, or rite of passage, having many truths revealed to them. Those who survive are reintegrated into the world with new knowledge that has transmutated their conception of the world around them. The fishing hut puts Bishop through some sort of test or initiation. It's appearance is somewhat deceptive to Bishop, especially when he walks inside. The outside of the hut is described as such:

He caught his first glimpse of the roof of the hut as he descended the slope: a broad expanse of shiny tin with significant areas of furry rust. He didn't see the walls until he was almost at water's edge: they were gray, streaked green and a dull, damp black. The structure looked solid enough, except some of the boards going into the water had warped. The building had been erected in the near half of the stream. Square openings at each end allowed the river to run through.

Looking through a black opening on the side of the hut, Bishop could see "deep shadow inside scarred with brilliant slashes of light." At this opening, Bishop hesitated, emphasizing his outsiderhood and overall being out of his element. Bishop will be walking into a place that sits between light and dark; between two worlds, a nexus of sorts. When Bishop walks in, he is greeted by an old man. 

The hut was longer inside than Bishop would have guessed. Now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the light he could see that there was no floor; the man was sitting on a shelf two planks wide stretching the length of the interior and supported by triangular brackets of blackish two-by-fours. There appeared to be a matching shelf on the other side, but he could see only part of it - the rest fell into murky shadow and confusing reflection.

Once inside the fishing hut, things progressively get weirder and weirder. The old man greets Bishop, yet Bishop isn't sure where he should sit; he's nervous and reticent, afraid something may be lurking in the water. You can see the dichotomy between the two: Bishop with his pristine vest, carrying only a compass, and the old man, weathered by time, wearing a flannel shirt and paint-stained jeans. The conversation between the two, to say the least, is odd and uneven. When Bishop asks the old man if fishing in their family is a tradition, the old man says, "Tradition, obligation, obsession - it's all shades of psychology, I suppose. We're all onions." What? Bishop doesn't know how to respond. Us being onions obviously denotes we are comprised of many layers of characteristics, quirks, qualities (both positive and negative) etc. But the vibe I got from the old man is that we are too caught up in all of it. So concerned about such things, when we shouldn't be. 

From there, things continue to spiral into the weird. Bishop asks the old man if any of the fish have taken an interest in his bait, and the old man says, "The fish here like to defy expectation." Next, he says, "Oh, they're there. If you look closely, you can find their shadows." Are we fish? Do people  come to the fishing hut unknowingly to defy the expectations of life? Of the universe? Bishop stares into the water, acclimating his eyes. He thinks he sees a fish and tells the old man, who says, "A commitment of patience is required. This life is not meant for everyone." Which life? Is the life Bishop and others live not for all of them? Or is the old man talking about another life, a life lived somewhere else? The shadows, perhaps? The next scene warrants this question. By this time, Bishop is slowly losing his patience. He didn't want to be here in the first place, but being here now, he wanted what he came for. The old man asks, "How about you? Are they biting any better where you are?" Only, the old man didn't ask Bishop, he asked someone was in the "deeper darkness on the other side." The old man glances at Bishop and says, "We always think it's better over there. But apparently it's not No, wait...apparently there have been some recent nibbles." The old man clearly possesses knowledge beyond someone the likes of Bishop, or anyone akin to him. It occurred to me that, perhaps, the old man has been on the other side. Maybe he is from the other side. Perhaps he wanted to see what our side was like. I can't be certain. Or, maybe he's known about the other side for some time. It may be that he has been attempting to cross over, but hasn't met the requirements to do so. Thinking about it, I'm sure he has seen others come and go. Some made it over to the other side, while others failed and left, continuing on with live their normal, complex, onion-layered lives. 

By mid-afternoon, Bishop is fed up, and is ready to grab his gear and leave. Suddenly, though, it begins to rain. At first, it is rather pleasant; however, a breeze begins to stir, and things are lightly falling onto the tin roof: leaves, seeds, and other debris. It then begins to downpour. Things really take a turn for the surreal, when the fisherman fixes his gaze on the rain:

The fisherman turned his head to gaze directly into the rain, his silhouette back-dropped by water blended seamlessly into sky, a curtain of shimmering pewter scored with thousands of shallow parallel scratches. Now and then the scratches would shift and ripple, pushed sideways by the wind, and sometimes a needle would pierce through the thinner bits, and Bishop had to avert his eyes. And sometimes there would be wind and rain and sun and lightning all, a blend Bishop had never known possible.

