Different Masks

Carnage Road by Gregory Lamberson

2012-03-03T15:02:00.000-08:00

Carnage Road is labeled as Gregory Lamberson’s personal ode to Westerns, Biker pictures, and the cinema of the living dead.

And no other description is more apt for the story that unfolds.

Clocking in at a rapid (but precise) 82 pages, Gregory somehow manages to fill this brief stanza with enough gore and action to rival a similar book twice this length. By way of effortless prose, the tale moves swiftly with an ease and traction much like the cool aptitude of its protagonists. It’s the voice of an author who has the confidence and wherewithal of a seasoned professional working in the zombie sub-genre.

This is the story of Boone and Walker – the last surviving members of The Floating Dragons motorcycle gang. After being orphaned in the aftermath a dazzling raid on their compound by rouge cops, the brothers in arms then hightail it back out onto the open road with no particular destination in mind. Now the entire country is a gargantuan canvas for carnage – with the dead slowly outnumbering the living with every mile traveled down. Hollywood suddenly looms on the horizon, a proverbial carrot that dangles like a rotted limb – but before they can reach it both Boone and Walker will have to face the ire and decrepitude of the flyover States … territories that have sunk even deeper into rouge division.

Underlying this brutal road-trip is sharp dialogue and likable characters in the form of our main players – with Gregory using their predicament for biting social commentary and sometimes scathing attacks on the current global predicament. Above all, it’s balls to the wall horror and just plain good fun for all of those who enjoy the current crop of epic Zombie literature. More than a few typos were prevalent – but with ARC’s this is highly inevitable.

PRINT IS DEAD will be releasing Carnage Road in all formats early in April.

Letterbox by Cameron Trost

2012-02-07T13:50:00.000-08:00

There is a broad spectrum of dark fiction writers here in Australia who have been around for a lengthy time. Where others have dropped away after only few short years of surveying the landscape - there remains a loyal contingent of others who are here to stay – no matter what the publishing backdrop may look like at any given time. Cameron Trost is one such person – a writer who has spent many years diligently chipping away at the shorter form. In 2011 Naked Snake Press took notice of his emerging talent and published his debut novel Letterbox.

Beginning with a prologue that gives us subtle clues and sketches out a monster in the making, we witness the genesis of evil in the form a child – one who, after a lifetime of bullying, uses his lofty intelligence to experiment on insects and how they cope with stress when pitted against external barriers. When the child’s own external world continues to crumble, it isn’t long before he begins to daydream of what it might be like to place a human being in lieu of his subjects …

Cut to present day and the moors of Cornwell. Adjacent to these ancient lands sits the town of Mirebury – a miniscule English community where school teacher Ian Carew as decided to establish himself after leaving of London. His elderly neighbor, Mrs. Mary Hopkins, acts as kind of surrogate mother - while his best friend is the local butcher. Mirebury seems to fit the small town rural profile to a tea, and the only thing missing from Ian’s life is a life-partner to share the adventure with.

The set up is reminiscent of numerous horror/thriller outings, and after introducing us to many of the town’s inhabitants, Trost begins to dollop on the dark happenings. At first it’s a macabre keepsake placed in the letterbox of Mrs. Mary Hopkins – then a series of elusive break-ins. Soon other people are targeted and before long Mirebury begins to realize it is under the watchful gaze of a dark entity who is using them like puppets on a chessboard to pit neighbor against neighbor. Aptly nicknamed ‘The Postman’ by the townsfolk, they soon become fragmented as lines are drawn in the sand and no one is immune from suspicion.

As a huge fan of Needful Things by Stephen King, the premise for Letterbox was always going to appeal to me. That particular foray was the ultimate Our Town dark testament that set off a chain of interlocking horrors through the redemption of trail, suffering, and forgiveness. Here, Trost treads a similar path – but imbues it all with an English verisimilitude. Does he succeed? For the most part, yes. The prose is narrow at first but quickly evolves – we can see Trost becoming a more confident storyteller as the tale progresses. If there was one criticism I could level at Letterbox it is the often sugary flavor of the town itself – Mirebury seems far too conservative and fictitious than any real life counterpart. And on occasion it’s as though the author is drawing from other classic works to flesh out his municipality. That said, for a debut effort this is still highly accomplished – an impressive thriller and a satisfying parable of good versus evil.

Scarecrow and The Madness by Craig Sounders and Robert Essig

2012-01-25T02:46:00.000-08:00

Blood Bound Books presents a double helping of sideshow fun with both Scarecrow by Craig Saunders and The Madness by Robert Essig appearing together in the same volume. These are two solid novellas that do more than complement each other whilst presenting the monsters firmly established in the human realm. Although the stories have the subtle cavalcade feel of a Creepshow comic book, a reader will find no supernatural trimmings when the blood starts to flow. Laid out bare like this, the horror reaches a primal level only seldom found in horror fiction.

With Scarecrow, Craig Saunders uses traveling gypsies as the ignition for bloodshed. It’s the holiday weekend in the English Fens, and local farmers Madge and her husband Bernie aren’t particularly perturbed by the thought of gypsies being so close in their neck of the woods. When a bar fight breaks out involving Bernie and the leader of one of the gypsy families, they soon take a form of extreme revenge of torture and clout that far outweighs their original crimes …

Although the horror in Scarecrow is ironic and perverse at times (and I mean that in the best possible way), the greatest strength of Craig’s story is the subtle humor and domestic setting. Both Bernie and Madge are an old-school couple set in old-school ways – and when that fragile union is split down the middle by all too human monsters the results are often unpredictable and fun.

A much longer novella, The Madness by Robert Essig encapsulates another domestic setting – this time a family of three who embrace drifter Tony who must take sanctuary with them when a gargantuan snow storm renders the roads impassable. At first Tony regrets his decision to ask for hospitality as there is something very wrong with the man of the house: Dan stares at Tony with a madness that belies murder. When the entire household bunks down for the night the morning will greet the family with something far worse than Dan’s madness …

If parts of Scarecrow were perverse, this is even more so. Jut when you think you have your hand on the pulse of the story it quickly dovetails into realms more befitting a splatter film. There are surprising twists and scenes filled with horror that’s laid bare of any conscience. Like the previous tale the prose is adequate and well thought out. Humor is also a staple brand that complements the action.

What the authors and Blood Bound books have delivered is a double slice of horror very reminiscent of a grindhouse exploitation film or a hybrid graphic novel. The cover illustration is worthy of devotion whilst the stories themselves deliver exactly what is promised. The only small thing lacking is perhaps a detailed blurb on the back or sleeve.

Critique by Daniel I Russell

2012-01-24T04:19:00.000-08:00

Now a permanent fixture in the Australian dark fiction scene, the last few years have seen Western Australian author Daniel I Russell build an impressive bibliography to put him at the very forefront of the community. With the publication of Critique from Dark Continents as part of their Tales of Darkness and Dismay series, he has not only cemented his innovative reputation but moved even further ahead of the rest of the field.

We start our tale with ex-con Carlos making a pit-stop to escape the desolation of the desert and hours spent submerged behind the wheel. Carlos is on his way to make a very special delivery – but his decision to stop at an eccentric out-of-the-way Church that caters food will see him holed up longer than he anticipated. It is here that a reader will find the early snapshots of what could be projected as the blue-print for slasher-film fodder - but what the author has in mind as Carlos pulls up his seat is a lot darker than mere splatter film semantics. Here, a new tale is about to unfold … one that is low on body count but high in the themes of morality and secret subtext.

A restaurant critic of the highest order, Sandy Devanche makes quite a comfortable living appraising (and more often than not tearing apart), the cities finest food establishments. On one particular rainy and wind-swept night he enters The House of Jacob … a small restaurant that offers a revolutionary dining experience its patrons won’t easily forget – especially Sandy Devanche – who has been chosen by the mysterious proprietor Jacob Enfer as an unwitting subject in a serving of ethics and belief.

Besides the pertinent themes here, Critique offers us a beautiful insight into the myriad world of food and those who partake of it seriously as a craft. Slowly, Sandy Devanche is led on an odyssey of torture and redemption that will see him partake of ingredients not befitted in the menus of even non Western cosmologies. There is unconventional sexuality, addiction, secrets – and even a smattering of mythology … all the ingredients befitting a healthy horror tale.

Above all, the story here is just plain fun. All too often as an avid reader of dark fiction I’ve found myself dealing with stories that are entertaining but ultimately sub-par. But Critique, like a good song or memorable meal, has just the right hook to keep you glued from beginning to end. The only minor quibble this reviewer has is perhaps a prolonged word count with the climax that could have been shaved subtly.

Here, Daniel I Russell has stepped out of his comfort zone and written a tale where he surpasses all his pervious work. One can only hope the future holds such serious promise for this talented writer.

Critique is part of the Tales of Darkness and Dismay series of e-books from Dark Continents of which there are eight more novellas and collections.

DARK CONTINENTS AND SLANDER HALL

2012-01-13T19:49:00.000-08:00

Of course, in much belated news Dark Continents have decided to publish my novella SLANDER HALL as part of their TALES OF DARKNESS AND DISMAY series. I'm very proud to share space with some of these writers (I've already read some of the stories and they really are high calibre outings). This is the new cover. Also find underneath the link which will take you to purchase.

Go here to purchase SLANDER HALL for only $2.99: http://www.amazon.com/Slander-Hall-ebook/dp/B006SRR6NS/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1326512611&sr=8-4

The Noctuary by Greg Chapman

2011-12-21T02:19:00.000-08:00

After the publication of his first novella Torment in 2009, Australian author Greg Chapman shifts gears in a largely new direction and creates, via The Noctuary, a dark and wandering homage to the tales of old that have inspired him on his journey to publication. Dedicated to both E.A Poe and Clive Barker respectively, a reader will find snapshots of both those muses layered throughout the writing style but interspersed with a brand new voice that is slowly gaining a louder momentum and pitch with each new story to come along.

Simon Ryan is a strung out writer looking to escape the mundane world of writing cheesy biographies for pittance. He dreams of finding an audience for his darker work that would validate his talent as a scribe for fiction. A human audience. What he soon discovers is that there is another audience of a different being entirely … one that lives just beyond the curtain of night and waits patiently for the right voice to come along. His name is Meknok, and he resides in Hell.

A demon muse that appears to would-be scribes in physical form, the creature offers Simon a chance to not only pen tales of horror, but to rewrite history itself for the entertainment of Hell’s legions. Soon Simon is battling a force of wills that will not only see him travel back in time to right childhoods wrongs – but he will walk the halls of purgatory itself and come to understand that those who reside there are even more devious in true form than the most sophisticated imaginings of our greatest horror writers.

Like his previous debut, The Noctuary is a short excursion – but it will certainly appeal to all the fledgling dark fiction writers out there. Whether it’s S. King composing about the creative processes or someone like Greg Chapman, there is something oddly comforting about taking a journey that encapsulates the inventive pain some of us know all too well. Simon Ryan is the everyman in every writer – and a character that might resemble the author’s psyche enough that at times The Noctuary leans more toward metafiction. Here, Greg has created the infant seeds of a new mythology – and one that is rich enough for an encore performance.

There are a number of up and coming writers in the Australian scene that deserve serious attention, and Greg Chapman is at the top of my list to break through sooner rather than later. His stories are compulsory mainstream – yet have just enough unorthodox slippage in the narration to appeal to an alternative audience. Subtly taking off my professional voice here I will state that I know Greg Chapman somewhat - and he is a man that cares about his audience and work. A more authentic writer is hard to come by. .

The Noctuary is available now in both print and digital formats from Damnation Books.

SLANDER HALL

2011-12-19T03:26:00.000-08:00

Talented author and artist Greg Chapman was commissioned to do a cover of my forthcoming novella SLANDER HALL. I adore it - this embodies a vintage feel and above all encapsulates the verisimilitude.

Feather By David Rix

2011-12-10T21:51:00.000-08:00

Feather is an intricate latticework of nine separate novellas introducing the reader to a very original form of storytelling. Set against the backdrop of ocean and sea, David Rix introduces us to his dark and often complicated muse: Feather the wandering girl – an orphaned eccentric who embodies the wandering spirit. Someone who flits into people’s lives, touches them with her magic, and ultimately flits away again … often leaving battered souls in her wake.

With the opening novella, Yellow Eyes, David gives us perfect overture for this atypical protagonist: the story of a childhood spent living on the outskirts of a haunted wasteland - the only company that of a domineering Father – one who has escaped the modern world and deprived her of a normal life in the process. After escaping this bleak environment she runs back into the only world that knows her: sand and sea. It’s here that she meets Jimmy Ward and the chorus is taken up The Angels … a small fable bringing love into the equation. (The prose here is often littered with bullet-pointed snippets of signs and revelations that give more insight into both characters – an unusual form of pace).

Touch Wood sees the character of Feather shifting into the lives of a modern world – always told from another central character viewpoint, it’s a small opera of love told mainly in a bar. Although it features a highly unlikable protagonist, it’s blended with the spiritual and philosophical – an amusing cast that prattle on about the study of particle physics and their relation to making up the world of being human.

A central and larger novella, The Magpies introduces us to another character on Feather’s peripheral awareness … one that finds isolation in the Southern European Mountains – the locale where she hopes to find a musical muse again. After discovering a dead Magpie on the front stoop, it sends off a whole chain reaction of feathered ghosts and macabre scenery, ushering her into a confrontation with the muse. Again Feather is on the outskirts … this time with a healthy package to bring it all into place.

In Book Of Tides Feather again returns to the sea and an unlikely male companion - a ghost writer who sees every tale in the next tide. With Feather’s arrival it brings in a story of death – one that forces her to ultimately leave again and with a dawning knowledge that stories themselves are the enemy.

Another long novella, To call the Sea opens the curtain to Feather attending College. Another rag-tag cast is assembled with a hundred different artistic outlooks – each one like a moon to Feather’s Jupiter. Suddenly normal college life bursts into an alternate dimension … one that seems like a portal into that strange sea-world Feather inhabits. I’ll admit to being confused by this climax – you never know whether to feel palpably perplexed or just enchanted. As a collective whole the tales seem like an epic vehicle for the author’s prose.

It’s the final stories, however, that are the crowing jewels and where David’s talent as a writer is on full display. Displaying a less cerebral style but still showcasing a sharp sting, this is dark and urban gothic at it best as we follow Tallis through the streets of LjubLjana. A tale of bleak and functional spaces - and one that might remind a reader of Gary McMahon or even the early stylizing of Clive Barker traversing the streets of Liverpool.

Overall, this is like one of the more magical books one might read in high-school, but bristling at the intersection of Horror and Slipstream. A strange metaphor for the authors character itself – and at turns mythic and seductive.

Feather is available from Eibonvale Press.

Review: Ghosts Can Bleed By Tracie McBride

2011-11-10T00:33:00.000-08:00

There are many writers in the Australian echelon that I am familiar enough to know by name but not by craft. Tracie McBride (originally from New Zealand), has spent the last few years cutting an impressive swath into the community with a staple brand of schizophrenic dark fiction tales. Ghosts Can Bleed is the weighty culmination of a hybrid of stories spanning years, with all the pieces here intertwined with short macabre poetry.

One of the things I noticed straight away: Tracie does not follow an immediate set of rules, and there are seldom any formulaic trappings. Here we find tropes like werewolves, zombies, and hatchet wielding maniacs completely off the menu – only to be replaced with a cross-breed of fiction heavily decorated with mythic societies and unique alien landscapes.

On Tracie’s Goodreads page, a reader can find a solid synopsis of each individual story presented here, but each tale is woven like a symphony of traveling music. Highlights include Trading up, a kind of reverse-coin story of uncommon-possession - one that can take on departing life-forms … no matter the species. Dreamcatcher is rooted in the ‘now’ of suburbia with a domestic setting, but inter-spliced with noxious nightmares and how bad dreams can be parceled out. Rush Hour is a tour-de-force of Hell itself as Tracie explores the torment of commuting. Marked has all the delicious trimmings of B-Grade Horror with monsters who like to posses tiny-toddlers and then do away with their parents. But the pinnacle here was the title story itself. Ghosts Can Bleed – although a simple account of a protagonist who wanders through limbo – it is at its heart a bleeding metaphor: that in our own everyday lives and rituals we all feel the pull of being invisible.

With a light and breezy prose, this is Tracie McBride saying hello to the world. Stephen King likes to think of stories as fossils in the ground, and this is a collection that has all the earmarks of a writer just beginning to excavate an entire metropolis bursting at the seams with invention.

Review: Arena Of The Wolf By Jim Gavin

2011-10-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

Now becoming somewhat accustomed with the type of books Dark Regions Press likes to unleash, I had only a vague idea of what to expect when Arena of the Wolf landed on my desk. After over a decade heavily immersed in the landscape of Australia’s dark fiction fabulists, many new writers from across the pond have now come into the forefront of my scope. Some of these have the bibliographies of seasoned veterans … others are introducing us into a whole new world of mayhem. Jim Gavin falls into the latter category. With Arena of the Wolf he takes a well worn creature mythos and tries to breathe new life into it with something innovative and fun.

An over the road ex-trucker, Jerry wakes up one day to find himself cursed: not only is he now a bona-fide werewolf, he is also forced to participate in a corrupt rodeo fixture where werewolves are the main attraction. Reveling in a blood sport for the entertainment of thousands, he slowly learns to adapt to the climate of being an unwitting celebrity and killer. For the bosses do provide the odd perks – and as long as there is enough beer and whiskey to placate a werewolves dreams of freedom, then perhaps the life of bestial show-pony isn’t such a bad life after all …

Beginning with first person narration, Jim Gavin takes the reader through a very confusing and oddball story. Here he displays a different kind of writing – a kind of stream-of consciousness twang that takes some getting used to. I will admit that for the most part the prose did not feel comfortable. First and foremost I want to be swept away, but the first part of Jerry’s adventures had me shifting uncomfortably. Although trying to suspend my disbelief for the sake of the story (this is, after all, supernatural fiction) – the oftentimes crude handling of the style made me acutely aware at all times that I was merely reading a book.

Things pick up in the second half as Jim switches to omniscient narrator and twists and turns abound. After barely escaping from his circus prison, our werewolf goes on a hallucinogenic journey that transcends into a revenge mission. This is probably where the strengths of the novella lay … in Jim’s ability to pierce the werewolves curse with flight-of-fancy humor and a gargantuan body count to rival any in horror fiction. The gore element is right on the money, as is the author’s ability to have us sympathizing (and rooting), for our wounded protagonist.

There is definitely an audience for this book, but it falls into a category that is hard to define. A novella should not feel like a chore, and yet there were definitely times Arena of the Wolf felt like a clinical assignment. Overall, however, these are personal predilections inherent to this reviewer. Jim Gavin is only just beginning to carve a niche for himself, and there is no doubt that he will eventually find a dedicated readership.

Review: Bloody War by Terry Grimwood.

2011-09-24T02:12:00.000-07:00

Warfare. After an entire history steeped in it, as we have made our way from one apocalyptic transition to the next, the reasons behind this mind-numbing dance of death are as mysterious now as they were on the first battlefields of history. What is it, exactly, that drives us to kill our own kind on such an epic playground? Basic human nature? Resources? The invention of money? It’s a question that we’re still asking to this very day, and with Bloody War, Terry Grimwood tries to answer this himself via a powerful and giddy thriller where modern England is the theatre for a new kind of bloodshed.

The carnage comes to Pete Allman guillotine fashion: one morning he wakes up to find that more than eighteen months have passed in the blink of an eye. War has managed to penetrate his reasonably cozy existence as a reformed Bikie now working a desk job with a loving wife and three growing children. Things are the same but utterly different - life has now been reduced to a past only read about in history books and viewed on documentaries: food is rationed, propaganda is pertinent, and the sky is perpetually darkened by the soot and stain of bombs. In order to blend in, Pete must keep up the charade – his ignorance about the enemy (about everything significant to this new reality), will see his undoing if he attracts the wrong kind of attention. But it could also be his savior - the one thing that will keep him alive while buildings, landmarks, and even the people he loves burn at all hours of the day and night.

