The Elysian Fields

Threshold by CaitlÌn R. Kiernan

The most important thing in a good horror novel is not, as monster movies might have you believe, the monster. That's secondary. You don't even have to know what, exactly, the monster is. Or whether there is even a monster anywhere at all within the pages. Now, in the good stuff, you may think you know who or what the monster is, and you may think it is safely several pages away from you, but when you get there, maybe there's just a strange odor, or some other sign that something was - might have been - there.

Good horror is a setting and characters. You kind of grow to like them. Some of them may up and die on you. Others - the lucky ones - might wind up in an asylum somewhere. The rest, unfortunately, are just waiting. And, if it's really good, they're not exactly sure that what they think might happen to them has any bearing in reality.

Good horror leaves you unsettled. Good horror keeps you out of cellars. Or, at least, has you constantly watching your back.

This is better than very good horror. And, if I ever happen to get down south again - specifically, anywhere in Birmingham - I will be looking around every corner and into every shadow. Most likely, I'll avoid that city in particular. This is, after all, great horror.

In some senses, this could qualify for the label "science fiction" in the sense that it is fiction and the science contained within is important to the overall story, and, essentially is what one of the primary characters is about. I've heard some complain about the characters in here - that they're pitiful, not exceptionally possessed of all the things any good Mary Sue author would want themselves their characters to have. These characters have all the flaws you can find in real live people, and these flaws can rip open like fault lines, just like they can in real people. I've known some of these folks - I've seen them in the graduate departments at a major university; I've seen them cowering in the sticky, thick sludge leaking from the dumpster in the alley behind a coffee shop; I've played in bands with them, and seen them up on stage. They don't always have things go their way. When they do, they are surprised. Usually, the find out later that it would have been better for them if things didn't go their way, maybe.

This is not the type of novel for those who think most things on the best sellers on the horror shelf are fine, upstanding examples of literature. Mostly, that's because this is a fine, upstanding example of literature that just happens to also be a deeply unsettling work of horror fiction, with a serious bent on paleontology and geology.

To Charles Fort, with Love by Caitlín R. Kiernan

I've been reading docbrite's stuff since the days of the second novel, and when the Doc keeps mentioning greygirlbeast, sooner or later I had to investigate, and then I wind up reading more and more that makes me think I might actually like her stuff. It didn't take long before I decided to add pick up a book or two. I've since increased that to "all but a book or two," after reading only one of the short stories in this volume.

With my own writing, I prefer the short story, and, truth be told, as far as reading is concerned, I admire a good short story more than I admire a good novel. Telling a complete, satisfying tale in a fraction of the space is much more admirable than doing so in a larger volume. You want to tell just enough to get people thinking, to get them interested, and just enough to satisfy them. There's a balancing act, and what you don't tell is sometimes even more important - the pieces you don't fully explain, the dangling bits of wonder, those are what keep people thinking about the story long after they've read it.

These stories have that tantilizing quality, but they don't presume to think you need everything explained. There is an undeniable style to these stories, one of the more obvious elements of which is her ability to create an endless variety of compound words to describe a particular nuance. With or without such words (and she has said they are a stylistic phase, and now she doesn't use them very often if at all,) these are descriptive stories; you get impressions of scenes and feelings and characters, but there's some work for you to do. As a rather poor example, she may provide you with bits and pieces of an equation, but perhaps some of the numbers remain as variables, and maybe some of the operations aren't defined. The intent isn't so much as to arrive at a solution, but to savor the problem itself.

The Deception
By Everett A Warren

An excerpt

Haelmsvjir Kavoratsson watched the proceedings dourly, as was to be expected for one of his people's nature. He scratched his lengthy beard as his mind wandered in far thought, anything to escape the monotony of the event.

"...So, forthwith on the fifth day of the planting season, we will hold the palace ball, instead of on the eighth day of the harvesting season..."

