Saturday, October 10, 2009

Denyer, The Edge of the Country (2009)

Trevor Denyer, The Edge of the Country and Other Stories. Immediate Direction Publications, 2009. Pp. 112. £5.40/$10.15.

Reviewed by Terry Grimwood

The small press world owes a great deal to Trevor Denyer. Though starting off as a writer of some note back in the 1990s, he is better known these days as a magazine publisher, first with Roadworks in the latter years of the last century, then Legend and finally the much acclaimed Midnight Street. All are of the highest quality and placing a story in the pages of a Trevor Denyer magazine brings its fair share of kudos to any small press writer. Because of this, it has been easy to forget that initial chapter of Denyer’s career. As a result, his first, and long overdue, collection, The Edge of the Country, is a very welcome reminder of his talent as an author in his own right. The title of Allen Ashley’s introduction says it all: 'About Time Too'.

It is a slim volume, a baker’s dozen of tales, but size isn’t everything, as any reader knows when they reach page 1,135 of some titanic, bloated blockbuster, only to realise that there are another 2,000 pages to go!

The book itself is an attractive artefact with some very atmospheric cover art, presumably by the author himself (there is no other credit for this cover and it is copyrighted to Trevor Denyer). It sets the tone, the feel and is intriguing enough to entice you inside to see what’s waiting.

I’ve met Trevor Denyer on more than one occasion and find him, like most horror and dark fiction writers I know, to be an affable, pleasant, easy-going gent, so that makes these stories, their content and feel, even more of a shock than they would be anyway. Most drill into the human psyche to uncover lonely creatures, yearning for their pasts and happier times. Several stories tell of the return of, or search for, lost—literally lost—love, others show the terrible realities of physical dissolution, of the inevitable destruction of our bodies and spirits.

There is no sentimentally here, even those stories that tell of those souls reaching out for the things they have loved and lost, are presented in a mixture of soft focus and stark shadow. There is a depth here that often belies the simplicity of the plots and Denyer’s sharp-honed and economical prose.

Take the title story, for example, ‘The Edge of the Country’. Here a lonely man sets out on an Odyssey to find and meet a long-lost lover. The descriptive writing is evocative of sad train journeys and loneliness-in-a-crowd. The emotion subtly pervades the narrative and builds towards a climax that is shocking without being melodramatic. Then there is ‘Falling Asleep’, a memoir of a former lover who could be, by turns, tender and then cruel, and is now gone, or is she? ‘A Rose from Elvis’ is also filled with regret and memory as it reveals a woman’s affection, perhaps love, for a middle-aged biker who has named himself after the King, again tender without straying anywhere the saccharine, realistic, and intensely atmospheric. Even the most surreal and imaginative piece, ‘Landfall’, although set in a very far future, is rooted in the rich soil of love lost and regained. ‘Too Close’ moves the loss and guilt themes away from romantic relationships to mother and son, but again, is redolent with emotion and atmosphere, building quickly to a very disturbing last line.

Not that everything Denyer has offered us is in his collection is wistful and soulful. There is horror aplenty, and some very black humour, ‘Fuse’ being a case in point. This is a mischievous and messy slab of darkness that turns a pleasant sun-drenched beach into the location for a nightmare. The pace is fast, the monsters suitably nasty and imaginative, but for me, it was the one tale that lacked something, emotional involvement I think. ‘Killing Devils’ on the other hand, draws us right in and combines brutal reality of illness with a war against demons, whether real or imagined it is hard to tell but in the end doesn’t matter. In this story, Denyer vividly opens the door on the savagery of disease and what it feels to be its victim, both physically and mentally. A similar theme is explored in ‘Event Horizon’ in which, once more, our own body becomes the enemy.

As mentioned earlier, among the publications Denyer is responsible for was the short-lived but excellent Legend, which was declaration of his love of fantasy as well as the harder, darker stuff. ‘Glastonbury’, ‘Old Slowbones’ and the very excellent ‘Wycere’ make up the fantasy element of this collection. The latter is my own favourite of the three, although each has it own merits, the first is atmospheric and inventive, the second, though, for me, the weaker, is still a fast-paced, entertaining mini-saga with all the right elements of a good sword-swinger. ‘Wycere’ is a tale of a house which is also a doorway to another world, a beautiful place where those who visit are allowed to love. But which of the protagonists is from this world and which from the other, in the end, unanswerable. There are subtleties and ambiguities aplenty here, what I call a satisfying enigma.

Finally, we have, well, finality itself, another trio of stories, this time dealing with the biggest question of all. Some are dark and unnerving such as ‘The Silent Hours’ in which a young boy is forced to confront The End, but discovers that its sting is, while painful, can also be a means of reuniting the long-parted. ‘A Place for Dying’ is a masterly description of an old people’s home that focuses on a handful of elderly ladies who are literally waiting for death. Their hopelessness and fear is described with alarming vividness and the event itself is shown as a much bleaker experience than many of us would like to believe it to be.

The last of the death trio is ‘The Special Place’ and this one is also Tel’s Favourite. Evocative and beautifully described this is a glimpse into an intense and happy relationship, during a moment that even the reader wishes would last forever, but in a brief, shocking and dreamlike revelation, the ultimate truth is revealed.

Your journey into The Edge of the Country will pass quickly once you open its covers and set off. It will take you through regions of intense emotion and short but very dark tunnels then on into bleaker, unsettling landscapes. This book is a surprise, a stark glimpse into the writing skills and motivations of someone who must give us more and who obviously understands what writing is all about, both as a skilled and acclaimed editor and, as we see here, an author himself.

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Monday, October 05, 2009

Harvey, Convent of the Pure (2009)

Sarah M. Harvey, The Convent of the Pure. Lexington: Apex Publishing, 2009. Pp. 138. ISBN 9780981639093. $13.95.

Reviewed by PostMorbid

Girl with big cleavage, burning stake to be fired from a crossbow, naked woman half-covered in runes, magic flowing from her hands. Every fantasy geek's dreams seem to be embodied in the cheesecake cover of Sarah Harvey's The Convent of the Pure. Let's have a look inside this 'steampunk novella'.

The main character of the book, Portia Gyony, is a lesbian demon hunter, supported by the ghost of her dead lover Imogen. Both are Nephilim, descendants of angels, raised by a secret group of watchers who through the ages have fought off evil spirits. Just think a crossover of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the Nephilim fantasy roleplaying game and a hint of steampunk.

Portia is a troubled kind of hero, blaming herself for the death of Imogen who was killed in battle, and not quite realising who she is. If that were not cliché enough, she finds herself drawn into a conspiracy among in which, surprise surprise, no one is quite what they appear to be. After a short introduction, our heroine spends most of the book battling demons, being tied to chairs and altars, snogging demons and ghosts, being confused by prophecies, getting in touch with her inner power, firing blessed bolts into demons, being sexually aroused by demons—all to eventually overcome her personal defects and move on to what, we are told, will be two more sequels.

Some reviewers of the Convent have praised the book for its "atmospheric" setting. It may be a little unfair to judge a trilogy by the first book, but as far as stories based on "heroes fight evil in torn-down convents" go the setting is not particularly original or intense. First of all the steampunk aspect—I am still not quite sure what it adds to the book. True, if handled well it could surprise the reader and make them wonder what technological marvels to expect. However, apart from Portia's wireless transmitter (which is not important to the story), the book could conveniently have been set in early 20th century England. There are syringes, motorcycles and various laboratory devices (surprisingly, the bad guys do some experimentation on pure and innocent beings) that use electricity—nothing unique to this world or in any way surprising shows up. This is probably because of the fact that the book is so short and mostly set in a dungeon kind of mode (the first scenes of the Baldur's Gate roleplaying game come to mind) where the external world does not really matter. This all is, of course, no argument against setting the story in a steampunk environment—it just seems like a lost chance to add something unique to the book; and that would have been very welcome, seeing as it contains so many clichés.

Cliché is certainly the crucial word for describing this book. It starts with a stormy night in a cemetery and ends with an apocalyptic fight during which the lair of the bad guys burns down. You get a heroine trying to overcome her troubled past, betrayal and double betrayal, a gothic mansion-style setting, Frankenstein-like experiments, a power-hungry male drawn to the dark side and lusting after our heroine, a benevolent old lady as stern mentor of Portia and the other members of her group, the heroine's journey to a different plane of existence to find her true power, a bad guy consumed by the demons he called, sudden plot-twists that you can see coming for miles—and all of that in less than 150 pages.

