Saturday, December 03, 2016

AG & AU; SNOWMAN - Charles Wilkinson

2 thoughts on “Poems by Charles Wilkinson

    Turmans and Turnips.
    “All words are stripped of meaning;
    Bodies are less than clay,
    Pale and pointless as ghosts
    An exorcist forgot to lay.”
    Just read this whole book and I am sure that those who enjoy the writer’s fiction will cherish them (see my reviews of his fiction linked above).
  2. IMG_2659.JPGAg & Au
    “re-shape and pull away with
    the slow tide, down to the deep-
    er book below,…”
    This is an amazing chapbook, full of wonderful artwork by different artists for each poem. A publication to cherish.
    While there were at least a few references to ironing or iron in the Iron Press booklet, this one has rarefied gems of poetry with, inter alios, silver references in the first half of the book and gold in the second half. I shall now read the poet’s explanatory notes at the end for the first time to see what I have missed.

Thursday, December 01, 2016

Out There - Quentin S. Crisp

10 thoughts on “Out There – Quentin S. Crisp

  1. Copy numbered 25/107. Luxuriously upholstered book with quality materials, about 10 inches square, 72 pages, marker ribbon, pull-out glossary, all beautifully designed with dust jacket, and embossed hardback cover.
  2. :I:
    “Strange how something green and fresh can give a sense of the archaic, as if the scenery were in the handwriting of a former age.”
    As if this text is an older person’s text than the one who wrote it.
    About Jake travelling by aeroplane strung between the moon and the clouds like the circumflex on an o in Tôkyô. To stay with his friend Sean, well-suffered as a friend, a friend with a future’s uncaring, a friend who is planning an expedition for them both up a Japanese mountain to visit a temple, a temple mid-changing from famous to obscure. (Sean’s current job is a mock Christian priest blessing Japanese weddings.)
    An engaging start strung between slightly mystic self-wrangling and story-telling for others like me.
  3. :II:
    “His tiny life held the universe on top of it, and yet it was not crushed.”
    The two friends depart on their expedition, now around a campfire, sparking off each other, philosophically, aspirationally – and pragmatically, e.g. regarding maps or GPS – with a sense of proto-immaculation, something more or less precise than their thoughts and statements, something preying on them, exacting them, from the genius loci of this Japanese ‘territory’, in spite (or because?) of the strange half-manmade artefacts, half-creature half statue, lining their route, entities that Jake compares to the earlier clouds when he was on the plane travelling to Japan.
    You know, when I read text that has ended up as carried by such richly produced pages within highly stylised artwork, thick board covers, fly-leaves etc., I often imagine the writer once having scribbled out his text in his garret, little knowing one day where it might end up. If the author is out there, reading this, he can rest assured that my feeling is that his words and this physical book work in an aesthetic synergy that was pre-destined, also positively sparking off each other.
  4. :III:
    “As old as nowhere, eh?”
    I am not often at a loss for words when real-time reviewing. But I feel I have reached the literary equivalent of that ‘nowhere’; I think that what Mars is to Jake, this book is to me. Being out there is more useful than nowhere, I guess. The territory, though, I pluck from nowhere, while accompanying this pair of friends on their expedition, their passing another half-living, half-manmade entity, then a stone drum, and a shop (!) that seems part of the wild terrain with a shopkeeper as bridge-ticket issuer, with the feeling that there is some other story parallel being used as a template but off-kilter to their real story, (friends with a spur of antipathy as well as friendship between them), yes, this territory feels synaesthetic about itself rather than Jake about it, and Jake’s questionable sense of sound and other instincts about the territory seems like a literary ritual when compared to his wish to strip it down to a tabula rasa for an even more difficult adventure he has set himself and wants to prove he can accomplish. For one at a loss for words, I still managed to fill in the gaps, as my own reading is yet another story altogether, a third one, not off kilter so much as completely out of step, the extravagant baroqueness of the territory and the ‘tangledrown’ being part and parcel of the book’s own physical extravagance, with the path upon it tenuously reaching from a scribbled attempt to defeat blankness with words from scratch, words-without-loss, a proto-immaculation. A bridge across a gorge.

