The Listed

Chapter Six

Graduate student Bridget Wallace didn't look like an assistant professor at New Jersey College. She looked more like a first year student. She always carried several text books in her skinny arms, and their weight seemed to knock her off-balance as she rounded the corners of the hallway as she headed for class. She favored the modest outfit of a Catholic High School senior rather than a young professional woman in her twenties. Her large frame glasses were perhaps a poor choice for her round face, which appeared large because of her small frame. It was no wonder she wasn't taken seriously by the students in her freshman chemistry lab who were just out of high school and unfamiliar with the protocol of college classroom decorum. Professors and Assistant Professors were to be treated the same, that is, with respect, but her mentor Professor Leonard Lyman reminded her more than once that as long as she acted professional, the respect would follow. 

Lyman thought back to meeting Ms. Wallace for the first time in the Graduate Studies program. She had applied for the Assistant Professor position that had opened up when his former assistant transferred to Stanford University for a full-time Professor job. He knew what a genius Ms. Wallace was based on her interview. And she wasn't too bad of a looker as well. Didn't hurt male enrollments in the class. He found that not too many guys signed up for chemistry for the knowledge. It was all about computers these days. And trying to figure out what the next big tech was going to be so they could get rich quick. So, adding a nice pair of legs to the front of the class for the boys to sneak a peek at, did indeed help enrollment. He doubted anyone even noticed she wore Coke bottle glasses, as the kids say. 

Bridget sensed the Professor's bullshit right off. Didn't even bother to open her curriculum vitae during the interview. Just gave her the elevator eyes. Just like dear old dad. Dear old dead dad. She was so glad when his heart finally gave out. He collapsed at the dinner table, and Mom went into hysterics. She swiped her phone and it beeped on. Daddy needs an ambulance now, she thought. What's the number again? I forget. I'm just a dumb girl with some nice boobs and a nice piece of ass, right, Daddy? 

She waited for his face to turn purple before she pressed 911. If they managed to save him, they'd be saving a vegetable. 

Suddenly, Mom grabbed the phone from her and hit 911. Her hands were shaking. She was in shock, but the man she loved was dying. It was mere muscle memory moving her hands. Her eyes were locked on her husband. she hardly recognized him. Swollen face, bulging eyes, purple lips. She gave a quick rundown of the situation and the address to the emergency operator and hung up right as the operator asked follow-up questions. She turned to her daughter and said, "I'll wait outside for the EMTs. You straighten up the kitchen. Your father will be fine. Don't you worry. Help is coming."

It didn't come fast enough though. Daddy was three shades of blue, purple and a color she didn't even recognize before the ambulance arrived. All she remembered was how spotless she had the kitchen when the EMTs rushed to Dad's side. Even Mom was pleased with my clean-up as her face frozen in bewilderment tried to give an approving smile. 

She grimaced at the memory as she brewed the chamomile tea. Professor Lyman was on his way to her apartment. He told her it was his favorite flavor. It was the perfect aroma for the mix she'd prepared just for him. Six months of planning. Seven months she's known about his heart. What is it with perverts and their weak hearts?! It was time for her to change into, as they say, something more comfortable. The order-in Chinese food had already arrived and was being kept warm in the oven. She made sure that Professor Lyman's final night on earth was at least pleasant. 

Wait a minute, she thought, as she entered her bedroom to change clothes. I didn't leave the light on.  

Before Bridget could turn around, Macy Townsend had the girl in a chokehold. Pure survival instinct told her not to struggle. The grip on her throat was strong, potentially lethal. Play along. Survive. Payback will come later. 

Lieutenant Sally Mason stepped in front of the girl's face. She didn't look like a serial killer. More like a bookworm, a librarian from a 50s black and white movie. But she was number nine on the list. No questions asked. Duty was duty. She removed the syringe from its metal box and injected a yellow liquid into the neck of the seemingly calm girl. 

Townsend relaxed her grip. Bridget twisted her neck about, feeling the stinging hot liquid flow across her face and down her chest. "Golden frog or yellow mushroom?" asked the curious chemistry teacher. 

"Chamomile tea" admitted Sally. 

"Why?" she wanted to know as she felt the fire spread across her vitals. 

"Orders," Mason said coldly. 

"That's okay," Ma'am, "we all have our orders. Too bad I didn't get to finish mine. Say hello and goodbye to Professor Lyman for me. Tell him I wish we could have had our last supper together."