If you enjoy that kind of thing and don't mind paying the price of a full book for what actually seems to be a third of one, well, then please go ahead and read Convent. The first third certainly had some enjoyable parts, but once it got into dungeon-mode I actually wanted to go back to play Baldur's Gate—it's about as well written. Maybe the sequels will flesh out the world a little more and move the characters beyond cliché, in which case there may be some potential for decent entertainment. Based on this reading, however, I can’t personally recommend it.

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Saturday, September 19, 2009

Gardner, The Sour Aftertaste of Olive Lemon (2009)

Catherine J Gardner, The Sour Aftertaste of Olive Lemon. Bucket O’ Guts Press, 2009. Pp. 23. $6.00 US/$7.50 International.

Reviewed by Steven Pirie

This is the ‘first chapbook’ from the wonderfully named Bucket O’ Guts press; a short tale at twenty-three pages start to finish, Gardner's tale is the perfect length to while away a short commute or pass a lunch break. Folded and stapled, it’s unashamed in claiming to be ‘Designed and Printed in a Garage Somewhere in the USA.’ And why shouldn’t it be? The cover artwork by Stephen Blundell is as good as any, and the print within decently sized and legible. I’ve seen supposedly professionally produced works that don’t look half as good.

The publisher’s website states: “We want fiction that cannot be classified or pigeonholed. The only contingency is that your story must leave us all scratching our heads.” So, not being a fan of “bizarro” fiction, which is what I assumed the publishers are hinting at above, I wondered what to expect from The Sour Aftertaste of Olive Lemon. I needn’t have worried. The story is conventional in that it has a beginning, middle and end, and there’s an adherence to logic and cause and effect throughout. The result is a delightfully off-kilter dark fantasy that's a pleasure to read.

In many ways I’m reluctant to summarise the tale. The fact that the story is so short makes it almost impossible not to add spoilers should I do so. I’ll say only that the tale is a journey through Olive Lemon’s dark and troubled mind. Her world is a town populated with colourful neighbourhoods and strange characters; with a mayor, for example, who imposes some odd rules indeed: "The use of ladders was restricted…" and "Puzzles were banned—both cryptic and Jigsaw". But, of course, infringing such restriction is normal behaviour for Olive Lemon.

The story is a good one. Gardner skilfully weaves the narrative along at a sidestep to reality. And she’s careful to provide enough subtle foreshadowing to keep the reader guessing what’s going on yet still lead that reader to a believable conclusion. It makes for a satisfying read indeed.

My only criticism is that The Sour Aftertaste of Olive Lemon was over too quickly; I'd have liked another couple of stories from Gardner thrown in to follow, to beef it out a little. Still, it left me wanting to read more from this author. I’ll watch out for her, and for Bucket O’ Guts press, with interest.

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Monday, September 07, 2009

Rix, What the Giants are Saying (2009)

David Rix, What the Giants are Saying. Eibonvale Press, 2008. Pp. 200. ISBN 9780955526862. £9.95.

Reviewed by Terry Grimwood

When on a weekend break in Yorkshire a year or so ago I took a walk through a valley filled with giants. They were impassive, impressive, inscrutable and very intimidating. They were, of course, those love-'em or hate-'em wind turbines. I am one of those who finds the things graceful. They are strange beasts, there is a near-life feel about them and, as David Rix shows us in his novella, What The Giants Are Saying, they are far from silent. Their song is, indeed, the voice of giants.

In the novella, Rix introduces us to Don, a landscape painter, disillusioned by the mediocrity of his work and in the process of splitting up with a girlfriend he blames for the dissolution of his artistic inspiration. He is depressed, angry and self-destructive. Dangerous enough, in fact, to crash his car out on a lonely moor watched over by countless, whispering wind turbines.

That’s where he meets an enigmatic woman named Feather. Otherworldly and seemingly impervious to the bitter cold, she first haunts his thoughts then draws him into a bizarre, destructive relationship. She too is an artist, but the landscapes Feather creates are far more physical and bloody than anything Don has so far dreamed of. And watching over it all, their whispering song a haunting soundtrack, are the giants, hallucinatory and thrumming with a strange and threatening life of their own.

Following the novella is a short story called 'Red Fire', a prequel where we first meet Feather, this time the relationship reversed, she the canvas, her lover Cal, the artist. The result is just as brutal and unsettling.

What the Giants Are Saying is an unnerving, edgy work. It asks the inevitable question, what is art? And then explores the issue in a supremely visceral and unflinching manner. Yes, it has become acceptable (though controversial still) to manipulate inanimate tissue, such as Damian Hurst’s sharks and sheep, or Dr. Gunther von Hagens’ corpse sculptures, but to carve and stitch your art onto living flesh, to mutilate the breathing, that is another matter, or is it? After all, who owns our flesh? We accept the tattoo, the piercing, gender change (whether medically necessary or simply a need), even genital mutilation—weren’t the Castratos of a bygone age mutilated in the name of musical art—so who is to say where it ends, what is acceptable and what is extreme, if not even criminal?

Don’s ex-girlfriend sees Don’s new and bloody art as somehow a personal affront, it repulses her, is, in her mind, a crime. The irony of her role in the story is that she is seen by Don as the destructive influence in his life, the reason for his breakdown because she is “normal”, conventional, actually cares about his health and physical well-being But what right has she to judge? Whose body is it anyway? What are our responsibilities, to ourselves and to those around us, those who depend on us?

Don is a typical independent press character, self-centred, self-obsessed and far from easy to get on with. It makes a change from the taciturn square-jawed hero of course and is much more realistic, but it can be annoying, there are times you want to shout at him, shake him, tell him to pull himself together, but he is an artist, and, traditionally, the artist stands outside the mainstream, so much art flows out of suffering. These outsiders exist, have given us so much music and writing. .

What the Giants Are Saying is a bold work, it eschews story-telling conventions, it is readable, but difficult. It gives no easy answers or comfortable conclusions. It asks mote questions than it answers. It is horror, and then it isn’t, not in the conventional sense anyway, it is that rare and wonderful thing, an unclassifiable work. Even the beautiful, striking and disturbing cover is ostensibly horror, but then, on closer examination probably not. In fact the cover art has the same edgy, bold and savage imagery examined in the story itself.

David Rix is, as I understand it, the man behind the remarkable and adventurous Eibonvale Press, publishers of the off-beat and different. With his own book he has certainly flown the Eibonvale flag and all power to him for stepping off the main road into wilder, more difficult country.

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Monday, August 24, 2009

Hughes, The Smell of Telescopes (2008)

Rhys Hughes, The Smell of Telescopes. Eibonvale Press, 2008. Pp. 464. £22.99.

Reviewed by Sarah Ann Watts

‘I arched an eyebrow. It remained arched for the rest of the day – I was determined to anticipate any more impossibilities. Sighing, I made an appeal: “Has anyone got any bright ideas? Wan ones will suffice.”’

So speaks Giovanni Ciao, narrator of ‘The Hush of Falling Houses’ and citizen of Lladloh in just one of the twenty six interlaced stories that make up The Smell of Telescopes.

It isn’t easy to read 460 pages with an arched eyebrow but it might be prudent. However I defy anyone to anticipate the trove of ‘impossibilities’ that this collection contains and that Rhys Hughes lays out so generously for our delectation and delight. Wan ideas may suffice for Giovanni but his creator is unlikely to settle for anything so mundane – these stories are all amusing, inventive and absurd.

We begin in Ingolstadt where Fraulein Radcliffe is endeavouring to persuade a recalcitrant bank clerk to open a student account for her. Many of us will have fond memories of similar interviews while seeking a sympathetic home for our grant cheques. Fraulein Radcliffe – studying Sociology and Reanimation - has to deal with old fashioned prejudice in that the clerk refuses to accept that she, as a woman, can really be a student. “Begone! Take your provocative bosom and radical egalitarianism away!”
The Banker of Ingolstadt is a tale of the unexpected that sets the bar for the rest of the collection and concludes with one of many inspired final lines.