Haelmsvjir attempted to stifle a yawn, failing to stop his gap-toothed mouth from opening, succeeding only in silencing the noise somewhat. His eyes darted to the Lord-Mayor, and inwardly he gave thanks to hoary Matud that the breech of court etiquette went apparently unnoticed and that the Lord of Sleep did not fully claim him at this awkward time.

This court business bored him, but as an advisor, albeit an unofficial one, to the Lord-Mayor, it was his self-imposed duty to appear at such functions. Vaeortek Snjevkonnic, his people's official ambassador, was too much taken with political intrigue and machinations, having little touch with the reality of the Dwarven people's needs. The warrior grunted in disgust when he saw Snjevkonnic's eyes light up at the mention of the ball. The fop was not even worth his beard.

The undwarvish Dwarven emissary had been selected for several reasons. Amongst his circle of admirers – and, shamefully, there was a number of them – he bragged that he considered that the choice was due his diplomatic skill, though most others outside his circle recognised that this "skill" was only his desire to mix with the court aristocracy and play the little social games he termed diplomacy. More or less, the Dwarven community put him in the position simply to remove him from their presence. Many tried and true clan warriors, whose beards were delayed by some strange twist of nature, despised Snjevkonnic's early and thick growth of whiskers that belied all they supposedly stood for.

Haelmsvjir himself, although his badge of honour had been slightly prodigious, considered Vaeortek to be too much of a dandy to be a true dwarf. In the warrior's opinion, the man was not deserving of such a fine beard, and secretly suspected that some human, or even – when he was quite irritated with the young emissary – weak elven blood ran below the politico's skin. He held, as well, the knowledge that the young ambassador had made acquaintances with several alchemists during his twentieth winter, and regularly visited their shops, always leaving with purchases.

To even suggest that the ambitious dwarf used artificial means to spur the growth of his facial hair was treasonous, but careful research on Haelmsvjir's part revealed this to be near fact. The warrior despised court intrigue, but as Vaeortek revelled in the lies and machinations of governments, Haelmsvjir knew his best defense against the inevitable backstabbing and blackmail was a substantial amount of blackmail on his own part. Forty years of mass warfare and sole combat had taught him well, and his dwarvish outlook on life left no room for mistakes that would expose him to such an enemy.

His thoughts on the matters were interrupted by a breathless and dirty workman who burst into the clean atmosphere of the court. The man was shaking, and it was obvious by his behaviour that, beneath the coating of grime, his skin had taken on the deathly pale hue of one who had gazed upon something that was best to remain unseen.

The watch burst in behind him; apparently, the workman had avoided their efforts to stop just such an unannounced arrival before the Lord Mayor. The Lord Mayor stood, and with a single wave of his arm stopped the watch from apprehending the man. On the far side of the room, Vaeortek turned his nose upward, an orientation well known to him, and one currently in use by the most of the courtiers, noblemen, servants and others present in the room, the exceptions being the members of the watch, the rapidly deteriorating workman, dour Haelmsvjir, and the Lord Mayor himself.

"Beware, milord, in the sewers..." his warning rasped through his dry throat, followed instantly by a scream of the most hideous variety that left the ladies of the court in complete disarray, and the gentlemen not much less so. He spasmed, blood showing at his lips, and then he collapsed. Not a one observing the proceedings needed a healer to determine that man was irrevocably beyond the stages where a powerful holy word would raise him again to life.

Indeed, it appeared doubtful that even intervention by the gods themselves could change the horrible fate of the man, providing the gods would be so interested in reviving the peasant. Whatever had stricken the man had been terrible, without a doubt, and possibly beyond previous comparison. Regardless, anything that could leave even a single man in such a sorry state bode no good for the free city.