    Pages 33 – 37
    “Clouds formed, hanging — as it seemed — near overhead, as if parts of the mountain had detached and were drifting off to some other, higher mountain range, way up in the stratosphere.”
    I don’t think any reader will easily forget the two friends approaching, via an inscrutably signed fingerpost, this “quicksand of lostness”, then reaching through further territory their destination the Temple, and its Jake-described nature , and its “Buddha of some kind”…
    “…but there was obviously some fine, deep order to the time-stained clutter, speaking of a labyrinth of unfathomable habits.”
  6. img_2645
    Pages 37 – 47
    img_2646I feel that handling this book is like a child with a book bigger than itself, turning the large heavy pages with small arms and fingers on a tiny lap and that gives a strange sense to this precise but also widely and paradoxically imprecise journey as the two friends are offered quiet hospitality by a monk in perhaps the wrong temple, or a different story’s temple. Had they taken a wrong turning or turned a wrong page? The books they riffle through in this temple summon ideas amid the tea-drinking….
    There is something entrancing about all this and the scene of the noodle-seller in the dark. And “How do you decide what is real?” Compare it to the unreal, the text suggests. “What is learning for?” To fill the emptiness of nothing or nowhere, I suggest, as an alternative answer to the text’s.
    Meanwhile, Jake and Sean “gripped each other’s hands. Whatever their current bewilderment, their companionship as travellers, isolated, was also highlighted and affirmed, becoming a mutually known mutuality, almost as certain as ‘I am’.”
  7. Pages 48 – 59
    And indeed all my Ex Occidente Press books bear my pencil marks – and anyone out there who puts in a bid for my entire such collection after my death must bear this in mind. These latest ten pages bear more pencilled marginalia, I think, than any other ten pages in any of my books. So you know these pages must be rather special and indeed I cannot cover all the aspects here, and do please rest assured what I do choose to mention (in a puckish manner) may not do justice to the seriously great hyper-imaginative literature contained in them.
    Jake has indeed separated from Sean for an intended short while alone as he walks away from the light, but there is a “resurgence of dusk”, “a continuing corridor of twilight green”; dusk rarely resurges, I suggest, but, together with the “face-tree” among these ten pages, I sense a Face of eternal Twilight. Then he is beset by rain. The meeting with the blue umbrella, and what or who stands beneath it, enticing him along the path he intended to take (or not), and then through a door not so much into Narnia but something far more effulgent, rapturous, rhapsodic, genuinely inspirational. I could give you far too many representative quotes, so I shall give you hardly any at all. Perhaps a mention of a ‘dream-eater’ to match my dreamcatcher.
    And the fact that what he experienced “resisted analysis”, as does my own experience of his experience. Often child-like with “sheer stupendousness.” Byzantine and sublime. I now leave Jake for another interlude in my reading as he follows the monk “from the jetty up a footpath…”
  8. img_2655Pages 59 – 70
    “Jake had never known a place so much like a kaleidoscope — internally shifting, colourful, so that to turn a corner or pass beneath a lintel was to enter upon another pattern, born from those previous and yielding, at the next turn or chamber, to yet another, in endless series.”
    “Think of names, and words with double meanings, everything you can that combines things together.”
    Immodestly, I sense all this with my own labyrinths of gestalts.
    I repeat what I said above. And this continues in the same vein. It is miraculous stuff and surely this is QSC’s greatest work to date. Surely as the words ‘surely’ and ‘no doubt’ express a certain amount of doubt, too? Passions of the moment are no doubt deceptive ones.
    I’ll pick out a few points from this inspirational rite of passage, not the least of which is the sumptuous order and nature of the words. And there is the church of laughter – a church whose creed is momentously uncertain. I have been concurrently reviewing here ‘The Searching Dead’ by Ramsey Campbell where there is another uncertainly deconsecrated church, a chapter called LAUGHTER NEEDS A MOUTH and it also invokes the word DAOLOTH (cf “If men do not laugh, it is not the Dao,” in OUT THERE) – image
    “There is… nowhere… to go…”
    Except to the strangest thing of all? Or back to whence you came? Or Mars?
    This journey is something else. The “paranoid nausea”, notwithstanding.
    (The image above is my wife’s latest quilt (a small one this time) that she happened to show me just as she finished it and I finished reading this book that she did not know I was reading, as I hadn’t told her yet.)
    “Do you remember them, these twenty-seven different ways?”
    There happens to be 27 chapters in total in ‘The SeArChInG DEAD.’
    The Seer Ching Deed.

