Fallen Soldier

Fallen Soldier is a new short story by Rich Hawkins and is published by… himself. Yes indeed, Rich has taken the plunge and gone and done the whole thing himself, no doubt incurring the wrath of all those who see self-publishing as the eighth deadly sin.

There is still a stigma attached to self-publishing, presumably as a result of the misguided opinion that an author will take this route because their work isn’t good enough to be accepted by “real” publishers. Bollocks, frankly. It’s interesting to compare the attitudes towards self-publishing between the music and writing industries. In the former, there’s a degree of kudos given to musicians who start off on their own, posting videos they’ve made themselves online, building up a fanbase before “making it big”. If you’re a writer doing the same thing the immediate assumption is often the one I opened this paragraph with.

 

Bottom line: What’s wrong with an author taking charge of all aspects of their own work?

Anyway, I digress. What about Fallen Soldier?

It’s great. I’ve expressed the opinion before that the novella is the perfect length for horror fiction, a view I stand by, but second in line has to be the short story. It’ll take you about twenty minutes to read Fallen Soldier but in that time you’ll experience ghosts, zombies and demonic troglodytes all tied up in a tightly paced narrative. There’s nothing worse than a short story that outstays its welcome but that most certainly isn’t the case here in this tale of the return of a soldier from the trenches of the Great War to find that the horrors he experienced there are nothing compared to those which await him on his arrival home.

The single short story format is making somewhat of a resurgence and it’s an absolute strength and positive of e-publishing that it makes this a readily available option. That said, great things are being done by small presses releasing chapbooks too. It’s a trend I’m extremely happy to see emerging, already this year I’ve relished two stories from Philip Fracassi (Mother and Altar) and one from Scott Nicolay (Noctuidae) which have been released as “singles”. Fallen Soldier – I’m very happy to say – has joined their ranks.

You should buy Fallen Soldier, you won’t find much better value for money for 99p. If you haven’t read Rich’s work before then it’s a great introduction, if you have then you’ll enjoy again his trademark mixture of visceral horror and thoughtful characterisation.

You can get it here.

Trying To Be So Quiet.

Trying To Be So Quiet is the new novelette from James Everington and is published by Boo Books. I’ve been a fan of James’ subtle, understated writing since reading his collection Falling Over back in 2013. When I reviewed it at the time, I called it intelligent and thought-provoking, an analysis I stand by and characteristics which have been on display in all of his writing since. No more so, I’m pleased to say, than in this new offering.

The story is told in third person with an unnamed protagonist, a highly effective technique which serves to distance the reader from him – effective in that this is entirely in keeping with the character James has created here, a man who is attempting to do the same with people around him following the death of his wife Lizzie. This is not simply a case of wanting privacy, and time to grieve alone however, more a case of being unable to grieve – such an intense emotional response is beyond the protagonist, much easier for him to compartmentalise, to hide his emotions behind walls, his – as the text describes them – “precious barriers and screens”.

The narrative jumps around from present to past, filling in the back story of the romance. There’s much skilful character building to be enjoyed here – some subtle foreshadowing too, with a passing nod to Eliot’s The Wasteland – painting the protagonist as pragmatic rather than emotional, realist rather than romantic. He takes photographs that lack style and finds it difficult to comprehend why the architects of the grand buildings in Oxford would design such massive buildings knowing that they would be long dead before they were completed. He studies accountancy, Lizzie anthropology – the “study of everything.”

Little wonder then, that Lizzie’s death has such profound implications. How can a man who works so hard to hide his emotions accept – and even embrace – one of the most powerful of all?

Not easily. Work, and his work colleagues become even more of an irritation and his nihilistic world view intensifies. Then the blackouts begin, and this is where the supernatural elements of the story begin to ramp up. Glimpses of a figure in a mirror, shadowy at first but then coalescing into an all too familiar face and cracks appearing in plasterwork, the latter (along with the fractured nature of the narrative itself) a potent metaphor for the apparent breakdown of the protagonist. Special mention has to be given here to Helen-Marie Kelly whose Heavy Duty Illustration have provided a distinctive look to the interior of the book with an ever expanding crack moving its way down the page as the book progresses, enhancing the reading experience beautifully.

Events finally lead to a return to Oxford, where he and Lizzie first met as students. Here it is that the story finds resolution. And a very fine resolution it is too, skilfully and satisfyingly tying up all the ideas and narrative threads – what is actually breaking down may not be the character himself, but the walls he has built around himself. Trying To Be So Quiet is a book about death and grief for sure, but it’s also a book about life and love and the significance of moments, however fleeting. It’s about what may come after but, more importantly, it’s about the here and now.

