from Postscripts #11 / Summer 2007
Reviewed by: Martel Sardina

Stories that end in unexpected ways are a treat and “Waiting For Dawn” is no exception. Alan Southerland is an unhappily married journalist. He’s fallen into a rut at work and at home. When Alan begins an affair with the perfect woman, Dawn, she reminds him that he used to be a creative person. Alan once dreamt of being a novelist, but burned his manuscript after getting a scathing response from his wife, Janie. Dawn tells Alan that he has a wonderful imagination and challenges him to take a chance on his long forgotten dreams again.

Mikal Trimm does a wonderful job of showing us the contrast in Alan’s life, measured in terms, “before Dawn” and “since Dawn”:

Before Dawn, his days were brackets to the drudgery they encapsulated. Wake up, crapcrapcrapcrapcrap, go to sleep. Repeat process, ad infinitum. Since Dawn had appeared, though, time flowed more harmoniously; each moment with her stretched out to grasp the next, a daisy-chain of tranquility.

Trimm paints portraits of the characters not only by referencing their physical attributes, but also through the use of dialogue and internal dialogue to show the reader what the characters think of themselves and each other. These glimpses, especially the ones into Alan’s mind, cause the reader to identify with Alan and hope that he finds a way to get out of the life that he had “before Dawn” in order to find happiness. Trimm delivers a satisfying resolution to Alan’s quest.

“Waiting For Dawn” provides writers with an example of a well-crafted tale. The combination of quality writing, well developed characters, and an interesting plot will keep writers wondering how Trimm got it all right and readers wondering where they can find more of his work.

Purchase Postscripts #11 featuring Mikal Trimm's short story "Waiting For Dawn"

Dark Hart Press / November 2007
Reviewed by: Martel Sardina

One of the challenges of reviewing any book is writing a review that is honest and fair. Reviewers want to like the books they are given to read, especially when the books are small press releases and the reviewer is fully aware of the impact that a bad review can have on a small press publisher’s viability. That said, here are this reviewer’s thoughts about The Desert.

The story’s premise is interesting enough. Set in Iraq in 2009, the story opens with Specialist Densler and Captain Henderson on a recon mission looking for weapons of mass destruction. Instead, they find the body of a soldier from a platoon lost at the outset of the war. They also find the dead soldier’s journal. They read the journal hoping to ascertain what happened to the other members of the lost platoon.

The relationship between commanding officers and the subordinates is cliché. The subordinates know everything and the commanding officers are idiots. Readers may have a difficult time buying into these stereotypes.

Morrigan tells the story through multiple viewpoints, including the dead soldier’s journal entries. However, he made a critical error by not altering the diction and style of those different viewpoints. The story feels as if it is being told by the same person even though the reader knows from the text that is not true. The story suffers from this narrative distance, making it difficult for the reader to care about the characters and what will happen to them next.

Morrigan had a good idea for what should have been a great action-horror novel. The most distracting thing about the problem of narrative distance is that it kills the story. Events that should have been scary weren’t. Action scenes that should have been exciting were boring.

Word choice in some of the scenes also distract from the narrative. Throughout the novel, the characters swear, then for some unknown reason, the word “defecate” is used instead of “shit.” Readers do not want to be pulled out of a story for any reason, much less to wonder why the author is suddenly squeamish.

Morrigan does a good job with the setting description. Readers will feel like they are in the middle of the Iraqi desert. Unfortunately, that in itself is not enough to save the story as a whole.

Kudos to the book’s publisher, Dark Hart Press. For a small press release, the quality of the ARC was impressive. It is unfortunate that the story contained within failed to live up to the high expectations set by the packaging.

Purchase Bryon Morrigan's The Desert

Neon Books / August 2007
Reviewed by: Martel Sardina

ADULTS ONLY. The warning on this book’s cover says it all. If you want to read a cozy romance, go grab one of your mother’s Harlequin paperbacks. Sephera Giron’s characters aren’t vanilla. They like to punish and to be punished. By the time you’re done reading this book you might want to be punished, too.