Townsend felt Bridget slump into a quivering mass. All muscle twitches and spasms. Then nothing. She released the dead body, and it folded into a pile of clothes and flesh across the floor. She stared at the poor girl on the ground, a twinge of pity at her throat like watching a sad scene at a movie. She cleared her throat, breathed in through her nose, and looked at the L.T. for further orders. A knot of anger clenched in the pit of her stomach as she saw Mason taking notes in Vic Nine's file. The Lieutenant closed the file and told Townsend that it was time to vacate the premises. 

As they walked down the stairs, two steps at a time, the elevator was stopping on the second floor, where Professor Lyman stepped off and headed for a good time with his favorite Assistant. Little did he know that the local police were headed for the same location after receiving a call about a potential murder. A murder of passion between a professor and his assistant. 

"Lieutenant," Townsend said.

"She speaks," scoffed Mason. "What's on your mind?"

"What's in the file? The skinny little girl was a nerd, not a killer." Townsend stopped walking. 

"We'll talk in the van," the L.T. said.

"No, Ma'am," she insisted. "Now. I mean, who's next? A ten year old girl?"

"You get one question, and only one answer, that's it." Mason handed her the file. "Read quick."

The file recorded at least seven poison victims that Bridget Wallace had been responsible for. There may have been others, but there would have definitely would have been more, according to the graphs and tech predictions. No human wrote this file. Some hi-tech computer shit. "But this is a computer giving orders, Ma'am."

"You had your question, and I gave you your answer." Mason took back the file and resumed walking toward the van. "Coming, Marine?"

Townsend swallowed her pride and followed her C.O. 

Chapter Seven

Hinecker read the news on his laptop about Lyman's arrest in New Jersey. He was acquaintances with the Chem instructor briefly during his stay there on the east coast. There were so much prey in college towns. And the cops were fumbling over themselves with so many theories that it gave the news media fodder to take down law enforcement a notch. But there was one smart detective there, just got promoted, if memory serves. Detective Lee Vincent. Grandfathered in to the New Jersey Precinct. He had the instinct of a good detective. I saw that right away. Didn't look for patterns. He followed timelines. Made predictions. At some point, the bastard got ahead of me. I had to give up my hobby for a spell. I got antsy without my side work and so it was time to move on. The body count had become noticeable. 

Before Lee, it was random, but that cop had a gift for the geometry of murder. He was dangerous to people like me. Now that he had his timeline, he was ready to make predictions and start hauling in suspects, persons of interest. And thus, it was best for me to relocate to the west coast. Let the detective do his work. By the time he figured it out, I'd be someone else entirely. A psychology professor. Never did like chemistry. Just because you're good at something doesn't mean you like it. Wonder if Lee liked his work. Maybe someday I'd ask him. Maybe someday he'd ask me.

*****

Hinecker grabbed his laptop and headed for the coffee shop. He liked to watch the students milling and socializing. There was one girl he had his eye on for some time now. Which brings us back to the girl. The girl, the victim Lyman was arrested for. What was her name? Wallace. What were you up to with the girl, you dirty old chem teacher? Did you poison her or did she try to poison you? Murder suicide? On whose part? Did she break your heart? Was she calling the affair off? No, Wallace lured you in, didn't she, once she saw you were an easy target for her hate for dirty old men. Daddy issues, no doubt. 

No, no, no. Wait a second. There was someone else there. Someone beside Wallace and Lyman. Who called the cops? Who? There was nothing in the news article about a 911 call. Hinecker did an internet search for recent kills on the east coast. Damn. So many. How many around Jersey? Where was Wallace from? Hometown. Newboro. Any deaths around Newboro. Nothing domestic, it seemed. Crime related. Wait. A heart attack. Ruled natural causes according to the coroner. Andrew Wallace. Well, well, well. We found Daddy. Did you poison him? Really had to know your chemistry to pull that off and get into a good college. And get a Assistant Professor spot. Did Lyman look like Daddy? Did he act like Daddy. Were you about to give him a homemade heart attack, my dear?

Who stopped you? Before he could fathom a guess, Cailee Price, the freshman student in Psych 101, was just leaving the Coffee Shop. He had targeted young Ms. Price as his next visit, but he had to call that off now. He had other concerns on his mind. There were puzzle pieces forming in his head, and if he didn't put them together, well, he believed he'd be exposed to risk. Cailee recognized the Professor and gave him a friendly nod. He smiled and nodded back, but returned to his thoughts. What was the connection? Why did he feel like someone was looking over shoulder? 