I literally had goosebumps when I finished reading Trying To Be So Quiet. I strongly recommend that you see whether it will have the same effect on you.

Darker Battlefields.

 

It’s with an immense feeling of pride that I can announce that DARKER BATTLEFIELDS an anthology of war/horror novellas will soon be available from The Exaggerated Press. Pride because my own story, Winter Storm is one of the six contained within.

I still can’t quite believe that this is all happening but it is – and my heartfelt thanks go to Frank Duffy for drawing me into the fold in the first place. I massively appreciated the offer at the time and even more so now that the book will soon be a reality.

Thanks also to my good friends who read the early drafts of the novella – Ross Warren and Ben Jones – whose feedback was invaluable, and which made the story so much better than my first attempt. Ben is a walking encyclopaedia of all things war related and many of our conversations tended to veer off course and become flurries of ideas, many of which will hopefully see the light of day in future publications.

As befitting a collection of war stories, a camaraderie sprung up between the authors during the process of pulling the book together with shared feedback and support flying across the virtual ether so thanks again to Mark West, Paul Edwards, Richard Farren Barber, Dean M Drinkel and Adrian Chamberlin for their encouragement and enthusiasm. I have to say I still feel a bit like the new kid in class here but am honoured to be sharing a TOC with writers whose work I’ve long admired. I'm pretty certain Terry Grimwood's initial reaction to my inclusion would have been "Who?" but I'm again deeply appreciative that he was willing to take a gamble. A special nod goes to Adrian, who took on editing duties – not just for managing to coordinate the whole process but for finding even more ways to improve the fifth draft of Winter Storm. I salute you my brothers in arms!

The story of Winter Storm straddles both world wars, with a demonic encounter on a mountain in Turkey during World War One having repercussions in the snow filled ruins of Stalingrad in the Second World War. Whilst the Great War is my burning obsession, I’ve long been fascinated by the battle of Stalingrad, a siege which lasted over five months and which killed hundreds of thousands. The imagery from photos of the battle have long lurked in the depths of my subconscious so it was great to have an opportunity to use them in a story at last. I’m humbled that that imagery has been used by Ben Baldwin to produce the absolutely stunning artwork for the cover.

Having read the other stories, and seen the quality on display, I can only reiterate how proud I am to be part of this book.  All of the authors have provided their own unique take on the subject of war and the conflicts used range from biblical times, through the Napoleonic Wars via the world wars right up to recent events in Libya. I can’t wait to see it in the flesh.

The stories are:

ODETTE by Richard Farren Barber

THE SEARING by Paul Edwards

WINTER STORM by Anthony Watson

THIS ENVIOUS SEIGE by Adrian Chamberlin

THE EXERCISE by Mark West

DESCENSIS CHRISTI AD INFERNOS by Dean M Drinkel

 

Mongrels.

Mongrels is the new novel from Stephen Graham Jones. Since my introduction to his writing with The Elvis Room (which was one of my favourite reads of 2014) I’ve been tracking down his work so it was with much delight that I heard about the new novel. That delight, I’m very pleased to say, intensified during the reading of the book which turned out to be everything I was hoping it would be – and more.

I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for werewolves. It’s on the back of my thigh where one of them bit me. Ok, not true. But only the last bit – I do enjoy a good werewolf yarn, have done since watching An American Werewolf in London (when it was first released) and, not long after, The Howling (which contains one of the best one-liners ever). Mongrels is a werewolf novel. It’s also a lot of other things but at heart it’s definitely a werewolf novel. Which is great.

So, does Mongrels bring anything new to the sub-genre? Well, yes it does – although I have to say that this isn’t a pre-requisite for my enjoyment of any book. Yes, innovation and tweaking of tropes is a good thing but sometimes a good old languish in accepted traditions can be a joy in itself.  Mongrels doesn’t re-imagine or re-invent werewolf mythology, rather it builds upon it, adding in little nuggets of information which are a joy to read, evidence of great imagination at work. (In this regard, I found similarities with Ralph Robert Moore’s Ghosters, another favourite read of mine which did pretty much the same thing for ghosts).

Herein you’ll find (amongst other things) the real reason for dewclaws on dogs, the danger of wearing tights if you’re a werewolf and the importance of peeing before a transformation. There’s no mention of where a werewolf should put its tongue prior to changing but the author’s is clearly firmly lodged in his cheek. These are just some examples of the lovely, dry wit which runs through the book – something which acts as an effective counterpoint to some of the more grisly scenes, of which there are many. Yes, this really is a werewolf novel.