The Searching Dead - Ramsey Campbell

17 thoughts on “The SeArChInG DEAD – Ramsey Campbell

  1. My previous reviews of Ramsey Campbell –
    “The dead outnumber us by many billions, Mr Joyce. I can see no point in adding to them without a pressing reason.”
    I would have thought it was only millions, then? But I fully recognise the era of the 1950s from my own childhood experience, and relish the text’s touches of recall. But ‘text’ is too formal a word for my accompanying Dominic Sheldrake on his first day at secondary school after passing his eleven plus. The eccentric teachers in gowns, or seemingly eccentric in hindsight. But here Dominic recalls with deadpan assurance one teacher in an earlier chapter pushing something lowdown in a graveyard and now talking to something lowdown near the school.
    This reads like a library book from those wonderful days, especially with its mention of Enid Blyton, but it has the prose traction of Richmal Crompton. It feels like an old-fashioned library book in the hand. The skull on its cover is a bit off-putting, though. Decided to hide it below the desklid.
    Beyond my 1950s experience however are the references to the Roman Catholic Church in those days versus Spiritualism. But it all rings true, too.
    A good start. A great sense of the period just after the War. And the talk of its sadly dead.
  2. FOUR
    “It made me feel events had converged on me, as if I’d been singled out somehow.”
    Dominic is still naive or youthfully creative enough to feel he also needs to spell out the word ‘walk’ so as not to get Mrs Norris’ dog too excited about going for one. But the convergence of Catholicism versus Spiritualism accretes, converging possibly around that teacher mentioned above called Mr Noble, as well as many more evocative touches about the 1950s, now in the approach to Christmas. I am really being captivated by this book and I shall pleasurably eke it out – and hopefully continue to be abstemious with releasing too many details of its plot in my real-time review.
    With Mr Noble’s vision of Hell described to his class, it seems appropriate to me that the boy who provoked it had the surname Joyce.
  3. FIVE
    “Now I feel almost nostalgic for them — for rites that don’t alter the world.”
    I, too, contemporaneously ridiculed set behaviours of the 1950s, but now they seem so much more preferable than what new foul political rites are being stirred today. The book’s sense of time and place, 1950s England, is, I feel, beginning to absorb a magnified ominous effect upon itself, through the filter of what happens afterwards as a trend, if not exactly yet knowing what precise events are about to happen to Dominic in 1950s Liverpool. And I see this is the Christmas where the new Queen anticipates her Coronation in the following year during her first Christmas address on the tiny snowy black and white TV screens. Nostalgia needs to be earnt.
    Pidgin or pigeon, notwithstanding. Whether or not English words need to be spelt out for dogs and infants in prams. A dog called Winston, of course.
  4. SIX
    “…the hundreds of people drowned in the North Sea flood, a disaster apparently designed to remind us that God’s plan was too large for us to grasp.”
    Although I was only 5 in 1953, I can remember that event well, living in Walton on Naze as I did, and I can also relate to these 10 and 11 year old characters in that year, and the SF-type story Dominic wrote, and some boy hiding a horror comic under a desklid.. In fact the latter phenomenon seems to litter my memory right up to the Sixth form!
    This book continues to be a real treat for me.
  5. SEVEN
    “Some things can reach back.”
    A searing dead-hungry chapter, if you dig into it. Striking talk in front of Dominic and the other school kids by Mr Noble’s father who was in the First World War trenches where the school is about to visit. Striking implications, too, of Easter in a Catholic school, and the old man’s ‘lecture’ about lice, rats, missing toes,,,
    And this chapter also deals with the generality of possible retrocausality (not a specific word used in the text so far but one that has haunted me for the last few decades), retrocausality not only in the faith of religion taught at Dominic’s school – but also ‘afterward’ in real life? In Chiang’s ‘Story of Your Life’? And in gestalt real-time reviewing?
    I wonder if it is significant that ‘searching’ is a word we use a lot these days, aka ‘googling’ (googol: – a real word previously for those dead millions or billions?)
    “We were impressed most by a field where unmarked crosses stretched to the horizon as if the throng of unidentified dead were erasing the landscape.”
    A characterful school trip to France, one so typical of the 1950s, with teachers often prying if not preying on the kids as well as other apparent eccentric behaviour, here with Dominic and his pal in turn spying on Mr Noble visiting a French battlefield after dark where its trees seem to be averse to where they have grown for centuries. The adventurous innocence of Richmal Crompton or Enid Blyton but as if infected from where we sit today.