The second story is ‘Ten Grim Bottles’ set in the village of Lladloh where ‘the uncanny is a part of every day life.’ Here we meet Emyr the landlord, Hywel the baker, Elizabeth Morgan the fiery witch of cobweb cottage and the local poet who has been denied planning permission to extend his – small - ego. It begins: ‘I want to tell a story about the cannibal who lives under our stone bridge but first I need some characters and a pot – I mean a plot.’ Who could resist such an opening?

In the next story we meet a pirate barber, Spermaceti Whiskers where we learn that ‘A corsair’s etiquette is that of a vicar; only the quality of china is different’. Other members of Henry Morgan’s immortal pirate crew are the eponymous heroes of their own stories: Lanolin Brows, Muscovado Lashes, Thanatology Spleen and Omophagia Ankles.

‘The Blue Dwarf’ is a Faustian tale introducing the fateful love triangle between Gruffydd and Myfanwy and Owain ap Iorwerth , and featuring trousers, lost souls, a clock, a carrot and blueberry pie.

So it goes on – characters slip in and out of each other’s stories like friends dropping into the ‘local’ inn – perhaps The Plucked Eyeball in the quaintly named village of Purloin My Liver where the ales are a little too real for comfort – ‘Leprous Pustule, Purple Haemorrhage, Garrotted Baby, Witch Burn, Eat My Cousin and Twisted Ear.’ How the eyeball came to be plucked and the village to be named are mysteries that will be revealed in ‘The Yellow Imp’.

The stories range through many strange landscapes from Lladloh to Monmouth to the wilds of Shropshire, Cornwall and Yorkshire. In ‘Depressurised Ghost Story’ the narrator takes us on an expedition from Colchester to Tibet and urges us to ‘stay close to my prose’. ‘The Haunted Womb’ features a true phantom pregnancy and in ‘Telegram Ma’am’, tradition is the mother of invention. Perhaps my favourite story is the wonderful ‘Bridge Over Troubled Blood’ with Mrs Robinson, Artery Garfunkle and Appalling Simon and there is also the surreal brilliance of ‘Burke and Rabbit’.

Rhys Hughes’ writing is brilliant and inventive and carries us along in a sparkling stream of stories that reflect and complement each other. In ‘Nothing More Common’ Mr Hugo Bloat, ‘an oddity among antique collectors’ asks the proprietor of the Trevaunance Point Hotel, “Why did you call Mr Grebe a ‘bedsheet’?” and receives the reply, “He comes over all comfortable and snug but then tangles himself around your legs’ – which somehow makes perfect sense and seems, to me at least, to sum up some of the peculiar and irresistible quality of this collection of stories – in which the author does nothing less than have his characters remake the shape of the world.

‘You, sir, are a squonk. There is no sadder entity in the known cosmos.’

If you want to know why ‘The Squonk Laughed’ - there is no alternative but to read and enjoy.

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Tuesday, August 18, 2009

New Issue: TFF 2009.17

Homme, es-tu capable d'être juste? C'est une femme qui t'en fait la question; tu ne lui ôteras pas du moins ce droit. Dis-moi? Qui t'a donné le souverain empire d'opprimer mon sexe? Ta force? Tes talents? [...] L'homme seul... veut commander en despote sur un sexe qui a reçu toutes les facultés intellectuelles; il prétend jouir de la Révolution, et réclamer ses droits à l'égalité, pour ne rien dire de plus.

—Olympe de Gouges, Déclaration des droits de la femme (1791)
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Sunday, August 02, 2009

Jessup, Open Your Eyes (2009)

Paul Jessup, Open Your Eyes. Apex Publications, 2009. Pp. 139. ISBN 9780982159606. $13.95.

Reviewed by Djibril Alayad

open your eyesThis is a strange little book, in so many ways. From the exquisitely executed but deeply unsettling front cover (by Daniele Cascone), through the frank, slightly surreal but unrelentingly cold and logical prose, and to the unclassifiable genre: the trappings of science fiction, a level of fantastic realism, a paranoid mystery, and a thoroughly story-driven core that relies on none of these layers—Open Your Eyes defeats the expectations on all fronts. As such, a title like this could only have been published by the small press, and a particularly daring and high quality small press like Apex Publications, whose magazine Apex Digest has focused on the darker side of science fiction for several years. If speculative fiction is united by being "weird shit", this publication shows a willingness not to eschew the weird. Author Paul Jessup, for his part, has been published widely in the small press, including some of the more prestigious titles in the genre, and has a reputation for unusual, edge-pushing work. This novella is no exception.

As the blurb and the opening pages of the novella proclaim, this is the story of Ekhi, a starship pilot who made love to a dying supernova and is now pregnant, a baby galaxy coalescing, spinning and growing inside her. Despite this, after the first two pages (and until the dumbfounding climax), Ekhi is very much a bit player in this story of posthuman space scavengers, intelligent ships and sentient viruses.

The puppetmaster is the ancient captain, Itsasu, a withered old crone who has preserved her body in a vat of nutrients and controls both the ship's AI "heart" and a small army of dolls via wires embedded in her nerves. Aching and longing in this joyless condition, watching the rest of the crew through electronic eyes, pining for her centuries-dead husband, Itsasu is unable even to masturbate, taking pleasure only from the endorphins the ship's heart pumps into her chemical soup.

Mari is the cyborg navigator, half her face replaced with silver, and caged mechanical butterflies in her brain. Perhaps the only sympathetic character in the novella, it is she who rescues and nurses Ekhi when her wrecked ship is salvaged, and she who drives almost all the social interactions on the ship. Her lover Sugoi is a stupid, violent, mean giant, one of the ship's mechanics; the joker in the pack, he risks doing more harm to the crew than any outside foe, but is ultimately too stupid to be really dangerous. The other mechanic, his brother Hodei, is a sexually frustrated and sulky teenager, physically terrorized by Sugoi and obsessed with a pornographic model from vintage magazines in his collection.

Many of the motivations in this story seem to be about sex on one level or another, and in some ways this is a little puerile, but it is at least convincing. Conversation between the characters is loaded, awkward, heavy with frustrated needs and inability to communicate. The writing is equally heavy, now thick with hormonal passion, now fluid and sensuous, describing the vacuum of space or the womb of the nutrient vat. Action scenes are swift and sudden and brutal; betrayals as unexpected and inexplicable to the reader as to the characters; hidden agendas revealed or only hinted at by furious, self-righteous, near-psychotic protagonists.

Much of the science in this science fiction book is under-explained: what are basically magical effects are given foreign-sounding names and mechanical clothes. The linguistic virus, however, while not an original concept in itself, is handled better here than the Sumerian virus in Stephenson's Snow Crash, and is genuinely horrifying rather than just faintly silly. In a far future with interstellar travel, the technology would have to be completely transformed, unrecognizable to a 21st century observer.

Although this is therefore a character-driven story rather than a "scientific opera", the characters are perhaps the weak link in this novella. Very few of them are sympathetic, and even less are terribly convincing. In most cases we only know their motivations because they tell us, and even that leaves us little wiser than before. Dialogue is sometimes awkward because of the discomfort and disconnect between the characters; sometimes it just feels awkward.

As well as the cover artwork, there are four or five low-resolution prints of line drawings (by Judi Davidson) breaking up the text in this book. Three of these images are of the posed bodies of sexy, naked women. While these three women are indeed naked at some point in the story, there are also lots of other very visual scenes, so the focus on naked women seems unimaginative, retrograde, and unfortunate in this day and age. Certainly the images feel a little superfluous as compared to the haunting cover.

There is an element of the surreal in this novella, but apart from the unborn galaxy in Ekhi's womb, most of the "weird shit" herein is soft science rather than wild fantasy and twisted symbolism. The effect is much the same either way, however, and this is where Jessup's skill with weirdness and the absurd strengthen this book. We are never allowed to forget that this is not our world, that these people are not us, their concerns are not ours. But their actions and motivations are not so random and baffling as to be altogether unsympathetic and uninteresting.