To me, it seems Bishop is not only experiencing the otherworldly qualities of the fishing hut, but the chaotic nature of life; symbolizing the vicissitudes we experience on an almost daily basis. The downpour causes the river to run more swiftly, carrying all manner of debris: leaves, twigs, vines, feathers, nesting material, and even trash. The last thing to flow into the hut is the corpse of some animal, missing some of its fur. The claws on its outstretched paw caught on the opening leading into the hut, making it spin and drift further into the hut, hide spinning. Bishop fears it will become trapped in the hut with them, and he has no desire to look at it. Going back to what the old man said to Bishop earlier, "This life isn't meant for everyone. At least not for very long," I imagine the animal corpse represents the inevitable trip we must all take: death. All the debris and rapidly changing weather could serve to act as the passage of time, and Bishop sees that we all have the same fate; we all have our day. It could possibly serve as a message that tells us we only live once, and we have to live our lives to the fullest, and if Bishop wants to do so, he must take the next step.

Suddenly, the old man says, "I've been sitting in this same spot for years. The same view, the same attitude, the same luck." With that, he gets up, faces the darkened part of the hut, stretches his leg to the other side, and then falls headlong completely across and into the shadows. Bishop, confused, isn't sure if he should do something, move, or leave. He thinks maybe he should just do what he came here to do, but is even sure what that is anymore? He hears the old fisherman from the other side: "You're not ready." Bishop doesn't quite understand. He says, "I lack the skill? What's so special about sitting over there? What do you mean?" Bishop heard nothing else from the fisherman. He waited for a rather long time, but eventually left. I'm thinking the old fisherman had completed some kind of process, initiation, rite of passage, whatever you want to call it, that allowed him to cross to the other side. Perhaps he realized he was ready to change something about himself. His view? His attitude? Or maybe his whole outlook altogether. He got rid of all the layers, no longer an onion, and became liberated. It would seem that Bishop was not ready for such a change, as he never went back to the fishing hut, and even avoided the entire county. He went back to his...I'll call it a comfortable rut. The fishing hut is a sort of way station. It's a place where one goes to change some aspect of their life, or even their life as a whole, to cast off the meaningless layers that comprise us, but you must be ready and willing to make the change, and it requires great patience. Bishop just wasn't ready; he failed his trial.

The Fishing Hut is a beautifully written, eerie, and ambiguous tale. It can be viewed from multiple angles and viewpoints, and neither one will be wrong. It's the kind of story you can come back to numerous times and find something new you didn't see before. It evoked in me a sense of nostalgia, thinking of times past and cherished. Tem's fluid writing and use of language transfers right off the page and into you. You experience Bishop's awkwardness and uncomfortability. And Tem's vivid details put you right inside the fishing hut, surrounded by light and shadow, and murky green waters. He created a masterful tale that centers around change, life, initiation, the readiness and willingness to acknowledge who and what you are. The Fishing Hut has left me with a lasting impression. 

 

When it's Time for Dead Things to Die: Review

Alexis had provided scant, agitating hazy details, but those were enough to reshape Lowe's perception of reality and the things that subsisted on the fringes

My body is chilled, my soul engulfed in shadows. Why? Because I read Clint Smith's novella, When it's Time for Dead Things to Die. I was in the grip of Smith's ice cold, tenebrous prose; immersed in a labyrinthine, stygian landscape filled with shadows, empty streets, and abandoned, dilapidated buildings. My abyssal experience didn't happen in another world; it didn't happen in some fairy tale realm; and it didn't happen in a city hidden beneath the surface of the earth. No, it happened in a small town on the outskirts of Chicago. Smith brings otherness--he brings the alien--to urban streets in the form of a man (I use that term loosely) who has been around for centuries. A sinister man who was bestowed a dark gift. 

Published by the leader of Weird Fiction, Dunhams Manor Press, When it's Time for Dead Things to Die revolves around Joseph Lowe, a street-smart man who has been in and out of foster homes since he was eight. Now, in his mid-twenties, Lowe works as a line cook at a private club called The Tudor Quoin, owned by Gregory Bath, a Godfather (Krestnii Otets, крестный отец) in the Russian mafia. Lowe didn't get the job on his own, however; it was given to him by Bath because Lowe is in his debt, in the form of an undetermined term of servitude. Lowe got himself into this mess because he had been sleeping with Alexis, Bath's granddaughter, and got her pregnant. Rather than kill him, Bath spared him, making him part of the family,  which, in some sense, is worse. While cleaning the dishes one night at Gregory's house, Lowe is approached by Arthur Bath, Gregory's son. Arthur offers Lowe a proposition, one that puts Lowe in conflict with himself. He has to make a choice; he has to make the right choice that will ensure his survival.