    On the Channel 4 news today, we’re told that the 1950s were the last time wages truly grew and where that growth is now in 2016 collapsing faster than ever, not so much in hindsight as in backtowards motion, I sense. Thinking aloud. Brainstorming. Me, not the book. But the book has ominously stirred these thoughts in me. While Dominic dreams in tune with what he thinks he saw….
    “The dream might have been lying in wait for me, ….”
    • While Dominic’s gang with Jim and Bobby has elements of both Just William and the Famous Five, Bobby (a girl) has shades of Evadne Price’s Jane Turpin (arguably the era’s female William).
      But now we reach a wonderful evocation of watching the 1953 coronation on TV….
    “Ambulances rarely used their sirens in those days. You might think they were showing respect for the sick.”
    And indeed, the experience of re-experiencing the 1953 Coronation live TV broadcast via this book has been spot on…
    as have, in the terms of this book’s plot, its aftermath amid one of the street parties. The political incorrectness of that age, the mindsets on politics itself, religion as superstition or faith or a means to spirit away fear of death by replacing it with fear of the dead, social class, economics. One wonders if all this were Brexit in utero….
    and then we have the school open day for parents to see teachers, accompanied by their kids, and the aftermath of the French trip and the dreams it spawned, the commoners’ biteback against authority in (prospective if not retrospective) utero…
    the need for Latin and the oddly accentuated fingerprints, notwithstanding.
    “They felt as if they were enticing me to read more — as if the book was hungry to be read.”
    …as if, too, the words – as the book itself states here at its midpoint – are reaching inside my skull. Hard for me to thus eke it out suitably. I sense something important, something darkly transcendent beyond the book’s wilily evocative, sometimes workmanlike, prose and its sporadic mockery of neatly configured, almost child-like, handwriting – literally!
    I thought it highly significant today that it was the fourth anniversary of my salvaging a quote about the Malebolge from John Cowper Powys (Facebook alerted me to this), a quote which I had subsequently been reminded was a reference to Dante’s levels of the Dead… and for those interested, here is proof of that:
    Meanwhile, Dominic’s experience at school and his own clear sight as to the hypocrisy of his Catholic teachers and of others are well portrayed, a hypocrisy and naivety so typical of (what Mr Noble also refers to as) the ‘masses’, not only in the 1950s but also, in different competing politically correct and incorrect forms, today.
    “…how difficult it is to maintain that sense of self in the great dark.”
    “I wouldn’t learn until much later that many writers don’t speak the way they write – that writing lets their true selves speak.”
    “Laughter needs a mouth.”
    This book seems expert – unique? – in summoning uncertain, but frighteningly provocative, visions through the special power (perceptively harnessed) from the growing minds of pre-teenage children in synergy with an experiential sense of living through the special power of the 1950s. I can vouch for much of this from my own experience, in the hindsight of now having read this book so far, something heretofore I have failed to harness.
    For example, these children adventuring into 1950s cinemas (evocatively conveyed) showing films just beyond your reach or your age to be admitted to it, blended with your naive childishness bordering on your future older ages radiating back at you, with shapes formed from amassed amorphous cigarette smoke and angled light, and in the Gents, the mirrors, and the images and sound of the film being watched.
    This parallels the hidden book (both hidden physically as part of the plot and hidden as a hidden text within the overt text), hidden that is within THIS book, written by the narrator/author or retold by him or simply transcribed without understanding.
    I would suggest all this IS unique, and would have been worth experimenting the marketing of it as a mainstream novel (hidden within or outside the one with a skull on the front?), at least partly tapping the many readers these days interested in reading literary not genre fiction about growing up in certain eras… also as a new form of nostalgia that goes forward instead of back …or rediscovering now hidden memories of events infected by the future…a darkness that is preferable to the inferior darkness of the future as we have seen it in the last few months?
    “….there was something it wouldn’t be wise to remember. How should I evade it if I didn’t know what it was?”
    “My dad says if you don’t try what you think you can’t do you won’t try what you can.”