Hinecker needed more information on the east coast death of Bridget Wallace. Maybe he should talk to that nosy reporter again.

Chapter Eight & Nine

Coming soon...

Off-Beat Covers 

of 

Classic Songs

Compiled by Anthony Servante

Introduction: 

You've heard them. You either love them or hate them, but you can't ignore them. They're the songs we know and love, but done by some other artist, in a different way. 

No, I am not here to mock these versions. Why, some of them are in my forever playlist. I'm here to point out what you may have overlooked, to introduce you to a new angle on an old classic. 

So, let's get to our top ten list of "Off-Beat" Covers.

The Songs: 

1. Brian Eno - Ring of Fire (Johnny Cash). With ambiance and reverb, Eno performs a subdued version of the upbeat Cash version written by June Carter. Although I lean toward my favorite version by Wall of Voodoo, which is straight up 80s Rock, I enjoy Eno's Ring of Fire on a cool evening with a cup of hot cocoa. 

2. Barbra Streisand - Life on Mars (David Bowie). Barbra has the voice to make any song sound good, but when it's a great song, she can add additional greatness. And that's speaking as a critic. As a fan, it surprises me that she took on Bowie's song when her oeuvre aims down a different path. Still, got to give her credit for turning away from her fan base to record some Rock and Roll. 

3. Lulu - Man Who Sold the World (David Bowie). Although Lulu found fame with her hit pop song, To Sir, With Love, from the movie of the same name, she always leaned toward Rock music, and she proves this by taking on Bowie's The Man Who Sold the World. I'll always prefer the original, but this version will do in a pinch. 

4. Doc Severinsen - In the Court of the Crimson King (King Crimson). Severinsen jazzes up CCK with his famed trumpet work and upbeat arrangement. The song still maintains the KC signature overtures, but Doc punctuates them with horn flourishes and big band back-up. One of my favorites and a constant for my playlist when on the road. 

5. St. Vincent - Some of Them are Old (Brian Eno). Somewhere between Cabaret Jazz and Emo, Annie Clark has found a blend of music that quiets anxiety. To me, her version of Brian Eno's Some of Them are Old tames anxiety, keeps it on a leash, if only for the duration of the song. You can hear the Robert Fripp influence in there as well, droning in the background. One of my favorite covers by St. Vincent. 

6. Jose Feliciano - Light My Fire (The Doors). I was lucky enough to hear Jose Feliciano play Light My Fire when he played a promotional gig for a bunch of us DJs from various radio stations back in the day. His version reached a wider audience with its eclectic range, from Rock, to Soul, and Country. Although I am not a big fan of this cover, Feliciano did make the song his own, and I have to admire him for his creative take on The Doors classic. 

7. Klaus Nomi - Lightning Strikes (Lou Christie). KLAUS NOMI!! What more is there to say?! Alright..., Klaus covers Lou Christie's pop classic with his usual theatrics and falsetto vocals. It's a masterpiece. Listen to it. It just gets better and better with each listen. Yes, and listen to Christie's original as well. For contrast. 

8. Tom Jones/Art of Noise - Kiss (Prince). Tom "Mr. Las Vegas" Jones himself does some magnificent covers. What makes this cover of Kiss by Prince so much more different than the rest on this list is that he is backed up by Art of Noise, a great musical band in their own right. Tom Jones booms the lyrics out with gusto and confidence, the kind that he performs onstage to screaming old fans who throw roses, hotel room keys, and underwear at him. Not for me, mind you, but we're talking covers, and this is a good one. 

9. Frank Sinatra - Killing Me Softly (Roberta Flack). Frank Sinatra is famous for his ties to John F. Kennedy and to The Mob. So when Kennedy went after The Mob, they got mad at Frank and (allegedly) discussed putting a hit on the singer. Rumor has it that they decided not to whack him because they liked the way he sang, Chicago. Well, that's the way I look at Frank: If he didn't sing as well as he did, he'd have been a goner before he became a legend. And that goes for his covers as well. The Roberta Flack cover doesn't do it for me though, but it did chart good enough to sell some records. For me, I wouldn't whack him over it, but it's not one of his best. 