This is a decisive and quick novel, the first person narration easy to digest if somewhat insipid in the early parts of the book. Things pick up in the second half as surprising advents force Pete right into the heart of the battle. It is here that Terry’s prose shows the promise we see flashes of early on: a horror writer coming into his own using the canvas of war to showcase blood, tears, and nightmare imagery. Just when we think we know the territory, the author pulls the mat from under us with startling new developments that see no character safe from the bombs raining down. Pete Allman has an everyman quality we can identify with – we root for him as mysteries surrounding the war peel back to see the light of day.

Is this a political novel? It is if you have been following current world advents and have numerous questions surrounding the validity of those advents. In this respect the book resonates on an emotional level that almost induces anger. Who are we really fighting in any war? Who are the real leaders? The lines are not black and white anymore, if they ever were, and Pete’s personal journey is like a reflection for humanity as a whole. Although the majority march blindly to the war drums in any crusade, there is hope, for there will always be those who step out of the throng and entice others to follow. With a healthy smattering of George Orwell’s 1984 merged with the cat and mouse chase of celluloid excursions like Blade Runner and Minority Report, Terry Grimwood brings modern warfare all bloody and shrieking right into the dark heart of Western Society.

Review: The Concrete Grove by Gary McMahon

2011-08-18T17:07:00.000-07:00

Solaris Books, 2011

Exactly why Gary McMahon’s profile has managed to avoid my radar until now remains a small mystery, but I imagine the reason is overly simple: his persistent talent has now come more sharply into focus among the mainstream. He has a rich and solid publication history in the small press - and it was only a matter of time before his longer works gained a more mass-market niche. Whatever the reason, I am glad this initiation has taken place. With The Concrete Grove, Gary McMahon has placed himself at the forefront of innovative dark fiction. Not just for this reviewer personally, but to the greater collective tribe as a whole.

In the aftermath of a failed marriage that resulted in her husband’s suicide, Lana and her fourteen year old daughter Hailey have moved into a large housing estate in a decrepit and crime-addled part of England. Here, poverty reigns king. And so do human beings like Monty Bright who take advantage of the projects most vulnerable, ruling residents with an iron-clad fist as though the outside world simply does not exist. Drab and soulless, The Concrete Grove is like a physical representation of modern man: a structure that reflects our ultimate failings. When Hailey is rescued by local jogger Tom after a small accident, his introduction into her small family might just be the catalyst needed for hope to return.

But Tom has problems of his own, and his newfound attraction to Lana will not only hamper his efforts to care for his paraplegic wife Helen – it will also be the tipping point that will see him question his own sanity: for The Grove is like a dark amplifier, taking an individuals most potent desires and deforming them. For Hailey it’s a fascination with the adjacent Needle, a towering and vacant monolith that might just be crux of their mutual foreboding - something that could spell either salvation or doom. And for Monty Bright and his lackey’s, it’s like a doorway into a darker realm … one that just needs a little push to open all the way.

One thing that needs to be stated right off the bat is the beautiful way in which Gary handles his prose. Regardless of how appealing a reader finds the plot, the syntax in The Concrete Grove is like sublime poetry or dark, elegant music – lines of verse that just screamed to be read out loud because mute they go to waste. At times the dialogue is so sparse as to be non-existent, but I’ve always favored this type of style as a whole. It’s gothic, it’s industrial, and throughout the many scenes and images neon lights stutter and flicker with the grand maul reckoning of fly-races on an ancient black and white screen.

With many reviews now floating around appraising this desolate excursion, I’ve found it somewhat hard here to accurately describe what makes this novel stand out. If you need something with a happier disposition, by all means latch onto something else. But if you’re looking for that species of horror where the line between antipathy and desire is somewhat frail, and where the borders between worlds can be just as narrow, then The Concrete Grove is place you’ll want to visit again and again.

Review: Dead of Night by Jonathan Maberry

2011-08-04T04:36:00.000-07:00

Few writers over the past decade have made quite the triumphant impact on dark fiction’s shores than one Jonathan Maberry. In a relatively short space of time he has cut a gigantic swath through the zombie sub-genre, setting up quarantine to make it his official home and having something new to say each time. As a purveyor of horror fiction for most of my remembered life, I am now at pains to divulge the sad fact that Dead of Night is my first incursion into his world.

But what a world it is.

Of course, his epic profile has not escaped my attention – and he seems to be from a league of extraordinary gentleman (a clique that includes authors such as Kevin J Anderson and Scott Nicholson) who work tirelessly at every nuance of the publishing frontier. A writer’s writer … but also a fanboys dream who will take the time out of a brutal schedule to speak to the masses on social media and at programmed advents. So when the call came through that a stand-alone zombie extravaganza was in the offering, it seemed like the perfect time to put my hand up and survey the dark places Jonathan inhabits.

A retired Russian spy now working covertly as a penitentiary doctor, Dr Herman Volker has devised the ultimate vengeance on humanity’s greatest human monsters by concocting a substance that prolongs life even while the body rots. Using his position in the prison hierarchy he injects this serum into condemned serial killer Homer Gibbon with the sure knowledge that his body will see burial on prison grounds. But the body does not. Leading Homer Gibbon to awaken in a state that defies comprehension: dead, hungry, and utterly contagious …

Desmodia Fox is a loose canon. A proper small town cop in all the right places but lacking essential people skills that have seen her labeled a ‘bitch’ by anyone unlucky enough to brush past even her peripheral awareness. Only her partner J.T can see the diamond in the rough - but when the Zombie apocalypse finally breaks out in Stebbins County, Desmodia’s willful moxie will be the ultimate fighting weapon in the clash to keep everyone they know human.

Right off the bat this is a slick ride, the tone of the author effortless and full of humor. Chapters are even interspersed with the svelte voice of a radio announcer (making me think of Pontypool), as a ferocious storm bears down on the community. The action is jumped up and hot-wired, the language busting with the textured grain of an exploitation flick. A second plot-strand featuring news reporter Billy Trout (an ex-flame of Dezmodia’s), and his co-worker is where the reader will find the most interesting character portrayal with keen, witty dialogue reminiscent of those that walk among us.

But all of this would be meaningless without our main power-players: the infected. Here they stroll through the pages with every vital ingredient that makes the gut churn. It’s the reaction of our humans that make them truthful: in their genuine revulsion to the parasites we encounter a species of Zombie original in concept as the primary concoction of Dr. Volker continues to do its work. A mass metamorphosis then ensues that will bring about a different species … but it’s the original that is still the most terrifying: being trapped within the prison of undead flesh while still aware of everything that was once you and praying for a second, more secure embrace of the afterlife.

For me, there is only one pet peeve here, and it’s a quirk pertinent to dozens of books and movies in the genre: for our characters to only embrace the word ‘Zombie’ within the final stage … as if all the literature and celluloid that has come before has never existed. However, this reviewer is hardly the Zombiephile on these Australian shores, so I’m hardly in a position to judge. With Dead of Night, Jonathon Maberry gives us a stand alone Zombie novel that exceeds all previous expectations. This is how the world ends. Not with a bang … but a bite.

Ghosts In A Desert World

2011-07-23T01:36:00.000-07:00

Today marks the publication of a revised edition of Ghosts In A Desert World as an ebook. It is currently available at Smashwords and will soon be available in the Kindle store.

Description: From apartments haunted by ghosts both internal and external, and horror museums masquerading as doorways, to towns where vehicular manslaughter is a way of life, and highways are a preying ground for monsters, GHOSTS IN A DESERT WORLD is a collection of 13 macabre tales designed to chill you the core.

Interweaving dark and oftentimes socially relevant themes, with the spiritual and philosophical, GHOSTS IN A DESERT WORLD will make you think, even while leaving you afraid to turn the lights out.

"In particular I liked the author's handling of the blood work. I keep saying it and no one is listening: good horror writers have an inborn ability to limit their own prose without rubbing a reader’s nose in the visceral. Matthew Tait, on the evidence in this collection, is a good horror writer" – Scary Minds.

Review: The Gaki and Other Hungry Spirits by Stephen Mark Rainey

2011-07-10T21:08:00.000-07:00

My second title from Dark Regions Press in as many weeks, this is the kind of collection that I knew would appeal to my personal macabre predilection even before plunging into the first tale. A glossy novella, The Gaki and other Hungry Spirits is short and sweet but interspersed with stories lean on dialogue and heavy with sensory description. Here, Stephen has tasked himself with bringing to life the hungry ghosts of Japanese Buddhism. And although each story is decidedly different, there is still a pertinent theme running though the whole like slivers in a larger current.

With our first outing The Gaki, Rainey gives us the first person narration of David, a questing soul who seeks out a cabal of kindred spirits who gather by the banks of the Cooper River to keep their pious burnings alive. It is here that David encounters that wandering spirit … and the consequences of being marked by one. It’s a fitting opener, displaying intelligent writing with Lovecraftian suggestions for the modern audience.

Stories that stood out: Festival of the Jackal (Off Broadway) – this is the sort of prose that bites with subtle comedy, our protagonist making astute observations about the mire of the modern world before a chance encounter with some New York demons alters him into something more primitive and bestial (but somehow more attractive), than any 9-5 suit-wearing ass-clown. Similar to other stories here, it’s like a cross-pollination of Bret Easton Ellis meets the message of Clive Barker. Terror from the Middle Island (in collaboration with Durant Haire), takes us back to the Territory of Wyoming over a century ago and a priests homecoming to the site of a massacre that claimed the life of his grandfather. Not only does the Reverend stir up old ghosts, he encounters an ancient deity not of the cross but still worthy of devotion. Other outings like Demon Jar, Abroyel, and Free Sample all bear the marks of a mature dark fiction author with credible prose.

There are many collections today with a hit and miss ratio; disparate tales shoved together that obviously do not belong in the same package – but I found none of that contrast here. A seamless collection, the only criticism I can level at it is the often uncertain endings that might leave a few readers with a furrowed brow – as if Mark wanted to stretch them to novel length but cut them down guillotine fashion before they could mature. However, don’t let such subtle things sway you. With The Gaki and Other Hungry Spirits, Stephen Mark Rainey has given this reviewer more than enough reason to seek out his other work.

Review: The Disappeared by David B Silva

2011-06-25T19:38:00.000-07:00

This was my fist foray into the fiction of David B Silva, an author now somewhat of a veteran in horror circles. Without hearing even a sliver of the story The Disappeared was chosen by this reviewer purely for its enigmatic illustration. If there is one thing we all know the small press does well it’s displaying aesthetic covers with imaginative paintings vastly more appealing to the dark fiction enthusiast than their large publishing equivalents. What we have on offer here is a big thriller stepped in a sinister world of unexplained medical mysteries and shadowy government corporations hell-bent on secrecy.

Ten years ago Teri Knight and her husband went through the crippling effects of losing their only son Gabriel after he ventured to the local park one day and never returned. With no eye-witnesses and no clues pertaining to his mysterious vanishing, this lack of closure or any answers at all results in their divorce and Teri is sentenced to a life of estrangement and despair. On one rain-swept evening many years later Gabe suddenly returns home in the company of an unknown woman. But this Gabe cannot be her son … for the boy at the front door hasn’t aged a day. He is eternal, frozen in time – and now Teri has to suspend her disbelief if she is to unlock the revelations at hand. Enlisting the help of an old ally (Walter) who also collaborated in the search effort for Gabriel previously, Teri begins to unravel an intricate web that sees a family physician at the centre of the nightmare – and also discovers Gabe isn’t the only child who fell victim to a conspiracy where science tackled the dark heart of mortality and tried to find a solution for one of humanity’s oldest follies: death itself.

Written during the nineties, this is the kind of formula pertinent to novels of that era. Running like an undercurrent through the prose there is a distinct Dean Koontz flavor … reminiscent of one of the many books he penned under the pseudonym Leigh Nichols. (Think The Key to Midnight or The House of Thunder). Taking off my professional voice for a brief moment, I will just admit that I enjoyed those novels immensely. They don’t pretend to be anything than what they are intended: maps of intent where the good guys are good and the bad ones are simply nasty. There’s an everyman quality to the method that’s pure entertainment … and the story at the heart of The Disappeared has a safe and homely feel like a good recipe.

There are small weaknesses – mainly that of the perplexing reaction of a family doctor when confronted with the presence of Gabriel for the first time – his inability to notice something different about the child and voice this concern to the mother is something that is never fully addressed. Another plot strand involving an individual that Walter is tracking never seems to come to fruition in just the right manner and leaves a lingering question mark. (Although I have a feeling these are small narrative puzzles that a second reading could possibly cure).

Here, David B Silva has concocted a workable thriller that harkens back to the suspense of a more culpable time in human history. My first title from Dark Regions Press – they have created a slick and worthy edition to hold in the hands. This is just the beginning, and I look forward to becoming acquainted with David’s impressive dark fiction resume in the future.

Review: The Ward

2011-06-15T19:52:00.000-07:00

Psychiatric Wards. Mental Asylums. Institutions. Call them what you will – they have been the ideal vehicle for countless films and books over the years as the perfect playground for the horror genre to stretch its wings. With outings like Gothika, Session 9, and major studio releases like The Butterfly Effect setting a benchmark, the trick now is to try and dig something new out of the sand. Currently in vogue with directors is using the human mind like a stunning chess board or Russian Doll piece (Shutter Island, Identity), where layers can be stripped away and revelations granted with each subsequent piece removed. Here, legendary director John Carpenter has tasked himself with adding something new to the fray.

Oregon, 1966: After setting fire to an abandoned farmhouse, Kristen (Amber Heard) is committed to the North Bend Psychiatric Ward. She has a tenuous grasp on anything except her name … although remains confident in her unwavering sanity. At first the lack of details here are frustrating, but we keep watching because of the sheer uncertainty of it all. Slowly, Kristen is introduced to her fellow inmates: an all female clique of misfits and mavericks who give off subtle clues pertaining to Kristen’s predecessor and the ward’s history of a haunting. Throw in an ominous, unlikable nurse with a penchant for needles and a cryptic but likable Doctor and suddenly everything’s on the plate for a workable thriller.

The drawbacks? There are many - most notably the clunky, unrealistic dialogue and script shortcomings. No matter how much energy is vested in trying to create something epic here, at its core the plot fable is nothing more intricate than a stand-alone episode of Supernatural. This is old school horror (as testified by Carpenter himself), but as much as we pine for that yesteryear the sad fact is the world has ultimately moved on. In this era, snaring the attention of the collective tribe and keeping it there requires a lot more than merely paying homage to the thrillers of old. That said, this is still a grand step up from a film like Vampires: the musical score itself is a beautiful, child-like drone reminiscent of films like the original The Amityville Horror. Key jump moments are prevalent and accomplished with great effect. The entire hospital is mined like a character itself, with slick cameras speeding through the corridors and dowdy colors being used to reflect the chrome world of an asylum.

After a lengthy delay of over a decade in celluloid John Carpenter returns to the genre he helped fashion and create. With a hit and miss ratio in latter years that has produced ambiguous results (milestones like In the Mouth of Madness but also fatally flawed outings like Ghosts of Mars), this is a bittersweet homecoming and one eagerly awaited by those that have traversed his career since the very beginning. If one goes into this with expectations that the man still has something groundbreaking to say - you will be sorely disappointed. But overall The Ward, for all its shortcomings, can still act as a worthy piece of Saturday-matinee entertainment.

Review: Samhane by Daniel L. Russell

2011-06-03T02:53:00.000-07:00

Originally from the United Kingdom, author Daniel I Russell moved to Australia in late 2008 to set up shop and carve his own niche in the local dark fiction community. This, his debut effort, is the accumulation of a lifetime spent studying the terrain and mapping the territories. And the resultant outcome, Samhane, is like a cross pollination of the best the genre can offer infused with Daniel’s everyman lyricism and sometimes comic aim.

We begin our journey with Donald Patterson, middle age horror writer with a day job who aims for something loftier and dreams of the big-time. Initially, this opening was a mild turn off, for at once the protagonist’s headspace seems to be that of the authors. Many writing instructors – some more than others - will be quite vociferous putting across the message that you must distance yourself from your own work. However, it goes without saying that if every published writer heeded such counsel a huge chunk of them would not have graced us with their best. Although not transparent upon publication, it eventually became apparent that of course Jack Torrance embodied the personality of Stephen King. The same could be said of his central characters in Misery, The Dark Half, and countless others. Here, Daniel is writing about what he knows … and that’s the ineffable truth that horror lovers across the globe like to see the inner workings of a creative mind laid out bare on the page.

After purchasing a new laptop on eBay from an ominous merchant (Roger), Donald comes across something on its hard-drive that may well be a snuff film. This tainted piece of evidence plunges him into a world where the vendor suddenly realizes his error and will do anything to secure its return … including kidnapping his wife Beverley and holding her for ransom in the far-flung English town of Samhane. There follows an odyssey of torture, sex and clout whereby Donald discovers the existence of a cult who uses the streets of Samhane as a playground to attract the benedictions of a long-forgotten deity.

There are two-plot strands here, with the second revolving around a father and son team (Brian and Sam) in the lucrative business of dispatching supernatural baddies. Holing up in Samhane to work at the behest of the Mayor, they have their work cut out for them as the town is suddenly inundated with ghouls, morphing human worms and female water-wraiths. Eventually the strands collide in an epic showdown of avant B grade style horror with Lovecraftian overtones.

What I loved here, from beginning to end, was the delicious cavalcade feel. Samhane is a cauldron on the cusp of Hell, and this is a formula that has its roots firmly entrenched in the genre and never gets boring. Needful Things by Stephen King displayed a similar mechanism: the streets and people being reigned in by a mysterious entity that sits nonchalantly in the shadows merely enjoying the show. Popcorn horror, but horror of a species that reminds me of why I got into reading in the first place. There are slight drawbacks (I would have liked to see the cast expanded further and at times the third act finale feels somewhat ponderous), but as a working whole this is splatter narrative at it’s finest and a debut that could teach even veterans in the field a thing or two about entertainment value. Hopefully with works likes this, Australia will see a renaissance of cinematic horror in fiction that will enable similar works to be taken more seriously in the mainstream.

Samhane is available in both print and digital formats and can be ordered from the author’s website.

Review: Torment by Greg Chapman

2011-05-15T01:45:00.000-07:00

Greg Chapman is one of those breed to have made good use of services provided to emerging Australian horror writers. After joining the local association in 2009 he was selected very quickly into the mentoring program under the auspices of author Brett McBean. (Anyone familiar with my reviews lately will know this to be quite a coup). What is apparent to blossom out of such a relationship is Greg’s obvious love and genuine fondness for the genre - the act of writing and finding an audience for his work is not something recently acquired or new. And this is a good thing. Something the publishers also saw on display.

One thing that I feel is important to mention here: reading Torment was one of my first experiences with the device known as the Kindle. After a life time of musing on cover illustrations and dipping my nose into paper pages for that unique aroma, these quirks were no longer available to me. But this is not the place for an active discussion on the disparity between the two. Merely that I was initially apprehensive about a potentially great book by an Australian being let down by a new medium and a follow up review that would be much impoverished. Thankfully this is not the case: the device was more than adequate to the task and there was nothing about Torment I felt lacking.

Torment as a novella is a tried and true formula: after a childhood incident sees her mother perish at the hands of clergyman father Douglass during a ritual exorcism, Jessica McKinnon returns home to rural Scotland years later as an adult with husband David and son Alex in tow to exorcise some demons of her own – namely, to find out the reason her father killed himself and subsequently bequeathed the house to her. But ‘tried and true’ is a recipe that works – and we’ve seen those writers at the top (a good model would be John Saul) try it dozens of times: After being witness to an act of horrific debauchery as a child, our protagonist returns to the house on haunted hill to confront ghosts of the past. Readers will have something to identify with, and for a debut author who is genuine unknown, this is a definite hook.