    “If my fears were responsible, could they bring it again?”
    Fears dissipate, at least, during a family holiday in Scarborough, a hotel where people still gather even today. Books developing as powers-in-themselves at this stage in Dominic’s life, while things and people from THIS book seem on hold, pent up, an aftermath perhaps as significant as what it is after? And the precociousness of Tina, to whom the hidden book is addressed, TINA an as yet obscure but synchronous acronym? Reaching into a sky where angels reach back? My thoughts, not necessarily the book’s, whether hidden or not.
    I wonder, too, meanwhile, if “the Christians are given feeble hints of the ancient rite of the three,” words in the ‘hidden book’, are intended to resonate with the Tremendous Three, this being their own group name equivalent to the Outlaws or Famous Five or Secret Seven for Dominic, Jim and Bobby? Bobby says something that I also imagine Jane Turpin echoing when she eventually reaches beyond agelessness in her own fiction book (as William surely reached beyond agelessness, too). Beyond the malebolge?
    “‘Maybe she’s how girls need to be,’ Bobby said.”
    [From the Wikipedia on Jane Turpin: “One significant difference in the two series is the absence of an analogue (in the Jane stories) to “The Outlaws” (in the William stories). While Jane has two close friends in Pug Washington and Chaw Smith, she does not command the kind of fidelity that William Brown commanded over the members of his gang.”]
    “TIna was leading the procession. I could easily have fancied she was directing it from her pushchair.”
    In spite (or because?) of the adept straightforward workmanlike prose and dialogue, with richer wordshots of horror image (like the poignantly desperate circumstances of the tram crash) which are very effective as a sort of punctuated colour, this book is very painterly. The scene of the pushed toddler actually leading as a motley group (not effectively being pushed at all?) clasping a grocery bag like a tribute, early Picasso? Also the punctuation of words bifurcated or unhealthily joined, like “Assertive” and “He was sort of”… Dom’s readerly interest in Robotics leading to thoughts of the Holy Trinity, semi-childish Secret Seven-like surveillance of adults, early sexual awakenings, a punctuated but obsessive pushing forward of fiction-like adventure and investigation into nefarious matters such as churchly mutation…the children themselves questioning whether they are in a story, one of Dom’s? Yes, painterly, but more real than if it had been left unpainted as frameless reality.
    Then Dom’s signal dream that seems more real after he wakes up from it. And I wonder what is pursuing them from the smug and often two-faced future wherein we live today, a demented but well-intentioned social justice or something more evil…?
    “There are too many people wanting to tell us what to think.”
    “It felt as though too much in my life was eager to converge, though I could never have foreseen how it would.”
    You know, my memory of the 1950s entailed no street lighting at all in suburban side-streets (at least where I lived in Colchester, Essex) and, at the age of around 8 or 9, I often used a torch on dark evenings to reach, on my own, the Church Hall where Wolf Cub meetings were held… Foggy nights were particularly difficult, and scary! (Who could imagine a child today being allowed to experience such a journey?) A fogginess as scary as the night in this book, if with street lighting, with an era-transcendent imaginarium of dark painterly shapes beyond the methodical prose and ponderously extended nonchalance craftily textualised as the text masking another inferred text written by Dominic (or someone pretending to be Dominic, or vice versa?) so as to carry so evocatively such an imaginarium within us.