10. CCS - Whole Lotta Love (Led Zeppelin). Yeah, I know the history. Willie Dixon wrote a song called  You Need Love and Muddy Waters recorded it, and there was a big lawsuit brought on by the Dixon estate against Led Zeppelin. It was settled out of court (I believe) and Dixon received a co-writing credit for the song. So is CCS covering LZ, Dixon, or both? Who cares! It's a great cover of the song we know from the LZ lp. And much the way Doc Severinsen covers King Crimson, CCS covers Whole Lotta Love. Big brass, flute instead of vocals, and some great guitar work. This cover of a classic is on my morning coffee playlist. Good job by CCS. 

 

********************************

 

Off Kilter TV: 

Darkness Comes to Prime Time 

Analysis by Anthony Servante

Family Guy

Season 10, Episode 2

Seahorse Seashell Party

The Griffin Family

Meg, the Lynch pin of Grief.

Introduction:

When Mike McFarlane created the world of Family Guy, there were certain rules that had to be followed to form the humor of the show. The main one was that the characters followed a hierarchy. Peter Griffin, the patriarch, Lois Griffin, the matriarch, Meg Griffin, the elder sister, Chris Griffin, the younger brother, Stewie Griffin, the youngest brother, and the family dog, Brian. The jokes play off the interactions between the characters. For instance, Brian and Stewie are friends, and the dog is the only one who can understand what Stewie says (to everyone else, he babbles baby-speak). But as much as each character interacts with the others in unique and unpredictable ways, all the characters react with Meg uniformly: They all mock her. That's the running gag of the show and has been for years. Thus, imagine my surprise to find an episode where this mockery was turned on its head. It became off kilter.




The Analysis:

Rather than list all the abuses the characters on the show have inflicted on poor Meg for the sake of joke, I'll just give one example from each of the main family members since that's who we're dealing with today:

Peter threw out Meg's baby pictures so that he could use the album for his Garbage Pail KIds collection.

Lois wishes that Meg was never born and jokes that she should have been a "semen stain" rather than a baby.

Chris makes an overseas call from his Peace Corps job to talk with his family; he talks to everyone, but when Meg gets on the phone, he hangs up.

Stewie jettisons Meg into space during a shuttle storyline.

In the episode, Seahorse Seashell Party, this abusive humor continues, but it is neutralized when Meg steps out of character and confronts her abusers:

Interaction with Chris:

Meg: You're my brother. You're supposed to be on my side, and you're such a bastard to me. Chris, you treat me like you hate me, and I don't know why. You say hurtful things to me constantly. Do you have any idea what that feels like? What if I said those things to you? What if I started calling you a fat, zitty loser, who has no friends and smells like an old woman who has birds for pets? Is it too much to ask to be treated with a little decency from my brother? Maybe show me some kind of kindness by not jumping on the "Let's get Meg" family bandwagon?

Meg begins her tirade.

Interaction with Lois:

Lois: Look, the bottom line here, Meg, is that you're just taking your own problems out on everyone else. 

Meg: Oh, my problems? Oh, I see. Is this coming from my role model mother? The shoplifter, the drսg addict, the pοrn star, the whοre who let Gene Simmons and Bill Clinton go to town on her? Oh, not only are you not the perfect mother. You're the farthest thing from. From the moment you gave birth to me, I had to trust you. I had no choice. I needed you to protect me from the world. To... to be my guide, to help me navigate the difficult, confusing, and vulnerable journey to becoming a person. You have done none of those things. You're my mother, and you took a child's trust and smashed it into bits in a 17-year-long mission to destroy something that you killed a long time ago. And honestly, when I turn 18... I-I don't know that I ever want to see you again. 

Lois is shamed by the truth.

Interaction with Peter:

Meg: You are completely selfish, and totally irresponsible as a father. You have no education, you have no interests, you just do whatever reckless thing you want to do whenever you want to do it without regard for anyone else. Oh, oh, and when you're not terrorizing the community with your impulsive escapades, you're being a total jerk to your family. You shove your daughter's face in your ass and you fart on it. If someone in the outside world could see the way you treat me, you would be in jail!  You are a fat, lazy, abusive, blue-collar Irish Catholic dad who drinks way too much and barely makes enough money to support his family. You've lived half your life, and you have nothing to show for it. Your only arguable accomplishments are your kids, and look at us; we're a disaster. You're a total and complete embarrassment in every possible way. Take a good look at yourself, Peter Griffin. You're a waste of a man. 

Peter retreats in tears after his comeuppance. 