While Open Your Eyes is in some ways a flawed work, it is a daring one, and I am glad that publishers like Apex exist to take a risk with titles like this. Their editorial standards are very high—one or two textual infelicities made it into the copy, but no actual typos that I noticed. It may be that this volume's bizarre content is never going to be bestseller material, but I certainly hope that it does well enough to convince the publishers to continue to take chances with excellent but unorthodox fiction.

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Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Shock Totem 1 (2009)

Shock Totem 1: Curious Tales of the Macabre and Twisted. Summer 2009. Pp. 100. ISBN 978-1448621743. $5.99.

Reviewed by Steven Pirie

The news has been fairly bleak lately. With a number of short story venues closing down, or claiming hiatus as they try to ride out the ravages of the economy, it’s hard not to feel a sense of foreboding that the small press is creaking under the strain. Possibly it’s a brave heart, then, that seeks to launch a new print magazine right now—and a pro-paying magazine at that—yet clearly the chaps and chapesses behind Shock Totem are made of stern stuff.

I’ve followed the gestation of Shock Totem through various blogs and forums on the Internet, and I have to say I’ve been impressed with how the Shock Totem team have been open to suggestion and criticism; freely admitting that this publication is a new venture to them; happily taking guidance from other editors who have been-there-and- done-that, yet still feeling confident enough to impress their own personalities upon the project throughout. There are lessons for us all, there, I’m sure.

And the result, I have to say, is pretty good. Shock Totem is a digest sized, perfect bound magazine, full colour front and back cover with stunning artwork by Robert Hoyem, and with a black and white interior. At one hundred pages but with a relatively small font size, there’s enough content to match bigger rivals.

So, what’s on offer, here? What’s different about this one from what’s already out there? I think it’s fair to say that Shock Totem has resisted the temptation to be radically different in any way. The content follows a well tried formula of an opening editorial, fiction, interviews, reviews, a scattering of poetry and, at least as a promise in future issues, non-fiction. Where it excels is in the obvious care and love in its production. This issue is a very strong base from which to build. And who knows, as it does build maybe it will evolve away from the ‘formula’ in ways even the Shock Totem team can’t yet see.

The fiction reads rather Americanised: this is hardly surprising, perhaps, given all the authors featured are indeed Americans. Whether this is by design or by coincidence I can’t say, but it seems to me that on this showing the British writer writing quintessential British fiction, for example, may find it hard to break into this market. Of course, future issues may already be filled with international content to prove me wrong. I hope so. Add to this that the Shock Totem team have been known to delight in their high rejection to acceptance ratio of submitted stories—okay, that’s harsh—delight in their high standards—if you, the writer, do make the cut here you can probably feel some achievement.

‘Music Box’, by T.L. Morganfield has the honour of being Shock Totem’s first ever story. It’s a Chocky-esque tale in which the turbulent relationship between two sentient, malevolent ‘cuddly’ toys is paralleled with the equally turbulent marriage of Cheryl and Kevin. It offers a somewhat bleak view of relationships, as both human and toy are systematically torn apart, one literally, one metaphorically, and there is little or no redemption for any of them. The ending is particularly strong, and the reader is left fearing that the violence evident throughout is about to escalate to the extreme. That Morganfield ends the tale just as this fear is to be recognised leaves the reader to decide what happens next. If the reader is in the middle of a bad day, my guess is there’re kidneys and tubes everywhere!

Mercedes M. Yardley's ‘Murder for Beginners’ is a delightfully understated tale that at times borders on the whimsical. Two girls, one corpse, one bloody shovel is the backdrop for what is surely the ultimate trivialisation of murder most foul. It’s the almost nonchalant attitude of the characters and Yardley’s skill in merely brushing against the seriousness of the situation that produces a tale in which the reader feels there’s an entire back story there lurking below the surface. In this way, the story really engages the reader, and the result is a thoroughly enjoyable vignette.

‘First Light’, by Les Berkley, is a lyrical tale of love and loss and life and death. In many ways, it’s a tale of gentler times, and I found myself lost in Berkley’s rolling prose. “I would dig Claire’s grave where no corpse-light would burn... ride her mare under the fainting moon and remember.”

‘Complexity’, by Don D’Ammassa, is a tale of paranoia ultimately proved valid. There’s an irony in that the technology Jake has grown to fear is the same technology he helped create. The story is a fine read, problematic only in that the set up to Jake’s paranoia seems a little drawn out in places and I found myself thinking long before the denouement: ‘Okay, I know this guy wants to be reclusive, is obsessive about ‘them’, is living in great fear, so I’d quite like to know why now.’ Also, because of the structure of the tale, to reach the conclusion required long passages of exposition. If you like that kind of writing (which you may guess I often find a little ‘dry’) you’ll enjoy ‘Complexity’.

Pam L. Wallace's ‘Below the Surface’ is a tale of jealousy and betrayal between two sisters, one the queen and the other bent on becoming queen. Set in an idyllic paradise, the story quickly darkens to the horrific and becomes compelling reading.

‘Slider’, by David Niall Wilson, is an odd tale of baseball, a death (or three) and a curse. Despite the fact that there’s a good deal of the esoteric in there—much of the nuance of American baseball will be lost on an international audience—the tale is conversational and otherwise easy on the eye, and despite the copious references to the game I was still able to follow the storyline.

‘The Dead March’, by Brian Rappatta, tells of Aaron and his hardship at the hands of his drunken, abusive father. Aaron can raise the dead with a single word, and the reader wonders how long Aaron will endure his father’s abuse before doing so to fight back. Ordinarily, I’m not a lover of zombie stories, but here Rappatta embellishes the tale with enough emotion, enough interest in the living, that the zombieism is almost secondary to the story.

Kurt Newton's ‘Thirty-Two Scenes from a Dead Hooker’s Mouth’ is unusual in structure in that it’s a tale in reverse. It begins with Nikki’s death, and then follows backwards in scenes of her life, all the way through to her birth. Newton’s prose pulls no punches, and the odd structure works very well to produce a fascinating read.

The interviews are with John Skipp, Alan Robert, and William Ollie (the latter including an excerpt from Ollie’s novel KillerCon) and are interesting reads. The poetry is there... sorry, poetry and me are ships in the night.

There’s a nice touch at the end of Shock Totem in the ‘Howling Through the Keyhole’ section in which the contributors are invited to talk about their motivations in writing their stories. Such insights round things off nicely.

So, it’s a strong first issue. I think, given the Shock Totem team’s willingness to improve, that if the magazine manages to survive in such shallow-pocketed times as these, it may go on to be a big player in the small press arena.

Here’s hoping, and good luck to it.

Shock Totem website

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Thursday, July 23, 2009

Le Guin, Left Hand of Darkness (1969)

Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness. 1969. (Panther edition 1973.)

Reviewed by Simon Mahony

Ursula Le Guin’s, The Left Hand of Darkness, Winner of the Hugo and Nebula Awards for the year’s best S.F. novel (so it says on the cover of my 1973 reprint), has a lot to live up to as the first novel since Frank Herbert’s Dune to win both of these prestigious awards. Had my impressions of this novel changed with the passage of time between my first reading (attested by the yellowing pages with “U.K. 35p” marked on the back cover and “12p” in scrawled biro inside the front one) and now? Certainly I had changed in the intervening years; how would this influence the triangular relationship between writer, reader, and text?

This outstanding novel is set on the freezing inhospitable world of Gethen (Winter) where the inhabitants cling to life in the narrow margins between the Northern and Southern glaciers. Life is harsh and errors mean certain death. Genly Ai is the ‘First Mobile’ or first direct contact with the inhabitants of Gethen from the ‘Ekumen’, not so much an empire as a league of planets and peoples (3000 nations on 83 worlds). A facilitating body (it says) set up to develop communication, trade, and harmony between its members.

The story is told in the first person by the two major protagonists, Genly Ai and Estraven, Prime Minister, before his exile, of Karhide, the first kingdom of Gethen visited by Ai. Using this narrative technique their nature is gradually revealed by words and deed although more is revealed by the way they misinterpret each other. The novel is interspersed with short chapters of tales from Karhidish legend which gives the reader an additional level of background insight into Karhidish culture (and another set of tools by which to evaluate Estraven and the Karhiders).