    Meanwhile, Dom reaches severe doubts about his own inculcated Catholic religion together with mixed feelings, fears if not doubts, about a different belief summoned by the ‘religion’ of the dark side of this book.
    Lighter touches of omelette whipping to convey another habit growing on Dom, and a teacher’s advice on which books to read if Dom is serious about his aspirational fiction writing.
    “…to conceal a meaning, however unintentional.”
    The proof of the 1950s school dinner pudding is in the eating, and this book gave me a very fitful sleep last night – including dreams now hardly grasped – but also more conscious thoughts about the future infecting the past like a blight, until I thought of this book as having been effectively created in its own future.
    I shall try to finish this remarkable book today…
    “…or how threatened by the future…”
    “…as if it were holding back the future.”
    Some compelling passages about Dom’s reading of BRIGHTON ROCK by Graham Greene and repercussions about it at school. And the Tremendous Three in Mr Noble’s ‘church’, a disused Catholic one with confessionals….whence the three adventurers conduct a surveillance of a conversation…
    “The past and the present and the future.”
    “They’re the three which are one,…”
    And names like “Sir Pent” and “Daoloth.”
    As well as seeing the weeds that cringe like those earlier French trees….
    (One memory of the Brighton Rock film is a cracked record repeating itself – relevant to the children’s sporadic broken words (cf “Sir Pent”) … and that a bit of something sometimes is more important than the whole – a blasphemy for those of us who seek gestalts?)
    (Wharton’s Way – is it significant I’m currently real-time reviewing Edith Wharton’ s book of ghost stories?)
    Provocative thoughts here on the difference between telling lies and telling white lies or fibs and just being economical with the twisted truth…
    And a characterful bus conductor spooling out his tickets from his portable machine on the top deck of a bus ride through Liverpool’s blitz-damaged streets…
    And Dom stepping out on his own ‘crusade’ without Jim or Bobby…
    “We should always be on the alert for an invasion of our shores, but we should never let that make us overlook corruption that is growing from our own soil.”
    — Dennis Wheatley (on a retrocausal Brexit?)
    Dom’s Dad is called Desmond, by the way.
    A cinematic finale, now just experienced by me, with a spectacular suspenseful Hitchcockian feel, perhaps echoing retrocausally some of my thoughts and dreams about this book last night. Meanwhile, Dom’s chase on a bus to the church, and to the cinematic cinema itself where, in my own childhood, I often recall myriads of snogging or necking young humans in the darksome smoky back rows of 1950s and 60s Britain, who seemed to intertwine and snuffle like some of this effectively writhing cornucopia of the Pulp Horror and ‘Seed in the Sepulchre’ visions with which a Threesome-betrayed Dominic Sheldrake has to grapple on his own…after a backward conversation that never happened and a sorely personal emotional sight that did.
    This is amazing stuff and I will no longer feel the same when placing flowers on a loved one’s grave.
    Somehow, I do feel purged. But Dominic, I sense, has yet many more nightmares to transcend in the future of this remarkable book. Googols of the Sear Ching Dead.
    “My doubts hadn’t finished with me, however. Not many nights later I was wakened by a dream that felt composed of thoughts.”