Hungarian Rhapsody is the story of Hester, a barmaid, who is rescued from her abusive husband and dreary existence by Vidor, a mysterious and rich businessman.

Vidor hires Hester to be a teacher and companion to his ailing niece, Gizi. Hester wants to do a good job, to please her master, but Gizi keeps finding ways to get Hester into trouble with the other servants as well as Vidor himself. This, of course, is the set up for many steamy sex scenes ranging from guy/girl to girl/girl, and every straight man’s dream – guy/girl/girl.

The story’s pacing is effective. The plot unfolds in a nice rhythm, and one wonders if this rhythm was intentional. This book lends itself to being read in two ways. Traditionally, people read from start to finish, hoping to derive satisfaction from the overall story arc. In reading erotic fiction, many read until the point of temporary erotic satisfaction, put the book aside until the next time, and repeat that process until they’ve made their way through the entire book. In the latter, the quality of the sex scenes is probably of more importance to the reader than the overall story arc. Giron does a nice job of balancing these aspects of the eroticism so both types of readers should be pleased with the result.

While Giron does not specifically state the time period of the story, based on the description of the clothing worn, the reader may guess it to be late 1700’s or early 1800’s. Sometimes the dialogue and description are true to the time period, but at other times there is a disconcerting shift that gives the story a more modern feel. Giron would have been better served had she been more consistent in her word choices, going either the modern or historical route – but not both. Depending upon the reader’s personal preference, this may or may not detract much from the story overall.

If you like kinky sex, BSDM, and vampires - the staples of erotic horror - then Hungarian Rhapsody will not disappoint. If you don’t like those things, I might recommend reading this book anyway and see if Giron’s writing compels you to reconsider.

Purchase Sephera Giron's Hungarian Rhapsody

Pocket Star Books / September 2007
Reviewed by: Blu Gilliand

After several incarnations, including a comic book series, a couple of original novels, and now a film from Columbia Pictures, the story of 30 Days of Night should be well known to any genre fan with an ounce of awareness: as the tiny town of Barrow, Alaska, enters its annual month-long period of darkness, a group of vicious vampires descend, forcing a small band of townspeople into a desperate fight for survival.

The story, originated in comics form by writer Steve Niles and artist Ben Templesmith, has been applauded for its presentation of vampires as savage, bloodthirsty creatures hell-bent on feeding, rather than the stale characterization of angst-ridden Victorian aristocrats struggling with their affliction that has become so common in recent years. This latest incarnation comes from author Tim Lebbon (Berserk, The Everlasting) in the form of the film’s official novelization. Lebbon was a natural choice, having tackled similar themes of isolation and survival in a frozen landscape in his novella White.

Reviewing a novelization, even one that works as well as 30 Days, can be difficult. Credit for the story’s clever plot belongs largely to the source material – in this case, the script by Steve Niles, Stuart Beattie and Brian Nelson. However, credit for the execution of the story in this particular form, and for the difficult task of transforming the visual medium of film into a compelling page-turner, goes solely to the author. With 30 Days, Lebbon has handled this task expertly.

Lebbon’s abilities as a storyteller elevate 30 Days of Night well beyond a typical movie tie-in. The author has taken great care to flesh out the characters so that readers have a vested interest in their survival. Even with no flashy special effects to fall back on, Lebbon has crafted a strong, almost cinematic reading experience, moving the story along briskly in short chunks that cut together with all of the tension of an expertly-edited film.

Hopefully, Lebbon’s contribution to the 30 Days of Night mythos will send readers searching for his original work. In the meantime, he’s grabbed hold of this small corner of Steve Niles’ world and made it unquestioningly his own.

Purchase Tim Lebbon's 30 Days of Night

Gauntlet Press / January 2007
Reviewed by: Martel Sardina

Closing Time and Other Stories is Jack Ketchum’s latest collection of short fiction. The nineteen-piece collection contains hard-to-find recent stories, a new, previously unpublished story, “Hotline,” and the 2003 Bram Stoker Award Winner for Best Long Fiction, “Closing Time.” Also included are afterwords for each story in which Ketchum gives readers a glimpse into the story’s origin and a bonus chapbook of Ketchum’s tributes to the late Richard Laymon in those editions purchased directly from the publisher.