Other than the harsh landscape, the main obstacle facing Ai is the physical nature of the Gethenians: they are hermaphrodite. Not for them, however, the striking symbiosis of both female and male characteristics much favored by ancient sculpture; most of the time they are sexless, neither men nor women. A short cyclical period of sexuality (Kemmer, which lasts four days a month) brings them into ‘heat’ where they take on female physical characteristics and induce by touch the opposite sexual characteristic in a companion. This is the only time in which they are recognizable sexual beings.

Throughout the book, Ai struggles with his interpretation of the Gethenian sexuality. Le Guin constantly refers to the Gethenians as ‘he’, using the male pronoun and other grammatical indicators, which reinforces the reader’s impression (and confusion) of the Gethenians’ maleness. Ai, the alien, the outsider, the off-worlder, finds great difficulty with the ‘alien’ nature of these people. In a conversation with Estraven he rightly notes that for other races “the heaviest single factor in one’s life, is whether one’s born male or female. In most societies it determines one’s expectations, activities, outlook, ethics, manners – almost everything.” In their sexless state Ai still regards these strange beings as male but with a strange and seemingly prejudiced antipathy towards any feminine aspects of their nature. Female traits are always negative; for example in Ai’s early meeting with the insane king (apparently madness is a necessary quality in a King of Karhide) when the ruler laughs it is “shrilly like an angry woman,” or when he is brooding “as an old she-otter in a cage.”

How does society operate without the rigid distinction between the sexes? For one thing there is no war—a situation Estraven’s successor Tibe seeks to change for his own advantage as he aggravates a border dispute with Orgoreyn (as sub-plot and vehicle for a display of political intrigue, stretched loyalties, and an examination of the nature of patriotism). They have murders and forays into a neighbour’s territory but never wars. They have no concept or language to describe such conflict just as they have none to describe men and women.

The Ekumen sees all humankind as related and coming from ancient origins on Earth. It is suggested that the Gethenian physiology might have been the result of some type of genetic experiment. An added dimension, surprisingly not suggested by the author, might be that their ambisexuality is the result of the Terrans’ need to adapt to the harsh climate of Winter. So much of Mankind’s efforts (according to Freud) are directed towards the pursuit of sexual conquest and fulfillment that they perhaps would not have survived in this unforgiving environment without some sort of major change. Take sex out of the equation and what might man accomplish? An obvious reaction to this story (well it was to this writer on that earlier reading—the one fact that remained) but not one explored here by Le Guin.

This is a tale about loyalty and betrayal and how these two sides of the same coin are misunderstood and confused. The two main protagonists are thrown together towards the end as Estraven rescues Ai from an Orgoreyn labour camp, and they must make the long and dangerous trek across the glacier to Karhide (and relative safety, although not for Estraven). During this journey they are completely alone, sharing the confined space of the tent and the labours of dragging the sledge weighed down with their shelter and provisions across snow, ice and the glacier. This close contact brings out, for the first time, intimate discussion as they dispense with the ever-present ‘shifgrethor’, the pride and prestige relationship that governs social protocols and hierarchies between the Gethenians.

It is difficult not to read into the narrative the tensions of the time in which it was written. Are these the author’s intentions, purely the reader’s expectation, or our interactive response to the text? This is the time of the re-awakening of the women’s movement in the USA after a long period of inactivity. It is also the height of the cold war and the clash of political ideologies.

Contrast the anarchic, decentralized, and flexible society of Karhide—albeit ruled over by a madman (could this too be part of the analogy?)—with the totalitarian, centralized, rigid, and uniform state that is Orgoreyn: broken up into Commensalities within which “they provide all units [citizens] with jobs”. Karhide however is rife with factionalism and political intrigue, and in contrast Orgoreyn seems so appealing to Ai—at least until his incarceration and brutal treatment in the labour camp where the authorities hide him, covering their tracks with rumours of his death.

Since the Odyssey and Aeneid (and earlier foundation myths) the hero’s journey is a familiar topos, in the case of SF usually from Earth to different planets. This is true here but further reading reveals that there are (like for Odysseus and Aeneas) journeys within journeys. The one that will challenge Ai and lead him to self-awareness is not the passage from Earth to Winter but his arduous and perilous crossing of the icy wasteland in the company of Estraven, the native. This journey is indicative of and mirrors Ai’s true journey: that of his rising self-awareness and the developing warmness of his relationship with Estraven. In that journey they find a closeness, a love like that between Estraven and his 'brother' (told in an inset-tale) that can never be.

Like travelers in the Odyssey, Ai and Estraven are granted, upon formulaic request, shelter and food from strangers; a necessary reciprocal code to maximize the chances of survival in this harsh and unforgiving landscape especially amongst those “who live on the edge of the edge”. Without this no sane person would ever venture out onto the roads buried under snow and ice.

Their hazardous journey and shared hardships bring them closer together and a strong bond forms between the two. Estraven cannot avoid his time of kemmer but chooses to repress his feelings towards Ai. However, in this proximity his femininity is revealed (together with mention of a child born from his body) and once this is accepted by Ai, he begins to be able to accept his own feminine side something he had previously thought of as weakness and a characteristic only for women. Showing depth of character and an inner strength he acknowledges and even gives voice to his own vulnerability. As they reach their goal, where they know parting must come, Ai feels the true cost of opening himself up to love as Estraven dies, betrayed and shot down by an apparent friend. Love gained is balanced by love lost, just as joy with sorrow, and light with darkness. The fullness of Ai’s love is matched by the intensity of his loss. His growth as a character is marked by his experience of the pain of both love and its loss as he emerges with greater knowledge, insight, and strength. Here the reader might remark on the choice of name for Le Guin’s problematic ‘hero’: Ai. Like the Aias (Ajax) of Sophocles the sound of Genly’s name is “a cry of pain” and as the tragic chorus well understands: “man must suffer to be wise.”

As in Taoist philosophy, light and dark are not in conflict but co-exist, each defining the other rather than struggling to eliminate each other. Both are essential for life to combine as are good and evil, positive and negative, male and female. Opposites are reconciled to achieve balance and harmony. This is the implied message of Le Guin’s story. How much would we as human beings achieve if we removed the continual contest of sexuality and how greatly would our lives be enriched if we, both men and women, were permitted to experience the full range of human emotions and were not restricted to only some of them? Human sexuality is a cultural question, one of tradition and prejudice. Taoist peace and harmony may be achieved on an individual level, and indeed on a world level, if we accept and foster both the female and male principles in each of us. Thus might we become whole.

The interesting calendar, where years are counted backwards and forwards from the present so that Gethenians are constantly in Year One, also needs to be included here on a minor note. This also feeds into the Taoist perception of harmony where the emphasis is always on the ‘now’ with energies being directed here on the moment rather than on (as often is the case in Western thought) what may happen in the future. This is not to say that no thought is given to the future, or that we should live in an unrestrained, hedonistic present, but that there should be more balance between the two. We exist and can only exist in the present moment, however hard we plan and work towards an unseen future.

That to one side, Le Guin weaves an intricate tale that draws in and immerses the reader in this new and strange world of Winter; a world where a study of its inhabitants necessitates an exploration of the nature of sexuality, loyalty, betrayal, oneness. A story teller of the highest magnitude, Le Guin rightly deserves the awards for this novel (which really should be read in mainstream literary circles as well as by genre fans), for the way in which it engages with the human condition in elegant and superbly descriptive prose. The author displays insight of both the social and political spectrum and engages the reader with both philosophical and psychological issues.

Authorial intrusion can arguably be read in the one chapter that does not fall into the earlier given categories, ‘The Question of Sex’. Structured into the tale as ‘field notes’ from an earlier investigator (of the type that do the preliminary groundwork but do not make contact) we find in the penultimate sentence that this is a female voice, the sole female in the novel. Here there are suggestions for the peculiarities of Gethenian sexual physiology, well thought out though suitably vague descriptions of their sexual cycle, how this fits in with conventions of pair-bonding and family ties. Sex is a part of a cycle so there can be no non-consenting sex, no rape, no division into strong and weak, owner and chattel; and importantly, no war. The ‘investigator’ postulates the link between “continuous sexual capacity and organized social aggression” and suggests that some consider “war to be a purely masculine” activity—“a vast Rape”—although she herself is “no expert on the attractions of violence or the nature of war”. No race of warring Amazons here. However, might it simply be the climate, the relentless cold that eats up all their fighting spirit? They need all their energies to survive the harshness of their surroundings. That is their unrelenting war.