There are problems associated with it, but nearly all of these run the gamut of what the plot means to this reviewer on a personal level. The age of ‘biblical baddies’ (as I’ve previously referred to them), traversing the earth and wreaking havoc now seem as irrelevant to horror fiction as they do in real life. At times the syntax can be somewhat plain (but not unexpected in a debut), and having characters exclaim dialogue instead of simply stating ‘said’ is another pet-peeve that can push a reader rudely out of their chair. But don’t let any of these things steer you away or deter you (there are no doubt more than enough avid fans of The Exorcist and tales of possession still haunting the bookstores) - and simply enjoy it for what it is: as a more than entertaining yarn from an Australian author with grand potential and many more tales to come.

Both print and digital copies can be ordered from Damnation Books.

Review: Concrete Jungle by Brett McBean

2011-05-03T18:49:00.000-07:00

In this, the first of a trilogy, Mother Nature has decided to recycle the earth and spade it under with a fresh Eden. Caught in the tumult are a small cabal of luckless survivors who are trapped in a Melbourne shopping centre car park late one night near closing time. Paul is a dead-beat Dad on the fringe, making a last minute pit-stop to buy a present for a birthday he almost forgot. Beth and emo daughter Candice have stocked up on movies so Candice doesn’t get bored grounded at home. Harold is a survivor of World War 2 … a man who will soon endure jungle horrors far worse than he ever had to face on the battlefield. And Bruce is just a desperate loner who sees the cataclysm as the perfect excuse for a man to return to a more primitive existence where morals and the rule of law simply do not exist.

Upon Concrete Jungle first being released I will admit my enthusiasm wasn’t high. The cover illustration from a distance seemed to suggest this was mid-range Brett or something of filler in between longer projects. But it’s a judgment that I now regret … and goes to show there is talent in this country that consistently produces quality work. Moreover, I highly doubt Brett lends his voice to anything half-heartedly or merely churns out something at the behest of an editor. Concrete Jungle might well be The Day of the Triffids told from the unique scaffold of Brett’s imagination, but it’s still a narrative with biting simplicity and more than enough lure to hook a reader.

Standing at a short and sweet 160 pages, this is a species of horror without conscience. On more than one occasion I’ve mentioned the similarities Brett has with an author like Richard Laymon - and it’s still evident here, but imbued throughout with refreshing Australian verisimilitude and references. A few errors jumped out. In one particular stanza the author describes the smell of meat cooking ‘glorious’ but goes on to say mere paragraphs later the smell of cooked rat was ‘mildly appetizing’. But viewed as a whole the writing and editing is crisp with short, choppy chapters not bogged down with weighty or numbered sections. Characterization is right on the money – you will care whether these people live or die. And in the modern horror novel, that will be something ultimately on the menu. Welcome to the jungle.

The Australian small press Tasmaniac Publications just keeps improving its product, and a reader will find the interspersed illustrations by Keith Minion and Steve Crisp more than adequate for the tale. There is a whole universe to explore with Concrete Jungle, and we are provided with two other tales set in the same wilds. Local writer and reviewer Tim Kroenert gives us an utterly funny but dark underscore with Lullaby – it’s the tale of misfit musicians and fans who just happened to be at a concert when the green hell broke loose. Also included is The Cage by Nate Kenyon – Nate takes a look at what prison life would be like for guards and prisoners alike in this post-apocalyptic forest. Another one with droll results. Thankfully with this review I can happily point out copies still remain and the sequel Neighborhood Jungle is available to pre-order.

Review: Scary Kisses

2011-04-25T19:13:00.000-07:00

Already garnering a lot of high praise in the community, Scary Kisses is a dark fantasy anthology that was released in early 2010. It features a huge chunk of authors from the entire Australian speculative league and the impact of its success has guaranteed a sequel of sorts with the upcoming More Scary Kisses. Beginning with the title of each tale, let’s have a look at all the stories individually:

The Anstruther Woman by Nicole R. Murphy

Set among wilds of the Australian outback, this is the story of a small community who bands together under the threat of an unknown assailant attacking livestock. Rumours abound of the elusive big-cats haunting the rough country. Ally, local wise woman and head of the Anstruther farm, works together with local legend Tynan to solve the mystery. What I liked here was the almost gothic flavour Nicole imbues into the story - although set in Australia it has a decidedly New England feel.

Fade Away by Ian Nichols

After a sea change to an island off the mainland, Emily is haunted by something like a transparent lover. We are then greeted with revelations pertaining to a convicts past. A small ghost story with an unsettling ending of immortality.

Bread and Circuses by Felicity Grey

Probably the most notorious story to come out of Scary Kisses, Bread and Circuses is a brutal and unrelenting excursion. To be honest, after all the hype, this reader’s first reaction was: It’s only a simple Zombie tale? But simple stops after the first page. This is the narrative of Susan, a star-crossed lover living amid the hell of a bored and jaded community of cemetery survivors. It unfolds at a rapid clip with the duel themes of love and death parked behind the gates of a Zombie horde. The prose is a bit like the authors nature: wicked, unflinching and with a subtle hint of dry humour underneath. The title here is Scary Kisses … and there is a literal kiss at the end of this one seldom brought about in horror fiction.

Black Widow by Shona Husk

This wouldn’t be a Paranormal Romance compilation without a subset of vampire stories. Black Widow tells the story of an incarnate vampire who is made flesh as a prostitute in Las Vegas and begins the hunt afresh. Simple but fun.

The February Dragon by Angela Slatter and L.L Hannett

This writing duo has been behind many stories in the past – and it’s easy to see why the collaboration continues. Set entirely in the world of Sepphoris, you have to hand it to the writers for condensing and world-building in such a short space. In this realm, Casco is a startling hybrid of human and Dragon living in the confines of a feudal House. Her talents as an artist see her as prize possession, and soon an unwanted marriage ensues. Primarily a love fable, this is the story of a young woman willing to cross the borders of the human to be with the creature she truly desires.

Growing Silence by Matt Tighe

One that left a confusing imprint. On the second read-through I ascertained the story is perhaps the poetry of a serial killer … one whose local environs and their silence are like a metaphor for the white noise of his mind.

The Hidden One by Astrid Cooper

It’s always a good thing when a tale resonates on a personal level. Tez is a midnight cleaner in museum of Egyptian artifacts in Adelaide. (I have actually worked in a Museum – and, of course, I reside in Adelaide). With a fellow employee acting as a kind of guide and mentor, aspiring writer Tez sees her world flip upside down when the wizard Ammon awakes from his slumber. Regrettably it slides somewhat into a furor of Hollywood clichés and weak special effects – but ultimately a small piece of entertainment and worthy of its inclusion.

A Darker Shade of Pale by David Bofinger

Much like the previous story Black Widow, this is another vampire tale – this time with an adventurous female model in the middle. Not exactly revelatory or filled with anything new, but it delivers what it intends to be.

The Valley by Martin Livings

Another confusing one that is oftentimes bleak; I will admit to not knowing exactly what was transpiring here. It’s a kind of sojourn featuring a man caught in a netherworld on the cusp of Heaven and Earth. He seeks redemption. The narrative seems to be a modern take on an old fable, but one I cannot put my finger on. I imagine it has a different meaning for different readers.

Cursebreaker: The Welsh Widow and the Wandering Wooer by Kyla Ward

With a word count running into novella territory, readers will be split in two minds with this one. On one hand it is a completely original gothic parable of a Doctor and a Cursebreaker sent to the estate of a blighted family whose wedding celebrations take a macabre turn. At times whimsical and hair-raising; at other times simply impenetrable and hard to nail down, a reader can’t help but be swept away by it all. One thing I do know: author Kyla Ward has lived previous lives.

Heat by Donna Maree Hanson

Probably my least favourite of the collection, Heat is mainly for the romantics out there … but it also has a smattering of high-toned sex. Once again we deal with the paranormal of Vampires.

Phaedra by Bruce Golden

After the often intense previous stories, Phaedra was the perfect balm to take a break from it all. Simply a story of a voluptuous cartoon that breaks out of her realm and into the real world of our protagonist to fulfill his sexual desires. Light on substance but very easy on the eyes.

Date with a Vampire by Annette Backshawl

One of the better vampire stories here, Annette has constructed a homely tale filled with pop culture and internet references that almost makes it meta vampire fiction. An entertaining girl meets vampire allegory.

Pride and Tentacles by D.C White

Symmetry is served with this perfect little ditty as the creatures from Lovecraft’s mythos get together as a bookclub to talk about some of the more popular romantic genre fiction. With this, we go out with a grin.

Long-time readers of HorrorScope might be somewhat surprised to know I found a lot to like here in this gargantuan sub-genre that is often maligned. But sometimes we must take a step back out of comfort zones and peruse what lies on the other side of the fence. One thing that probably doesn’t get mentioned enough in the reading experience is the typesetting and font. Scary Kisses is my first Ticonderoga publication and it has both these boxes ticked to make for a dark but nimble read.

Both Scary Kisses and More Scary Kisses can be ordered from Ticonderogo Publications.

Review: An Eclectic Slice of Life

2011-04-13T15:38:00.000-07:00

(Note: Mirrored at HorrorScope).

With the review that appears just below this one, Gillian Pollack has kindly illustrated for the reader where the genesis for this collection sprang from. From 2007 onwards editor Craig Bezant has sorted through his kaleidoscopic tree of stories to bring us the best Eclecticism E-Zine has to offer in a broad and wide ranging print edition - the first from his newly hatched small press Dark Prints Press. Featuring a cover illustration of finely stacked antique books, this nostalgic approach reflects the new metamorphosis from computer to paper. A kind of reverse de-evolution that will please an all-new readership of Craig’s dark little e-zine.

The collection is composed of three parts: Dark Little Oddities, Fantastical Twists, and Obligatory Dramas.

We kick off with Iron Efficient by Simon James - a worthy opener and one of the standouts in the collection. At its centre a small domestic revenge tale, the author uses a familiar setting and objects to highlight the need for change in an abused woman’s life: one of those guilty pleasures where the antagonist gets his just desserts. Simon also has another highlight here with Pieces – an absolutely confusing mishmash of story but it can be read for the highbrow prose alone. In what is one of the only forays into science fiction territory author Joseph D’Lacy contributes Drone … a beautifully rendered post-apocalyptic landscape of primitive human transmutation but in a magical and revolutionary setting.

Fantastical Twists present some of the first stories I’ve read by South Australian Jason Fischer. Both Houndkin and The Ward of Hours take on mythological creatures set against eccentric backdrops – one in a hospital ward that lies at the nexus of time. The prose is mature and effortless … and it’s easy to see the argument for his success. The segment also presents one of the more bizarre but attention-grabbing stories: Prodigal Son by Mark McAuliffe. This is the tale of Tony Andrews, who returns home to his mother after a life of crime seeking forgiveness and shelter. But what she has in store for him is something rarely encountered in fiction.

I was somewhat apprehensive about approaching the last section – Obligatory Dramas - and for the most part my concern was well-founded. Having not read many dramas (short fiction or otherwise), at all over the past few years I didn’t see the need for any to be included in an anthology that was primarily speculative. Or why, exactly, they were obligatory. That’s not to say all the stories were poor. But I kept waiting for a punch-line that simply didn’t happen. For example, the story Audrey’s Fall could merely be described thus: A woman who might have a brain tumor goes to the hospital. And that’s it – there is no other redeeming merit to it. The Shopkeeper by Eril Riley is a painful slog about a

Ukraine

immigrant living in Melbourne. His dog perishes and he buries it. As an honest reader giving my reaction, I would have to describe some of these as ‘A bunch of stuff that happens’ with no literary payoff. That said, there were some gems nestled amongst it – namely Lost in the City by Julia Bannigan and The Workman’s Pandora’s Box by Myra King.

In the aftermath of putting this debut book down I can candidly state An Eclectic Slice of Life as a whole is a worthy publication. Perhaps not as dark as some of you may expect but I have the feeling visceral horror is not what our editor is aiming for. With this and the e-zine (of which small amounts of poetry are included), the stories aim to shift the reader into another foggy realm … perhaps not a terrifying one, but certainly lopsided and jilted at the edges. This is only the beginning for Dark Prints Press, and it will be interesting to see where Craig takes us with his forthcoming publications Surviving the Dead (March 2012), and The One That Got Away (February 2012).

Review: The Devil's of D-Day

2011-03-27T19:21:00.000-07:00

This is the kind of review that deserves the title ‘from the vault.’ Somewhat tacky, but useful in the dismantling of an older work. After previously tackling numerous new releases, I found a brief window to embark upon something smaller. Oftentimes a reader, much like a writer, might feel the need to take a step back in between longer projects. (In King’s world think The Body and Apt Pupil in between longer works like The Dead Zone and The Dark Half). For my own part exploring the vast catalogue of the Graham Masterson factory has always been something on the agenda.

Over thirty years after the infamous D-Day landings, Dan McCook returns to Normandy as nothing more than a cartographer for a book about World War Two. In his travels he encounters two men who whisper of battlefield ghosts and point the way to an abandoned allied tank. Deciding a picture might be good for the book he locates the rusted hulk and bumps into a farmer’s daughter (Madeleine) who illuminates the rumors of hauntings that have affected the area … with the derelict tank a central-crux for the malign anecdotes. After consulting a local priest on the tank and its history, Dan McCook then decides it’s high time to solve the conundrum and open it up. Suddenly he is swept up into an ancient world where thirteen demons who inhabited the realm as flesh desire to walk again …

Graham’s first person narration is clear and home-spun. We have here a prolific author who was born to write (I can’t put it more simply). There’s an everyman quality to it, layers of prose injected with a rare quality that is reminiscent of James Herbert without the English nuances. At the time of publication I doubt it was meant to feel nostalgic, but traversing through Normandy under bleak skies and snowy environs with the Devil of swords, daggers, and razors as a constant companion the reader will feel just that. One of the hazards with this kind of book is the supernatural material; one might find that during this modern era the threat of Satan and Demons (biblical baddies) parading around in fiction just isn’t scary. But we remember the story was conceived at the time of The Omen and The Exorcist. Knowing this, a reader can happily suspend belief and get lost in the tale.

At times the climax is somewhat ill-fitting; Graham describes wonderful, hellish creatures almost Lovecraftian in their finery, but then has them espouse language like uneducated humans. All that aside, the images are harrowing and graphic; the dues ex machina involving a certain character ultimately one that pays off. Highly recommended for those wanting to take a trip down horror's memory lane.

Review: The Haunting of James Hastings

2011-03-23T01:41:00.000-07:00

Following up an astonishing debut is never an easy thing. Whether under the guise of music or the auspices of horror literature, proving to the masses that lightening can strike more than once can fill the creative heart with dread. It was two years ago now that Christopher Ransom delivered to us The Birthing House … a kind of wandering homage to the ghost story’s of old – but bristling with new enthusiasm and a modern take. Although riddled with some of the pitfalls of a first appearance – it still managed to be a beautiful nativity-fabled gothic that gives it a pride of place on any bookshelf.

Some authors like to wear many hats, but it was apparent that with his sophomore effort Christopher is setting up shop and carving out his own niche of the modern ghost story. After a quick perusal I knew that what we have here is more of the same - but that was fine by me. Sometimes writers (like musicians), will stick to a formula that sets them apart. It becomes a kind of territory … a backwater where the imagination can frolic.

James Hastings is a body double for the widely successful hip hop artist Ghost, an obvious literary reverence or echo to the real life Eminem. (This aspect was a mild turn-off at first, but we give the writer the benefit of the doubt and see he is more than capable of holding up a mirror to our own world in a brutal and somewhat enlightening way). After the death of his wife Stacey in a small but mysterious accident, James – like his alter ego Ghost – goes on a sabbatical to deal with his grief. Soon his neighbors come to his attention, and after purchasing a telescope, a spying game then ensues. After the death of his next-door-neighbor after a heart attack, a new resident moves in. She is young, alone, and bares a striking resemblance to Stacey. A relationship is then forged, and James goes on an odyssey of pain and learning – tempered by the haunting reality of Stacey’s ever too real presence. Not only in his house … but in the eyes of his new neighbor Annette.

As avid readers of dark and speculative fiction (I assume you all are), most of us know the correlation between music and fiction: they feed each other – both giving rise as influences so the other exists. And that’s what we have with The Haunting of James Hastings: a striking hybrid of gothic romance novel and a CD box set choc full of lyrical extras. Like his previous book, it does take the cue from novels like Rebecca and Bag of Bones, but I found at its heart a beautiful illustration of domestic married life and how emotions can be woven into the brick and mortar of houses. As a fan of first person narration only second, Christopher’s homely voice is so easy and accessible you won’t even know that it is. A decidedly male voice … but one that resonates with this reviewer.

The Birthing House had a climax that seemed to raise more questions than answers, but you’ll find the revelations ladled on in The Haunting of James Hastings to be just as hair-raising and surprising than anything an early M. Night Shyamalan could dream up.

Review: Tales of Sin and Madness

2011-03-04T03:08:00.000-08:00

A successful short story collection in the horror genre – when all the elements come together properly – is a rare and powerful thing. They are strange beasts, and unless a name is synonymous with a proven track record, very hard to get off the ground and into the collective hands of a reading public. Fortunately, an established history is something that Brett McBean has been working on for the past decade, so I was more than eager to put up my hand for Tales of Sin and Madness – a vast, Aladdin’s cave of stories that span many years.

One of things I usually do when reviewing such a collection is give an appraisal of each story … but you will understand (when reading it) that this will not work in this scenario. Like a feast of S. King stories, Brett has taken the time to provide lengthy notes at the end of each one. The resultant outcome of this is something like a delicious banquet that’s more on par with a classic album, each story finely dissected and put under a microscope so we can see the genesis behind each tale. Any detailed breakdown will only spoil what Brett has in store for you. And what he has in the offing here is one of the most entertaining pieces of Australian dark fiction to come along in years.

We start off with Brett taking a jaunt into Brian Keene’s zombie world of The Rising and reporting what he sees there. When then go into the twisted maze and minds of serial killers and find, more often than not, that it’s possible for our sympathies to lie with them. Personal standouts included Hearing the Ocean in a Sea Shell … a nicely executed fable of a rising elevator that’s like a macabre metaphor for past (sins) and a lifetime of transgressions. Also Christmas Lights – a short and melancholy funeral song that first appeared in the Festive Fear anthology.

Throughout it all, you can feel the inspiration and personal homage’s to an author like Richard Laymon, but a reader will also hear a pertinent new Australian voice, one that isn’t bogged down in the past or feels dated in any way. On the surface - and taking off my professional voice for the briefest of moments – it’s no wonder that the stories here spoke to me: the author and I both live in the same country, are products of the same culture and grew up on a steady diet of the same literature. Brett McBean is the contemporary Australian voice for a new millennium and beyond.

With all the interesting discussions about ebooks lately, one cannot help but think their future is still down the track a little ways. For every now and again an edition will come along that is perfect to hold in the hands and cherish: LegumeMan Books new release of Tales of Sin and Madness contains six more stories than the previous North American edition and is a definitive must-have for any horror disciple.

Different Masks

2011-02-21T15:57:00.000-08:00

A kindly reminder of works online:

Dark Meridian by Matthew Tait

Review: What the Night Knows by Dean Koontz

2011-02-18T15:15:00.000-08:00

The signs were good, and early word of mouth suggested a return to form. With the inevitable hit and miss ratio of a prolific author it seemed What the Night Knows was not only a homecoming to the magic of the past but a transcendent step up the ladder - perhaps a piece of dark fiction that would be regulated to the status of classic and the author – whilst achieving greatness many books ago – would be held in even higher regard as a composer whose ability to consistently dispense works of art would not be questioned.

This optimism continued as I started my journey, and although difficult I managed steer away from the obvious influx of new reviews pouring in every day. The opening paragraph is pure Koontz, setting the stage for a power-play of epic scope where the author’s cerebral prose could be used to the full extent. Already, I had ascertained that the formula for What the Night Knows was going to be the same one applied to his previous foray Life Expectancy whereby we have a domestic lifestyle shattered by a series of malevolent dates over a certain time period. This worked for that particular book, and the ‘countdown’ or ‘ticking-clock’ effect is a tried and true prescription for a writer of suspense.