The Sum-Up: 

So, if abuse is the norm for the humor to work, what then would be considered "meta" in such a world? It would be meta if the abuse were not played for laughs, if it were serious. And that's what happens in this episode of Family Guy. It is serious, and in such seriousness, the humor doesn't work. Real emotions break through. Realizations have consequences. It's as Meg explains to Peter, in the real world, his abuses would have landed him in jail. And that's where Meg's interactions have landed us: In the real world, where abuses are violence and not jokes.

Thus, the world is broken by these new meta interactions. Ironically, Meg realizes she has broken the Family Guy universe and submits to being the brunt of her family's cruelty once more, thereby mending the world, but knowing that only by her taking the abuse can the TV show universe survive.

The Realization:

Interaction with Brian: (Keep in mind that Brian just spent the episode hallucinating on psychedelic mushrooms; his state of mind is fragile and not yet in the spirit of a regular episode where Meg is the target of abuse. Here he plays the straight man to point out to the audience what Meg has just gone through). 

Brian: You know, that was, uh, that was pretty cool the way you finally stood up to everybody. 

Meg: I don't know, Brian. I mean, I, I meant every word of it, but... you saw what happened. They all turned on each other like a pack of wolves. Do you think it's possible that... that this family can't survive without some sort of lightning rod to absorb all the dysfunction? I mean, it-- it's not ideal, but it's an important piece that maybe it's just my lot in life to provide. Maybe if I feel bad, they don't have to. 

    
Conclusion:

I'm not a big fan of Family Guy, but I do love those extra weird episodes: The Star Wars parodies, Stewie's time travel adventures, Brian's failed writer storylines. They're not only funny; they're reflective of their themes. In other words, they make you think as well as laugh. In this episode, Meg turns this reflection against the viewer, not only pointing out her family's flaws, but pulling back the curtain for the viewer to see how the machinations of Family Guy humor work and telling us: Look what you're laughing at. Only to then close the curtain, resume her role as victim, and allow the abuse to begin anew. But it's too late. The mirror has been held up to us, and we plainly saw who we are. We are the sickos who laugh at abuse. But take heart. It's only a cartoon. 

 

Buy Here.

Overview:

Barry Lee Dejasu published his first weird stories only a few years ago, but he has already emerged as a strong and vital voice in contemporary horror fiction. Born in Providence, R.I., erstwhile home of H. P. Lovecraft, Dejasu transfers the terrors of Lovecraft’s day to the contemporary world of computers, smartphones, and the Internet.

A Halloween party goes hideously awry in “Penumbra.” A hapless tenant in an apartment building discovers cosmic terrors in the laundry room in “What’s Below Beneath.” Sinister tales of a walking dead man wandering the highways are the focus of “He Walks This Road at Night.” An abandoned movie theater is the focus of strangeness in “Projector.”

In all his tales, Dejasu reveals an understanding of the psychology of fear, lending his narratives a distinctively disturbing quality. And his deft prose, his vibrant portrayal of character, and his skill in the gradual build-up of a horrific scenario go far in making Black City Skyline one of the most accomplished debut collections in recent years.

Re-Review:

When I first read Dark City Skyline and Darker Horizons, I did a review based on a defense of Barry Lee Dejasu's storytelling style. Much of yahoos on Amazon reviews just didn't get his stories and blamed their own ignorance on the book. I remember giving an in depth analysis of the Dejasu story structure, and deconstructed one of the stories as an example of his horror craft. Well, I am not going to try to rewrite that piece here. I no longer have the anger toward those ignoramuses; it has dissipated since then. Rather, I'd like to talk about why you should grab a copy of the book and read for yourself the unique horror that Barry Lee Dejasu has written.

DCS is a creepy world with a past, present and future. You, the reader, are presented with the "now", what is happening at present. In and of itself, the present is not creepy. What gives you the creeps is how we arrived to this "now", plus what awaits us after the "now". 

I've since returned to look at the Amazon reviews and have found that a more appreciative review crowd has been enjoying Barry's style of storytelling. They even get that "big picture" image from that singular scene presented in each story. If you can't see that whole past/present/future of the story, you might be left wondering why the story may seem incomplete. Believe me, it is that completeness that makes DCS the great read it is. In this latest reviews of the book, I've noticed that fans have begun to use the big "Lovecraftian" word. And it fits.

So join the legion of readers who get Mr. Dejasu's horror style. There's a whole world of the creeps waiting for you. 