Smith's novella is a dark, soul-chilling tale about survival, family, and loyalty. Since the death of his parents, Lowe has been in and out of orphanages and foster families since the age of eight. He had to endure an endless barrage of "cold-blooded counselors, useless church organizations, and the conveyor belt of flaky foster families." These unfortunate, harrowing experiences shaped him, at an early age, into a survivor; someone who grew to depend on himself and no one else. He alone is the master of his own destiny. The only thing he actually relies on are his cooking recipes. Growing up, he had become a kitchen apprentice, and honed his skills over the years. While life can be chaotic and unpredictable, Lowe's recipes never changed or let him down. Once Lowe finds himself in the grip of Gregory Bath and his family, he loses all control he had over his life; it was now in the hands of Gregory. He was "fortunate, he supposed, that he was still among the living. More or less." He really wasn't among the living, in a sense, though. His life no longer being his, he never knew if he would live to see the next day. Each time Bath approaches him for something, he immediately thinks this is it, he's done. He constantly contemplates running away, but knows he won't make it very far, for Bath's power extends far and wide. Lowe sees his life as an "existential cul de sac." His life is at a dead end, and having no control over it is a fate worse than death.

On the surface, the Bath family seems like your typical mafia family. Everyone has their place, and their unquestioning obedience to Gregory, the pakhan, is tacitly expected. What sets the Bath's apart from every other mafia family is Gregory being over six hundred years old, and Arthur, Gregory's son, is ready for a regime change. The relationship between the two is shown as Arthur expecting to do what he is told, and Gregory will not tolerate anything less than obedience. He does not hesitate to cut Arthur off from speaking. Arthur is incredibly ambitious; he has the ability to "achieve and possess anything he wishes." Gregory, at his frighteningly old age, is on the precipice, and Arthur is prepared to give him that extra nudge to push him over; he wants what he feels is rightfully his, and is tired of waiting for the old man to die. When Arthur informs Lowe of his plan, and his wanting Lowe to be a part of it, Lowe considers the benefits of Arthur's betrayal to his own father. Lowe thinks he'll be safe under Arthur's "venal wing." He sees himself as no longer merely surviving, but thriving. Arthur's takeover will gave way to a more "tranquil period," dispensing with the old, and bringing in the new. Lowe, however, comes to a swift revelation. Gregory spared his life, instead of taking it. Despite the near nine months of servitude, Lowe has--I feel, at least--come to view Gregory as his family, of sorts. No orphanage or foster family ever "spared" Lowe. He has been a loyal member of Gregory's family, and here his own flesh and blood, Arthur, is ready to do away with him, and Lowe must quickly decide where his loyalty lies.

Smith infuses his craftily weaved tale of family and loyalty with elements of the Weird. As stated in the previous paragraph, Gregory Bath is far from normal, and Lowe clearly knows this. Speaking with Alexis about her grandfather, he is provided with "scant, agitating hazy details, but those were enough to reshape Lowe's perception of reality and the things that subsisted on the fringes." This is key, because Lowe now knows that there are things that exist outside his periphery; things that shatter the perceptions and barriers he has created for himself. The world is not as it seems. This makes Bath ten times more terrifying than he would be, if he were a regular person. Arthur is not exactly like his father, but is still not your average human being. Smith's use of atmosphere and language paint a dark and sinister portrait of both Gregory and Arthur. Gregory is never fully seen, always obscured by shadow, dim street lights, or moonlight. The lights in Gregory's Cadillac are disconnected, so Lowe never gets a clear look at him, except when thin streaks of light come streaming through the windows. "Bars of industrially bloodless light bloomed and faded, bloomed and faded, as Gregory, with those spidery-maestro movements, narrated a route back to Highland." Other instances when Lowe does get a look at Bath, are of a nebulous nature. He sees Gregory's angled face, vultured head, distracting long fingers, and beak nose. He catches a scarecrow silhouette of him. It can be said that Bath walks between light and dark, life and death, which makes sense when considering how old he is, and the gift he received centuries ago. He is in a "homeostatic extension." Perhaps, the dim light shone on him represents his fading humanity, as he is always vaguely described as being more animalistic, his human side fading more and more as the centuries come and go. Even though Gregory is far older than him, Arthur is the more savage and feral of the two. A confrontation between Arthur and Lowe depicts Arthur as such:

Arthur weakly pushes himself up on from the concrete, up onto all fours; he is still on the verge of where the paltry curtain of light gives into the darker recesses of the basement, and in this in-between space Arthur's face is the carnivorous mask of a feral thing--his eyes catching the light with silver-flash iridescence, the pale flesh, where not glistening with dark fluid, is wrinkled around the folds of a sneer. Teeth. Though, in the gloom, Lowe cannot discern if Arthur's teeth have shifted to an unnatural sharpness or if they've simply broken unevenly as a result of the violent fall. Arthur lifts a hand, his long fingers forming into shivering claw

This paragraph not only exemplifies Smith's dark, fluid prose and bone-chilling atmosphere, but, in an obscuring manner, depicts Arthur as something less than human, whether it is because he's Gregory's son, or because his ambitions, desires, and greed reduced him to such a state. Vagueness and obfuscation are key elements in Weird Fiction, and Smith utilizes those elements masterfully. 

Clint Smith has written a truly dark and terrifying tale that takes you into the seedy underworld of mob affairs. It also illuminates family matters and themes of betrayal, loyalty, and survival. It's an exemplary work of Weird Fiction, showing us that we don't have to be taken to other realms to be terrified, but to the very streets we live on. We have no idea what's in the house next to us. 

Alectryomancer: Review/Analysis

What's the use if the Engine makes it so all is bound to happen the way it does?

Christopher Slatsky's Weird tale, Alectryomancer, has fractured the foundation I have built my entire world on; it's on the verge of total collapse. I've seen--at least, I think have--fragmented images of the Engine that lies beneath the Earth's crust. Aeons of archaic heritage slowly creeping out from dark vaults located in the vast, remote recesses of my mind, triggered by Phainothropus and its ancient influence. 

After experiencing the geological shock wave of Slatsky's mind-shattering story, I had to do some research on him, and it bore strange fruit. One article I found on a website centered around eschatology said he was the result of immaculate conception. Another site said he has been around since before the Big Bang, originating from the universe that existed before this one. I've even read that Slatsky is a conduit for the Earth, maybe even the universe. Despite the multiple theories regarding the genesis of Christopher Slatsky, one thing is universal among all: Slatsky transcends any and all knowledge--if we can even call it knowledge--we inferior humans possess. Slatsky knows secrets that could destroy your psyche, and Alectryomancer is proof of that. 

A chapbook published by Dunhams Manor Press, Alectryomancer tells the story of Rey, a field laborer in California. By day he sweats and toils in the desert fields, trying to hold on to the fading memories of his past, of another life; a life, perhaps, from another time. By night, he partakes in cockfighting, pitting Little Cerefino, his prize gamecock, against other gamecocks. One particular night, Little Cerefino is set to go against Alectryomancer, the gamecock of El Amarrador. Alectryomance is undefeated, a monster of a gamecock, "otherwordly," and "black as space." Rey has no idea, though, that greater, incomprehensible things are at work, and Little Cerefino's fight against Alectryomancer will set something gargantuan in motion that "shoulda been left alone."

Slatsky's story is by far the weirdest Weird tale I have read thus far. There is much going on, comprising layers upon layers of themes and concepts, rivaling any of Laird Barron's cosmically-charged tales. From beginning to end, Alectryomancer is nothing short of surreal, and you aren't certain if anything Rey experiences is actually real. It's possible, that the crushing weight of poverty and vague memories weigh on Rey, to the point of hallucination.The hallucinatory qualities of the desert landscape conjured thoughts of Jodorowsky's "El Topo." At the beginning of the story, Rey experiences a vision (or is it?) of a burning horse. Rey swears that everyone else saw it too, but wouldn't admit it, as "the meek refused to acknowledge this violation of their world." It's possible that Rey was the only one who saw the burning horse at that time (others would later admit to seeing it), or perhaps no one wanted to acknowledge it because something of that magnitude is better left unacknowledged. It's said by a boy that the burning horse is responsible for taking other workers to the "heavens." Another instance saw Rey being attacked by a feral boy, who the previous day was normal. Rey chased him, yet no one seemed to notice. Again, all in Rey's head, or others just wanting to avoid such strange occurrences? 