John Calvino is a homicide detective who has recently been alerted to an entire family’s slaughter committed by a young member of it, one Billy Ryan, whose confession and lack of remorse is only the tip of the ice-berg that show startling similarities between these murders and ones that were committed twenty years previous. Although not the Detective assigned to the case, John goes out of his way to initiate a meeting with Billy and what he finds when coming face to face with him will not only confirm this correlation to past advents but will open up whole new possibilities in regard to the perpetrator. For it was John’s family itself who were the victims all those years ago - his father, mother and siblings all the violent work of one Alton Turner Blackwood. Although dead, it seems Alton’s curse might just live on in the form of Ryan … until Ryan dies, and then all Hell breaks loose.

At its core, What the Night Knows can be construed as a simple macabre tale – that of the invading spirit, one who is able to leap frog through time and space (and individual to individual), to finish off what he started. Thankfully, one of the strengths of the book is that Koontz can make believers out of us, and he constructs a serious mythology. Quiet easily, this aspect of spirit possession could have fallen into campy realms that resembled something like Friday the 13th: Jason goes to Hell or perhaps a rampaging liquid-metal cyborg. The upsurge of dread and malice we feel from Alton Blackwood is real and almost pervading. The snippets of his journal interspersed throughout the book give an intimate glimpse into a worthy evil.

As we progress, the first oddments of doubt start to wriggle in – and slowly turn into outright disappointment. Koontz, over the course of years, seems to have lost touch with his fellow humans. John Calvino is man with an attached family that is almost perfect in its world view. (They also have hired staff). His wife, Nicolette, is an acclaimed and successful artist; his children Zach, Naomi and Minnie are faultless and display none of the characteristics of normal children. What we have instead are character headspaces filled with nothing but 'Koontz-talk' whereby the author goes on rambling dirges that reflect his Republican politics and conservative philosophy. In a brutal flipside everyone else that surrounds them are positively evil - thief’s, sexual deviants and even child murderers. And each are ripe for spirit possession. I understand, on a narrative level, that antagonists must be created for the purpose of fiction, but when they are heaped on with such loving abandon it becomes so unrealistic it’s almost laughable. What the author has tried to do here is step out of his comfort zone and make a story steeped in the supernatural and brimming with dark and horrible images almost 'Laymon-esque' in their ferocity. But he doesn’t succeed. Horror is supposed to be fun … but the depressing nature of this novel had me audibly sighing at every available turn. When the final act came about, the un-thinkable occurred: I didn’t care whether or not I finished the final pages. As a reader, I was merely re-treading ancient ground from dozens of his pervious stories.

Sadly, the return to form never came about – and although I have unfailing respect for this author and will continue to read each new novel as it comes out, a wide gulf in the relationship between reader and writer has opened up in this instance.

Review: The Force Unleashed by Sean Williams

2011-01-30T18:23:00.000-08:00

All in all, there must be literally hundreds (if not thousands), of reviews for The Force Unleashed floating around in the universe since its inception into the world. As a precaution, I have read almost none of them. HorrorScope has always taken its roots in literature – and that is how I approached The Force Unleashed. As a novel written by a South Australian who has been given the opportunity to delve into an elaborate mythology almost unparalleled in its pervasive appeal to the world.

That said, there can be no denying what we are dealing with here: although my awareness of the video-game it’s based upon (I’m a rare Gamer) was haphazard at best, the storyline of Star Wars Episode 3.5 had, of course, trickled into my awareness over time. How could it not? For it seems there is an intrinsic Star Wars fanboy adoration lurking within the psyche of any person who holds speculative fiction close to their heart. And for those of us who ignore the first two prequels as though they did not occur, an invitation to step into the window of the Dark Times is an invitation not to be ignored. For this is apocalyptical Star Wars; a Star Wars where most childhood fancies have been thrown away and a more serious milieu has engulfed the galaxy far, far away.

And through that window lies the story of Darth Vader’s secret Sith apprentice Starkiller and his whistle stop tours to find and squash the last rudiment fragments of the Jedi pocketed throughout the galaxy. Accompanying him on his journey are his droid PROXY and adept female pilot Juno Eclipse. Both have tender and amnesiac pasts full of betrayal and both are mentally warring within their awareness in relation to duties they perform in the service of the Empire. For gaming fans, I’m sure there is a veritable trove of information pertaining to a character like Juno’s plight … but this adaptation itself is replete with enough empathy where our main characters are concerned.

Ensconced in the Rouge Shadow, the unlikely pair world skip from the festering droid wastelands of Raxus Prime to the lush forests of Felucia and other worlds, encountering hostile natives and inhospitable terrain in order to extinguish the Jedi. Of course, what we have here is very much what is on offer in a video game … but I found myself warming to it. This is non-stop battle and unrelenting action; descriptive graphics spewing from the page in Sean’s deft voice that give rise to an utterly immersive world that will make you blink twice when lifting your head from the page. This is no Disney-esque outing; the Dark Side invades everything here, showing the inner workings of a Sith mind that was denied to us in the prequels.

If the book reinforces anything, it is that Sean Williams is a truly gifted writer. As a person who currently lives without deadlines, I cannot imagine the insurmountable pressure involved to bring another's vision to life, make it coherent, and please a population of people that is without equal in it’s passion for the images. The Force Unleashed is a book that even manages to resonate on an emotional level with a belter of a finale, so I was dubious when hearing that a sequel has been produced.

But knowing that it’s come from the pen of Sean, a reader shouldn’t be discouraged to take another step back into the world of the Dark Times.

Review: The Last Deep Breath by Tom Piccirilli

2011-01-06T13:46:00.000-08:00

Another prolific writer whose talents have managed to slip under the radar, Tom Piccirilli is a four time Bram Stoker winner with over twenty novels to his credit and a slew of shorter tales that range the gamut of mystery, thriller, horror, erotica and science fiction. A heavy-hitter in the horror clique, his name has clout – so I was excited to finally delve into his take on the novella form with Tasmaniac Publications The Last Deep Breath.

Even from the illustration and from Tom’s reputation I pieced together this is a kind film-noir frolic and that’s exactly what is on offer. The story follows Grey, a washed out drifter with no clear idea or centralized compass on where he wants to be - he only knows that he must find his foster sister before the excesses of the world kill her. After both of them escaped the tortuous embrace of abusive foster parents, their crimes have seen them go in different directions … and his sister only desires reconciliation when death is just around the corner. After another vanishing act he follows her again – this time into the bustling heart of Hollywood. Soon he is seduced into a dirty world of scummy agents, fading movie stars and half-baked leads.

The first thing that jumped out at me is the prose: Tom’s style is immediately accessible and I’ve always been partial to writers who are not afraid to lay on heavy doses of metaphor. It was a little gyrating at the beginning to be sucked into a hard-boiled world set in the present day (let’s face it, most of us are conditioned to see this world through black and white sepia mirroring the styles of a bygone era). But this knee-jerk reaction is probably caused by not having read far and wide enough in the genre. Having never tackled a tome by Elmore Leonard, unfortunately this reviewer’s familiarity with the genus extended no further than films like Get Shorty with the locale setting of Mulholland Drive

Like other Tasmaniac titles, this one is short and slips by with the speed of our protagonist Grey experiencing a chemical high. There are cool vintage cars, porn stars and pimps; there are movie stars and murders. And underlying all of it is the mystique and allure of what it is to come to Hollywood for the first time. Also, it wouldn’t be a Tasmaniac edition if it didn’t have a lengthy and very entertaining foreword - this time by Patrick Lussier.

To top it off there is a bonus short Between the Dark and Daylight, a completely original and funny romp whose idea might have been spawned by the real life ‘balloon boy’ saga that dominated headlines some time back. Although comical, it’s still skewed with the penchant for violence.

As with my previous review for Within his Reach, it seems Tasmaniac have already sold out of this limited edition. But don’t let that deter you. Head on over to their web presence and grab another of their glossy little novellas before they too suffer the same fate.

Review: Quake by Richard Laymon

2010-12-18T22:48:00.000-08:00

Richard Laymon was an author whose prolific sensibilities and writing work ethic guaranteed himself a legacy that keeps on giving: even if you’ve managed to slough through the majority of his tomes, chances are there is still a couple more lurking in the wings somewhere, just waiting to be tapped. It was many novels ago during my reading life that I picked up a battered paperback copy of The Stake, and over the years I’ve kept coming back, sampling each novel in turn like a much beloved dish, never rushing the process and spacing them out so I can go on living with the sure knowledge there will always be another on horizon. In 2001, the world of horror literature lost a unique and glowing talent that comes along all too seldom.

With a title like Quake and the accompanying illustration, Laymon enthusiasts will no trouble envisioning what’s on offer here: a gargantuan earthquake has devastated most of down-town Los Angeles. If this isn’t the big one, it’s certainly close to it – and the subsequent havoc wrought might just give Stanley Banks the opportunity he’s been waiting for with neighbor Shelia Banner. Every morning she jogs past his living room window, and every morning he ogles her. With his domineering mother now out of the equation and the streets in ruins, normal suburbia is suddenly transformed into a macabre playground for the depraved.

Racing to get home is Shelia’s daughter Barbara and her friends from school. Her husband Clint is also stranded and pairs with unlikely allies as the streets abruptly become rife with roving gangs and looters. As the body toll rises, Clint and Barbara try to make it home before Stanley catches Shelia, now trapped within her bathtub among the debris.

One of Laymon’s more ambitious efforts standing at nearly 600 pages, the author never loses his stride. Though sometimes small on action, he writes with the uncanny knack of making hundreds of pages fly by as though dozens of advents are transpiring. A lot of this can be attributed to his study of character: rarely have I come across a novelist who can articulate common people’s reactions and speech so accurately. Those familiar with his formula will know his work is sometimes like a play - pure narrative simplicity but handled so craftily the tale becomes intricate. And it’s never more evidenced than in Quake. Probably the only pitfall in a novel like this is its often outdated nature – at the time of publication in 1995, hand-held electronic devices were still some way from the mainstream. Hopefully this doesn’t deter a new generation from embracing Laymon’s creations.

As a horror writer, Richard Laymon was utterly authentic - someone that wore the genre like a badge of honour and never apologized for it. He paved the way for many others like Brian Keene and Bentley Little to fill a void after his departure. My only hope is that one day the world of celluloid will pay homage by adapting one of his many visions.

Review: Dread (2009)

2010-11-15T12:49:00.000-08:00

There is no delight the equal of dread.

So begins the opening paragraph of a pivotal short story in the illustrious career of Clive Barker. From the myriad of tales presented in his ground-breaking collection Books of Blood, Dread stood out among others of the fold as a harrowing excursion into the nature of fear.

Many years later we finally have a film adaptation from the anthology that has given rise to semi-successful outings over the years including Rawhead Rex, Candyman, Lord of Illusions, Book of Blood and The Midnight Meat Train. And it could not come at a more important time. With the expansion of the splatter-porn field now firmly entrenched in the scaffold of the genre, I feel the original architects of such tales deserve their voice to be heard before we become overly swamped in a mire of imitation and unsympathetic translations that lack metaphor. Although shocking in tone, Clive Barker’s tiny tale of Quaid and his philosophical relationship with the ‘Beast’ of fear is somewhat loftier than the usual horrors.

Jackson Rathbone plays Stephen Grace, a University cinema student who becomes acquainted with Quaid – another individual like himself with a potent story from the past detailing horrific advents: Stephen does not drive a vehicle after his sibling died at the wheel, and Quaid is still reeling from being a child eyewitness to his parent’s dismemberment. Already, we are seeing things deviate from the original story – subtle changes at fist but still keeping with the overall milieu. Quaid then proposes research into people’s fears for their first thesis, and soon they are joined by fellow-student Cheryl to work with them documenting everything on camera. What follows is a character-driven descent into psychological terror with some gut-wrenching scenes.

Initially, I thought the restrained changes and in particular the casting of Shaun Evans as Quaid would hinder the build-up. This Quaid feels far too innocent and simple - gone is the dark charisma that made this expert manipulator so enticing. But as the narrative unfolds Evans begins to exhibit all the characteristics needed to flesh out the character. We then face the conundrums associated with re-playing our fears … that if we stare directly into the eyes of the Beast for long enough will we finally be granted revelation?

Writer/Director Anthony DiBlasi has worked recently on other Barker projects and the final product of this small-budget outing is ultimately as slick and unnerving as anything released by a major studio. The ambiance has been honored; the material given a kind of dark reverence that shows both an understanding of it tempered with the need for a clever rearrangement. While not containing the dark grandiosity of previous adaptations such as Lord of Illusions or perhaps Candyman, Dread still manages to find its own shadowy niche in the legendary resume of Clive Barker.

Review: Saw 3D

2010-11-07T16:15:00.000-08:00

It hardly came as a surprise to the collective tribe when it was announced the inevitable SAW VII was to be filmed in 3D - perhaps a move that would hopefully make us less desensitized to the now repetitious ‘traps’ that percolate through one of the most lucrative horror franchises of all time. Dealing with yet another mind-numbing circuitous plot might be worth it to see what story-board designers could envisage trying to hang ropey intestines and viscera all over the viewer’s 3D glasses.

We open with the usual fare, and at first it seemed SAW 3D was vying into new territory … more darkly comical and conceivably something like the last Final Destination installment whereby it moves in self-parody or satire. That notion, however, is quelled in a hurry as we soon realize that what’s on offer is yet another unbroken continuation of the Jigsaw mythology … now a Russian doll tale that is a jigsaw within itself.

Bobby Dagan (a Sean Patrick Flanery looking a little the worse for wear) is a ‘Jigsaw survivor’ who has become a small celebrity by writing a book and doing the talk-show route detailing his experiences. He even holds morbid meetings not unlike an Alcoholic’s Anonymous whereby other survivors band together and give their take on the pitfalls and/or liberating effects of being unwilling participants in the serial killers game. Subsequently, he and his associates are abducted by Jigsaw’s newest torch-bearer Detective Hoffman (Costas Mandylor), and off we begin on another merry-go-round of torture-porn.

The celebrity angle was a good one - and all the components were there to elevate Saw 3D into a suspenseful climax that would hopefully bring closure or possibly a deus ex machina that would round off the legacy. Sadly, something is lacking, and I found the previous plot-device of a medical insurance corporation much more appealing than this often bloated and imitating work. Of course, we probably threw out ‘could this really happen?’ about four films ago and can happily suspend disbelief for the sake of cinema. But somehow this didn’t work here, and the elaborate processes to set such a series of advents in motion delve into the land of pure fantasy.

With the conclusion no doubt on the horizon, the writers had an opportunity to tap into an emotional element, but what we see here is more of a jazzed-up musical score overlapping an excursion that still feels like a two-hour music video. (Saw VII actually contains a cameo by Linkin Park's Chester Bennington). The inevitable twist is somewhat compelling, almost like SAW’s greatest hits containing a bonus hidden track from the first film made by two Melbourne boys all those years ago. But regrettably, this is not the finale the franchise probably deserves.

Review: The Finger of God by Keith Williams

2010-10-26T17:27:00.000-07:00

A retired Astronaut who once called the International Space Station home, Jordie MacAlister now spends his days in a different kind of isolation, sequestered away on the West Coast of Scotland and mourning the death of his wife after an inoperable brain tumour. Furthering his woe, he discovers his time in space has severely weakened his heart, thus curtailing short a career with NASA. His life is peaceful – if not quiet idyllic – until a top-secret NASA database is unaccountably downloaded onto his computer's hard drive in a blinding flash of light. With his inside knowledge, Jordie knows that such a thing isn’t possible. So it begs the question of whom or what is the power behind this inexplicable event that is now beginning to be felt around the world …

In the early stages of The Finger of God, we get the feeling this might be a short and speculative excursion not unlike a stand-alone episode of The X-Files. All the elements are there as Jordie recruits old friend and retired conspiracy-theorist Alan Sinclair to help him decipher the code. But what started out as a small mystery soon dovetails into an apocalyptic novel incorporating every device and trope of science fiction whilst invigorating the plot with horror elements reminiscent of the destruction and carnage found in a Roland Emmerich film. The action cranks up as we shift settings on a global scale from Geelong,

Australia

to the upper echelons of NASA. The darker aspects of the novel get even darker as Williams juggles an alien monstrosity hell bent on total abolition and the blemishes found within the human heart when put under such duress.

Unfortunately, when charting a plot evocative of sci-fi television, it becomes easy see everything through the lens of these shows, and a downside here is probably the clichéd characters and their dialogue and reactions. We have troubled, hardened cops voicing hackneyed thoughts; we have male and female protagonists who are brought together romantically through the fall of civilization. Underlying it all, we get the feeling Williams is using this stage to preach philosophy about human follies, and at times, I found myself getting bogged down in semantics that tapered the enjoyment of the fast moving plot. There are certain stages when you’ll ‘know’ you’re reading a book. A perfect example of this would be:

"That statement from Maurice injected reality back into the surreal atmosphere as awareness of the impossibly dire situation permeated the kitchen."

All that aside, we can tell Williams is a gifted author whose talent is only just coming to the forefront, and The Finger of God is perfect for people who enjoy savvy science fiction with subtle hints of horror.

Review: Borderland (2007)

2010-10-17T23:07:00.003-07:00

When first reading the caption ‘Inspired by a True Story’ a horror aficionado invariably recoils. Do we have on our hands another Texas Chainsaw Massacre replica trying to emulate the success of that franchise? Or perhaps this is just another torture-porn outing with a series of advents so loosely resembling the original crime its entire story is nothing more than a fictitious construct? Initially, that was my first impression of Borderland … a sordid tale set on the fringe of

Mexico.

If there was any question regarding the film-territory we inhabit, the opening sequence quells all doubts in a hurry as two Mexican police officers find themselves in the hands of a drug-cartel that applies human sacrifice to please deities and thus remain anonymous from enemies. It sounds far-fetched, but the tone and mood of Borderland enables the scenario to be utterly plausible. None of this is for the squeamish, and although we have a sinister world very Tarantino/Rodriguez on offer, I had the feeling even those icons would be applauding this.

Next, we cut to the main-players and inevitable future victims of the blood-cult: Ed, Phil, and Henry – three arrogant and ambitious American’s celebrating graduation. The boys have decided that before college they’re going experience freedom and liberty as defined by those living south of the border. At first reluctant, Ed joins his friends and we are then treated to their adventures with alcohol, drugs, and sex. But this is no teeny-bopper outing where dim-witted adolescents are fodder for embarrassing lines and actions; I found the characters innocence and naivety to be genuine. When the subsequent abduction of Phil takes place, the tension becomes palpable.

The prescription for a movie like Borderland is, of course, the same one applied to films like Hostel. But it’s a formula that will always work for horror. This is foreign land, everybody is corrupt, and when the maelstrom comes there is nobody to help you or hear you scream. The added true-story element (of which there is a surplus of information in the special features) gives credence to the harrowing brutality of human sacrifice. When the tides turn, and the victim seeks retribution, we discover they are capable of just as much atrocity as their tormentors. Although at times the pacing is slow and the dark tones will have you squinting, the climax ensures Borderland rises just above the usual crop to be a better than average horror film.

Review: Aegri Somnia

2010-10-16T15:07:00.000-07:00

Note: A review from 2006 I somehow missed.

Aegri Somnia is a Latin phrase, one that means, literally, ‘A Sick Man’s Dream.’

Aegri Somnia (for me, at least), was always going to be a winner. The news spread; little banners and bookmarks circulated with an illustration that was enough whet my fantastique taste-buds. For dark fiction lovers like us – for I assume you wouldn’t be reading this if you weren’t – the appeal that can often come with holding a little package like Aegri Somnia goes beyond mere words. Whereas some people see nothing more than a little book to perhaps use as a drink coaster on a coffee table (god, I do hate that); we aficionado’s perceive a treasure trove; something that is perhaps priceless in value. And certainly more than the retail price: Tiny imagined worlds that a lot of sacrifice, sweat and time went into.