My only serious criticism is that in the exploration of ambisexuality the inhabitants of Gethen seem to be solely male (except for their negative characteristics) and hence an opportunity is lost. In addition there is no mention of same-sex attraction or relationships. We hear and meet Estraven’s child but we do not see Estraven as a mother or in any other overtly ‘female’ role. My copy of The Left Hand of Darkness is 200 pages long and perhaps if Le Guin were to have addressed these issues we would have had a length more approaching Dune or Lord of the Rings, more heavy going, and less accessible as a result.

This work survives the test of time and survives it well. I expect that subsequent visits when the pages fade further will also be worth the time spent. In this book Le Guin addresses issues that are timeless and intrinsically relevant to mankind. They were always there in the text and within the author; the change in the triangular relationship has been with the reader. This one is now more able to appreciate the complexities and subtleties woven within.
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Sunday, July 12, 2009

Golden, Evergreen (2009)

Bruce Golden, Evergreen. Zumaya Otherwords, 2009. Pp. 342. ISBN 9781934841327. $17.95.

Reviewed by Carolyn Crow

Though he began working on Evergreen years before the current explosion of public awareness of global warming and environmental issues generally took root, Bruce Golden’s foray into the forests of an alien world seems very timely. Yes, there is an underlying environmental theme, but the book is never preachy or pedagogical; despite the fantastic milieu he’s created for the planet Evergreen, this is a true character story. It’s told from several viewpoints, all the while exploring the emotional bents of revenge, redemption, and obsession.

If you’re looking for lots of futuristic advanced technology, this probably isn’t the book for you. Evergreen is still a frontier planet where many forms of technology are limited by solar activity and the planet’s magnetic field. Solar power is the colonists only form of energy other than muscle and sweat. The colony was initially built on the backs of its indentured lumberjacks, though “the company” that owns the planetary mineral rights has begun setting up mining operations.

A man known by the name of Gash is one of these timber jockeys. He’s got a past he’s trying to forget, and he makes use of the local narcotic to ease his pain—until he’s recruited by the colonists to join their insurrection against the company. This rebellion, led by a colorful “pirate” of a saloon owner, is only one of several storylines that crisscross and eventually converge for an almost surrealistic climax.

The novel unfolds when an ancient artifact is discovered on Evergreen, a heretic priest back on Earth becomes convinced it’s the link that will prove his theory about the existence of an extraterrestrial “City of God.” Dr. Nikira forms an expedition to Evergreen that includes renowned archaeology professor Luis Escobedo, his wife, Filamena, and his estranged son, Maximo. Unknown to the professor, his wife has recently put an end to a brief but passionate affair with Maximo, her stepson. She chastises herself for the weakness that led her to the affair, and is now determined to stay true to her husband. However, when Maximo unexpectedly joins the expedition, she must deal with the constant temptation of his presence.

Traveling aboard the same ship that will take them to Evergreen is Eamon, a young man wracked by both guilt and a need for vengeance. After years of searching, Eamon believes he’s finally tracked down the man responsible for his mother’s death. He intends to find the man and kill him. In order to do so, he has contracted himself to join the timber jockey workforce, which is made up mostly of debtors and convicts. Though the lessons he learns along the way may be a bit obvious, I still found the naivety of his character appealing.

At this future point of man’s exploration of space, several inhabitable planets have been discovered, but, as yet, not a single intelligent species outside of mankind has been found. However, an exobiologist studying a primate species on Evergreen believes these “ursu” may be only thousands of years away from evolving into a sort of primitive intelligence. She’ll discover these creatures have a past as well as a future.

I found the ursu to be one of the most interesting facets of the book. Once their entire story was told, it seemed to me, from a thematic point of view, that they represented primitive man on Earth. While the potential of the ursu’s intelligence is debatable, another intelligence on Evergreen is not. This one’s not so readily visible. I won’t give it away, but this is the literary centerpiece that connects the various character pieces of this tale, and brings them together at the end.

As for the relevant issue of the environment, it’s not something Golden slaps you across the face with. No character ever broaches it—there’s no editorializing. But, by the end of the book, questions have been raised in the reader’s mind: Should mankind be allowed to do whatever it wants with whatever planet it encounters? Should we be able to do whatever we wants with planet Earth?

One of the best aspects of this book is the way Golden sets up each and every payoff. The foreshadowing is subtle, but it builds dramatically and informatively. We get a little piece here, a tidbit there, until the entirety of it unfolds. One obvious example comes with the character of Gash, who experiences mental flashbacks from the thing that haunts him. Each time he flashes back, we get a little bit more of what actually happened—what led him to Evergreen.

Evergreen has everything you look for in a great science fiction read. Believably tormented characters, unique world-building, realistic dialogue, adventure, exploration, alien lifeforms, conflict, resolution, and topical content... by the time the book ended, I only wished it were longer. I wanted more of this alien world, and wanted to know what happened to these characters next—at least those who survived to the final page.

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Sunday, June 28, 2009

Zimmer, Exodus Gate (2009)

Stephen Zimmer, The Exodus Gate. Seventh Star Press, 2009. Pp. 580. ISBN 978-0615267470. $19.95.

Reviewed by Nader Elhefnawy

In Stephen Zimmer's novel The Exodus Gate Benedict Darwin, the host of a radio talk show devoted to the paranormal, gets access to a "virtual reality" system that has not yet hit the market from a friend of his in the employ of "Babylon Technologies." He tries it out at home, playing an RPG set in an earlier, antediluvian era, during which Darwin encounters a pack of giant, intelligent wolves, the "An-Ki." Speaking with them he starts to wonder if this is not, after all, more than an elaborate program, the technology involved something more than VR. This being that kind of story, his suspicions are soon proven correct, and he finds himself drawn into an ages-old struggle between Good and Evil ("Adonai" and "Diabolos, the Shining One") in which the human players are lining up to play their roles as the shadow of a One-World government on the side of Evil looms large.

As this summary implies, the story is at its core a version of the End Times narrative which attracted so much attention when Jerry Jenkins and Tim LaHaye's published their mega-selling Left Behind series. It is a thinly veiled one, however, the names of people, places and other such items very slightly changed, while being in all other respects nearly identical. (The United States is UCAS, Germany is Germania, Russia is Muscovy, China is Mandaria, etc.; the F-22 fighter jet has become the I-22; etc.) All of this makes it far too obvious to be regarded as an allegory in the manner of C.S. Lewis (an important influence on the author, as he acknowledges in an interview at the Something Wicked blog), which suggests other rationales: the taking of liberties with crucial story elements, the subversion of a conventional take on the material.

As it happens, an unconventional reading of the Great Flood is central to the story, specifically the idea that it was meant to wash away the giants mentioned in the sixth chapter of Genesis (giants who, in Zimmer's telling of the story, still have their role to play in Armageddon). In crafting the tale Zimmer also draws not only on this reading of the Bible, but a number of other religious traditions, not all of them easily connectable with the Judeo-Christian tradition.

Additionally, while the book does not come across as a shot in the "culture wars" in the manner of John Shirley's 2006 novel The Other End (in his own words, an "unapologetically partisan" book aimed at reclaiming this territory from right-wing fundamentalists), being more politically ambiguous (at times, it even gives off a "black helicopter" vibe) and more theologically conventional as well (even with the talking wolves), the author does step outside safe territory. In particular Zimmer works in post-September 11 anxieties about the motivations behind the "War on Terror," and the hollowing out of a U.S. economy living off foreign-financed debt in a way much less in evidence during the tech boom years. His particular handling of this combination of elements also makes the book an easier sell with "Nine-Eleven" now "Seven-Four," and the Patriot Act now the "Guardian Act."