Much stranger and disturbing things are afoot in Slatsky's story. Rey is in possession of a book, and has no idea how he acquired it. The book speaks of primates being "hardwired to assist in the construction of Antediluvian engines," exploited by a species dubbed Phainothropus. Phainothropus exploited the proto-humans' "predilection towards engineering skills to build Antediluvian Engines in anticipation of the Flood." These mind-fracturing passages are beyond Rey's depth. The book, in his limp hands, is of a "dreadful weight." The passages speak of archaic slavery steeped in Deep Time, taking place in a time we can't even fathom. Additionally, each time Rey opens the book, he can never remember anything he reads, always discovering something new. Along with the book, Rey is in possession of various photos. Some photos evoke fading memories, and others are completely unfamiliar to Rey. One photo in his possession is of a group of people wearing masks. He recognizes a child in the photo, but the handwriting on the photo is not his, yet it looks familiar to him. 

Later on, Rey would read more from the book. It reveals that a Phainothropus head lies submerged beneath the Mohorovičić discontinuity, which is the boundary between the Earth's crust and the mantle. The book further states:

It is suspected to have evolved from crystalline substrates, recalibrated fractal connections within cognitive clouds drifting from planet to planet, accumulating minerals to repopulate, rebuild, reconstruct, and reproduce. Perpetually. Of this comes the dawn of the new intelligence. The birth of Phainothropus.

This decapitated head, even in death, retains immense power. The brain continuously transmits an "array of magnetic resonances," well into the cosmos, "spreading units of contact across planets, focal points, ascribing ley lines of derivative neo-axiomatic postulates on Earth's continents, photovoltaic vitalization reaching an apex in the Afar Triangle region." The energies from Phainothropus have influenced the evolution of Homo sapiens, with the strongest influence being found in the Afar Triangle, a geological depression that is one of the cradles of extinct hominids, site of the world's oldest tools, and home to the discoveries of Ardipithecus ramidus, and Australopithecus afarensis. The influence of Phainothropus also spread to other geographical locations, homes to megaliths and ancient monuments. Slatsky turns up the volume on the whole idea of human insignificance in the grand scheme of things. People like Rey have their belief in God, in some form or another, but that belief is incredibly simplistic and lacks true understanding when compared to the complexities of Phainothropus. El Amarrador has some semblance of what is going on. After Little Cerefino defeated and killed Alectryomancer, the Earth trembled, and El Amarrador said to Rey, "Wasn't supposed to happen like that. No telling what machinery been set in motion now." Rey pays no mind to the words, only wanting the money he won. El Amarrador doesn't have it, and tells Rey he'll get it tomorrow. Rey says, "suppose I got no choice." El Amarrador replies with, "None whatsoever. Like that little tremor we got right before the earthquake. Metal orbs shifting under our feet. Can't control none of it." Rey and everyone else are subject to the whims, fancies, and manipulations of a puppet master entrenched in the Earth. It should also be noted that Alectryomancy--one aspect of it--is cockfighting as a means of communication between gods and men. It's obvious that Rey has no knowledge of this, but there may be some sort of connection between that, El Amarrador and Alectryomancer; perhaps the death of Alectryomancer was a communication of sorts. 

There's more, though. The Phainothropus distorts space-time. The trajectory of time can be manipulated and bent, which can explain the fading--or completely forgotten--memories of Rey, and those of others. When Rey went to collect his money from El Amarrador, the day after Alectryomancer died in the cockpit, the three men who guarded the entrace to the gallera had no idea who he was, even though they talked him just the other day. Additionally, the gallera was no longer there!! Tachyons and tachyonic antitelephone, signals being sent back in time, field workers disappearing, and perhaps the many worlds interpretation, play a role in time being skewed, and the possibility of alternate histories bleeding over into Rey's reality, which could explain why he doesn't outright know or recognize something, yet is vaguely familiar to him. 

Honestly, it's difficult for me to go into this any further, as there is so much to digest and discuss. Slatsky has brought the big guns to Weird Fiction, and is a powerful force beyond our comprehension. He is also quickly solidifying himself as a master of the genre and his craft. I must admit, I'm somewhat afraid to read his other tales, for fear of collapsing from mental stress caused by the weight of his cosmic revelations. Christopher Slatsky is here; he is now. And if you aren't reading his stories, you are doing yourself a huge disservice. 