Jennifer Pelland is our first executioner of tales with YY, and it’s a very worthy opener. Reminiscent of the design on the cover, we know we're in a kind of monster territory. Little monsters. Monsters that scurry. After an abortive attempt to fashion a human baby goes horribly wrong, the man for whom the experiment was designed has to repair the damage. Although concerning fiends, the story’s heart is ultimately a cordial domestic one between a small boy and a grieving adult ready to make the ultimate sacrifice to put things right.

Christopher Rowe’s The League of Girls is a little more subdued. The plot seems to fit well into the Aegri Somnia theme, but I was a little baffled; maybe this was the point. After coming home from hospital following debilitating injuries from a plane crash (or was it)? Sammi is allocated a place in a girl’s boarding house that may well be some kind of afterlife.

One of my favourite’s follows: All Praise to the Dreamer by Nancy Fulda. It’s another story that’s strongly tied with parenthood, and the lengths we go to preserve our brood. What makes this one tick, however, is the strange, sentient creatures that prey on humanity’s infants. They are even given a delicious name (one I won’t reveal here), and you can tell the author has fun with her creations. A clever ending ensues.

Mythology comes to the forefront with Nothing of Me by Eugie Foster. Deity’s everybody will be familiar with – those from Homer’s Odyssey, rear up in a tropical setting set in present day. It’s a cool little story, and a lot of people will enjoy it; however, I’d just finished reading Dan Simmons’s epic Ilium and Olympos the night before. Hence, this particular reviewer was a little put off coming back to Zeus and his immortal family of gods, goddesses and demigods. They seem to be everywhere in current fiction, marauding around our writers heads begging them for more tales. But I’m just being morose here, ladies and gentleman. Eugie’s tale is infused with curses, betrayal and romance with immortals Scylla and Glaucus at the centre of things.

Natural storyteller Scott Nicholson gives us Heal Thyself, probably the ultimate standout in this collection. Jeffery Jackson has problems – big problems. And when he sees a past-life hypno-therapist to heal his cerebral sufferings, his psyche dovetails into area’s better left unexplored. I’ve made it no secret in the past (no pun intended) that I predict Scott’s only a couple of books away from breaking through big-time, and you’ll see why with Heal Thyself. There is a miniature here, and (in my opinion) he seems to grasp topics he might know little about with a fiery, almost effortless imagination.

Perhaps the only story that doesn’t quite fit in here is On the Shoulders of Giants by Bryn Sparks. This is probably due to the hard science fiction factor that seems no body else really ventured into. Apex readers will know that Bryn is very talented, however – and he fuses human emotion with robotic sentience quite well.

Dream Takers by Rhonda Eudaly tackles sleep disorders. Those familiar with insomnia or nightmares that invade us when we close are eyes will be chilled by this. In this future, technology has enabled one Timothy Lindsey to snatch nightmares from the subconscious and give them to somebody else. In this case, its inmates on death row . . . monsters already filled by the void. And of course, there is always a price …

The next piece, Letters from the Weirdside by Lavie Tidhar, seems dedicated to all the struggling dark fiction writers out there. We begin with a typical day in a horror magazine editor’s work-place. There follows his decent into story realms that fracture known reality and question the often blurry line between fiction and our own four-dimensional world: a motif Stephen King has explored at great lengths.

Every story here seems to feed off the one before it, and the next one, Wishbones by Cherie Priest comes off just as good as the rest. The plot concerns ancient mythical secrets during the civil war and is branched into the present involving teenagers working in pizza store. Cherie’s use of language (especially between the teenagers) is right on the money; their banter flies from the page like you’re watching it on the screen. Also, it’s the images evoked during the war camps and not the supernatural elements that ultimately win out.

All becomes as Wormwood will certainly make a lot of techno-phobes and environmentalists out there squirm in their respective reading chairs. It’s authored by Angeline Hawkes, who purveys the wasteland that is Chernobyl years after the meltdown and reports what she sees. Alex has permission to travel to the abandoned city to add some verisimilitude for a school report and perhaps take a few photographs. Alex discovers (after his motorcycle breaks down, of course), that Chernobyl isn’t as deserted as the world thinks and it seems the city has one last, horrifying gift for the world. Sounds great, and it is … except there is an element of disbelief for the reader as Alex comes to terms with the new environment astonishingly quickly. We’re thrust forward into B grade territory as though we’ve been there all along – and you might find yourself frowning. However, it is a short story, and Angeline is to be forgiven.

Well of the Waters by Mari Adkins falls into the same category as Nothing of Me. Although I’m probably wrong, stories such as these seem to be aimed at a female readership . . . and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with this. My personal taste, however, won’t easily be held sway here. Like Dream Takers, it revolves around a kind of sleep incubator. Another realm with powerful female thaumaturgy also comes into play.

It seems just when you think the best story has shown itself, along comes Mens Rea by Steven Savile. What started out as seamy cop London story – perhaps a very gruesome take on TV’s The Bill – suddenly goes ape into dark regions involving experimental brain surgery, hoodlum thugs with telekinetic gifts – and an ending that just begs for some kind of universe to be explored. Steven takes to the theme beautifully, imbuing Mens Rea with a vigorous, complex and ultimately uplifting tale.

Well, it was a good ride. And I was happy to make the journey. All authors are to be commended, as they have been given a task and responded resoundfully. Bravo Jason Sizemore and Gill Ainsworth for editing. You can purchase Aegri Somnia from Apex Publications.

Review: Within His Reach by Steve Gerlach

2010-09-26T14:04:00.000-07:00

This novella is dedicated to the memory of Rod Serling (writer and creator of The Twilight Zone), and it shows. Within His Reach is a quaint little story that harkens back to the film-noir days of the 1950s where American towns were a picturesque realm of suited, cynical attitudes with a black and white visual style. But underlying this hardboiled world’s glossy surface is also the propaganda beneath: that what lies on top is merely an illusion our authorities want us to believe in …

At this time in history, polio is an epidemic sweeping the nation, and Arnold Enright is one of the poor unfortunates to lose everything he holds dear to a disease that relegates you to the mechanical prison of living in an iron lung. Told in first person narration, this is where the story picks up, and Gerlach does a good job conveying the despondency of the disease. When Arnold decides to go ahead with radical surgery and subsequently wakes up in his home town of Hope Springs a whole man, his elation soon turns to despair when he realizes that the town is empty and everything has the drab quality of a nightmare. Was the surgery a success? Is he merely dreaming? Why does everything he touch vanish into non-existence? Despite the world around him falling apart yet again, Arnold goes in search of the wife who abandoned him and the daughter he’s never met.

Here, Steve Gerlach has given himself the task of translating the The Twilight Zone ambiance into a literary format, and for the most part, he succeeds; reading, we can almost hear the show’s soundtrack in the background – can almost anticipate an intermission when events fracture into pure slippage. But I also had the feeling this is a short story that has been stretched like taffy into the length of a novella. As I whole, I think it could have benefited from being sluiced down to half the word count … and made an enjoyable read even more palatable to fans of science fiction noir. A small quibble in an otherwise engaging story.

The Australian small Press Tasmaniac Publications have done a beautiful job with this edition, and although copies might still be available elsewhere, it seems to have sold out in its current incarnation. Tasmaniac have a reputation for glossy, imaginative illustrations and covers, and Within His Reach is no exception. It also contains a nostalgic and original foreword by legendary writer William F. Nolan entitled The Twilight Years.

Review: Splice

2010-08-30T19:46:00.000-07:00

Vincenzo Natali has become somewhat of a science fiction cult director in recent years, helming the now well-known and celebrated Cube. Although never quite mainstream, his other foray Cypher has showcased a director that isn’t reluctant to call science fiction his forte. Too often in the past we see those with a penchant for the fantastique moving away into other more ‘serious’ realms when they find greater clout to wield. Thus the David Cronenberg’s of the world are a seldom phenomenon and should be treasured for their commitment and loyalty. Natali is one such director still finding his feet, and with Splice moves entirely into the mainstream.

A scientist team that are also a couple, Elsa (Sarah Polley) and Clive (Adrian Brody), are on the cutting edge of human/animal gene splicing, and are trying to develop a protein for a major corporation. When their experiments herald the arrival of new species, they decide to go rouge and take it to the next level: splicing human and animal DNA. When each small breakthrough leads to another victory, the scientists set in motion an irrevocable chain of advents that gives birth to Dren … an entirely new progeny female in gender and having hybrid characteristics.

Fitting this particular premise are typical plot-offshoots that go hand and hand with it: the ethical and moral dilemmas … is it right to play with God’s codes and maps if it could lead to a victory over disease? And is there an ultimate price to pay if we succeed? Of course, there is nothing new here – but we get the feeling there isn’t supposed to be. The characters of Elsa and Clive are even named as a homage to central characters in Bride of Frankenstein. That said, the first half of the film does feel original in its execution, with the real star here Dren. This is no run-of-the-mill Alien/Species knock-off: watching the creature as it grows and learns at a breakneck pace is disconcerting to say the least – the CGI is flawless, giving an authentic performance that, once married with regular prosthetics, has the viewer feeling prickly with dread.

Throughout, there is the undercurrent of the domestic, as we see Elsa’s and Clive’s relationship and unresolved personal issues taken into disarray by the their current predicament. In this regard, there was so much to like, but what ultimately lets the film down is the final third, a finale that feels taped on and sinks to the level of Natali’s cheaper films. Obvious script re-writes are layered on as though no one (including the director), knew how to finish it. There is one unexpected development that is implausible to the point it’s laughable. And from here, any aficionado can guess where things lead.

But this does not take away the films gains, and having an A list performer like Brody elevates the production into something that deserved to make theatrical release. French actress Delphine Chaneac gives the character of Dren an uncanny take that makes us feel and fear her at the same time. This alone makes Splice a small triumph.

Review: Centurion

2010-08-28T03:47:00.000-07:00

With films like Dog Soldiers and The Descent under his belt, British writer and director Neil Marshall now has the clout to broaden his horizons and show the world and a mainstream audience just how much talent is at his disposal. His previous forays into horror have showcased a director with a certain penchant for hardcore character development, followed by a brutal showdown with enemy forces that may or may not be supernatural in nature and do not leave many survivors. With Centurion, he has stuck to his tried formula … but expanded it and broadened it out to encompass a stage that is less domestic and uses entire countries as the playground. Here, his monsters are human … but no less depraved than those he has put on display before.

Our Centurion is Quintus Dias, a Roman soldier who is the sole survivor of a bloody raid that saw his company decimated by the Picts … a savage and mysterious clan who refuse to fold into the Roman Empire and are employing guerrilla tactics that are preventing them from securing

Britain

. His next mission is to join ranks with the Ninth Legion and wipe out the Picts once and for all. But when an ambush ensues and an even bigger slaughter takes place, he now leads a cabal of survivors across unforgiving terrain and set-backs to reach his homeland again. And their presence his known by the Picts, who relentlessly hunt them.

It should go without saying that for those of you expecting another cult film likeThe Descent, that is not what is on offer here. I for one applaud the decision of the Director to take the story into uncharted territory and see what the audience makes of it. And the result? Surprises at every turn. I will admit to not being prepared for how well things ultimately came together. Above all, it is refreshing to take a break from the mire that Hollywood sometimes is. This is a British/Scottish cast and world, full of breath-taking scenery and a gritty style of film-making that only comes from doing the hard yards away from celluloid’s capital. The scenes of battle and carnage are still there for horror fans, and they are done so with realistic expertise. An audience member will feel totally ensconced in the cold, harsh reality of the Roman frontier. I have a feeling that Neil Marshall was schooling himself on set (much like Tarantino did with Kill Bill), to be an action director. But he still keeps the human element alive and true. The performance by the mute and beautiful hunter Etain (Olga Kurylenko) is worthy of distinction.

There are a couple of set-backs, most notable a romance that never quite takes off. But we get the feeling it was probably the studios suggesting such changes to encompass a broader audience. With a much larger budget in tow, sometimes creators have to make some sacrifices to get their vision across. There will be a few nay-sayers whose knee jerk reaction is to quickly compare it to Dog Soldiers and The Descent in a negative light, but over time this film will join the pantheon as a minor classic of the already impressive resume of Neil Marshall.

Review: Pilgrims by Will Elliot

2010-08-22T04:20:00.000-07:00

An author that needs no introduction, Will Elliot burst into the mainstream from relative obscurity after winning the ABC manuscript award with The Pilo Family Circus. It was a novel of disturbing ideas and grisly images that took on a life of its own, breathing fresh blood into our literary scene and showcasing that young Australian talent could mix it with the big guns on a world stage. With Pilgrims, Elliot shifts gears in a largely new direction, moving into the invented world genre and trying to explode its conventions from within.

From experience, I think there comes a time in a speculative writer’s life when they think: now is the time to do my ‘otherworld’ book. Be it a dominion, realm, dimension, or simply world – it seems ingrained that this be accomplished as a kind of Magnum Opus or literary Jupiter that dwarfs all other novels, novellas, or short stories. And there is nothing wrong with this. Although it took an eternity, King himself achieved this milestone with The Dark Tower books. Numerous other authors have made it a staple: Clive Barker’s descriptions of wonderlands that sit just adjacent to us are like a guide for every intrepid writer who feels the need to describe some otherland. This hybrid of dark fantasy and horror is now well-mapped … the challenge is to find something unique and powerful to add to the fray. For the most part, Will Elliot does succeed with Pilgrims, book one of the Pendulum trilogy.

Eric Albright (a protagonist with shades of Elliot I suspect), has discovered a small red door underneath a train bridge near his home. His wingman in the unearthing is Stuart Case, a homeless alcoholic who accompanies Eric through the door into Levaal … the adjacent realm next to ours brimming with magic and all the ingredients we have come to expect from fantasy. We are on familiar ground, and Eric knows it. More than once he voices the opinion that because he is from our world, then he must be its savoir. Both Eric and Case become part of a quest that is fragmentary in the details but mainly about survival. A numerous and varied cast is introduced, and readers will see creatures of staggeringly various descriptions populate the world of Levaal. There are War Mages, flying Invia, Gods and Great Spirits. There are those that are free, and those that are not … as the current resident of the Castle, Vous, has turned this beacon of magic into a house of malign purpose with the hopes of ascending to Godhood.

Pilgrims as a book reflects journey. The kind of book, perhaps, that’s perfect for ones own voyage. For some peculiar reason I found myself digging into this narrative always when I was on the move: traffic light intersections, bus trips, and even on one occasion when hiking through the woods. At times it can be stagnant; the action and mysteries of a type encountered in many other fictitious worlds before. The language feels familiar and intimate, however – the Australian voice homely. Above all, Will Elliot wants to take us to his Narnia and the world of his childhood. Although a far cry from his debut novel and not inhabiting the same territory, Pilgrims nevertheless acts as a worthy successor.

The story continues in Shadow and concludes in book three Dragon.

Review: The Hitcher (2007)

2010-08-22T04:07:00.000-07:00

HorrorScope has seen fit to let me visit one of the older horror/thrillers of the past few years. The Hitcher was released in 2007 and is a re-make of the classic 1986 film of the same name.

It came at a time when re-makes were still a relative novelty … and seems an age ago now in terms of film-making. When viewing it, do not expect to see many similarities with its previous incarnation. This is a film that is aimed primarily at a new generation coming through … and ultimately suffers for it.

We are in comforting and familiar territory with the plot: College students Jim and Grace are on a jaunt across the

United States

and en route encounter the hitch-hiker who calls himself John Ryder. After initially refusing to stop, they later encounter him at a gas station and there follows a nightmare journey with the psychopath.

Things are promising at the beginning: the audience is in hackneyed territory but knows this. The Highway is a like a character – a haunted wasteland that is a playground for anything malign to find a home and go un-noticed. There is no mystery about our villain; he is unmasked in all his glory, and talented actor Sean Bean has no trouble bringing to life the vapid stance of a detached executioner. In what is perhaps a small nod to the first film, there is an undeniable gritty attention to the colors and camera-focus.

But things quickly fall apart with lazy dialogue and unrealistic scenarios that couldn’t possibly happen … even suspending disbelief for the sake of celluloid. I won’t go into these, but at times it felt like I was reading the screenplay – a huge warning bell going off that the director’s vision was not enough to curtail what is, at its core, a bad script.

There are encouraging sign-posts: jump moments are everywhere, enough to keep you interested … and it’s the type of horror that takes no prisoners about whom is dispatched or how. The ‘game’ John Ryder is playing intrigues us, for his toying levels go beyond mere play into something else altogether. A thumping soundtrack is with us every step of the way - it sounds like the throb of a heart or the whir of a truck and intelligently mirrors the ‘highway-artery’ theme of the whole endeavor.

Unfortunately, in the end, the clichéd ‘horror film’ behavior of those being toyed is enough to have us praying for their demise. Although by no means a complete loss, keep this one for a Saturday night marathon when all the quality has been exhausted.

Review: Amusement (2008)

2010-08-08T05:17:00.000-07:00

Initially a promising film, Amusement offers up a smorgasbord of ingredients that should have made this work. The narrative is a mish-mash of the My Bloody Valentine scenario, whereby a tormented adolescent has now grown up to bring his revenge fantasizes into a blood-spattered reality. His focus is the three girls who mocked him in youth.

As stated, the formula was trite but promising, and the opening sequence unfolds in a trucking convoy that takes a sinister turn. Camera direction is slick and eccentric; almost mimicking something David Fincher might produce; the film visually looks good and the bigger budget is apparent. But things dovetail as we come to the slow realization that almost everything is pilfered directly from some other source: the gothic ambiance, the hooded slickers in rain, and the interconnected storylines. This entire outing resembles something more on par with an anthology … and perhaps if they had marketed it this way and tweaked the story-line it could have evolved. Viewed from this perspective, it’s actually quite sublime: our stalker takes on the guise of a killer clown in what is a genuinely unnerving scene. A modern-Frankenstein motif is built into the account and what lies in wait is something that shames The People Under The Stairs … but it all seems too unwieldy, too elaborate – and our stalkers motivation is ultimately haphazard to the point of non-existence. The climax is more of the same: a stunning visual feast in a labyrinthine fortress presenting doors to the viewer that are never opened.

With a screenplay by Jake Wade Wall (the same individual who penned The Hitcher), Amusement can be safely filed away into the same category as my review for that film. This is no must-see and can easily be overlooked. But as something to complement a horror marathon, Amusement just rises above the tide to be mildly entertaining.

Review: Your Heart Belongs to Me by Dean Koontz

2010-07-18T16:45:00.000-07:00

At 34, Ryan Perry has achieved his life’s ambition and then some: the head of successful software outfit and social-networking site that has seen him accumulate millions. Not only is he a Forbes magazine entrepreneur, Ryan is also dating an attractive fellow/surfer journalist (Samantha Reach) who isn’t far away from accepting his marriage proposal. So when he suffers a mild heart-attack and subsequently learns of its defect, his once placid world is altered radically. Ryan only has a short time to live … and will not live at all unless he finds a new heart.

Initially, I thought the premise of Your Heart Belongs to Me dealt with a fascinating condition that has been around since the first heart transplants – cellular memory. The theory (and stories) revolve around the notion that the brain is not the only organ that stores personality traits and memories; there have been many documented cases whereby a surgery patient has displayed new tastes in opinions, cravings, and other mild variations of habit. To a certain extent, this does form a basis of the novel … but it is only on the peripheral side-lines as Koontz tries his hand at marrying a slew of imaginings.

After switching physicians and a transplant success, Ryan goes on with life … albeit lacking Samantha. Then follows a reign of psychological persecution that makes his original fears of poisoning seem tame by comparison: some invisible phantom has access to his private quarters, can manipulate his security, and has taken to leaving him gifts such as gold heart pendants. His paranoia moves into an investigation that uncovers a world of voluntary euthanasia and identical twins. Some consider Koontz’s work to be tame, but try envisioning a house full of real corpses embalmed exquisitely for art’s sake. Personally, I am a fan of his somewhat flowery and obsessively metaphorical prose, but others might find it a little over the top and long-winded this time. There is little dialogue, and a lot of inner rumination by our protagonist.