Of course, while the theological and political touches of the story are well worth commenting on, the book is first and foremost an epic fantasy--the first part of the mult-volume "Rising Dawn" saga Zimmer envisages. To his credit, the mix of ideas he brings together has its interest, though the execution is far from faultless. His prose and characterizations are on the whole unremarkable, and at times rather flat. (The An-Ki, certainly, have little trouble stealing the show from the humans.) It does not help, either, that many members of his rather large cast of characters are not put to much use in this 566 page book. Additionally, there are few immediately significant events after the mid-point of the novel. It might be said that too much of the rather large book is devoted to setting up what will happen in later installments.

Nonetheless, Zimmer knows how to keep the reader turning the pages, and delivers a sufficiently effective foundation for a compelling enough bigger story that he earns some benefit of the doubt.

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Monday, June 08, 2009

New Issue: TFF 2009.16

Issue 2009.16

Men might regard economic equality with favor or disfavor, according to their economic positions, but every woman, simply because she was a woman, was bound to be for it as soon as she got it through her head what it meant for her half of the race.

—Edward Bellamy, from Equality (1897)

Fiction

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Friday, May 29, 2009

Zelenyj, Experiments at 3 Billion AM (2009)

Alexander Zelenyj, Experiments at 3 Billion AM. Eibonvale Press, 2009. Pp. 664. ISBN 9780955526824. £18.75.

Reviewed by Terry Grimwood

Before I even read one word I was impressed by the sheer beauty of this book. The cover art and presentation is superb, and apparently the version I received is one of a number of variations. I have not been able to find a credit for the artist, which is a shame because they deserve one. It’s not just the picture on the front however, it’s the sheer feel of this enormous volume, a physical presentation that endows it with an air of gravitas, a sense that you have something important in your hands.

So to the meat under the skin. As I said, this is a big book, 658 pages of prose, 40 stories, each one illustrated with a black and white drawing as enigmatic as the titles themselves. The contents page alone makes fascinating reading; the titles, a list of phrases that collectively reads like a poem: “In the City Where Dreams Wander the Sidewalks”, “Pining for the Lost Love of the Moon Creatures” and “Poppy, the Girl of my Dreams and the Alien Invasion I can Detect Like Radar through my Braces” for example. All intriguing, drawing you in, making you wonder what on Earth (or off it) these stories can be about.

Well, as I said earlier, there are 40 of them, none of which overstay their welcome, and some which, inevitably have already faded into the amorphous whole. However, many more remain vivid in my memory. What to choose? I’ll try to be representative of the main settings (settings whose borders are often blurred or overlapped) of the book, four in fact, the Canadian countryside, the city, alien invasion (okay, not a setting but a theme but it is a recurring one) and the world of teenagers.

“Let the Firefly Men Remind You” shows us a group of those self-same teenagers idling their rural summer away making love through the hot, blue-gold days and sitting in campfire idleness through the nights. Then darkness seeps in from the edges in the form of a series of inexplicable incinerations. Here, then, a fine example of how the interrelationships of the characters, their emotions and certainties, unravel as the light of their summer bleeds away.

Moving to the city we have “I Humbly Accept this War Stick”. The narrator is a serial killer, his raison d’être to impress his bloody-handed idol. The ending is unexpected and shocking and shows that Zelenyj is capable of portraying brutality as well as beauty and this is one story that does take us to the darker regions of the human psyche, but without hysteria or justification. The characters just are.

Many of the teenage love and angst stories are set around alien invasion, or the threat of it, again, never overt or even reliable. “Love, Death and the Monsters at the Drive-in” is a classic of this theme. Two lovers are at the drive-in where an alien-invaders film is showing. As the two lovers pledge heart and soul to one another, something happens. It could be a real invasion, or is it something else, something connected to the film and the state of their love-lorn hearts? Subtle, funny and wonderfully written, this was one of my favourites.

And that is one of the joys of this book, the ambiguity, the intense subtlety of Zelenyj’s writing, what I call satisfying ambiguity.

Along the way we have the gossamer-subtle and delicately tragic “Blue Love Maria”, the gorgeously horrible “Black Flies Inside” in which inner darkness becomes manifest in the most nauseating way. “Gladiators in the Sepulchre of Abominations”, re-visited when a man returns to his lonely family home and the terrible secret it holds. There’s childhood paranoia to be unravelled in “Waiting for the New Reign of the Fire Ants”, and we meet “Captain of the Ship of Flowers,” the last survivor of an interplanetary expedition who stumbled on the face of God.

Terry’s choice? The opening tale, “The Potato Thief Beneath Indifferent Stars”. A lonely, ageing farmer finds a strange creature in his potato patch, a meeting that leads to a touching, delicate relationship and the dawning of a new spirit of hope for the old man.

Very quickly the name Ray Bradbury sprang to mind. Bradbury poured with a dash of du Maurier. Think October Country and Don’t Look Now, mingled with the man’s own art and you will have some inkling of what Zelenyj is about. because many of these stories hold that same, lost, whimsical, oddly nostalgic aura that Bradbury evokes. However, excellent as he is, Zelenyj seldom paints his words onto the page with the same delicacy as Bradbury, where Bradbury is fragile, his worked structures held together by the faintest of literary bindings, a style that gives the illusion of compete unselfconsciousness, Zelenyj is gives the opposite impression, the care and labour is obvious. I know this is an unfair criticism because this author is an individual, a craftsman in his own right and not a Bradbury-copier by any means, but the similarity is inevitable.

Having said that, this is a majestic and wonderful collection. As for genre, well, it I suppose most of the stories here are science fiction, but as soon as those two much-maligned words are uttered the label seems cumbersome and inadequate. Slipstream is better, but then what is slipstream but... okay, I’ll stop right there. The plots are spider webs, both in complexity and layering, motivation and resolution. There are aliens, possibly, an invasion may be imminent, or even underway, or perhaps it isn’t and if there are supernatural events in progress they are always a backdrop, the energy and engine of the relationships and emotions of the protagonists. There are no cumbersome explanations, no heavy-weather descriptions of the why and wherefores of the fantastical elements. They happen and they affect and that is enough.

I read this book in one long marathon, not a good idea. The subtle, and as I mentioned earlier, sometimes self-conscious, style can become wearing and cloying, the intensity and emotional power too much. But isn’t that the case with many anthologies, the parts greater than the sum, the stories, jewels to be appreciated one at a time for their true value to be uncovered. So it is with the tales in Experiments at 3 Billion AM, they are masterpieces of subtlety and suggestion, electric with emotional power, brimming with inventiveness, enigmatic, inconclusive and delicately drawn, touching, without being sentimental, evocative and often deeply unsettling and shocking. This then is that rare achievement, great writing and great story telling.

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Saturday, May 23, 2009

Harris, The Third Craft (2008)

James T. Harris, The Third Craft. BPS Books, 2008. Pp. 300. ISBN 9780980923124. £12.00 / $24.95.

Reviewed by Karina Kantas

Knowing that The Third Craft is a trilogy, some readers may think they have the third installment and that the 1st and 2nd parts were called ‘First’ and ‘Second Craft’ respectively. But don’t be fooled: this is a novel about the third UFO to crash land in North America. The book is a comfortable read which could almost put it into the Young Adult genre, especially as the two protagonists are 18 year-old brothers. However, The Third Craft could also be classified as a sci-fi political thriller as the plot is about the political fight between aliens and the US government.

Twin brothers, Hawk and Joe, discover the eponymous craft and in doing so unleash a conspiracy involving aliens that are human and humans that are aliens. Twenty pages in the exciting plot has the brothers just discovering the crashed UFO, Harris’s version of ‘Area 51’, and what really happened in Roswell. Too many dates and name-drops later, we get back to the plot concerning the brother’s discovery.

Unfortunately, the split in the story may cause the reader to lose the flow. The back-story on the major players and their significance plays an important role in the novel, but would work just as well with half the wordage. Too much information overloads the mind, and distracts from the adventure. Certainly, a lot of research has gone into this novel, but with sci-fi, a reader expects to be wowed by advances in science, not delivered lectures on history or religion. The backtracking dulls the senses and may have the reader turning the pages quicker than they are reading them.

Science fiction rightly focuses on the science; the author explains scientific probabilities and results in great detail, but he does so as though explaining to a novice. Most of this lengthy detail would be left on the cutting room floor if The Third Craft were a movie. The scientific detail could be expressed more visually; although Harris’s grasp of the visual in his writing is exceptional, all the back-story and detail in the in-between sections slow down the exciting plot.