The collection opens with “Returns,” an emotionally wrought tale about the connection between a man and his beloved cat that transcends life. “Damned If You Do” follows a man seeking therapy who has secrets that he is not yet ready to reveal.

In “Elusive,” the main character, Kovelant, wants to see a fictional movie called Sleepdirt but fails with every attempt. There is an old wives’ tale about not being able to die in your dreams, and Ketchum wonders if the same is true about movies here. If your death were captured on film, would you be able to watch it?

The standout in the collection in terms of craft is “Snarl, Hiss, Spit, Stalk.” The story is told in present tense, in a minimalist style with limited use of adverbs and adjectives and many one-word sentences. It is a testament to Ketchum’s skill as a writer to be able to craft such a fun, fully developed tale in as few words as he used.

Ketchum’s novels contain moments of humor or joy juxtaposed by some of the most horrific events imaginable. The same can be said of his short fiction. Story selection and placement are key factors in the overall enjoyment of any anthology or short fiction collection, and it is tricky business getting that balance right. This collection features stories like “At Home With The VCR” that are downright funny. “Hotline” is filled with irony and dark humor. “Consensual” is a nice mix of humor and erotic horror. Ketchum then progresses to some thought-provoking, gut-wrenching pieces such as “The Fountain,” “Brave Girl,” “Do You Love Your Wife?” and “Closing Time.” Readers will be pleasantly surprised by the juxtapositions, the way the pieces ebb and flow.

Gauntlet Press released three versions of Closing Time and Other Stories, a 500-copy numbered edition for $40, a 500-copy numbered edition with a leather slipcase for $60, and also a 52-copy lettered traycased edition for $150. The lettered edition contains four poems that are not included in the numbered editions.

For readers wary that $40 is pricey for a short story collection, this reviewer felt she got her money’s worth. Fans looking for a more reasonably priced collection, however, may want to take a look at Ketchum’s Peaceable Kingdom, which was released in mass-market paperback from Leisure Books back in 2003.

Purchase Jack Ketchum's Closing Time and Other Stories

Alyson Books / August 2007
Reviewed by: Vince A. Liaguno

The past’s influence on the present is an enduring theme in literature and the arts in general. For some, the past is a lifeline that helps them make it through the challenges of the present and onward toward the promise of a future. For others, like the protagonist in Lee Thomas’ The Dust of Wonderland, memory is a disease that infects the present and threatens the very concept of a future. In his stellar third novel, Thomas personifies the memories of the past in the images of dust:

Always there, history, like dust, frosted the present. It could be wiped away, scrubbed, and for a long time forgotten, but it always returned, settling on life’s ornamentation. If left unchecked it grew thick and opaque, covering all that might be with the filth of what had already come to pass.

Ken Nicholson is a man running from his memories, haunted by the events of the past during which questioned sexuality and the hedonistic pursuits of youth combined to lure him into the web of a seductive club called Wonderland and the seemingly unending clutches of its proprietor, the enigmatic Travis Brugier. Years after Wonderland and its owner came to a violent end, Nicholson fled his New Orleans home, plagued by terrifying hallucinations that play out like waking nightmares. But despite the physical distance he puts between himself and his nagging past, he is summoned home by his ex-wife when his son is viciously attacked. Dust tells the story of Nicholson’s homecoming during which he must confront the mistakes of his past while doing battle with a cunning evil he thought long dead in order to protect his loved one’s and his own sanity.

Thomas fashions a classic ghost story, with enough twists and turns to qualify Dust as part mystery, and strong characterizations that power the narrative forward like a solid psychological thriller. It’s often tricky business when writers blend genres, but Thomas pulls off his ambitious narrative undertaking so well here that the lines between supernatural ghost story, psychological drama, and suspense thriller are marvelously blurred – ultimately creating a wholly satisfying reading experience. He sets his story against the richly atmospheric backdrop of New Orleans - overplayed and clichéd in the hands of lesser writers - in which the fabled French Quarter and the bars of Bourbon Street come alive as secondary characters yet never overshadow. Not since Christopher Rice’s gothic gay coming-of-age tale, A Density of Souls, has a novel so seamlessly integrated the New Orleans mystique or so perfectly captured the dichotomous melancholy and pure, hedonistic charisma of the region.