When the plot-payoff finally arrives, the reader with either vehemently applaud or cringe with disappointment. Here there is no middle ground. By and large, Your Heart Belongs to Me is a book about subtext and texture. Seeing patterns to the plot not from the surface theme but from the implicit meaning of the tale … the things that the modern mind rejects on a conscious level. This is mid-range Koontz, but any author who can, without fail, elicit a tear from me in the closing stages of a book is an author who is ultimately doing something right.

Review: Trick 'r Treat

2010-07-18T16:35:00.000-07:00

Trick ‘r Treat was released in 2008 to little fan fare (basically left for dead by Warner Brothers) - but now finds a niche in horrors pantheon as a film to be remembered. If you have somehow managed to avoid this rare gem, you’ll be doing yourself a favor by becoming acquainted with it.

Trick ‘r Treat takes the well worn mythos of Halloween and breathes new life into it by simply going back to basics. Everything takes place in the duration of one All Hallows Eve with a series of interconnected stories that weave a comic-book carnival spell over a small town: a principal serial-killer, a virginal red-riding hood, a hermit and a group of teens that take an urban legend too far are all part of the nights tapestry. The horrors that take place are allowed to do so under the guise of the festivities and blend seamlessly with the illusions … resulting in classic humor that keeps with the comic-book texture.

Already you might have heard comparisons with this anthology to King’sCreepshow … but this is more like a modern re-telling for a new generation, peppered with enough revenge incidents that it will be like a homage to those familiar with that classic. It’s also reminiscent of another King creation: The Regulators - whereby innocent suburbia is transformed into a nightmare landscape by something juvenile … if only for the night.

With a haunting score reminiscent of something composed by Christopher Young, Trick ‘r Treat is a fusion of old-school thrills with a contemporary shine.Costumes and candy, ghouls and goblins, all kinds of masks and monsters … the only regret you’ll have is not viewing it during Halloween’s cavalcade.

Review: Daybreakers

2010-06-23T05:45:00.000-07:00

After its theatrical release, there has already been a lot of talk and reviews of Daybreakers, the second full-length outing by

Australia

’s Spierig Brothers, who were behind the 2003 semi-cult Zombie extravaganza Undead. So I won’t bore you with many particulars.

It’s 2019, and the script has broken the genre stereotypes by granting us a vision of vampires that has seldom been visited before: they govern the world, and a massive corporation has seen fit to round up the last of the human race for consumption lest the population succumb to extinction. This in itself is fascinating and holds a mirror up to our own world to promote endless discussion. The sphere has been flipped but is ultimately the same: blood is merely a metaphor for resources like food and oil. A veritable hornets nest of ethical and moral questions then present themselves ... as those that are left try to find a substitute or cure for the life-force of survival.

Edward Dalton (Ethan Hawke) is one such individual, a hematologist working for a pharmaceutical company. His allegiance to his kindred race is waning … fuelled by slowly-eradicating memories and the farming of the race he once belonged to (think of a Matrix-like landscape of human production lines). Impeding the work is another addition to vampire society: a ghastly sub-species that has succumbed to blood malnourishment and is living in the squalid depths of depravity, feasting on anything and severely deformed.

Daybreakers is like an American and Australian hybrid of a movie, and at the beginning, this can be grating. Obvious Australian back-drops, accents, and actors have been merged with American enterprise and this comes off cheap. Initially, the dialogue is awkward and juvenile (and somewhat embarrassing), but as our story chugs along, the lines are blurred, a stride is found, and everything becomes one. Visually, the concepts that come to life are spectacular, and I can only fantasise about how fun it was for the story-board artists and imaginers. The Sun, in particular, is mined like a character itself, and I was happily reminded of some of the awesome planetary sequences in Pitch Black (another one filmed in

Australia

), whereby we are granted a feast for the senses. Dark and gothic, the cities are transformed into a cimmerian wonderland of black elegance. Let’s be honest, the vampires here just look cool. And seeing an entire population of transformed eyes will appeal to any purveyor of the macabre. There is also a disquieting element, and the images associated with the holocaust are palpable.

Like other films of this stripe, there is an uprising of the repressed (in this case the humans, led by Willem Dafoe). Having an established acting cartel does bring the film to greater heights, and I have a feeling it would be much impoverished without Ethan Hawke’s sympathetic performance. There will also be many discussions about the type of vampire presented, for traditional dispatching methods are not brought into effect until the end.

Ultimately, I enjoyed my time with Daybreakers. Let’s hope this is just the beginning of a long road the brothers have in store for us …

Review: Carriers

2010-06-19T00:32:00.000-07:00

A unique apocalypse has devastated the world, and brothers Brain and Danny are on a pilgrimage across the country to their childhood haunt … a holiday house on the ocean where perhaps they can weather the storm of an airborne virus that infects its human hosts with ultimate death. Tagging along with the brothers are Brian’s girlfriend Bobby and their friend Kate. When encountering a father and his infected daughter who have run out of gas in the middle of nowhere, their trip takes a detour where they will discover they have more to fear from each other than a lethal virus.

From the out-set, we are only given cursory hints as to what the world (and our individuals) have been dealt – and this works. The mystery could entail many things on the menu: most notably zombies, but it manages to avoid the old tropes and goes straight for the heart. I use the word ‘unique’ as this is a film that has taken a different route from others in the genre. Sure, there are shades of many of its predecessors. Most notably movies like 28 Days Later, and literature like The Stand and Night Surf. But Carriers is infused with a domestic human element that makes it worthy of distinctive praise. Throughout, we are treated to some genuinely disturbing moments as our characters try to deal with the illness - like the dilemma that is so pertinent to Zombie films: after infection occurs the pretence goes on that they are not infected … and should they divulge that they are? It’s designed in a way to make the viewer feel contaminated, and more than once I found myself wiping a hand on my sleeve. It does lack gore and action, but the real violence boils down to the callous lengths people will go to when their own survival is questioned.

Someone pointed out recently that the current crop of horror movies being released to DVD is in a downward spiral. They may be right, but every so often a film like Carriers comes along and stems the flow.

Different Masks

2010-06-04T15:40:00.000-07:00

In a desire to show the universe that I haven’t been entirely blocked over time, I’ve decided, for a bit of fun, to put up my novel Davey Ribbon on the interwebs in installments.

Many years ago – probably during the 90’s I thinking - it would have been unthinkable to have your unpublished novel displayed for any individuals to read in such an intimate and prolific setting. The tales were carried around in the fabled ‘trunk’ – or existed on a floppy disk. Why not take advantage of this tech and broadcast that ‘dreaming awake’ state a bourgeoning writer carries around with him or her all the time?

As it currently stands, Davey Ribbon is around four hundred pages. The material you see online is raw and un-edited … but that’s what I love about working on it: it’s the first thing put to page that feels like celluloid in its construction (albeit without any collaboration) – with dozens of scenes having been deleted or re-written, and ‘The End’ written on two separate occasions only to be erased and continued. So, have a read and tell me what you think. It’s not in sequential order so forgive me for making you scroll down.

Many submissions have taken place recently and it seems I'm finally getting my shit together. These include Midnight Echo 5, Afterburn SF, the latest Chizine competition, and also the AHWA one. Even if no results are yielded it sure feels good to be in the game and submitting regularly ...

I’m writing this on Saturday June the 5^th. A few days ago, my Tonkinese cat had to be put to sleep. Oscar and I had been inseparable for thirteen years and it was an agonizing decision to make: although relatively healthy in all outward appearances his large intestine had been playing havoc for years, causing unfathomable constipation that not even daily doses of syrup could remedy. It’s strange to think how much they are entwined in your life: he was here, by my side, for every word written at this desk, every guitar riff written on the chair next to me, every good and bad movie – and every episode of The Simpson’s repeated hundreds of times. We know they are mortal and their span is diminished compared with ours. That notion, however, does not salve the pain when the advent occurs. I’ll miss you greatly my old friend, and even if I live to be an old man I’ll still remember you fondly as the greatest being I knew on this side of the veil …

Review: The Fourth Kind

2010-05-10T20:59:00.000-07:00

Right off the bat lets ascertain what a few people might be wondering about the movie The Fourth Kind: is at least some of the contents rooted in any truth whatsoever? Is the viral campaign that started it the geneses of some kind of celluloid disclosure? The answer, sadly, is no. The Fourth Kind is entirely fictional in almost every regard. The same formula applied to films like The Blair Witch Project and Paranormal Activity have also been applied … albeit with a bigger budget and slicker production that more closely resembles a re-enactment along the same lines as Fire In the Sky.

When the first hints of the viral campaign began to spill into my awareness, I will admit to a certain thrill. The subject matter is a theme that has been close to my heart for over two decades now. In the early promos, we bore witness to things like film-footage of the Disclosure Project for the Press in 2001 (an advent that was over-shadowed by subsequent world advents later that year), and very high quality video recordings of vehicles in our air-space that defy conventional explanations. This, however, is where the fascination came to an abrupt stop. If there were even slivers of truth to the story the film presents, I would have stumbled upon it in my own personal research. I knew then we were dealing with something more along the lines of a mock-documentary.

Said story centers around the inhabitants of Nome, a small town in Alaska who have been experiencing an unusually high number of disappearances and visits from the FBI dating back fifty years. Dr Abigail Tyler (Milla Jivovich) is a local psychiatrist delving into the unmapped places of the local’s night-time world and soon learns a great percentage of them are exhibiting the same symptoms and telling identical tales. Dr. Tyler lost her own husband to murder in mysterious circumstances some time before and before long she also is not immune to the collective phenomenon experienced by inhabitants of Nome. The filmed advents are spliced with the so-called ‘real’ footage (annoyingly at the same time), of patients undergoing hypnosis and recalling the assault by non-human intelligences.

What director Olatunde Osunsanmi has done here is essentially create two films … both of which are false. After a while the supposed real footage, audio and interview with the ‘authentic’ and skeletal Dr Abigail by the director degenerate into far-fetched lunacy and any belief we might have had at the start is slowly eradicated into a celluloid extravaganza that more closely resembles Blair Witch 2: Book of Shadows than anything else. There is no doubt everyone on board here is trying … Olatunde is using the mythology and folk-lore of real world abductions (all are experiencing the screen-memory of an Owl, a common cerebral-surrogate for fourth kind encounters), but doing so in a way that is glazed and ultimately a rip-off. Our intruders malign aspect is layered on like an evangelicals ramblings and then ramped up into realms we know are for the benefit of creating that titular Hollywood ‘jump’ moment.

There are a few positives that can be taken away: the washed-out and blue sepia world the director has chosen is perfect for encapsulating Alaska. Some of his techniques and high-camera angles show the initial stages of someone who might find a permanent home in the horror genre. On occasion the music and flash-back sequences can be quite disconcerting. Ultimately, however, Olatunde Osunsanmi has taken a fascinating theme ripe for dissection and turned it into Saturday night popcorn slush.

Different Masks

2010-04-20T17:17:00.000-07:00

Wednesday 21st April.

Apologies for my overall silence in this realm and others. At its core, the real reason for this is the fact that there has been nothing overtly astonishing to say. There has been a bit of a lull on the HorrorScope front because – although a plethora of material is being read – too much of the material doesn’t quite fit under the HorrorScope banner … a publication devoted to the Australia’s dark literary underbelly.

After returning from a spiritual Retreat on the Gold Coast in February, I suddenly found myself on speaking terms with my long-suffering muse … enough so where he answered the phone occasionally, anyway. And this led to the start and completion of two shorts: one currently untitled that just sits under the heading: Situated Deep in the Woods. And a thirty page extravaganza about a subject I’ve wanted to write about for some time: Body Integrity Identity Disorder. An affliction that makes the sufferer feel the need to amputate otherwise perfectly healthy limbs and appendages. This has always fascinated me, and the build up and occlusion of plot-ideas for fiction are ripe. Countless possibilities present themselves (as the disorder branches off into many other sub-disorders), and after some substantial research (mostly for personal interest – I have no interest in boring a reader with particulars), and a junction of waking dreams and thought processes, I sat down to write. The end result is a working title Kitten Push Cushion and Teddy Bear Prongs. Which might sound almost juvenile … until readers are shoved in the face with the wet and disparate subject matter. Both stories I have in mind for Afterburn Sf, and I’ll be submitting when that particular publication is open again.

WorldCon is being held in Melbourne from September 2 – 6th. And although my piggy bank is low in regards to this I plan on going even if I have to hitch-hike, car-jack, or rob a financial institution. So I will be there no matter what … and it seems everybody else in the Speculative dominion will also be there. I’m very familiar with the guests of honor having read Kim Stanley Robinsons MARS quintet or whatever the hell it is when I was seventeen and really branching into the realms of science fiction after taking up post in horror’s apocalyptic wasteland for so long. Anyway, this is something very special and I am greatly looking forward to seeing not only Australian but international friends with whom I have developed long-standing internet relationships with …

There are a lot of other things to harp on about, so hopefully I can make these entries quite regular. I’m very grateful to all the authors, artists, guitarists and drummers that give me a reason to wake up in the morning. Without your images and words decorating the walls of my skull there would be almost no need to pull back my mummifying sheets every morning and go about life’s business …

Currently reading: Quake by Richard Laymon. You Come When I call You by Douglas Clegg and Night School by Bentley Little.

Pilgrims by William Elliot is coming to me from over the border – the perfect piece that falls under mire of Australian dark fiction to review for HorrorScope.

Review: Mischief by Douglas Clegg

2010-04-05T00:50:00.000-07:00

Douglas Clegg is another writer who (like Jack Ketchum) has managed to go under my radar over the past couple of years. Recently, however, his presence seems to be felt everywhere I look: social networking sites, web-presences that deal exclusively in the realm of dark fiction, and of course having his titles pop out with ever-increasing dexterity in bookshops and bargain bins displayed out the front. And (like Ketchum), seems to be one of those writers who is still sculpting a stellar reputation, releasing a novel every year with timely precision and garnering high words of praise from the giants in the industry.

Apparently Mischief is the first of a trilogy of books in the Harrow Academy series, which also features a previous e-serial prequel Nightmare House, and the entire thing does read like something you must have insider knowledge of. I must admit my ignorance in regard to this was frustrating; there were too many mysteries that lacked revelation – too many character reactions that were perplexing. However, it must be said there are other fans of Clegg’s work who will know the Harrow legacy involved in Mischief … and it seems to be written with these readers in mind.

Jim Hook is on a scholarship at Harrow, a prestigious prep school located in the Hudson Valley of New York. Years before his older brother Stephen and father perished in a car accident, and the wounds are still raw. Not only was Stephen the epitome of a perfect brother everybody looked up to, he was also a catalyst for shaping Jim’s philosophy and might have secreted a small supernatural pledge into Jim’s life in the aftermath of his death. We follow Jim as he adapts to the all boys school and are introduced to the people around him: Lark, his beau from a nearby all Girls school; popular Trey Fricker, his best friend. Underlying everything is an almost invisible threat, never clearly articulated. It seems that when his brother Stephen died, Jim unwittingly became the channel that would enable something malign to enter the world, and when Jim gets caught for cheating he is inadvertently thrust into the realm of the Cadaver Society, a secret fraternity who has been pulling the strings at Harrow for a long time. Facing the threat of expulsion and upcoming initiation rights, he becomes haunted by ghosts of the living and dead.

A favorable thing for me was the prose; Cleggs style is simplistic and easily accessible with shades of Laymon. But there are many puzzling aspects here that seem like signposts with no clear direction: plot-strands involving Harrow’s principal that is curtailed before it even begins – the mystery of his father and brothers death with allusions that the official story involved a conspiracy. As a reader, I felt as if I had been handed a pile of jigsaw pieces, none of which seemed to belong to the same portrait. Clegg puts a lot of effort into making the climax creepy – but for me the aim was much too lofty, and ultimately confusion ensues in the aftermath of it all. That’s not to say other readers won’t find things to like, and I can see it appealing to those who like their horror with a smattering of the juvenile.

As a novice to Clegg’s work, I just think I have stumbled upon the wrong book to get the juggernaut rolling. But he has piqued my curiosity, and I have the novels You Come When I Call You and The Halloween Man with reviews to follow.

Review: The Burning by Bentley Little

2010-04-05T00:41:00.000-07:00

Like many writers of Horror Fiction in the world today, Bentley Little has crafted his own style over the years and now has it down to kind of science. His books invariably follow a formula, but it is a well – practiced formula and no doubt keeps readers coming back again and again ensuring a dedicated readership and often imitated writing method.

The dedication in The Burning is interesting, and gives a fascinating insight into the roots of stories and how they can manifest and evolve. In this case, Bentley dedicates it to his son, who asked for a story that included a haunted train and two graves marked Mother and Daughter side by side together. Taper this with his formula and Bentley Little delivers a simple, elegant Horror novel that has no pretensions about its grassroots influence.

As with his previous novels, the author is heavily influenced by a Chinese mythological connection. In The Burning we have Angela Ramos, an Hispanic University student who has just moved away from home into a share house with a ghost. There’s Henry Cote, a Native American descendant Park Ranger who lives in the National Park and is plagued by perverse erotic dreams of Chinese twins who haunt the Canyonlands. Recently divorced Joylene has moved to Bear Flats with her son Skylar to start a new life living with her mother … and it will be them that come across the eerie graves of a Mother and Daughter. So too will they witness the gaunt, leprous face that peers in a Skylar during the night, grinning malevolently. And finally a Chinese American, criss-crossing the country on a journey of self discovery, being called toward something he only partially understands – toward ancient ancestors seeking redemption for past transgressions.

At the centre of this group, and slowly peeled away through their strange encounters, an eternal hellish Train raised from the bowels of history carrying the departed souls of different races seeking reprisal. Those that have been wronged by Caucasian man since the Civil War and beyond.

At its heart, The Burning is primarily a revenge novel, seen through the eyes of very disparate characters trying to connect the dots before the inevitable showdown as the train finally pulls into its metaphorical station. What I liked about this novel – as apposed to Bentley’s previous forays – was the more worldly aspect to it. Too often, Bentley concentrates on the small town mythos, and although this is a perfectly honorable way to tell the tale, it was utterly gratifying to see things like the White House being laid waste to eternal powers. Moreover our trips back in time to witness the decrepitude and heinous acts committed by those before the turn of the last century. And it does this without being too preachy or trying to shove a message down your throat.

There is another Horror review site that likes to give stars based on the smell of a book. A little eccentric, but one eccentricity I think we all can relate to. I give The Burning 5 out of 5 in relation to this; it’s the perfect little horror book to take on your next flight interstate … or Train ride, perhaps.

Review: Jack Ketchum's The Girl Next Door

2010-04-05T00:37:00.000-07:00

As a dark fiction aficionado for most of my remembered life, I am at pains to divulge the sad fact that I have never read a book by Jack Ketchum. From a distance I have followed his career on the peripheral sidelines, often frequenting his website and keeping myself up to date with his resume and celluloid adaptations. As I type these words I am at a loss as to the precise reason I have never held one of his novels in my hand. Marketing is a big factor—during a thousand entrances into a thousand bookstores his name has never popped out among the ranks of many others. Even when trolling through the horror or fantasy sections with an eye for detail has my index finger skated across his name. And there exists no rhyme or reason to not having purchased one online. Chalk it up to the same fate that has befallen authors like Graham Masterson or even some of the authors whose name appears with mine in the editors/reviewers list on this site. There exists a desire to eventually get around to them … once I have gotten through the myriad of tomes in a perpetual and never ending reading list.

Regardless of never having tackled one of his books I do know that Jack Ketchum is held in very high regard amongst the collective tribe. His fans include the prolific and the not-so-prolific writers, as well as commanding a dedicated and loyal fan base of readers. The Girl Next Door has been adapted from a 1989 novel of the same name and stars a bunch of relative unknowns who give charm and sophistication to this harrowing study of human innocence that delves into dark regions that so far have been relatively uncharted in cinema …

To call this movie ‘harrowing’ is an underestimation. And a little too simply put as it does not fall neatly into the realm of horror. We begin our journey with the introduction and narration of an adult David Moran living in the present day. We can plainly see emotional demons assail this man as he lends the audience his account of a sequence of advents from his childhood where he bore witness – and participated in – unspeakable acts against an innocent girl. Think the same formula that King has used with IT or perhaps Hearts in Atlantis. Tapping into the nostalgic era of the 1950’s to present how inarguably terrible and magical puberty can be. This, however, works -- and Ketchum and the filmmakers have their fingers pressed firmly on the button of bringing this period to life: The cars, fashion, hairstyles and politics are like a metaphor for what’s really going on; that beneath the veneer of plastic suburbia beats the malicious human heart just waiting to come to the surface and take over.