 

Approximation.

Memory Corner #7

The Well-Fed Rats

I used to work at Kal Kan Foods in Vernon as an in-house teacher. I taught management classes for supervisors and foremen trying to climb the corporate ladder. Students would come to class two hours before their work shift started, and the company would pay them overtime for coming to class. I was a contractor, which meant I made a lot of money, but no benefits. It all balanced out, as long as I didn't get sick or my car didn't break down. I was available for the three shifts the company had: Day, from 8:00 am to 10:00 am; Swing, from 1:00 pm to 3:00 pm; and Graveyard, from 11:00 pm to 1:00 am. The factory ran 24 hours a day, seven days a week, so it was easy for me to arrange a suitable schedule for myself, what with college classes to attend and all. 

Vernon was the "Meat" Capital of Los Angeles County. All your familiar brands were there: Kal Kan Dog Food, Oscar Meyer, Farmer Johns, Hoffman Food (Hoffy), and others. During the day wasn't so bad; it was at night that things got dicey. Truckloads and trainloads of cows, pigs, and chicken rolled into these special warehouse docks. The workers wore their hazmat suits to unload the "protein" (as the animals were referred to) in one of the few areas I was glad I was not allowed in. The "Killing Section". There was no high falootin term for the slaughterhouse; it was spelled out what it was: k-i-l-l-i-n-g s-e-c-t-i-o-n. That was where the production all began. 

Then the "protein" traveled via conveyor belt to the butcher's section, onto the mixing section, the cooking section, the packaging or canning section, the boxing section, and, finally, the warehouse section, where trucks would pick up their orders for supermarkets, sports venues, and concert venues. 

But let's get back to that first section. All the prime cuts of protein went to section two. The "leftover cuts" were sold to the employees at cost. Every Wednesday, where I worked, employees would line up by the protein unloading dock to buy not-so-prime cuts of protein. My students once described this meat as edible if you lived in a bomb shelter. Then why do you buy it? I asked. To sell it to my neighbors, of course. Some of my students owned stores and would sell the meat there, sort of under-the-table. But that wasn't the only place this meat ended up. What unloading dock couldn't sell, they dumped into these dumpsters. 

Two types grabbed meat from the dumpsters: one, poor folk who tried to sell the meat on the streets as "stolen from the market" fresh. I heard they made a few bucks doing that. Two, rats who were big enough to lift the dumpster lid, grab a chuck of protein, and muscle their way out with a mouthful of meat. And, I mean, these rats were big. Not David Bowie "rats the size of cats", but rats bigger than dogs. The coyotes stayed away from these packs of muscular well-fed rats. Vernon rats ate better than many families in the neighboring communities of these factories. 

I had a few encounters with these rats. 

The first encounter was the one that prompted me to buy a car. I was using the bus system up until then. But one night after work, while I was waiting for the bus on a dark street corner by Farmer John's dumpster area (which was fenced in), a big rat approached the dumpsters and stopped when it saw me. Stopped for one moment, stared me down, and proceeded on its way. It wasn't afraid of me, but it did go around me by about several yards, and from the size of it, from foot to haunch, was about two feet tall. It was about three feet long, but the tail made it seem longer. Right away I could tell, it was not going to let me get in the way of its meat. 

So the next day, I called in sick and went out to buy a car. 

The second encounter was the one that made the deepest impression on my psyche. I was pulling into the car lot at the factory, and some lady came up to the driver's side and banged on my closed window. "It's got my baby," she almost shrieked. Like an idiot, I pointed to the security guard who watched over the lot at night. She kept banging on my window. The guard came over, and the woman rapidly told him what had happened. After parking, the guard asked me to accompany him. I think he wanted to be sure the woman wasn't crazy and needed a witness since she wasn't an employee of the company. Apparently she was trying to enter the dumpster area to steal some meat when a "giant" rat ran off with her little dog. She had left the door open, she explained. She was going to be quick, she told her dog, but she just turned around and the dog cried out in pain. We approached the dumpsters (they weren't fenced in where I worked like they were at Farmer Johns). 

Whoosh. A rat ran by with a little Chihuahua in its mouth. My mind went into shock. The guard kept the beam of his flashlight on the creature the whole time, until it ran into a mass of shadows at the end of the block. I know the lady was screaming, My baby, over and over, but we all just stood there. Damn thing was bigger than the rat from my first encounter. That's not what shocked me though. It was the fact that the thing turned its head to look at me as it ran by, as if daring me to do something. Or maybe it was my writer's imagination. Except the security guard told me later, "Man, that rat didn't like you." 