Vox Terrae: Review

/ This is the gift of knowing what I know / Of knowing too much for the average puny minds of you human beings

I've been familiar with the fiction of John Claude Smith for some time now, yet I never got around to actually reading any of it, until now. After reading Vox Terrae, a chapbook published by the ever amazing Dunhams Manor Press, I regret not having read any of his work sooner, because I've been missing out on what everyone has been praising. Before I get into my review, let me just say this: if you like Weird Fiction, or anything in the realm of the strange, macabre, and body horror, do yourself a favor and read the tales of John Claude Smith, you won't regret it, I promise. Now, on to the review.

 For a chance at immortality; for a chance at gaining hidden knowledge, and discovering truths shrouded in darkness, how far would you be willing to go? How far would you let your obsession take you? For Kenneth and Alicia, two people whose love for one another runs deeper than any system of rivers--a love so profound, it cannot be expressed by any word from any language--they will find that their obsession will take them to realms unimaginable. As long as they have been together, Kenneth and Alicia traveled to far off lands in pursuit of their mutual goals, their interests in the black arts, and occult matters of the "bleakest nature." They wanted to piece together dark puzzles that they found most intriguing, and would spend countless hours researching. Their latest occult endeavor was an attempt to search for, and ultimately procure, a copy of an alternative translation of Vox Terrae, The Voice of the Earth. It was written in 1841 by the infamous necromancer Alessandro Vernielli. It was a tome of the blackest arts; it granted one the ability to communicate with the dead. Kenneth and Alicia saw it as a "deepening well of hidden knowledge to be gleaned." A means to eternal life. The alternative translation was written by a woman name Lorraine Blackthorne, and Kenneth and Alicia had been doing months of research and searching, exhausting every avenue they ventured down, until they came across a rather short article found a website that specialized in the occult and black arts. It wasn't much, but it did confirm the existence of the translation; however, later that evening, when Kenneth went to their library to gather Alicia for bed, he found her in her comfy chair, dead (this is not a spoiler, trust me). She was surrounded by empty bottles of pills, pointing to suicide. On her lap was a note saying she had found the alternative translation, that Blackthorne was the key, and that he needs to join her. Kenneth's pain and anguish was so great, he couldn't bring himself to do anything for several months, until he finally began feeling more like himself. Determined to solve the mystery of Alicia's death, along with discovering the secrets of Blackthorne, he calls on the help of his friend and fellow occultist, Ivan Sangkor. After much searching, they find an address for Blackthorne's house, in a town called Dry Creek, and the two set off to meet her. What follows is a journey into territories charted by only a select few.

A tome shrouded in darkness; the black arts; cryptic messages; mysterious deaths; hidden knowledge; the unknown. These are all potent elements that make for a classic Weird tale; ingredients for a dark, maddening recipe. I think Smith took all these elements, put them in a box made of yew, then went to an old graveyard, and, at the witching hour, put the box in the hollowed-out trunk of a tree. He then let it sit for twenty four hours, letting the ingredients mix with one another, allowing time for gestation. After that period, Vox Terrae was born. There is a poetic nature to Smith's prose, and he infuses it with darkness, morbidness, and the occult. The opening paragraph lures you in and immediately captures you, tethering you to the tale. You are then fed a phantasmagoria of horror and mystery. You are injected with grotesque and disturbing imagery, leaving you with a mark of taint on your soul, ensuring you will never forget.

The theme of obsession leading to ruination plays a major role in Vox Terrae. Kenneth, Alicia, and Ivan's unending pursuit of hidden knowledge, of truths that hide under the veil, can only lead them down the road to ruination. Sometimes, there are fates worse than death. With this obsession comes a certain lack of respect for their passions, despite their erudition in the occult and black arts. Couple the lack of respect with feeling no fear, and your fate is sealed. When Kenneth retells the first time he met Ivan in a bookstore, Ivan recommended some books to him, and then said to him, "For some souls, it's a matter of opening the door. Stepping through without fear. So many lose themselves to the distractions of this world, but you, young man, you show no fear." Ivan and Kenneth will learn that, sometimes, it's best to leave yourself to those distractions. Some things are better left unknown, and not having any fear is dangerous and foolhardy.