There is wonderful description in this novel, however—for example, when Joe first enters the alien ship, Harris allows the reader to explore and experience the interior of the craft along with Joe’s emotions and surprise. Then comes a delicious twist: the next time the novel backtracks, we learn that not only did the government know about the UFOs, but they had been secretly performing their own experiments using alien technology. Later in the novel, Harris offers another delightful twist, one that this reader did not see coming, and that only adds to the excitement of the plot as the twins learn that their life was built around secrecy and lies, and no one is who they seem to be.

The author keeps it in the family when it comes to aliens, and it’s good to know that even extraterrestrials have problems when it comes to politics and property rights!

The books ends how a first installment should: the last chapter is fast and thrilling, causing the reader to want to know what happens next. Harris thankfully doesn’t leave any unanswered questions for future installments, but we know that there is a war coming and that the twins have many more adventures ahead.

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Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Amis/Conquest, Spectrum 2 (1962)

Kingsley Amis and Robert Conquest (edd.), Spectrum 2: A second science fiction anthology. Gollancz, 1962.

Reviewed by Djibril Alayad.

This is the second of the Spectrum anthologies edited by Amis and Conquest, in which they present a handful of high-quality science fiction stories originally published in the late 1940s or early '50s. These two writers are both known in-genre and respected in literary circles, and part of the agenda behind these anthologies (explicitly recounted in the introduction) is hinted at in the epigraph:
‘Sf’s no good,’ they bellow till we’re deaf.
‘But this looks good.’—’Well then, it’s not sf.’
This volume includes stories by authors as legendary as Aldiss, Asimov, Dick, and van Vogt, as well as luminaries whose names may be less familiar to twenty-first century readers. Pieces range from visionary and thrilling, to silly and dated, but all are important examples of their type, and fit as well into the literature of the mid-twentieth century as they do into the history of the genre. I picked up a battered copy of the Pan paperback reprint of this volume from the £1 clearance shelf in a London bookstore, and this review will be one reader's personal reaction to each of the eight stories within.

The opening story, Wyman Guin's 1951 story 'Beyond Bedlam', is both the longest and one of the most dated pieces in the collection, being a slightly silly tale of a future society in which schizophrenia has become the norm, and people's alter egos are strictly controlled by drugs and allowed to live for 50% of the time each. The background is set with one of the most clumsy excuses for an info-dump in the writer's arsenal: a history project delivered by a schoolgirl in front of her classmates. The necessary drama is provided by a couple who cheat the system in order to have an affair with someone they should never meet, who should be a repressed personality while the other is "on top". The society in which the story is set is stuffy even by 1950s standards (albeit more sexually liberated), and the characters are flat and unsympathetic. I suppose there could be a social/political moral to this piece, along the lines of the pressure to conform finally persuading even the rebel that their punishment is for the good of society (in the manner of Nineteen Eighty-Four, which was published only two years earlier, and is immeasurably more mature).

A second, shorter story is a much better read: 'Bridge' by James Blish, first published (in Astounding, like fully half of the pieces in this volume) in 1952. Not really a character piece, although there is an unconvincing romantic sub-plot between the protagonist and a slightly petulant, not-terribly-competent female co-worker. The glorious hero of this story however is the giant planet Jupiter, in the swirling gases and raging storms of whose surface a group of human engineers are building a massive bridge of ice. The constant perils of this fragile, continent-sized structure, buffeted by the planet, built by robots controlled from orbit, in constant danger of collapse and failure, make an image as beautiful and alien in its own way as Solaris, the sentient but unutterably alien planet-ocean. When it turns out that the bridge is an experiment, an exercise in testing and developing physics and engineering rather than having an end in itself, it becomes even more beautiful: like life, it is all process, not object; all experience, not outcome.

The first overtly political piece in this anthology, Brian Aldiss's 'There is a Tide' (1956), involves a meeting between two very different brothers on the shores of Lake Tanganyika. One a poet, the other a hugely influential geo-engineer, they have different attitudes to the sculpting of the African landscape to modernize the world, as they do to the huge genocide that wiped the white race of the planet within living memory. A sensitive and daring story, Aldiss brings down the wrath of the Earth on the heads of his hubristic protagonists, faces them with a history that never forgets nor forgives atrocities, and a civilization that is even more at the mercy of the Earth than the world is subject to the engineering of an advanced society. The first reading of this story is a little odd, because a "reveal" in the final page feels a bit cheap, but the second reading shows how this was prefigured and consistent throughout the tale. Certainly one of the better, more convincing stories in the collection.

The only story I had read before picking up this classic anthology was 'Second Variety' (1953) by Philip K. Dick, a creepy Cold War story set on the devastated battlefield, where allies and "Ivans" alike are at the mercy of the "claws", automated weapons designed to evolve and be the ultimate, unstoppable killing machine. Unlike the 1995 Hollywood Screamers, which sets the war on a distant mining world, includes a light-hearted sidekick, slick dialogue, a romantic interest, and a pathetic slushy ending, Dick gives no redemption to his world or his characters anywhere in the piece. This is another Dick story about humans' ability to destroy themselves, and our inability to tell real people from convincing fakes. With existential panic and shattered-earth despair, this story is both more modern and more gripping than any other piece in this volume. Amazing to think it was written in the same decade as many of these others.

Isaac Asimov's 'The Feeling of Power' (1958) is simultaneously the most old-fashioned and—as is often the case with Asimov—the least dated story in the volume. A slightly silly, but clearly allegorical tale about a future in which humans have become so reliant upon calculating machines that no one has the ability to perform even basic multiplication. Sad to think that this cautionary tale is even more important today than it was in the 1950s (if we think in terms of scientific and logical literacy as a whole, rather than merely arithmetic).

Another very silly story, and one whose origins in 1955 (Astounding, again) make it a bit difficult to take seriously, is 'Sense from Thought Divide', by Mark Clifton. Involving an engineering exercise to harness the power of (offensively stereotyped; admittedly charlatan) swamis and psychics, equally unconvincing and unsympathetic characters, a plot revolving around the person-management skills of an amoral and patronizing boss, and science that is neither speculative nor credible, left perhaps the least memorable story of the anthology for me.

Much more memorable, if a somewhat typical classic scifi plot, was A.E. van Vogt's 'Resurrection' (1948). Aliens visit an uninhabited but clearly far future Earth, and set extremely cautiously about resurrecting one or two long-dead humans they find preserved in a museum to try and find out what happened to the planet. As they move from distant history to more modern (and posthuman) corpses, they find that the natives have acquired some quite incredible powers, and end up taking awful measures to try to ensure the survival of their own species from the terrible people they have awakened. The plot is all very dramatic and genuinely gripping, although the characters (being both alien and 1940s military stereotypes) are not very interesting or sympathetic. Certainly a well-written story and worth reading (and perhaps imitating).

The last piece in this volume, 'Vintage Season' by Henry Kuttner (original 1946) is one of the most interesting and original tale in the collection. At the start of the story, with a tone almost suggestive of Lovecraft, a rather weak-willed protagonist welcomes three unsettlingly alien guests to a rented wing of his house, while his fiancée persuades him to try and eject them to make more money from a prospective buyer. The alien guests turn out to be both more tenacious and more alluring than either the buyer or the fiancée, and the host finds himself drawn into an affair with a quite unreal woman and mesmerized by the entertainment technologies and media she surrounds herself with. Of course, in this twisted tale of alienness, timelessness, and fate, the protagonist is lost even before he is exposed to things he should never know, and his weakness of character means he is powerless even before forces beyond his imagining are ranged against him. When the final tragic climax comes, all this means it is hard to mourn the shallow society that is suffering such painful toils; nor is there much comfort in seeing the hollow sophisticates that will follow in a later age. A quite bleak and inventive piece.

Interestingly, this 48 year-old collection of the "worthy" science fiction of its day contains a round mix of stories. From those that are a silly and forgettable as one might expect of pulp literature from the middle of the last century, to those that contain the genius and fire that make them the recognized classics they are, via a middle few that are surely worth reading for all their flaws, and which I should probably never have picked up were it not for this exercise. I'm glad that I did.
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