It’s a coming of age story, told in first person by an un-named narrator, a teenager living with his aunt and uncle, werewolves both and awaiting his own, first transformation. It’s a fractured narrative, the present day storyline interrupted by flashbacks which serve to create the protagonist’s history – as well as introducing the aforementioned tweaks to the mythology. The effectiveness of any first person narrative relies greatly on the voice created for the narrator and sterling work has been done in this regard – our narrator is unsure of whether or not he will ever transform and that angst comes across clearly in a prose style to die for, it’s written so well that it really feels as if the reader is a confidante of the narrator.

Allegory abounds of course. The werewolves are outsiders, cast aside by society, literally living on its fringes. The three main protagonists of the novel live in a trailer, constantly moving from state to state to avoid the law. There are points during the narrative when the thought might cross your mind that the whole thing is one huge metaphor, that this is the most unreliable of narrators. Such contemplations only add to the joy of reading it…

I enjoyed the hell out of Mongrels, a wonderful example of great horror writing, literary in style with much to say about society, family and a sense of belonging hidden within the gore and transformations. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry – you’ll probably feel a little bit sick in places. You should definitely read it though.

Wrapped in Skin.

Wrapped in Skin is the new collection from Mark Morris and is published by ChiZine Publications. It contains fourteen stories, spanning the last ten years of his writing career – a career I’ve followed with much enjoyment since reading Mark’s first novel, Toady, which I read back in 1989 when it was first published. I loved the book, for its imagination, its cultural references (not least to The Jam) and because it referenced Raggety, the stick-like troll creature from the Rupert annuals who scared the shit out of me as a kid. I was born in the same year as Mark and it was great to see an author who was writing books – horror books no less – which reflected my world, my influences.

Much joy then, to see this collection is now available. Mark’s novella Albion Fay was one of my highlights of last year’s reading and I await, with bated breath, the conclusion to his Wolves of London trilogy later this year. Even better, I had read only two of the stories previously – The Red Door, one of the more enigmatic tales in the collection, a story of loss and faith and Waiting for the Bullet, a high-concept tale of adrenalin junkies, time-travel and, ultimately, fate and human nature.

The past may be a different country, it can also be The Scariest Place in the World – and the eponymous story is an example of a recurring theme in this collection, (and Mark’s writing generally), that of the past coming back to haunt us. These hauntings are both metaphorical and literal and I have to say it’s an absolute joy to read horror stories unafraid to use classic tropes, not in a post-modern, ironic way but because they are scary – proper scary. The opening story, Fallen Boys, is a prime example of this. A group of kids, an outsider among them, go on a field-trip to a supposedly haunted mine… Proper scary.

Children feature in many of the stories, and most effectively too. Creepy kids are another staple of horror fiction and there’s a lovely example to be found in Feeding Frenzy, a surreal tale of a dysfunctional father/son relationship that culminates in a killer last line. Whilst this story has its tongue firmly in its cheek, another story which has children as main characters, Puppies for Sale is a much harder read, distressing and disturbing it’s a story whose ambiguities are its strength and which was, for me, the highlight of this collection.

There’s a variety in tone in the stories here - which is not a weakness but rather a strength, evidence of Mark’s versatility as a writer. Just when you’ve finished smiling at the clever trickiness of White Wings you’re hit with the bleak, real-life horrors of Complicit. Like a good album, the running order has been carefully picked here methinks. The collection is a potent blend of supernatural and real-life horrors, somehow becoming more than the sum of its parts. Hell, it even features Sid Vicious in a Faustian deal.

Wrapped in Skin is a classy collection, and a marvellous showcase for one of the real talents in the horror writing world. The prose is crisp and uncluttered, a joy to read. No fancy stylistic ticks here, no self-indulgent purple passages but every now and then a simile or description will pop up to take your breath away. It’s a book I highly recommend.  

Altar

One of my discoveries this year – by which I mean an author whose work is new to me, rather than implying any kind of Svengali-esque arrangement – is Philip Fracassi, whose novelette Mother was the highlight of my reading schedule in February. Mother was published by Dunhams Manor Press and so it was with much delight that I saw publisher and author had once more collaborated to produce Altar – a story which I devoured in one sitting, not because of its (relatively) short length but because I was gripped by the story, unwilling to pause because I wanted to see in which direction the narrative would find itself progressing next. It’s one of the many joys of Altar that it consistently confounds expectations, leading the reader down one narrative path only to change direction – often in the most unexpected of ways.