It was soon determined that the man worked for the city, his job to clear the city's labyrinthine sewers of blockages. Such men were numerous in the sprawling metropolis, and always worked in teams of ten, to handle possible animals and things that were known to prowl in dark places beneath the more wholesome foundations of the city. As such, much deliberation was made as to the whereabouts of his co-workers, and the location of the horror that was thought to exist, although the man never had a chance to utter a word on what form, exactly, the great evil was manifest.

Copyright (c) 1990 Everett Ambrose Warren

You can read the complete story in my collection, Cautionary Fables: Warts & All, available on Amazon.com or by order from your local bookseller.

Of the Leaves and of the Waves
by Everett A Warren

An excerpt

The following manuscript was pieced together from a large number of copies found strewn across the library steps. Someone had attempted to destroy the papers in an ash fire, but they somehow escaped extensive damages in part from the flames, and almost wholly free from ruin from the rains that extinguished them. Sadly, the author's name did not survive on any of the copies...

I am of the leaves, and she was of the waves.

They did not believe me, and they did not understand me. They talk of listening and they talk of hearing and they expound on the differences, and they straighten the diplomas on their walls, ever so unsubtly referring to the learned status heaped upon them, but they spend more time talking and speaking, so they do not understand.

Perhaps, now, they will take the time to read this missive. They will not need to hear, nor to listen, only to read and comprehend. I fear even that shall prove elusive, but I shall write this down nonetheless.

To begin with, I did not kill Miss Popularity. I shall call her thusly, and those familiar with the case will know of whom I speak, as it was for her death I faced my meagre sentence in that crawling chaos that is known as a sanatorium. A sanatorium, at least, to those who have never been imprisoned in its soft bindings. To end with, I did not kill Mr Popularity, although I daresay I shall be accused of that, should they ever find a remnant of his body or his flesh, or should he ever be indicated as having been last seen following me to the waves. By choosing to name both of my, pardon me, my alleged victims with the same surname is not entirely by accident, although they are not of relation by blood or marriage. But more of that as I am finally given the freedom of time and am lacking the quickening of their medications to loose my tongue and their gentle chiding and rearranging of what they may call my metaphors or similes, or whatever misuse of the lexicon comes to their feeble minds. For some, truth may not be enough. For others, quite plainly, the truth is far too much.

So how shall I start then, this tale of murders? Of the madness of the murderer? The pathos under which he laboured, blinding his caretakers so that they might think him harmless enough to release? The victims, then? – each well loved by family and community, for they never did no wrong to no one, speaketh the wise in television interviews. That is how this tale will be repeated, as journalists digest and decipher the clues, and juries hang on the words of lawyers and psychologists, and still they are all blind to the truth. I shall begin there: with the truth.

She was of the waves. I am of the leaves.

Metaphors spring to mind. Illusions deceive the minds of the overeducated. Crazy, the falling leaves in some film about walls, they say. I thought her to be a mermaid, beautiful as the ocean itself, and I tried to assist her in returning home, too forcefully for her poor, champion swimmer cheerleader captain lungs. Fanciful illusions, nothing more. I stray. It must be known now that when I say she was of the waves, I do not, for the merest moment, hint that Miss Popularity was of the waves. I think, at this early juncture in my narrative this must be understood. I know, without exception, that no one, no matter how many overpriced hours they may sit and pretend to listen and sketch doodles mindlessly in their little notebooks, daydreaming of Freud and his fallacious fancies, has passed this point successfully with truth in hand, mind, or body. This must be understood. Still I stray.

I am of the leaves, she was of the waves.

I did not know this at first.

I thought she was of the leaves.

Copyright (c) 2004 Everett Ambrose Warren

Red
By Everett A Warren
September 27, 2003

There is darkness, and it is all I can see.

These were his thoughts, his very being. Chaos, is it? Or worse, well ordered, everything like so and this organized like that. How long had he been like this? What had brought him to these ends? A true extension into the feared and fearful, he was, and no mistake. Each step unknowing, each look uncaring.