It's not until Kenneth and Ivan reach Blackthorne's house that they begin to realize that all is not what it seems. Their perception of reality slowly begins to fracture, like the beginning of a crack on a wall, it will continue to run up the wall until the whole thing is cracked. A feeling of repulsion sets in them, as Blackthorne's house defies common sense and logic. It's aged in the center, yet new, unfinished additions jutted out from the core, seeming to be inspired by whim. Unease slowly begins to settle in them, yet their quest for the truth forces them to press on. Blackthorne herself is an unproportional monstrosity. "Her neck bloated and deflated as she breathed, frog-like before the turkey ripples took over, while her upper arms were lumpy as cottage cheese, her fingers wiry and lacking distinct bends for joints." Her body is more like a shell, or a veneer ready to be peeled away. She knows of Alicia's death before they can even address her about it. Kenneth sees that Blackthorne's interests dove-tail into theirs; they all knew "broader vistas of light and dark." In this display of both ignorance and arrogance, he truly has no idea what Blackthorne really knows. Ivan is the first to come to the realization that he and Kenneth are out of their depth; that everything they have ever read about the occult, and anything pertaining to it, means absolutely nothing. They are street corner occultists in the presence of something beyond their comprehension. They feel the house shift, throwing them off balance, giving off the notion that the house is still taking shape, and their reality cracks more and more, pieces of it falling away, revealing something too horrible for words.

The character of Blackthorne addresses the insignificance of humans, a powerful theme in Weird Fiction. She points out our arrogance in thinking we dictate the rules of the universe, and our ignorance in thinking we are the dominant species. She informs Kenneth that there are many layers, and we lack the intellect to cross between them; we are feeble-minded, lower on the totem pole than even her race is, which we know nothing about, further driving home the point of our inferiority and ignorance to what lies beneath our 'reality.' Blackthorne will show Kenneth what she knows. "This is the gift of knowing what I know /  Of knowing too much for the average puny minds of human beings." There is always a price to pay for such knowledge, and Kenneth is no exception.

All these elements: the unknown, human insignificance, the defying of our logic, otherness, our tenuous reality, obsession with finding hidden knowledge, they all serve to help define a Weird tale, and John Claude Smith doesn't miss a beat in bringing us a tale that truly embodies Weird Fiction. He takes us on a chthonic journey into a nightmarish hellscape, where the price for hidden knowledge--for eternal life--must be paid in flesh; a place where language is experienced--not spoken--in the form of agonizing pain; your flesh stripped away as your body proceeds to undergo deconstruction, reconstruction, repeat. The mutability of the flesh makes us playthings for horrors we have no business knowing. Again, how far are you willing to let your obsessions take you?

In the Light: Review

It must be  local legend but legends were based on something real, something scary

In the Light is the fourth and final book in S.P. Miskowki's Skillute Cycle. A novella that brings an end to the terror that had plagued Skillute, Washington for decades. The story takes place some years after the events of Knock Knock and Astoria. It is broken up into three parts, each from the perspective of an individual character. Part one centers on Ruth, a young girl of eleven or twelve. Part two is Alicia, the wife of Henry Colquitt. Part three is Henry Colquitt, Marietta's son, and one of the main characters from Knock Knock.

The book begins with Ruth running from two bullies, Orton and Gretchen. Desperate to escape them, Ruth clumsily slips through some barbed wire and stumbles upon the ruins of an old house, a house steeped in local legend. Stumbling through a morass of wild blackberries and grass, Ruth came upon a clearing and decided to sit. Scratching away at the cold, hard ground, she discovered a tiny metal lid. After some shifting and finagling, the lid came off. Inside were the charred remains of a baby, a secret that never should have been discovered. A secret that reawakened an ancient terror thought to have been put to eternal rest at the end of Knock Knock. Having no idea what she really discovered, Ruth takes the charred remains home, and what transpires is nothing short of terrifying, as Skillute is once again plunged into darkness and fear, ultimately leading to a climactic, pulse-pounding confrontation between the past and present. 

Miskowski weaves a tale that is charged with emotional depth, and permeated with a subtle terror that continuously builds, page after page. You can feel the terror slowly burrowing into your mind, body, and soul; eager to gestate within, as you are reluctant, yet excited, to turn to the next page. Miskowki's brilliance truly lies in her fluid prose; her ability to create an atmosphere redolent with fear, oppression, and a sense of otherness; and her development of flawed, believable characters. Just like the other books in the Skillute Cycle, In the Light is just as much a character study as it is a tale of Horror and the Weird, and Miskowski weaves it all together seamlessly.  