Thursday, November 24, 2016

Interzone #267

6 thoughts on “Interzone #267

  1. ALTS by Harmony Neal
    “Her mandatory support group was meeting in Ballroom A. A conference room would have been much more comfortable…”
    Yes, a sort of A.A. Group (akin to Alcoholics Anonymous?) for those affected by the future tinkering that has caused people to have partially morphed into different animals. The skill here of evoking such morphing is exemplary and often funny as well as frighteningmy disruptive as today’s changing world politics, and this work also serves as a mutual complementarity with the Animal Farm theme-and-variations entitled ‘Pigskin’ (reviewed here a couple of days ago) in the Black Static edition that arrived in the same post as this Interzone. Both stories with that yearning, I sense, for philosophical quietness and calm beyond such goings-on!
  2. From harmony to a tone row…
    “The shell of his head is cracking. He’s breaking out of it like a baby bird.”
    img_2626This wondrous word-vision is like having sex among patchwork tissuey clouds over a planet and fighting other nippy craft of different makes and styles; some of which you later join and fight between, just like a mercenary moving through a vast space of the quilt alongside that AMAZINGLY my wife brought into the room just as I finished this Row story, saying she had just finished sewing it. I had seen it before at various stages. But now complete. Her latest patchwork of many.
    It brought tears to my eyes at such synchronicity, especially with the interweaving in the story of the protagonist’s wife and beloved daughter whose name Ariel he etched on his craft, as well as notches for those craft he had hit and shot down …his wife gradually growing older between his missions and his daughter growing up.
    Even without the quilt, this literally virtual experience of a text is breath-taking as well as an eventual gut punch with the agonising implications of what might have happened. Any blind spots, notwithstanding.
    “Stories aren’t true, we’ve learnt that by now. But my voice has gone thin and high and it’s not convincing anyone.”
    An engaging , and I already sense, memorable, Chinese-feel of a tale, slightly morphing into the animal morphing of the first story, as indeed it does with the second story’s morphing into the dogfights themselves, and here we follow slightly abandoned older young adults at the edge of the city, where I sense long-since abandoned arrivals in spacecraft (now absences?) had settled the modernistic city, a city now going to abandoned seed, and the characters have this story of Auntie Tiger, that they play out in their ‘games’ that entail fake human entrails, an older woman, too, who keeps an eye on them, until a sandstorm like a wave and the finding of tiger fur and reaches of the city they have never reached before…
  4. YOU MAKE PATTAYA by Rich Larson
    “…through a lurid smear of discos and dopamine bars, from green-lit Insomnia to Tyger Tyger’s tectonic dance floor…”
    In spite or because of –
    this story’s high-leveraged technical smart-objects like a smart glasswall and surveillance bugs and tablets as well as pills and private clouds – even an old woman selling coconut milk – and sex tricks and sex selling and lady boys et al – the act of wearing a blur – and all manner of blackmail and retribution and unsmart security lads and high celebs and an array of this genius loci Thai resort called Pattaya of clubs and bars and hotels, and beaches –
    it, the story, flows like a Row dogfight and with swift ease its plot passes through the smart mind of the reader, hardly touching the sides, and its ending is as sweet as anything, even though the protagonist needs to be philosophical to recover from the quickblur of his stuttering machinations of life. A delight.
  5. ROCK, PAPER, INCISORS by David Cleden
    “Nine out of ten killing moves are done with teeth.”
    This is an extremely driven, plain-spoken, evocative story where you as reader learn to FEEL as if you are morphing into an animal, like those thus already morphed in this Interzone’s first story and in the accompanying ‘Black Static 55’, not so much amorphous twins as complements in battle. img_2606
    Here a female is incubated claustrophobically, chosen as a cast-off from the other tribe, but connected by birth to that tribe, incubated to become the optimal rock or paper or knife as complementary battle-destiny, her new tribe’s representative in the semi-symbolic battle between tribes in the two respective duellists’ shapes.
    Her incubation within an oubliette entails sometimes sharing it with her male mentor who has freedom to feel her all over to ensure that her bodily morphing into the optimal animal shape is working. And there are various permutations of this process going forward and in the the fight itself. And its poignant outcome between the two fighters, a realisation akin to the earlier Row etched-craft-daughter realisation with the implications of not only what they are but also who they are, and against whom their combined ‘fight’ eventually prevails. Yes, this is a great story, standalone as its own beast, AND in the pattern of our reading experience of the complementary publications artfully unfolding.
  6. From tone row to death row…
    MY GENERATIONS SHALL PRAISE by Samantha Henderson
    “A thing connected to a thing connected to a thing. How can you say what ends where?”
    Like the court case of Jarndyce & Jarndyce? Those gene rations…
    This is an ingenious, highly emotional standalone story of a woman on death row tempted into the legal documents of signing away her brain and by means of an invented process for another woman (dying of pancreatic cancer) to ride it with her own mind as parasite after having dissolved the host’s mind, except for the hopeful suspicion by the host that she can stay around inside… humans morphing into other humans, perhaps, like the earlier morphing into animals? And in further context with the possible over-arching gestalt, this story being its coda, the price of the legal contract between the two women is for the dying ‘parasite’ to donate her fortune to the host’s pregnant daughter. There is a whole inferred concertina of motives of everlasting life being inadvertently granted or foregone, like the circumstances of the complementary battle in the previous story and also like the potentially eventual destruction caused between humans of the same genes as inferred at the end of the Row story, but here in the Henderson more deliberate….if the word ‘deliberate’ CAN be preceded by the comparatives ‘more’ or ‘less’.

  7. There is much else in INTERZONE to entertain the SF enthusiast in addition to its fiction.