"Dear god," he said to himself, de-emphasising God in his distance and disbelief. He clenched his teeth, gripped the rail tighter and peered over the gulf into the dark waters below. "How they turn and roil, calling for me..." A foot, upon the lowest brace of the fence. And he could move no further.

( 'What, then, is in store for me!' )

Copyright (c) 2003 Everett Ambrose Warren

The Summoning
by Everett A Warren

An excerpt

She woke as the last rays of the setting sun were devoured by the lengthening shadows; the snow that the pleasant beams transformed into water over the course of the day now hardened into dangerous ice. Her name was Maria DiChairo, but it would soon change.

Naked, she slipped from the bed and onto the unheated cellar floor, the chill air caressing her. She picked up her best ceremonial knife, turning the rune covered blade in her hands. A smile began to crawl on her face, dragging her grim expression like a marionette, from a dark story to the inevitable happy ending.

She stood slowly, savouring the movement, stretching her body muscle by muscle. With the grace of a dancer, she crossed the floor and entered into the summoning room, twirling and leaping with abandon.

She had prepared the room the night before, so she took heart that all was done correctly, all the amounts measured in proper proportions. Her mood was far to fey for any exact measurements and logical thought. It would work. She had utter confidence. She could be like the child, and so she was, dancing gaily around the sigil traced upon the floor. She lit the candles in a manner learned from the circus sideshows, her breath bursting with flames, surrounding the defenceless taper, leaving it misshapen but lit. She chanted the words, danced with them as they flowed lyrically, spun with them as they coalesced into the vapours of the incense in the braziers around the corners of the room.

Within seconds, she had completed the spell, and the horrible form of him whose name is unspeakable appeared in the centre of the summoning circle.

"Ah, the raven hued bitch, again. Ye tire me, wench, with ye petty questions and a mind I find curiously blocked, keeping ye true intentions hidden. What is it this time? What dark secrets do ye wish to learn?"

Her fey manner left her as she spoke his true name, and he shuddered in response.

"From whence did ye imbibe such a horrible appellation? And wherefore did ye learn the enunciation of the tongue of the elders?"

Her answer was not in the English language that he condescended to speak, but in his own native and horrible tongue. For the sake of the reader's further understanding and sanity, her words are translated into our
common language.

"My sources need not be revealed, dark one, save that, as ye can well see and hear, they are thorough and compleat."

Upon hearing his native tongue, a language no mortal ever dared to utter in any time or place, the demon was greatly taken aback, but he did his best not to reveal his discomfort. His preternatural senses reeled, his universe suddenly not anything he had ever experienced before. He was held securely by her wards. They were properly etched, and though he tried, he could find no weaknesses. She had discovered his true name, the very essence of his existence, thus holding the power over the continuation of that existence. The demon studied his summoner with a perspective different and more evil than any mortal deserved.

Copyright (c) 1990, 1994 Everett A Warren

You can read the complete story in my collection, Cautionary Fables: Warts & All, available on Amazon.com or by order from your local bookseller.

...of course, you have to be able to get to California, and a specific part thereof. Which is kind of funny, because if I remember correctly from an old bio, he lives quite a bit closer to me...

Anyway, received this from the World of Froud mailing list:


Master of the Macabre Horror Artist Brom has created his first illustrated novel, THE PLUCKER, published by Abrams, an Imaginosis Book. For fans of adult dark fantasy (not for young children), this book showcases his compelling storytelling and richly beautiful paintings and drawings. It's the perfect book for the HALLOWEEN season!

Here's a rare chance to see the art of THE PLUCKER, meet the artist and get an autographed copy of the book. Please join us for the opening of the exhibition this Saturday evening at STORYOPOLIS in Studio City, CA.

Hope to meet you there!

Robert Gould
IMAGINOSIS
A Transmedia Arts Company
www.imaginosis.com

STORYOPOLIS INFORMATION:
12348 Ventura Blvd
Studio City, CA 91604
Refreshments served
RSVP 818-509-5600