Ruth is relatively new to Skillute. Her parents work in real estate and make a great deal of money, providing them with an affluent life. They are constantly making improvements to their house, with the hopes of selling it later, but they are also looking to buy the Colquitt property. With her parents being so busy with work, Ruth, for the most part, is neglected, and not so much treated like a child, but more like an experiment. Her parents are always trying to revise or improve her, much like the houses they flip. She's forbidden to "dwell," "wallow," or "delve" into anything they considered to be weird. Any thoughts on the grim or morbid side were also forbidden, and considered dangerous; she was to focus on only the positive side of things. All of this may be a combination of her parents being concerned for Ruth, and also because they want to keep a squeaky clean image, and to maintain a happy, affluent life. In reality, Ruth's parents know absolutely nothing about her, and any thoughts and ideas they have about her are completely inaccurate. Because of her fascination with the macabre and all things weird, Ruth is very much an outsider in Skillute, she has absolutely nothing in common with her fellow classmates, so it's no surprise that she was hoping the charred remains she discovered might bring something fun and fascinating into her life; however, as time progressed--and the remains hidden under her bed--Ruth began to undergo a transformation. She began to act differently, displaying aggressiveness and committing cruel acts; she was taken over by an ancient evil. When the big snowfall hit Skillute, schools were closed and everyone barricaded themselves in their homes. Ruth's mother was going stir crazy, and grew tired of Ruth being in the house the whole time, so she sent her out into snow-covered streets. All the snow created an isolated, alien world, and it all belonged to Ruth, as she instinctively made her way to the Colquitt's. 

Henry and Alicia Colquitt are not the same as they were in Knock Knock. The terrible tragedy that took place forever changed them, especially Henry. He used to be a man of conviction. He was a community man who loved to help in any way he could. He gave sermons in his makeshift church; he provided food and other services for the elderly. He and Alicia were always attending dinner parties, and loved to dress in nice clothes. Alicia loved to organize charities, babysit, assist Henry in ceremonies, and even made mortgage payment for a neighbor who was on the verge of losing their house. Once tragedy struck their family, though, everything changed. The Colquitt's, over time, began to give in to shyness, becoming introverts. They kept their shades down, and even disconnected their land line; they experienced social death, as they cut off contact from almost everyone. Henry even gave up giving sermons at his church. Preaching was pointless. He realized that no one ever listened to what he had to say, and never took responsibility for their actions and words. He was a broken man, whose life was mired in scandal and a bizarre tragedy. To give himself some kind of purpose, Henry came up with the idea to build a shelter for the homeless, but to no avail. He tried to persuade the Dempsey's to get on board with it, but they wouldn't hear of it. The residents of Skillute objected to change, rejecting anything that was unfamiliar to them. Henry was "upsetting the balance of the world." Through all of this, Henry learned just how stubborn and brutish the world can be. 

Developing such rich, multi-layered characters really draws you into the entire Skillute Cycle. These characters are no different from you and I. Some are nice, and some are mean. Some of these characters make bad decisions, whether it's out of selfishness or to help others. You take a vested interest in their lives, their personalities, their flaws and idiosyncrasies. And the lurking, under the surface terror that pervades everything, it plays a role in emphasizing the lives and problems of these characters, and illuminates a variety of issues that this book--and the whole series--is about. 

In the Light also delves into that sense of otherness that is such a potent ingredient of Weird Fiction. While the other books certainly have that ingredient, In the Light outright addresses it:

What did Henry call it? The vast. The unknown always beside us, breathing with us, its face inclined toward ours when the lamp is turned off. Spirit, or shadow, that which disappears in the light. It had a thousand names and no one knew its origin or nature.

That is the essence of the Weird, and it's there, right outside the periphery of everyone. In Skillute, reality as perceived by its residents is not what it appears to be. And for the case of some people involved, you are not what you think you are, and the revelations are nothing short of devastating.  

I won't give away spoilers, but In the Light is the perfect end to an incredible series. The Skillute Cycle isn't just about an otherwordly horror. It's about broken families and fractured childhoods. It's people trying to escape their past, only to learn that they must face it, and come to terms with it. It's about the power of legend and folklore, and how legend can sometimes become fact. And it's also about forgiveness and second chances. Miskowki's world has left an indelible mark on me. She has set the bar really high, and exemplifies the kind of Horror and storytelling that others in the field should strive to write. I enjoyed my time in Skillute immensely. The thing about Skillute, though, is that it will always find a way to bring you back. In fact, I can already feel it's pull. It's only a matter of time. 

Oh, one more thing. Miskowski gets bonus points for referencing Nikolai Gogol's The Overcoat.