The key strength in Dust is the author’s masterful use of characterization to create layers of internal and external conflicts for his players, at once humanizing them and investing the reader in their struggles. Nicholson, in particular, is a marvelously flawed creation, the embodiment of an entire generation of gay men for whom Stonewall came too late to save them from having to travel the heterosexual highway before realizing that they had missed their homosexual exit. In Nicholson, readers are made acutely aware of his struggle toward self-acceptance and how real and very difficult that struggle to reconcile the divergent aspects of family, friends, and faith can be. Nowhere in Dust is this recurring idea of the sheer messiness of the human condition more brilliantly captured than in the scene in which Nicholson stumbles upon the cathedral in which his severely injured son was to have been married:

After several minutes of uncertainty, looking into the vast and ornate temple, Ken left the church. He was being foolish, ridiculous, and desperate. He felt weak and hated himself for it. How many of his friends had he watched in their last moments of life, friends who had despised the intolerant religions of their birth, turn back to inefficient faiths? People needed their gods, he knew, and Ken wished he had found one to believe in so his prayers wouldn’t feel like the ramblings of a hypocrite, but he wasn’t going to indulge in foxhole Christianity. Not yet. Such a turn would mean all other hope was lost.

Thomas is one of a newer crop of horror writers whose writing clearly seeks to transcend the limits of a genre frequently dismissed as disposable and criticized for its excessive indulgences in violence and bloodshed that (sadly) often forsake narrative structure, mood and nuance. Thomas’ rich prose harkens back to the moodier works of Straub’s Shadowland or King’s Dolores Claiborne, while reflecting this newer and welcome trend toward literary horror from the likes of newcomers like Sarah Langan and Alexandra Sokoloff. Thomas demonstrates time and again throughout Dust that true horror need not be visceral to get under one’s skin:

How long he stood in front of the gate to Wonderland Ken couldn’t say, but he found himself terrified by the place. Like a wasp’s nest, this structure and its grounds had served as a shelter for vicious and poisonous things. History and the disease of memory emanated from the decimated structure. Windows, filthy and dark, played the films of history; they showed a magnificent courtyard and bubbling fountain, and they harbored a unique master with incomprehensible power. Ken remembered numerous wonders, numerous pleasures and a single atrocity in which four children had battled for their lives. A soft bed spoke words of confused sensuality. Hallways led visitors through priceless ornamentation. Wandering these halls were the ghosts of children who were lost in their pursuit of happiness as they served their benefactor. All was brilliant light. All was unfathomable darkness. All was fractured light. All was a story.

And, like the best supernatural horror writers, Thomas ably conveys the paranormal without getting bogged down in over-explanation or talking down to his audience. In getting across the essence of the horrifying mind control games that plague the central characters, Thomas conveys this rather abstract concept through simple dialogue between the characters. When one character likens their psychic torture to being caught in “ …a mind fuck…a virtual reality game without an Off switch ” the audience understands it.

At the core of all great stories is the human condition and our endless attempts to quantify, qualify, and question it. In The Dust of Wonderland, Thomas explores that totality of the human experience like a master painter, first with broad strokes to color the palate then with a fine-point brush to bring forth the depth and detail. While dodging the literary snowballs that Thomas skillfully laces with the genuine chills of an old-fashioned ghost story and hurls liberally throughout, readers will be ensnared in the intricate web of humanity he casts out over his characters, caught blissfully unaware by this dazzling portrait of human hope and heartbreak.

Purchase Lee Thomas' The Dust of Wonderland

Pinnacle / April 2007
Reviewed by: Vince A. Liaguno

In his latest novel, They Hunger, author Scott Nicholson sinks his teeth into a meaty vampire tale that’s The Descent unleashed meets The River Wild. With shades of Deliverance and Just Before Dawn to color the narrative with a gritty backwoods feel, Nicholson once again proves that he is to rural Appalachia what Bentley Little is the southwest.