A typical teenager, David is introduced to a new girl who has recently moved into the neighborhood whilst catching crawfish. Megan Loughlin and her crippled little sister have come from another town to live with their Aunt Ruth Chandler (David’s next door neighbor and an eccentric divorcee). Ruth has three sons of her own and her house is like a relaxed beacon to the neighborhood kids during the summer: beers can be drunk within; cigarettes can be smoked. However, her authority and discipline can be just as far reaching as her philanthropy. At first her chastisement of Megan for relatively benevolent or even nonexistent crimes is subtle – this is, after all, 1958. But when her unconventional ranting on why punishments must be dealt out to Megan fan out into madness, she takes the children on an odyssey of torture and clout where adults write the rule of Law and anything they say is permissible.

There are so many ethical and emotional questions raised in this movie that it would be foolhardly to list them here: discover them for yourself. Answer them for yourself. The Girl Next Door is a devastating picture you will not easily forget.

It is out now on DVD.

Review: The Box

2010-04-05T00:06:00.000-07:00

Love or hate the work of Richard Kelly, there is no denying this writer/director has had a huge impact on the celluloid world. 2001’s Donnie Darko was the film hundreds of movie geeks the world over had been waiting for: an utterly original dark portrayal of a troubled youth (Jake Gyllenhaal) set in the 80’s that is now a cult phenomenon. Although it borrowed motifs from other films, nobody had seen anything quite like it before. The eccentric editing and camera angles, hallucinatory sequences, and the ability to raise more questions than provide answers all added up to an unforgettable movie experience and is rich enough for many repeat viewings. His follow up Southland Tales is an apocalyptic futuristic film that received less-than-stellar attention, critically and commercially, but does have a small cadre of admirers. It is apparent that with The Box, Kelly is trying to move out of the alternative and somewhat into the mainstream.

But his definition of ‘mainstream’ is probably not what you might think. Aside from having some familiar faces (Cameron Diaz, James Marsden and Frank Langella), this movie is utterly mired in weirdness. Based on Richard Matheson’s short piece Button, Button – things start of subtly creepy and delve into that weird and wonderful dominion where we try to decipher a challenging and complex series of intrigues like a Russian doll piece. And this is a good thing. The Box requires your unmitigated participation. Nothing is overtly ‘done to you’. It’s up to you the viewer to connect the dots and find your own way to revelation.

Norma and Arthur Lewis are happily married suburbanites in 1976 with a young son. They are awoken one night by their doorbell ringing and find nothing but a package that contains a small wooden box with a button on top. Initially, the bearer of the gift disappears, and we are slowly introduced into their lives. Author works for NASA in development; Norma is a teacher with a secret. While somewhat mundane as this progresses, I loved this aspect of it. It’s like taking a short trip inside Richard Kelly’s skull: his own father worked for NASA, and the decade is pulled off with precision: the houses, automobiles, and fashion almost induce aching nostalgia. Of course, the mysterious stranger returns, and informs the couple that if they press the button they will be awarded one million dollars tax-free. The price is that someone that they do not know will die. Simple as that. Except its not, and the consequences are more far reaching than either of them can imagine.

There is a slight carnival feel to The Box. Like King’s Needful Things we have the dark, forbidding stranger that is almost gentlemanly in nature but isn’t altogether human. If you’re familiar with Donnie Darko and Southland Tales you’ll see many of the same faces from those films. Toward the end the same effects are ratcheted up as we cross into other realms of experience. There’s a touch of humor … and the feeling of being in suburbia but ensconced in the otherworldly is hard to describe. Performances are solid, especially those of Cameron Diaz and Frank Langella. The music (composed entirely by Arcade Fire), is used to fantastic effect and becomes a pivotal part of the crescendo toward the end.

Before The Box terminates from our screens, I feel it wise to have one more screening. Richard Kelly has obviously designed it this way and there is still so much to explore …

Different Masks

2010-04-04T23:39:00.000-07:00

I guess most of us love hearing about our favourite writers: whether it be reading their blogs, listening to interviews, mulling over a snapshot in some tabloid fodder or even reminiscing with them courtesy of some bygone footage on youtube where the genius promotes some ancient text that shaped worldviews: we’re all the same in this regard; whether prolific or unpublished, hermetic or social butterfly, at a core level we all share the headspace of being fans.

But sometimes, I’m sure, there are times when we wish that we didn’t know.

For there is less mystery nowadays, and it is easier to discover how a magician does their tricks. With the advent of the internet that elusive signature doesn’t seem to hold the same weight. Readers are not prone to line up for hours in apocalyptic conditions to fraternize and speak with a beloved composer who made them think, for a fleeting minute, that the world is brighter and somehow more mysterious than previously envisioned. Greetings and platitudes can be exchanged in the comfort of one’s own writing dominion, with little sacrifice. Although this does not make the exchange any less pleasurable … we still jump for joy knowing that the individual liberator has taken a couple of seconds out of their existence to say they appreciated your support and your own existence.

These things led me to think about Stephen King’s short story Dedication … a harried attempt by the man to explain how such enormously gifted people can turn out to be such utter shits in person: women pawing sexists, racists, sneering elitists, or cruel practical jokers. Politics should never come into it, but I recently discovered Dean Koontz was a devoted Republican and had contributed vast amounts of money to candidates and in particular John McCain’s campaign. This should not make me recoil … and yet it did. I live on the other side of the pond in Australia and should not be concerned with how this talented man views his political system. However, it did sour my perception for a whole day and I was reminded of a sentence in one of his recent novels (I can’t remember which one), that describes a hairy spider as having the same characteristics as a hairy mullah of the Taliban. I was distraught as I envisioned this rich white man paling it up with Sarah Palin enough that it stopped me from purchasing his latest release Relentless. Of course, common sense eventually kicked in and I more or less discarded this revelation. Enough to get me to buy the book, anyway. But it did get me thinking about the personal conundrums these individuals have in the public spotlight.

I’m glad to say that recently I’ve had by own small brush with someone whose work I love: Mr. Clive Barker himself. Over the years this master fabulist has garnered a reputation for being exemplary with his fans and the people who give him the opportunity to do what he loves as a fulltime job. And his brief sojourn into modern technology via Twitter is no exception. I’ve always felt an affiliation with this man; he has provided succor during some tumultuous times in my life. It was only fitting that I woke up one morning with the subject line in an email:

You have a personal message from Clive Barker.

He thanked me for my insights.

And I, in turn, proceeded to thank some nameless deity.

Review: Sorority Row

2010-04-04T23:36:00.000-07:00

You always come to these sorts of films filled with slight trepidation. On one hand the intellectual screams at you that you must not enjoy this kind of horror. Only dullards subscribe to such campy schlock where there is more female flesh on view than blood and the plot is derivative from a thousand other such outings in the past. On the flip side there is an amateur child within that recalls those outings as a horror novice with such unalloyed fondness you yearn to be dazzled by such mindless romps again.

I remember my sheer joy on my first screening of Scream many full-moons ago: my eyes glistened with happiness. There was a re-awakening in the offering – horror was now slightly reinvented and we had a shining future ahead of more films like it to follow. And follow they did: I know what You did last Summer, Urban Legend, Valentine, Final Destination and The Faculty. It kick-started mindless sequels and reinventions of past maniacs that strode across the celluloid sea. Did I garner enjoyment from these horror/thrillers even though there was now a trite formula and almost identical looking posters?

I did.

And that’s where Sorority Row fits in as well. The cast is young, American, and utterly beguiling with their beauty. The stage is Theta Pie – a Sorority House where Jessica, Claire, Ellie, and Megan are celebrating upcoming graduation. They have a motto and are sworn to trust, secrecy and solidarity. It opens up with a huge party: everyone drinking from the quintessential American Pie red cups that seems to be the only type of drinking cup in a thousand collage films. After discovering one of the girl’s brothers has cheated, they devise a revenge scheme in the form of a prank entailing that one of them pretends to be dead. Not everyone is in on the joke, however, and when the prank goes horribly wrong the audience is treated to some grisly moments and surreal tension There are quite a few similarities to I Know What You Did Last summer here.

In the aftermath of their friends death the remaining girls keep their motto by swearing to never speak of it. Of course, such a plan is doomed to fail and the outcome warrants a trapezoidal odyssey of carnage as someone has taken to enact their own revenge by picking them off one by one.

Apparently the girls in this film are reality television stars making the leap onto the big screen. Their previous forays into the camera are not apparent as we are treated to witty dialogue and even grow to like their individual characters over the course of the film. As a collective audience we know what is coming but visibly jump out of the seat on more than one occasion. The body count and dispatching– although not overly huge – is lent some pretty creative drive as we see our over-sexed alcohol guzzling young adults terminated in new and interesting ways. The guessing game of who’s responsible comes into play … and is handled deftly and with intelligence.

Will Sorority Row be a mind-numbing and altering experience worthy of repeat viewings? No. Will it become a cult-classic? Probably not. But I do recommend taking your favourite thrills partner and enjoy it for what it is … as a film that pretends to be nothing but good entertainment.

Review: Deadlight by Troy Barnes

2010-04-04T23:32:00.000-07:00

Many of you might be aware of Troy Bares. In 2008 this native Tasmanian burst onto the scene with the self-financed debut Deadlight that is here under the microscope for review. The very next year he went on to publish MONOChromacy. Troy’s work is like holding up a mirror to some of the more archetypal horror stories of the past, but he still manages to find his own voice over the extended length of a supernatural thriller.

What has consistently drawn me to Deadlight over the past two years (and finally made me obtain it) has been the cover illustration. From a distance it always piqued my interest; the dynamic blue colour scheme by graphic designer Jessica Turale is like a beacon honing in all like-minded souls. After a quick perusal of the art and blurb, we have a very good idea of the territory we’re about to inhabit.

Carter City: Detectives Nathan Stone and his partner Ritchie Clements are on the trail of a female serial killer dubbed ‘The Messenger’. Over time, with no clues and no leads, the bodies start piling up and it becomes obvious they are dealing with a young woman of no ordinary ilk. With almost uncanny super-human strength and agility, Sarah is able to fight and ‘see’ the malignancy that inhabits a human spirit who has committed heinous acts in the past. This gift (or curse) was bestowed upon her after awakening from a coma. Her assignment on this side of the veil is to dispatch those who dwell within the Deadlight.

Right off the bat, we know we are dealing with a debut novel. Regular typos become apparent after a while and it can have quite a jarring impact. (Although I have noticed this with a few Australian publications over the past couple of years). Commas and question marks are missing, and general words like ‘and’ and ‘the’ can be found substituted for something else. There are breaks in the narrative that are missing three little asterisks at the bottom. That said, this is highly common, and should be easily rectified. It is obvious, however, that portions of the novel need an editor’s zeal and suggestions. Troy shows great promise, but seems to have been let down in this regard.

There is a great portion of the book that deals with police mythos and work. In parts it’s gritty and stylish, reflecting a kind of washed out sepia world of chain smoking detectives whose life is their work. In other parts, the banter can be loose and ill-fitting. It seems Troy has employed the tact of imagining with little thought to verisimilitude. Again, this is something that can be remedied. When reading, I was reminded of how Stephen King once achieved this. After completing a preliminary draft of From a Buick 8, he took it upon himself to spend some time with real-life troopers in Pennsylvania, thereby adding some real flavour that was not just guesswork and things cobbled together from watching reams of modern US cop shows. Of course, not everyone can have these resources at their disposal, so Troy is ultimately to be forgiven.

Things certainly crank up around page 120, as Sarah is more heavily introduced into the fray of the wicked. One of the positive things here is Troy is no slouch when it comes to blood letting: Sarah’s lack of conscience and irrational behaviour can be grating at the start, but over the course of the novel we see how and why she has been led down this path. Suddenly her more erratic behaviour makes sense as we are granted a portal into the genesis of her ‘awakening’. At times, her method of purging humanity’s dross happily reminded me of celluloid serial ‘Jigsaw’ from the Saw franchise. We have the same ethical conundrums that present themselves … and killing methods that are just as effective.

After completing the novel I was in two minds: on one hand the errors can be quite jarring and make the reader recoil. On the other we know we’re dealing with an author who is in career infancy. Troy Barnes is talented, there is no doubt about that. And you can tell he really cares about what he is doing. There’s heart in Deadlight and determination. I imagine that by his third or forth effort, he will have found a dedicated readership and a coherent narrative that will ultimately sell books. For this reason Deadlight is certainly worth its purchase.

Copies of Deadlight can be ordered from the author’s website.

Review: The Birthing House

2010-04-04T23:29:00.000-07:00

Christopher Ransom has burst from the blocks with one of the most astonishing debuts to emerge in recent years. He has created, with The Birthing House, a distinct and homely voice that will no doubt find a devoted readership. Although the story falls within a genre that goes beyond well-established, Ransom here defies the tropes with a kind of writing that only the most gifted writers can tap into.

Initially, I must admit to nearly bypassing this one. Etched on the bottom is the kind of mantra one wants to avoid when purchasing a novel: If you like Stephen King, you’ll love …’ Let’s face it: nine times out of ten these would-be Steve King’s fall very short on capturing anything but a swollen and pale imitation of a classic thriller. However, The Birthing House does not deserve such dime-store treatment. I will go as far as saying this book deserves the red carpet treatment with many other classics of the genre. Of course, there are comparisons to other books, but Christopher has shoved all of these together with such disparate and melting force that it reads like the ultimate homage … with Ransom’s unique voice shouting to be heard above the others …

Conrad Harrison is a man that likes new beginnings, fresh starts. The decision to pack up and move to Wisconsin from California seems a natural one after the death of his father. Although never close to the old man, his inheritance gives him an opportunity to move himself, his wife Jo, and their two dogs to a 140 year old Victorian house in Black Earth. When his wife disappears for work on a training program, Conrad is left behind to soak up the house’s history … of which there is a lot. When the neighbors decide to hightail it for a holiday and leave their pregnant daughter Nadia behind, the house decides that it wants more history … this time featuring Conrad and his pregnant friend.

The Birthing House is the literary equivalent to Nirvana’s semaphore effort In Utero. That album’s music and artwork was themed with birth, babies, and new beginnings. Christopher Ransom’s book works in much the same way … inviting the reader to share with him an advent of existence that is steeped in blood and mystery. It’s full of life, the prose like that of a professional, and certainly not a debut.

To give birth to a novel like The Birthing House, to bring it into the world all bloody and screaming, Christopher Ransom had consulted that which came before him: The book falls under the umbrella of many novels like Bag of Bones, A Winter Haunting, The Stake, Misery and Secret Window, Secret Garden. But it fairly resonates with his own juxtaposition of the concept … and this is reason it has been so successful.

Review: Drag Me to Hell

2010-04-04T23:27:00.000-07:00

One of the principal celluloid horror directors of all time has taken a break from gargantuan blockbusters and returned to the genre that sparked a revolution amongst the dark faithful. The Evil Dead Films basically showcased the genesis of a new and fantastical way of low budget filmmaking: a trilogy that sparked thousands of imitators and set the bar for what can be achieved when natural, creative genius is given free reign. Drag Me to Hell is a fictional nod to many influences, but still stamped with Sam’s unique brand of inventive camera work and strong visual style …

The film starts off in a mundane world all of us know to well: the office space. Christine Brown (Alison Lohman), is a loan officer in a bank and adheres to the whims of her superiors in the hopes of landing a lucrative Assistant Manager position: this is great angle; Sam and his brother Ivan have written and then displayed a realm that’s so clinical in the details – the familiarity of the nine-to-five hum drum is so part and parcel with all of us that – knowing that there are horrors to come – we feel strapped in for a joyride. We know Christine’s world is about to be shattered, her cosy niche forever transformed by what we have seen and know of the plot.

And that (the plot), concerns one Mrs. Ganush, an old gypsy who is refused an extension on her mortgage by Christine, is ultimately shamed, and seeks vengeance by cursing her in an ugly stoush that has to be seen to be believed. Sam Ramai knows what repulses us, and he uses the character Mrs. Ganush to really get under our skin in this regard. For me, there is just something so ultimately creepy about old hags … especially ones that cackle and have a vendetta or score to settle. In the aftermath of her confrontation, Christine is visibly shaken, and persuades her boyfriend Justin (Clay Dalton), to consult a fortune teller … perhaps a way to gauge whether or not the cursing of her jacket button had any real ramifications. The seer is Rahm Jas, someone who is wise in the ways of dark arts and is, in due course, recruited by Christine to help understand the enigma she is dealing with.

To go into detail regarding this enigma is probably giving too much away, but suffice to say Rami, during the course of this dark excursion, gives us everything we’ve come to expect of him. There’s the horrific moments of possession laced with delicious slapstick comedy; scenes of pure relentless terror where nothing is shown and everything is only suggested or hinted at. An apocalyptic climax with genuinely repulsive advents … and of course no modern horror or thriller movie is complete without an unexpected twist. Here, the performances are solid, and the effects are ratcheted up to very decent levels. I have a feeling Raimi would have enjoyed working with limited budget that would not have produced the mind-numbing headache that an intricate franchise like Spiderman would have entailed.

Throughout its duration, there was at least half a dozen times that the audience visibly jumped or were rocked backwards … hackles raised in a crowd is sure sign an observer was viewing a future classic.

Different Masks

2010-04-04T23:24:00.000-07:00

The great grey beast of July had eaten Matthew Tait alive -

The opening stanza of Barker's The Thief of Always, and oh - how apt they are for these dreary, rain sodden days. Winter is romantic, don't get me wrong. It inspires. It has creative, driving force, lent strength by a harried wind. But after a while the imagination stirs, and longs for a sweeter, hotter light where the mind's eye can wander out in the open -

Such thoughts were with me today as I sat in a classroom, ensconced in the world of computers. Even these machines can inspire - but there is something cold about them: an aura of numbers that bridge a spectrum filled with plastic and encumbered by weight.

If I love anything about humanity, it's that yearning of the creative mind. It wants to unshackle; become free from restraint and bondage. Maybe even lent spirit. The flesh does that: it's like a kind of prison sometimes, and the main reason I have turned to writing and books is a way to persuade my mind that it will wander there one day. Not yet - but soon. Be patient. I think Clive barker summed it up more precisely, almost penning word for word how I feel on days like today:

He'd always been a solitary child, as much through choice as circumstance, happiest when he could unshackle his imagination and let it wander. It took little to get such journeys started. Looking back, it seemed he'd spent half his school days gazing out of some window, transported by a line of poetry whose meaning he couldn't quite unearth, or the sound of someone singing in a different classroom, into a world more pungent and remote than the one he knew. A world whose scents were carried to his nostrils by winds mysteriously warm in a chill July; whose creatures paid him homage on certain nights at the foot of his bed, and whose people conspired with him in sleep -

Clive Barker. Writer. Showman.

Different Masks

2010-04-04T23:21:00.000-07:00

Supernatural was quite entertaining the other night, and got me thinking.

Thinking about vocations and life - the person I am. The episode, in particular, was about the brothers taking up yuppie jobs in an Office Space atmosphere. The 9-5 hum drum. And they weren't aware of their true identities. A bit like Adam Lavas in Dark Meridian, really. J

In real life, when I see successful yuppies walking down the street, I'm sometimes jealous, sometimes repulsed. It's not who I am - (and yet everybody thought I was a yuppie at school). And I'm also studying to be an IT consultant. But there is a certainly an element of me that finds it attractive: I mean, they obviously get laid more often -

And yet when I heard Dean call individuals like this 'ass clowns in monkey suits' I laughed hysterically. I sometimes feel guilty about spending most of my free time immersed in the Cimmerian world of midnight; a landscape of horrors and fantastical wonders. But would I really prefer spending it in some 9-5 nowhereland of fake smiles and pretentious banality? No-siree. I wouldn't. It's not who those characters are. And it's not who I am.