Cops came. It was procedure for the guard to call them. They couldn't do anything, except tell her to stay away from the dumpsters. Guard added unsympathetically, "Man, everyone knows that," which earned him a dirty look from the cops. They kept asking me if I was okay. Guard kept telling them, "He's just spooked, just started working here. First rat, t think." Once they figured it was a routine call, they drove off, with the lady driving off right after them. I went to work after getting a coffee. I was the talk of the town. I was waiting for someone to say, "He met Old Blue, the Mama Rat." But no. Nothing so sinister. Just a little old, "He met one of our residents," and they'd chuckle. "Don't you worry. Leave them alone, they leave you alone. And don't play stare down. They always win."

Just ask that poor little Chihuahua, right?    

 

Buy Here.

The Subconscious Writer in

Gateways To Abomination

In today's literary world, we have horror story as metaphor. Its not a werewolf, it's an abusive spouse. It's not demonic possession, it's childhood trauma. Matthew M. Bartlett takes the horror genre one layer deeper than metaphor. For him, it's subconscious nightmare brought into the light, where its dream quality remains intact without the fear or dread one finds in the waking world. Its a cross between the grotesque in Naked Lunch by William Burroughs and the stream of consciousness of Ulysses by James Joyce.


Luckily, you can avoid total subversion into the abyss because Matt was kind enough to break the book down into wicked little anecdotes. Some critics might call them chapters or short stories, but that's not accurate to the experience you'll have of getting lost in the dark and glimpsing only flashes of horrifying indescribable madness. And you'll go mad yourself trying to choose whether to stay in the light or darkness. Some would recommend the book in one sitting for a totally immersive experience. I say, Read a few anecdotes at at time, take a breath, smoke 'em if you got 'em, and then read a few more. I'd even suggest going back and re-reading those haunting ones as that eerie feeling increases as you read further into the book with each re-read.


In an age where this thing is a symbol for that thing, Matthew M. Bartlett ignores the norm and goes straight for your subconscious mind. Here he plants the seeds of horror. What grows there? Well, each experience is unique to each reader. But there will be nightmares, I can promise.

 

Kemberton

by David Moody

Reviewed by Anthony Servante

Preorder Here.

Summary:

When Kemberton was four, he witnessed something horrifying. He hasn’t spoken since.

Life moves on, but not for him. Several years have passed, and he’s struggling to keep up. The gulf between him and the rest of the world is widening. He’s in real danger of falling through the gaps.

He needs support, but he’s getting the complete opposite. Aiden – his stepdad – is playing with fire. He’s a low-level racketeer, with ideas way above his station. He’s got himself involved with people he really has no business messing with, and if things go wrong, they’re going to really go wrong. Aiden can’t afford for there to be any complications right now, and Kemberton’s increasing unpredictability is proving to be a concern.

With everything on the line and the odds increasingly stacked against him, how far is Aiden prepared to go to stay in control? And who’ll be left to pay the price?

What Kemberton witnessed all those years ago was awful. What’s going to happen next could be even worse.

Review:

David Moody has added a new horror gem to his oeuvre, and it's a welcome addition. It has a narrative cadence that is inviting and smooth, while the narrator seems a bit cold in the delivery of the story, culturally astute but sardonically distant. It's always a welcome treat to have a narrator who fits in like a character in the story rather than just a storyteller. Horror as performance piece. Imagine a theater set where the narrator sits beside the stage and tells the audience what they are watching, while adding snide comments on the play itself. It's a hard act to pull off, but David Moody's latest work fits right in with the best of his stories to date.

The story itself centers around our main characters: Kemberton, the tramatized young boy, his pregnant mother, Sarah, his gangster step-father, Aidan, and his grandmother, Joan. Through the narrator's eyes and voice, we witness a plot being woven from these characters' point of view, as filtered through the narrator's point of view about the characters. We see a family tragedy morph into a mobster storyline in the span of a few years. When the horror kicks in, you are so invested in these characters that good guys and bad guys have blurred into a bloodbath. To say anymore might rob you of the experience of twists, turns, and shocks.  

It took me three days to read the book because I wanted to savor the story. I highly recommend Kemberton by David Moody. Order your copy and let this engaging narrator take you on a journey through the minds of some unforgettable characters.