The set-up is standard: several sets of diverse characters converge on the Unegama region of the Southern Appalachians. Nicholson has mastered the art of seamlessly melding disparate characters into the fabric of his novels, which, in the hands of lesser writers, could take on a distracting incongruence. Along for the ride down the bloody waterways of They Hunger is a hillbilly religious zealot taken to bombing abortion clinics and the young woman whose own dark dabbling in the underbelly of sadomasochism make her the perfect traveling companion. Hot on their trails are two FBI agents – Jim Castle, a veteran haunted by his unremarkable career, and Derek Samford, the rookie whiz kid right off the pages of a Criminal Minds script. Woven into the narrative by circumstance is a sextet of white water adventurers commissioned by an outdoor adventure company to test drive their latest high-tech raft – including a widower haunted by dreams of his dead wife, a renowned cyclist, an Olympic wrestler struggling with his own inner demons, a buffoonish reality show contest winner, a photojournalist (the lone female in the group) charged with documenting the adventure, and the requisite corporate tagalong there to protect the company’s interests while uttering the occasional marketing slogan. Throw in a civilian couple from New Jersey far better suited for slot machines in Atlantic City than the wild rapids of the Appalachian Mountains, and you’ve got yourself one hearty pot of character stew ripe for the tasting.

When an FBI ambush of the fugitive bomber and his gal pal runs afoul of some inconveniently placed tripwires, an underground cavern is opened in the ensuing blast, releasing a hungry flock of ancient winged creatures that swoop, tear, bite, and suck with gleeful abandon. Nicholson’s vampires are of the lean and mean old-school variety, and the author has no problem working the literary equivalent of a potshot at the modern depiction of the classic bloodsucker into the action:

It seemed anybody could stamp a pale, pointy-toothed European bisexual on a paperback novel cover or movie poster and the product would achieve success, however little deserved.

Sensitive readers looking for political correctness should look elsewhere. Nicholson doesn’t hold back from injecting the story with real-life characters regardless of their likeability – some stretching the bounds of political correctness to alarming lengths. Thankfully, the extremism of these characters is buffered by Nicholson’s use of satirical humor in exaggerating their absurdity. Vincent Farrengalli, whose appearance on a reality competition show earns him his spot on the high profile adventure team, is an equal opportunity bigot who hurls racist, misogynic, and homophobic epithets like baseballs. Even Mick Jagger’s lips aren’t safe from this archetype bully’s skewed perspective. Ace Goodhall, dubbed the ‘Bama Bomber even as Nicholson tells us with tongue planted firmly in cheek that he hails from North Dakota, is everything Farrengalli is – only worse, wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket of religious hypocrisy. Even when he veers dangerously close to stereotype territory, as in the case of the half-Cherokee wrestling champ on a pharmaceutical vision quest with medicine bag in tow, Nicholson skillfully detours from the one dimensional by layering the character with some internal struggles to reconcile the nobility of his Native-American heritage with the crass commercialism he’s exploited his own image to cash in on.

Nicholson knows how to muscle his way through a tight, action-packed narrative with moments of all-out assault that the reader won’t see coming. But in his fifth novel in as many years, Nicholson has also skillfully harnessed the power of subtlety with flesh-crawling scenes so insinuating that the horror eats at you in uncomfortable morsels like the delicate nibbles and licks of his bloodthirsty creatures as their cold tongues dart in and out of the wounds of conscious victims.

Hands down the scariest vampire novel to come along since Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot, They Hunger will leave you feeling satiated and engorged. Grim, gruesome, and hair-raising, Nicholson’s latest Appalachian terror tale turns the domesticated, homogenized bloodsuckers of late to dust and returns vampire lore to its rightful place among the most frightening and brutal of horrors. And, like the best genre efforts in recent years, he shows us with disquieting precision that maybe there’s a little bit of monster in all of us along the way.

Purchase Scott Nicholson's They Hunger