Ghosts In a Desert World reviewed at Scary Minds.

2010-04-04T23:16:00.000-07:00

Matthew Tait presents thirteen tales of the macabre with slight detours into fantasy for a change in pace. Ranging from tales of madness, though planet psycho, to the demons that haunt the dark places the Author presents his own view on what a horror collection should contain. Be prepared to be shocked, dial into some metaphysics, and to question religion as Tait delivers a diverse range of stories.

In case anyone is wondering no this isn't a collection of ghosts stories, the title refers to a theme that unites a number of independent tales. There are ghosts on desert worlds they just aren't what you think they are and don't take centre stage in an overt fashion.

Ready to open the covers and see what might be lurking there in the dark?

Review

"He suddenly felt covered with fleas, ants, and a tsunami of maggots." - Car Crash Weather.

Ghosts in A Desert World arrived on my desk courtesy of an unpublished manuscript presented as a blog on the internet. See below for a link. Author Matthew Tait has self published via the web in order to get his tales out there. In all honesty I would get in and read them sooner rather than later, at some stage a Publisher is going to option the collection and force the web site off air. You read the collection like a normal blog, each story is a published article, though I must admit I copied and pasted everything into a single word document in order to write this review. Please note at the completion of this review the document will be deleted from my computer to avoid potential breaches of copyright. So let's get down to it.

The first point I jotted down in my review notes was that the collection needed a good editing. What you are reading I believe is a preliminary version of the finished work with at least one more Author edit required to get things ship shape and Bristol fashion. Whatever in the hell that means. Naturally since the collection hasn't at yet been published it also hasn't been at the tender mercy of an actual Editor, who would no doubt have red pen in hand marking up a few things. So what you end up reading is a pretty raw manuscript, which all adds to the fascination in my opinion. How often do you get the chance to read an Author's original take on a story before it's polished for final publication? The downside is of course the odd stumbling block in a few stories, no one gets it right the first time, and some typos heralding the normal grammatically foibles that a word processor's spell checker is going to miss. There's nothing that will drive an English teacher into fits of hysteria however, and lets face facts here a few published works make you wonder if the Editor of the work in question didn't knock the book off in an afternoon after a particular long lunch down the local pub. See some of Gabrielle Lord's early published novels for example.

Matthew Tait's style and composition should be readily accessible to most readers. Some of the more philosophical stories take a bit of nailing down, but overall you wont be re-reading paragraphs trying to decipher what the author has just stated. The stories flow naturally and nothing is left up in the air. Like any good horror writer Tait is laying the groundwork early in each story to lead naturally to that dark attic room where the screaming is coming from at the completion of the story. As stated previously there is the odd jarring moment in a few stories, but nothing a quick re-phrase isn't going to sort out toot sweet. In particular I liked the Author's handling of the blood work, I keep saying it and no one is listening, good horror writers have an inborn ability to limit their own prose without rubbing a readers nose in the visceral. Matthew Tait on the evidence in this collection is a good horror writer.

Tait's characters are pretty much your ordinary people, the folks that live next door, I'm excluding the serial killers and people influenced by the elder gods here. There's a slight hint however that the Author may have spent his formative years reading publications like Tales From The Crypt et al as a sizeable proportion of female characters are slightly over ripe and one step away from that inheritance by dubious means. And here we're not talking the sort of chick who would run a "Dark Crib" horror museum! Oh the bright side of the knife Tait can write a believable character, and here I am including the serial killers and people influence by the elder gods.

Strangely many of the tales included in Ghosts In A Desert World are set in the

United States

, though the characters in those tales are apt to use Down Under terminology and speech patterns. One of those quirks I guess of a manuscript still to be given a final spit shine before publication.

Highlights from the collection are Car Crash Weather that amongst other things raises the theme of a horror writer being made by childhood trauma, Terrica with not only a decent pun in the title but a pretty Laymonesque view of serial killing in rural U.S.A, Future's Kingdom: The King's Dome which presents hell on earth courtesy of a fallen angel, and The Chronicals of Trent Randell that promises to be an ongoing story arc that might very well rival the Dexter books.

Ghosts In A Desert World is certainly value for money, you can pop over to Ghosts In a Desert World and read it for free. Once again I would urge you to do that sooner rather than later, though for sure I'll be picking up the collection once it finds a publishing home. Matthew Tait has also put his novella Dark Meridian online so I'm looking forward to getting down and dirty with that in the near future, review to follow folks.

Thankyou so much, Jeff. If you haven't already, take a tour of www.scaryminds.com, Jeff is doing a great job promoting the local stuff - you can tell he really cares about the scene ... and wants to see it flourish.

Review: The Grand Conjunction by Sean Williams

2010-04-04T23:11:00.000-07:00

Adelaide author Sean Williams delivers, via The Grand Conjunction, the final piece of the Astropolis puzzle - a vast, many chambered volume that actually manages to surpass its predecessors Saturn Returns, Cenotaxis and Earth Ascendant.

With such a statement, I do not wish to inflict any spoilers here, for The Grand Conjunction falls into a category that is in and of itself. A continuation of those novels? Yes. The same philosophical and cordial prose we have come to love? Yes. But what lies at this novel heart is more layered in its transparency. Like a Russian Doll, the revelations slide away in a manner that the author himself probably found unexpected and even humorous.

Imre Bergamasc - now, I'm guessing, a somewhat classic protagonist in science fiction's pantheon, has come full circle. After taking up the mantle of ruler of the galaxy in Earth Ascendant, the end of that novel saw him shackle off the responsibility and head out into the abyss in search of his other murderous self - a being who may have converted into the galaxies most notorious intelligence: a Fort. The scene was set for an epic face-off, an accumulation of everything that's gone before , and Sean could have very well stuck to a tried and tested formula - had he not been utterly original.

The prologue in The Grand Conjunction is a gentle reminder of those previous advents you may have forgotten, things that ping on the edge of consciousness and make you smile. But it's the first part of the novel that will really blow you away; a dark, pulpy private-eye wonderland that will be keep you guessing and reading just to see where it all fits in.

It's disconcerting how lost our main guy (or girl) can be here: the cysts of memory; the amnesiac, schizophrenic quality of advents. And finally the gargantuan amount of years that transpire between them. It all adds up to mind-dislocating factors , which, I guess, is what science fiction is all about. Like previously, the poetic language is apparent. You read, sometimes with veiled comprehension, but reading nevertheless, knowing that understanding will dawn after careful deliberation.

The second half of the book is like a family reunion, and all the major players come back to play: Render, Emlee Copas and Al Freer. These guys have been busy continuing the merry fight - a campaign that sees the now- ruler and Imre's offspring Ra MacPhedron doing battle with them. The parasite known as the Veil has not gone away. Quite the contrary: most of humanity now lies swindled in its embrace. And there are other eye-openers this scrounger from Dussehra will teach them before all is said and done. But, most important of all, The Luminous have finally dealt their hand and revealed themselves to be creators of a sort - in a realm where humanity itself is like the artificial intelligence. They are the Gods of the future vying for who sits on top of the food chain, past and present -

But the basic premise for Imre never really changed: Avenge the Forts. Find Himself.

And, in the final twenty pages: The War has begun -

Sean Williams, over the years, has proven himself to be quite the master fabulist. A reputation that started off subtle but, with a series like Astropolis, has now demonstrated he is in a league of his own …

Dark Meridian

2010-04-04T23:07:00.000-07:00

My 2006 novella Dark Meridian now has a home online. The blurb can be found in the first post. Just click 'Next Post' to read it in all it's installments. This is also in conjunction with Ghosts in a Desert World. Both can be found at these addresses:

http://ozhorrormatthew-tait.blogspot.com

http://darkmeridiantait.blogspot.com

Different Masks

2010-04-04T22:24:00.000-07:00

The Long Walk by Stephen King (or Bachman, if you prefer), is probably my favourite novella/novel of all time. I say this for a variety of reasons: first of all, it is one of the first 'adult' novels that I ever tackled, and it came at the tender age of twelve. Therein lays an uncanny, portentous flavour within the pages that will never be equalled. It was read with a pure heart, a pure mind. No critical analysis or comparisons can be made, for the standing wave front that is the human mind has yet to develop a coherent narrative juxtaposition. I saw the world through different eyes - better eyes, if I can be truthful. Almost candy-flavoured senses that an adult brain would need drugs to enhance. In truth, I yearn for that transparency: but have to live with the verity that those halcyon moments will never come again -

Secondly, I am tackling the book again for over the tenth time, and find it every bit as delightful, sickening, insightful, gruesome and funny as I did the first time around. It's obvious there is a reason Stephen King became who he became. Although written just after high-school, we find within the pages smooth and structured intent: someone who was born to take up the pastime. The story of Ray Garraty walking for his life in a post-neo fascist gameshow America is a metaphor for life. Only the persistent keep walking, while others conk out and die. Some of them are friends; others enemies. But we're all on the Long Walk together, and I am enviable of Stephen King for grappling this finite concept at such an impressionable age.

It was drawn to my attention last night there is actually a website for devotees of the book. I couldn't believe it, and yet - I could. I'm not alone in my journey to keep walking and claim the ultimate prize - or Dark Tower, or whatever you want to call it. There are others all around me - trying to find the strength to run -

One more thing: I think one the best things about revisiting our most beloved books is the smell of them. A scent can certainly transport you back, and if you have that same edition you read as a youngling, hold on to it. It's a fantastic tether to a purer past ...

Shoot me an email if you feel the same. :)

Different Masks

2010-04-04T22:20:00.000-07:00

My Blurb on the Back!!

I'll be attending the 48^th Australian Science Fiction Convention (Natcon) held in Adelaide and beginning June 5^th and running the entire long weekend. What can I say? It's shaping up to be a blast. A lot of cool book launches seem to be happening, a lot of great panels and a lot of great people - and all held right here on my home turf.

It comes at a pivotal time. Remember a few posts ago I ruminated I needed a Sean Williams fix and The Grand Conjunction was being released? Well, said book arrived in my mail last week and I was flabbergasted to see the review I did for HorrorScope on the inside sleeve. Also there was a smidgen of it on the back. Natcon will be special because Sean himself will be there (of course), and I'll also get to see him do a spot of DJ at the ball thingy on Saturday night. My review of The Grand Conjunction will be up on HorrorScope by then so hopefully we can chat about that.

And is it good? Well, it's mind-bending to say the least.

In other related writing news, Shane Jiraya Cummings referred to some of my work as 'raw and powerful'. But unfortunately it didn't get reviewed ..

Anyways, hope to see some of my fellow HorrorScoper's and everyone else at the Natcon ..

Different Masks

2010-04-04T22:16:00.000-07:00

I love the idea that people once thought that the world was flat, or that there was an edge to the world. It was limitless, eternal. A kind of supernatural dominion - not a restricted sphere full of boundaries, territories, and unimaginative laws.

Modern existence can be kind of monotonous and lacklustre.

My imagination can sometimes be feverish, longing for hidden realities and revelations …

It hit me today how much I miss Sean Williams work. I desperately need a Sean Williams fix, so it couldn't be more appropriate timing that the last book in his Astropolis series is coming out. Tentatively titled The Grand Conjunction. Expect a very detailed review of that on HorrorScope.

A friend of mine bought me a crime novel by Stuart McBride called Blind Eye. Now, this is where things get interesting because, well - I usually can't stand such a hard-boiled genre. But I've given it a go, and -well, I think I'm just becoming more mature in the head; more adult, so to speak, because I'm really enjoying it.

So much more to say; so much stuff happening in the world of fiction. Will certainly be back soon …

Different Masks

2010-04-04T22:09:00.000-07:00

Monday 4th May 2009

My muse showed up on Friday night, and it seems the tale of Davey Ribbon wants to be told properly. Needs to be told. I think I've just never felt mature enough to handle it's characters - it as, after all, my personal attempt at small town mythos; a homage to Stephen King and , although I don't know much about this from my own upbringing, it's something that I have to get out of my system.

All the major players have been introduced and established; the boogeyman that is the dead boy Davey Ribbon has implanted his subtle evil in the collective consciousness of an entire municipal population. The unnecessary chapters have been scrapped - which basically includes the last third of the entire tome. Lightning stutters and flickers in the distance with the coming darkness, and some kind malign face-off ensues -

Copious coffee has been prepared, and I've blown up the television. I just heard a bell ringing in the small town of Cyclone Cove. Seems schools out for another day and twin sisters Miriam and Charlotte are on their way home. But I'm sure they're going to wish they stayed at school. Because when they finally get home they'll find that their Mommy just isn't Mommy anymore. Because Mommy has changed. Mommy has become scary. Now, for the fun part …

Note: Illustration on top drawn by Tom Tait for Davey Ribbon.

Different Masks

2010-04-04T22:03:00.000-07:00

Life has many hidden layers - so many unspoken, secretive realms. When writers or anyone creates, there's hidden meaning everywhere. Look at DUNE? Look at DONNIE DARKO? I spoke to Richard Kelly (the director) briefly and he informed me that he wasn't quiet aware that his vision would have so much impact; I doubt, when he was composing, that he had any idea that God was working through him. That's what I adore about writing and creating: we have no inkling that we're just vessels for the infinite ...

Different Masks

2010-04-04T21:52:00.000-07:00

Tuesday 14th April 2009

It astounds me how a medical show like HOUSE really captures the imaginations of people in creative realms - those ensconced mainly in horror and Sc/Fi, it seems. Actually, it could just be it appeals to those with fantastic intellects, and I'd like to think the people involved in working and writing in said genre's have that in abundance.

Well, I wish -

A person would think the quality would dwindle over the years, but somehow the writers (in my opinion) have managed to keep it savvy and fresh, with some of the best episodes just aired. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for LOST, although there are many out there that would disagree with me. Believe me, I tried to hang onto this wondrous show with the same vehemence as SK, but it ultimately drifted away -

Regarding the great god Stephen, it will never, ever cease to amaze me how much work this one man industry can put out. I deliberate on this issue for hours during the dark watches of the night. What is the secret? Many moons ago I thought it was pure passion; I had that in abundance but still couldn't muster his work ethic. Then I figured it was drinking alcohol (because it's no secret now that it was certainly his secret in the eighties), or so he claimed. But although that helped temporarily and produced some marvellous short-story visions, it ultimately gets ugly and in the way of life. Financial success? The time this gives you? Perhaps no success and the motivational spur? Smoking? Having a wife for support (which I don't), kids? Blah, blah, blah -

Whatever the case, none of it matters. What does is that I'm still chugging out words every day. Whether it be seven words or three thousand, at least they're there. And on some of those days, the magic works so well that it's this reality that seems like the lie -

A blurb recently emerged of his new up and coming Under the Dome, and it sounds like the premise for the Simpson’s movie. Still, can't wait.

Another I can't for is Kevin Anderson's TERRA INCOGNITA: The Edge of the World. Here's you're plug, Kevin. A writer who works as hard as you deserves it. And deserves to be read widely, too, of course.

Different Masks

2010-04-04T21:46:00.000-07:00

Wednesday April 8th 2009

I finally got around reading Issue one of the Australian Horror Writers magazine: Midnight Echo. My mistake when submitting myself was handing in pieces that were positively ancient (in time elapsed since composing them but also my immature syntax) and only really doing it because they adhered to word Content.

Instead of handing in paltry half-efforts because that's all I had in the trunk I should've just let it fly and submitted nothing - or sat down and wrote something else ball breaking and original.

Anyways, that's what I've learnt reading the stories: that the authors here would not have come to the table lightly. And I know that writers like Felicity Dowker actually compose with a specific anthology or market in mind.

So, just like Steve King does in Nightmares and Dreamscapes, the bottomfeeders will be carefully swept under the rug -and everything to appear from now on in any format will be relatively new in regards to writing style and date composed.

I printed out Midnight Echo in its entirety and carry it around with me in an old-fashioned satchel thingy. All I can say is thank Christ for this realm called the internet; I scorn the bloody thing at times but without it - I wouldn't know there were hundreds of other people out there just like me. People that don't think you're eccentric for carrying around, and dipping into, a collection of macabre stories by a bunch of Aussie writers. My mistake was once leaving it around as perhaps a conversation starter. Let's just say I won't be doing that again because it was almost thrown out with no more aplomb than if it were a dirty and shed snake skin.

Different Masks

2010-04-04T21:41:00.000-07:00

Friday April 3rd 2009

I know it's a little boring to crap on about Clive Barker all the time, but last night I finished reading SACRAMENT for the third time. It's obvious there is a reason others stick out of the crowd on such an epic scale - because we go back to these books when others just aren't cutting it.

I wept a little at the end, when the message blossoms out of the madness: a character is ruminating that she must remember the glories she's witnessing (the way the world really is) when unhappy times show up in the future. Because it's not that those glories aren't there - they're just hidden from sight.

It's a thought that's entered my cranium countless times over the years: and I love that optimistic side of me. It's just a pity I sometimes forget those glories ever existed, and have a very hard time recalling even snippets of them.

But its books like SACRAMENT that make us remember. Everything looks a little brighter afterward, the world a more magical place. Staring at the moon afterward, drinking coffee, I saw the clouds passing over it's globular face and felt a rush of wonder that my senses were perceiving it exactly as it wanted to be seen.

Wonder that wouldn't have existed had Clive Barker not taught me to see it …

Different Masks

2010-04-04T21:37:00.000-07:00

When you surround yourself with Darkness on such a scale, it's sometimes entirely healthy to balance out the equation with laughter. (Although that's not entirely correct, it's true that horror has been prevalent in my celluloid entertainment, but I've become too much of a Sci-Fi nut over the past year to accurately call myself a horror/dark fantasy aficionado.) But the comedy must still come, and as a human being I don't know what I'd do without at least two doses of The Simpson's a day -

Over the weekend I watched the entire Summer Heights High DVD, that's the Australian mockumentary with Chris Lilley. Like Kath and Kim, it's utterly scary because that's how school used to be for me; there were fuckwits like the characters he plays everywhere. Suffice to say I watched it laughing my ass off but feeling utterly embarrassed at the same time.

The Chasers War on Everything should be back soon, I hope. That's just so my sense of humour - enough so I wrote a few of my own sketches for dumb fun that could probably find a niche with the gang. Headcases is pretty cool also. Actually, there's just too damn many to mention here ...

Reading: Chimaera by Ian Irvine.

Different Masks

2010-04-04T21:34:00.000-07:00

Wednesday 18th March 2009

I've been working quite hard this week but the words have managed to come nonetheless. 5,000 so far, and this is good for me. I think I'm finally becoming a breed of composer that can write in the more public dominion: whilst cars hustle and bustle, and the human herd chatters, a halo of darkness can surrounded me - and sometimes the distractions can work to your benefit.

Even though I can't afford it, I'm going to buy books tomorrow. Because words are my everything - including food itself. What shall take my fancy I do not know at this point, and that is part of the impending anticipation. Revelation awaits me -

Reading: The Cellar by Richard Laymon and The Golden Torc by Julian May.

Different Masks

2010-04-04T21:31:00.000-07:00

Sunday March 15, 2009

There was a marathon of Desperate Housewives on today - and I was just about to change the channel. A few episodes have amused me over the years, but there's been no overt pleasure in watching it. However, today I was enraptured. Whilst writing, of course. Can't just sit there watching the box without fidgeting with something else. Uh-mnn. Cough.

It reminded me of the Buffy marathons they used to have on a couple of years ago on Fox 8. Man, they were something - whole lazy Sundays spent with Buffy, Xander, Spike and the crew. An imaginative individual could be utterly immersed as if the show was produced specifically for he or she personally. Anyways, I don't feel that guilty about Desperate Housewives anymore. After all, I'm doing nothing but spending the afternoon staring at gorgeous chicks …

Re-reading: The Tommyknockers. And Yep, I have that cool edition.