This misdirection is achieved by telling the story from multiple viewpoints, a technique which serves to build tension as the story jumps between characters, offering brief glimpses of how their own narratives are progressing before switching to another. The reader begins the story knowing something bad is going to happen – this is, after all, a horror novelette but this fracturing of the narrative has an unsettling effect, adding to that tension in a most effective manner.

The story begins innocuously enough with a family’s trip to their local swimming pool, housed in the Akheron Community Centre. Fortunately, neither mother Martha nor her children Abby and Gary are scholars of Greek mythology otherwise that particular name may well have given them second thoughts about going anywhere near the water. It’s another strength of the story – and Philip’s writing – that the characters of all three family members are fully realised in the first few pages of the novelette.

Once in the pool area, the family members go their own ways and the slow build-up of tension begins: The introduction of an older boy brings with it an undercurrent of violence waiting to happen, further unsettling the reader; Gary remembers disturbing dreams of malevolent amphibians brought on by a childhood accident; Abby wanders off on her own, seeking her own entertainment; Martha remains on her own, poolside, slowly slipping into a spiral of self-loathing.

Then a crack appears on the bottom of the pool…

Not long before beginning Altar I’d read Scott Nicolay’s Noctuidae and was mightily impressed by the way in which the weird and the everyday came together, and was most impressed of all by the fact that no attempt at explanation was given, adding to the mystery and – well, weirdness – of the story. I shared those feelings on completing Altar (and feel the story bears ample comparison with Nicolay’s work) – the climax of the story is wonderfully strange, and beautifully written. The denoument is made even more effective by the structure of the story, the way in which the tension is built pretty much from the outset. Out of left field it may be, (or not, actually, there are hints along the way), but it’s utterly devastating. And brilliant.

Altar is a wonderful piece of writing. As an added bonus it’s a wonderful piece of horror writing and I highly recommend that you should read it. Like me, you may even want to read it twice. You can buy it here.

The Last Soldier

The Last Soldier is the new novel from Rich Hawkins and is the final book in the Last Plague trilogy published by Crowded Quarantine Publications. The first two books in the series were outstanding with the The Last Plague followed up by the smaller scale, more introspective but vastly darker The Last Outpost and that incredibly high standard is more than maintained in this, the conclusion. The Last Soldier is proof indeed that all good things must come to an end.

It’s set a year after the events of The Last Outpost which described the aftermath of the outbreak of the titular plague whose victims transformed into Lovecraftian monstrosities, consumed by the desire for human flesh. That book ended with a journey from Britain to Scandinavia, the location of the fabled outpost. In contrast, The Last Soldier begins with a return to British shores, the journey taken by Morse – the soldier of the title, a man who has seen active duty in Northern Ireland – and Florence, a young girl who may, or may not be, the key to a fightback against the hordes of infected and the Plague Gods, huge cosmic horrors circling in the skies above the ravaged landscape.

 The Britain they return to is changed completely from pre-plague times with uninfected humans now absolutely in the minority and a sense of some kind of evolution of the infected into bigger, even more deadly manifestations. There’s also evidence of interaction between humans and the infected, exemplified in a particularly chilling set-piece involving a pit and which provides further evidence that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Given that the story is set in a bleak, post-apocalyptic word it’s natural that Rich should choose to set most of the action in my home county of Northumberland. Some of the place names he uses will raise a smile amongst those familiar with indie press horror but I was pleased to see that he obviously like the name of a real place – Black Heddon – as much as I do, using it for a key scene.

So, given this is the culmination of the series, the big question is – does the ending work? Is it worthy of the exemplary ground work that has preceded it? Is it a fitting conclusion?

Absolutely.

No spoilers here but honestly, the way this epic story ends, and in particular the way in which Rich chooses to handle it, is perfect. It works with all that has gone before and is eminently satisfying.

I enjoyed the hell out of The Last Soldier – as I did the first two books of the series – and can’t recommend it highly enough. Rich has created a truly spectacular, and entirely plausible and brilliantly realised, post—apocalyptic vision here. The characters he has placed within his world are real and believable and perfect vehicles for the theme of humanity which runs throughout the series. By choosing to tell an epic, world-altering story through the filter of individual experiences is a technique that has worked brilliantly throughout, no more so than in this final instalment. The trilogy may be complete now but it’s a world that deserves revisiting, something I sincerely hope he finds time for.